that there were cops at his door -- and he WAS, definitely -- but the anxiety over being in trouble over something was taking second place to the immediate feeling of infatuation at the two very good looking men looking sternly at him from the doorway.

"Hola," he said and tipped up his red cup in greeting.

The brief hope that they were strippers came and went when the one who knocked -- red curls and freckles and unnaturally pale in the scant moonlight -- said with a frown, "Are you the owner of this residence?"

The other one -- with a sharp widow's peak and even sharper cheekbones -- menaced. He looked at his partner, then at the party behind Carlos.

"It's my house, yeah," Carlos said.

"Mr....?"

Carlos extended a hand, instinct. "Carlos."

Freckles looked down at his hand, frown deepening.

Carlos giggled.

"Mr. Carlos," he said, because actually, the worry and the infatuation were coming behind the most immediate feeling of the night, which was: being totally plastered.

Part 2 HERE