New Mom

The knock came sharp and insistent. Camden peered through the peephole, blinking against the harsh morning light flooding the porch. A familiar, uncomfortable silhouette shifted outside the door.

He saw the face first: Carlos's round, soft-cheeked face, framed by messy black hair. But the eyes... those weren't Carlos's mischievous, perpetually amused eyes. These eyes held a weary, haunted exhaustion that seemed far too old for the twelve-year-old body they inhabited. They scanned Camden's face with a desperate, searching intensity that made his skin crawl. Judy – trapped inside Carlos's form – stood stiffly in worn sneakers and faded jeans that hung loosely on the boyish frame, clutching a plastic grocery bag bulging with something lumpy. Her knuckles were white where she gripped it. She didn't smile. She just stared at him through the distorted fish-eye lens, looking unbearably small and lost on the porch.

Camden opened the door, the familiar scent of home – lemon polish, stale coffee, yesterday's pizza – instantly soured by the faint, alien odor of nervous adolescent sweat clinging to his mother in Carlos's skin. Judy flinched as the door swung wide, shrinking back slightly as if the threshold held some unseen barrier. "Camden," she rasped, her voice Carlos’s boyish tenor, but strained thin, devoid of its usual lightness. It cracked slightly on the second syllable. She thrust the bag forward abruptly. "Managed... managed to get some groceries. From... *his* place." Her gaze darted past Camden into the dim hallway, searching. "Is... *she* here?" The word ‘she’ dripped with venomous dread.

The creak of footsteps on the stairs froze Camden mid-response. He turned, a chill prickling his spine. Descending with deliberate, ungainly slowness was his mother’s body, draped in Judy’s finest champagne silk robe. It gaped loosely where it was cinched at Carlos’s-in-Judy’s waist, revealing a glimpse of Judy’s impractical lace-trimmed slip. The robe’s hem dragged slightly on the polished wood steps. Her feet – Judy’s feet – were shoved into a pair of Judy’s low-heeled sandals, the straps digging into the pale skin above her ankles. Carlos hadn’t bothered with stockings. The incongruity was jarring: the mature elegance of the silk clashing violently with the clumsy, flat-footed stomp of someone unused to footwear beyond sneakers. Carlos’s smirk bloomed across Judy’s face as he reached the bottom step.

"Well, well," Carlos-in-Judy drawled, her voice unnervingly deep and laced with mocking amusement. He leaned against the banister, striking a pose that attempted Judy’s casual sophistication but landed somewhere between arrogant teenager and awkward caricature. He swept his gaze – Judy’s gaze – over Judy-in-Carlos’s rumpled jeans and baggy t-shirt, lingering with cruel satisfaction on the boyish frame held stiffly near the door. "Look who crawled back. Run out of *carne asada* and tortillas at Casa Mendoza?" He chuckled, a harsh sound in Judy’s throat, as he idly played with the silk sash dangling from the robe. The scent of expensive floral perfume mingled in the room.

Judy-in-Carlos flinched as if struck, clutching the grocery bag tighter against Carlos’s soft stomach. Her knuckles whitened further. "I brought essentials," she rasped, her voice strained thin. She wouldn’t meet Carlos-in-Judy’s predatory stare, focusing instead on Camden’s bewildered face. "Vegetables. Milk. Bread." The mundane words sounded absurdly fragile in the charged silence. She tried subtly shifting Carlos’s body, attempting perhaps to mimic Judy’s poised posture, but the movement only emphasized the awkward slump of unfamiliar adolescent shoulders.

Carlos-in-Judy snorted, a harsh, discordant sound escaping Judy’s throat. He sauntered closer, the silk robe whispering against itself. The faint odor of stale tobacco Camden had noticed earlier intensified, mingling sickeningly with Judy’s expensive jasmine perfume. Carlos stopped inches away from Judy-in-Carlos, looming despite inhabiting Judy’s shorter frame. His gaze swept contemptuously over the boyish form wearing cheap jeans and a faded band t-shirt. "Look at you," Carlos sneered, reaching out with Judy’s meticulously manicured hand. He didn't touch her face, but flicked disdainfully at the greasy lock of Carlos’s dark hair plastered to his forehead. "Pathetic. Couldn’t even shower properly? You smell like sweat and cheap detergent." Judy-in-Carlos recoiled, her borrowed face flushing crimson. Camden saw the tremor in Carlos’s pudgy hands gripping the plastic bag.

"Stop it!" Camden choked out, stepping between them. His voice felt small against the suffocating tension. Carlos-in-Judy’s eyes—sharp, predatory—snapped to Camden. He flashed Judy’s unnaturally white teeth in a grin that didn't reach her eyes. "Relax, *mijo*," Carlos purred, using the endearment like a weapon. He draped Judy’s arm casually over Camden’s shoulder. Camden stiffened under the unfamiliar weight, the silk cool against his neck. Carlos leaned in conspiratorially. "Just keeping things hygienic. Wouldn’t want *mi casa* smelling like unwashed twelve-year-old boy when my girls come over later." He winked, a grotesque parody of Judy’s charm. "Martinis and manicures. Your mommy’s got plans." The words landed like stones. Judy-in-Carlos made a small, strangled noise.

Carlos pivoted toward the kitchen, the silk robe swirling around Judy’s calves. Camden saw the sandals scrape awkwardly across the hardwood floor—a jarring counterpoint to Judy’s usual graceful glide. Carlos paused, glancing back at Judy-in-Carlos clutching the grocery bag. "Put that crap away," he ordered dismissively, gesturing toward Judy’s polished kitchen cabinets. "And lose those clown pants. Mama Jenkins next door stared hard enough yesterday—probably thinks I’m running a daycare center for undocumented kids." Carlos chuckled again, the sound harsh and grating in Judy’s throat. Judy-in-Carlos flinched, her borrowed face tightening. She shuffled toward the kitchen island, shoulders hunched defensively, Carlos’s soft midsection straining against the faded t-shirt.

Camden hovered, torn between his trembling mother trapped in Carlos’s body and the grotesque imitation lounging arrogantly against the granite countertop. Carlos-in-Judy rummaged noisily through Judy’s designer purse, scattering lipsticks and receipts. "Ah!" he crowed triumphantly, pulling out Judy’s platinum credit card. He waved it tauntingly at Judy-in-Carlos. "Think I’ll upgrade those manicures to deluxe pedicures. Something sparkly." His grin widened. "Maybe that Brazilian wax place down the street. Haven’t tried *that* yet." Judy-in-Carlos froze mid-step, her borrowed cheeks flushing crimson. "You wouldn’t," she whispered, Carlos’s voice cracking. "That’s—invasive!" Carlos shrugged silk-clad shoulders. "Your body, *mi reina*. Mine now."

The refrigerator door slammed. Judy-in-Carlos shoved milk inside with shaking hands, the plastic bottle clattering against glass jars. Her gaze snagged on Judy’s prized magnetic poetry set clinging to the stainless steel. Carlos had rearranged the words: **BITCH WHORE TACOS DIABLO FEEL ME**. She tore her eyes away, throat tight. Carlos-in-Judy slid onto a breakfast stool, hiking Judy’s robe up to expose bare thighs. He propped Judy’s feet—still jammed awkwardly into her sandals—on the counter’s edge. "So," Carlos drawled, tapping Judy’s French-tipped nail against the granite. "Any luck with Pendejo Paco?"

Camden flinched. *Paco*—the weathered shaman Carlos claimed had cursed the statue. Judy-in-Carlos gripped the counter’s edge, Carlos’s blunt nails scraping stone. "His granddaughter said he vanished," she whispered. "Gone north. No one knows where." She paused, swallowing hard. "She... recognized the statue’s description, though. Called it *Ixchel’s Vengeance*. Said it wasn’t meant to be touched by *chingados* like us."

Carlos-in-Judy barked a laugh—harsh, dissonant. He traced Judy’s nail over the obscene poetry. "Vengeance? Please. This," he gestured expansively at Judy’s silk-clad form, "feels like winning the fucking lottery." He leaned forward, robe gaping further. Camden caught the sickening scent of Judy’s perfume mixed with Carlos’s stale tobacco breath. "Paco’s probably dead in a ditch. Good riddance." Judy-in-Carlos recoiled as if slapped, Carlos’s soft cheeks flushing mottled red. "That statue *cursed* us! We need to find him!" Her voice cracked, thin and desperate.

A text alert chirped—Judy’s phone buzzing in Carlos’s robe pocket. He pulled it out, squinting at the screen with Judy’s reading glasses perched crookedly on her nose. "Ooh. Wine tasting with Karen and Linda. *Perfect*." His grin widened, predatory. Judy-in-Carlos lunged forward, Carlos’s sneakers scuffing the polished floor. "Cancel it! You can’t—they’ll know!" Carlos shoved her away with surprising force; Judy’s manicured hand pressed flat against Carlos’s pudgy chest. Camden heard the faint wheeze as air rushed from borrowed lungs. "Relax, *gordito*," Carlos sneered. "I’ll charm them. They *love* Judy’s new ‘spicy’ phase." He winked, tapping out a reply with Judy’s elegant fingers. *C U soon bitches! Margaritas on meee! 💋*

Judy-in-Carlos sagged against the island, Carlos’s face pale beneath its olive tint. The grocery bag slumped beside her, revealing wilting carrots and bruised bananas. Camden saw the tremor in her borrowed hand as it hovered near Judy’s magnetic poetry—the jagged words screaming **BITCH WHORE TACOS**. She swept them off in one violent motion; the tiny magnets clattered like scattered teeth across the tile. Carlos glanced up, unimpressed. "Tidy that mess. Wouldn’t want Mommy’s perfect kitchen looking like *mi barrio*." He slid off the stool, robe gaping obscenely. "Gotta get glam for the ladies. Try not to traumatize *mijo* while I’m gone." His sandals slapped the stairs, each step echoing with hollow finality.

Carlos-in-Judy sashayed into Judy’s bedroom, clicking the lock with Judy’s lacquered nail. The scent hit him first—Judy’s powdery Chanel No. 5, layered over Carlos’s lingering cigarette musk clinging to the silk robe. He flung it off; it pooled on the cream carpet like discarded skin. Beneath, Judy’s impractical lace slip hung loose on his unfamiliar hips. Carlos grinned at the mirror, tracing Judy’s collarbone with newfound fascination. *Not bad for a dead bitch’s body*, he thought, pinching the soft flesh where Judy’s waist dipped. He yanked open her walk-in closet—a wall of color and texture that made his pulse quicken. Sequins glinted under the LED lights like captured stars. Fingers brushed past cashmere sweaters, ignored silk blouses. He craved drama.

Then he saw them. Draped over a velvet hanger: skin-tight faux-leather leggings, black as spilled oil. They shimmered faintly, promising to grip every contour. Carlos let out a low whistle—Carlos’s whistle—through Judy’s throat. He imagined them stretched taut over Judy’s thighs, clinging to the swell of her hips, plunging into the curve of her ass. A shudder ran through Judy’s spine, hot and electric. This wasn’t just clothing; it was armor. Armor he’d wield at that wine-tasting, making Karen choke on her Pinot Grigio while Linda’s husband stared just a little too long. He snatched them greedily, the cool, slick material slithering against Judy’s palms.

Yanking off the lace slip, Carlos shoved Judy’s legs into the leggings. They resisted, fighting the unfamiliar width of Judy’s hips—*his* hips now—but he hauled them up ruthlessly. The elastic waistband dug in. The leather fused to Judy’s skin like a second layer, unforgiving, pulling everything tight and high. He turned sideways in the full-length mirror. Judy’s reflection stared back: familiar face, unfamiliar hunger twisting its features. The leggings sculpted Judy’s body into aggressive curves, emphasizing the jut of her hips, the taut shelf of her rear. Carlos-in-Judy ran Judy’s hands possessively down the leather-clad thighs. The sensation was bizarre—smooth, cool pressure over flesh he knew intimately yet didn’t own. A deep, visceral satisfaction bloomed. *This* was power. Visible, undeniable power Karen couldn’t gossip away.

"*Chingada madre*, Judy," Carlos murmured to the reflection, his Spanish accent thickening Judy’s vowels. He leaned closer, fogging the glass with Judy’s breath. "All these years hiding this under those baggy-ass pantsuits?" He traced Judy’s cheekbone with a French-tipped nail. "Wasted. Bet Camden’s daddy never appreciated the view." He chuckled darkly, imagining the husband long gone. Judy’s eyes, sharpened by Carlos’s vicious glee, scanned every inch: the curve beneath the belly button, the swell of hips hugged obscenely tight by the synthetic leather. He inhaled sharply—a habit from his old body—and watched Judy’s chest rise, constrained only by the lace slip he hadn’t bothered removing. The leggings shimmered under the closet lights like the wet scales of some predator. Carlos twisted, admiring the rear view. "No wonder Jenkins stares. Almost feel sorry for him." He pinched Judy’s flank experimentally, relishing the unfamiliar give of soft flesh beneath the taut fabric. "Almost."

His gaze drifted across the rainbow chaos of Judy’s wardrobe. Sequins. Florals. Paisley nightmares. He sneered past them—too *suburban*. Too… *her*. Then he spotted it: a simple, oversized white cardigan draped near the back. Bone-white. Fuzzy. Utterly harmless. Carlos snatched it. The wool felt luxuriously soft against Judy’s palms, a stark contrast to the slick aggression of the leggings. He shrugged it on over the slip. The sleeves swallowed Judy’s hands halfway to the knuckles. The hem hung loose below Judy’s hips, brushing the top curve of her buttocks. It softened the leather’s bite, draped Judy’s frame in deceptive innocence. Carlos grinned. Perfect. *La Virgen meets La Diabla*. He fluffed Judy’s blonde hair over the thick white collar, imagining Karen’s confused scandalized face. "*Sí*, gringas," he whispered to the mirror. "You don’t know what to think now, do you?"

Next, his eyes landed on the footwear section. Rows of sensible pumps, elegant heels Judy wore for corporate meetings—dust collectors now. Then, tucked away: a pair of black leather ankle boots with a thick, chunky block heel. Practical, yet sleek. Carlos knelt—Judy’s knees protesting the unfamiliar motion—and pulled them from their shelf. The leather was butter-soft, smelling faintly of polish and cedar. He examined the sturdy heel. Stable. Not like those ridiculous stilettos Judy favored. Perfect for stomping on gringa toes, metaphorically speaking. Jammed Judy’s bare feet inside. The cool leather hugged Judy’s ankles snugly. He fumbled with the tiny metal zip, cursing Judy’s delicate fingers, finally securing it halfway up her calf.

Standing abruptly, Carlos staggered. The floor tilted. These weren’t Carlos’s battered sneakers. The block heel added inches, shifting Judy’s center of gravity forward. He gripped the doorframe, knuckles whitening. "*Madre de Dios*," he muttered, taking an experimental step. Judy’s ankle wobbled; a sharp twinge shot up her leg. This borrowed body lacked muscle memory. He shuffled forward, boots scraping Judy’s plush carpet like dragging stones. Lift. Place. Lift. Place. Each step deliberate, clumsy. The room echoed with the hollow thud of leather on wood as he reached the open floor. He glared at Judy’s reflection: poised face distorted by concentration, absurdly draped in virginal wool and predatory leather, teetering like a newborn deer. Carlos gritted Judy’s teeth. Failure wasn’t an option. Not today. He straightened Judy’s spine, squared unfamiliar shoulders beneath the fuzzy cardigan, and forced another step. Lift. Thud. Lift. Thud.

Downstairs, Camden flinched with every uneven tread above. The ceiling groaned as Carlos practiced, a relentless, arrhythmic drumming. Across the granite island, Judy-in-Carlos stared at her borrowed hands, still trembling. The clatter of magnets echoed back—Carlos’s crude poetry she’d swept away. Camden watched his mother’s spirit flicker behind Carlos’s soft features, dimmed by helpless fury.

"Is he—?" Camden’s whisper faltered as a sudden crash echoed from upstairs—something heavy hitting carpet. Music blared seconds later, aggressive reggaeton thumping through the floorboards.

Judy-in-Carlos flinched, her borrowed eyes wide. "He’s dressing." The words were flat, exhausted. She sank onto a chrome kitchen stool, Carlos’s soft stomach pressing against Judy’s pristine granite countertop. Her fingers traced phantom wrinkles in Carlos’s faded Star Wars shirt.

Camden leaned against the fridge, the cold seeping through his thin hoodie. Above them, Carlos-in-Judy’s boots hammered uneven patterns—the stomps punctuated by muffled curses. Camden pictured his mother’s face twisted in concentration, those unfamiliar heels throwing her stolen body off-balance. The reggaeton bass intensified, vibrating the ceiling light. A framed photo of Judy and Camden at Disneyland rattled on the wall.

Judy-in-Carlos stared at the swinging kitchen door, Carlos’s knuckles whitening on the granite countertop. The grocery bag lay abandoned, wilting lettuce spilling onto the tile. Her gaze drifted toward the staircase, drawn like a magnet to the chaos unfolding in her sanctuary. Camden saw it—the shift in her borrowed posture. Her shoulders squared slightly, mimicking Judy’s old determination beneath Carlos’s slumped frame. A breath hissed through Carlos’s teeth. "Stay here," she ordered Camden, her voice low, frayed at the edges. Before Camden could protest, she slid off the stool, Carlos’s sneakers soundless on the polished floor.

Carlos-in-Judy’s reggaeton pulsed through the ceiling—a relentless, bass-heavy heartbeat. Judy-in-Carlos moved with uncharacteristic stealth, avoiding the third squeaky stair. She paused outside her own bedroom door, pressing Carlos’s ear against the cool wood. Beyond the thumping music came the rhythmic scrape of leather on carpet, punctuated by Judy’s voice cursing thickly in Spanish: "*¡Puta madre, estos zapatos!*" A heavy thud followed, like a body hitting the floor. Judy-in-Carlos flinched, her borrowed face tightening. She grasped the doorknob—Carlos’s soft, damp palm slick against the cool brass—and turned it slowly. Locked. Of course. But Judy knew her own house. Her fingers, clumsy in Carlos’s stubby hands, groped along the doorframe’s upper molding. Dust coated Carlos’s fingertips as she brushed the spare key—hidden years ago for emergencies.

The lock clicked open with jarring loudness. Judy-in-Carlos shoved the door inward before Carlos could react.

The scene froze her in the doorway. Carlos-in-Judy sprawled awkwardly on the cream carpet, tangled in Judy’s own limbs like a marionette with cut strings. One leather-clad leg kicked futilely skyward, the chunky boot dangling precariously. Judy’s silk robe lay discarded near the walk-in closet, a shimmering puddle. Above Carlos, Judy’s reflection stared back from the full-length mirror—wild-eyed, blonde hair mussed, cheeks flushed crimson beneath the thick white cardigan. The skin-tight faux-leather leggings gleamed like spilled oil under the closet lights, grotesquely emphasizing every contour Judy had spent decades politely concealing beneath tailored slacks. Carlos’s gaze snapped to the intruder, fury flashing in Judy’s eyes. "*¡Cabrón!*" he spat, scrambling inelegantly onto knees and elbows. "Get the *fuck* out!"

Judy-in-Carlos didn’t retreat. She took a single, deliberate step into the sanctuary Carlos had violated. Her borrowed eyes swept the carnage: drawers gaping, discarded clothing strewn like battlefield casualties, Judy’s cherished perfume bottles knocked askew. The thick scent—Jasmine Chanel clashing violently with Carlos’s stale cigarettes—clogged her throat. She saw the platinum credit card lying carelessly atop a pile of sequined tops. But it was the obscene rearrangement of her own body that held her horrified gaze: the leggings stretched obscenely tight over her hips and rear, the fuzzy cardigan gaping to reveal the lace slip beneath. It felt like watching her corpse being paraded. "Margaritas with Karen?" Judy’s voice emerged, Carlos’s adolescent timbre thick with disbelief and loathing. "Dressed like... *that*?"

Carlos-in-Judy hauled himself upright, swaying precariously on the unfamiliar boots. He jabbed Judy’s finger toward the door. "Out! *Now*, you little sh—" His words choked off as Judy-in-Carlos darted past him, surprisingly agile in her son’s friend’s clumsy frame. She snatched the platinum card from the sequins. Carlos lunged, but Judy sidestepped, Carlos’s sneaker squeaking on polished wood. "Give that back!" he roared, Judy’s voice cracking with fury. He stumbled forward, the thick heel catching the carpet edge. Arms pinwheeled wildly.

They crashed together—Judy-in-Carlos’s borrowed heaviness colliding with Carlos-in-Judy’s leather-clad softness—and slammed onto the plush cream rug. Breath whooshed from Carlos’s lungs in Judy’s body; Judy gasped in Carlos’s. Carlos scrambled on top, pinning Judy’s thick wrists beneath bony knees. Judy’s perfume-laced sweat dripped onto Carlos’s borrowed face below. "Let... go!" Judy-in-Carlos wheezed, bucking uselessly against Carlos’s newfound leverage. Carlos grinned savagely, breathing hard. He leaned closer, Judy’s blonde hair falling in disarray.

Their faces hovered inches apart. Judy-in-Carlos stared up into her own blue eyes—now filled with Carlos’s predatory triumph. A flicker of recognition passed between them: Judy saw the ghost of Carlos’s adolescent smirk twisting her features; Carlos saw Judy’s horrified disgust etched onto his childhood face. Time thickened, breath mingling—Carlos’s minty toothpaste, Judy’s afternoon coffee trapped in borrowed bodies. Carlos gently, almost tenderly, tucked Judy’s stray hair behind her own ear. Judy-in-Carlos froze, confusion warring with terror in Carlos’s soft brown eyes.

Then Carlos-in-Judy crushed his lips to hers.

It wasn't gentle. It was possessive, bruising, a violation deeper than the body theft. Judy-in-Carlos froze beneath him, Carlos’s soft mouth trapped against her own stolen lips—a grotesque collision of identities. She tasted Judy’s expensive lip balm mingled with Carlos’s bitter coffee breath, a horrifying cocktail inside her borrowed skull. His tongue—*her* tongue—forced its way past Carlos’s slack lips, probing clumsily. Judy moaned, choking on the intimacy, her borrowed limbs locked in stunned paralysis. Above her, Carlos moaned softly through Judy’s throat, his borrowed hands clamping tighter on her wrists, pinning her in place against the plush carpet fibers that smelled faintly of vanilla vacuum powder and Carlos’s sweat.

He pulled back abruptly, breathing hard. Judy’s flushed face hovered inches above Carlos’s stunned expression. A strand of Judy’s blonde hair clung damply to Carlos’s borrowed forehead. Carlos-in-Judy licked Judy’s lips slowly, deliberately savoring the phantom taste. "*Sí, señora*," he whispered, Judy’s voice hoarse with triumph. "Tastes like power." His gaze shifted beyond her, locking onto the platinum card clutched in Judy-in-Carlos’s limp hand—knuckles white against Carlos’s plump fingers. Judy-in-Carlos gasped, realizing she still held it. With shocking speed, Carlos snatched her wrist again, twisting sharply. Pain lanced up Judy’s borrowed arm. Her fingers spasmed open. The card fluttered silently onto Judy’s discarded silk robe.

Carlos scrambled off her, snatching up the card. He smoothed Judy’s rumpled cardigan, smirking down at her sprawled form. "Stay put, *gordito*," he commanded, pushing Judy’s hair from her eyes with sticky fingers. "Be good for Mommy." He stomped unevenly toward the doorway, chunky boots thudding hollowly. Pausing at the threshold, Carlos glanced back. Judy-in-Carlos remained prone, Carlos’s body trembling, fingers digging into Judy’s cream carpet as if clinging to sanity. Carlos blew a mocking kiss with Judy’s French-tipped fingers. "*Adiós*, loser." The door slammed shut. The lock clicked decisively from outside.

Downstairs, Camden heard the heavy footsteps descend—each thud erratic, punctuated by muffled curses. Carlos-in-Judy burst into the kitchen, flushed and triumphant, waving the platinum card like a trophy. Judy’s white cardigan gaped open, revealing the straining leather leggings beneath. He ignored Camden’s wide-eyed stare and snatched Judy’s designer purse from the counter. "Watch the house, *mijo*," Carlos chirped, rifling through Judy’s wallet. He found her car keys, jingling them tauntingly. "Mommy’s got *sin* to commit." Camden flinched as Carlos leaned close, Judy’s Chanel perfume clashing violently with Carlos’s breath. "Try to stop me," he whispered, Judy’s eyes glittering with malice, "and I’ll tell everyone *you* stole her credit card." Camden froze, blood draining from his face. Carlos patted his cheek with Judy’s soft palm—a gesture jarringly maternal and cruel.

The garage door groaned open. Judy-in-Carlos stumbled downstairs moments later, Carlos’s face ashen beneath its olive hue. She clutched the banister, knuckles white. "He took the Lexus?" Her borrowed voice trembled. Camden nodded mutely. Outside, tires screeched on asphalt. Judy sank onto the bottom stair, burying Carlos’s face in pudgy hands. Camden hovered awkwardly, smelling the sweat clinging to Carlos’s oversized tee. "He’s going to her wine tasting," Judy rasped. "Dressed like... like some cheap..." She shuddered, unable to finish. Camden pictured Linda’s horrified gasp, Karen’s whispered gossip. His mother’s reputation, meticulously built over decades, unraveling in Carlos’s vulgar hands.

Camden knelt, touching Carlos’s plump shoulder—strangely alien, yet familiar. "We’ll stop him." Judy lifted her head; Carlos’s eyes, bloodshot and desperate, met Camden’s. "How? He locked us out of *my* accounts. He has *my* ID." Her fists clenched Carlos’s worn jeans. "And Paco’s granddaughter... she said the statue feeds on chaos. The worse he acts as me, the tighter Ixchel’s curse binds us." The fridge hummed loudly in the sudden silence. Camden remembered the magnet poem Carlos had arranged: *JUDYS FAT ASS BURNS LIKE CHEAP TEQUILA*. He yanked it off, crushing the plastic letters in his palm.

***

Carlos slammed Judy’s Lexus into park outside Serenity Spa & Wellness, the tires kissing the curb with a satisfying scrape. Through the windshield, he studied the sleek glass façade—a temple of overpriced tranquility designed for women like Judy, women who thought kale smoothies counted as personality. He adjusted Judy’s rearview mirror, grinning at her reflection: the fuzzy white cardigan draped over the obscenely tight leather leggings created a perfect dissonance. *Virgencita* meets *puta*. Just the kind of cognitive whiplash Karen and her flock deserved. He fluffed Judy’s hair, still mussed from the struggle upstairs, and licked the lingering taste of Camden’s mother off Judy’s lips—coffee and mint and desperate fury. Power, indeed. He grabbed Judy’s oversized Chanel sunglasses from the passenger seat, sliding them onto Judy’s nose. Instant armor.

Inside, the air reeked of eucalyptus and entitlement. Soft chimes tinkled above hushed voices. A reed-thin receptionist with immaculate acrylic nails glanced up, her polite smile freezing mid-curve as Carlos-in-Judy swaggered toward the desk, boots thumping deliberately loud on the bamboo flooring. Her gaze snagged on the leggings, then darted to the cardigan, confusion knitting her brow. Carlos slapped Judy’s platinum card onto the polished teak counter. "Carlos booked the deluxe package," he announced, Judy’s voice pitched low, smoky. "The Brazilian. And add…" he scanned the menu, tapping Judy’s French-tipped nail beside ‘Hot Stone Massage’. "*Este* too." He flashed Judy’s ID, relishing the receptionist’s flinch at the name ‘Judith Albright.’ The woman hesitated, eyes flicking to his legs again. Carlos leaned forward, lowering Judy’s voice to a conspiratorial whisper loaded with Spanish undertones. "*Mi esposo*… he likes it bare. *Comprendes?*" The receptionist’s cheeks flushed crimson. She nodded mutely, tapping frantically at her screen.

Karen’s shrill laugh sliced through the zen atmosphere from the lounge. Carlos turned slowly, letting the cardigan gape open as he surveyed the cluster of Judy’s friends draped on oversized cream couches. Karen, Linda, Bev – their Botoxed faces slackened in unison. Karen’s glass of pinot paused halfway to her lips. Bev choked on a cucumber water. Carlos sauntered over, hips swaying more confidently now in the boots, each step echoing the reggaeton beat still pulsing in his skull. "Chicas!" he boomed, Judy’s voice jarringly loud, dropping onto the plush couch beside Linda with a sigh that strained the leather leggings audibly. He kicked Judy’s booted feet onto the glass coffee table, scattering artisan coasters. "This place is *una mierda*, no? Needs tequila!" Linda recoiled, smelling cigarettes on Judy’s breath. Karen recovered first, plastering on her shark-like fundraiser smile. "Judy! Darling, what a… bold outfit! Feeling adventurous?"

"Always, *corazón*," Carlos purred, leaning close enough for Karen to see the faint smear of Camden’s lip balm on Judy’s cheek. He snatched Bev’s untouched mineral water, draining it in one noisy gulp. "But this?" He gestured dismissively at the minimalist room. "*Aburrido*. Needs heat. Real heat." His eyes scanned their meticulously maintained bodies wrapped in fluffy white robes. "Sauna. *Ahora*. Sweat out the toxins… and the bullshit." Linda exchanged a bewildered glance with Bev. The spa’s dry cedar sauna was a sacred post-massage ritual. Suggesting it *before* treatments? Unthinkable. Especially dripping in faux leather. Yet Judy’s platinum card lay gleaming on the counter behind them – a silent reminder of her bankrolling half their charities. Karen’s mask didn’t slip. "The sauna? Well, darling, if you insist… Lead the way?"

Carlos didn’t hesitate. He hauled Judy’s body off the couch, boots scraping the bamboo floor. "Bottoms off!" he declared loudly, heading for the arched entrance to the women's locker room. Karen’s forced chuckle sounded brittle. Linda murmured protests about reservations, but Carlos had already vanished inside. The others trailed reluctantly, exchanging uneasy whispers about Judy’s "breakdown." Inside the humid locker room, Carlos leaned against a polished locker, radiating unnerving energy. He watched as Karen expertly shrugged off her robe, revealing a sculpted torso clad in lacy, expensive lingerie. Bev followed, more self-consciously covering her softer curves. Linda peeled her robe slowly, revealing toned legs and practical cotton briefs. Carlos didn’t move to undress. Judy’s eyes, sharp and hungry beneath Judy’s blonde brows, tracked every unhooked clasp, every shrug of fabric. He lingered on Karen’s taut stomach, Bev’s fuller breasts shifting as she bent for her towel, Linda’s sinewy shoulders. It wasn’t admiration; it felt clinical, invasive. A predator mapping territory.

Linda finally paused, clutching her towel. "Judy? Aren’t you…?" Her gaze flickered pointedly to Judy’s leather-clad legs, bewildered. Carlos flashed a grin that pulled Judy’s face into an alien shape. "*Claro*, *cariño*," he purred, letting Judy’s cardigan slide deliberately off one shoulder. "Just admiring the view first. *Dios*, Karen, those abs – like steel!" His fingers traced Judy’s own soft flank hidden beneath the leggings. Karen flushed, discomfort warring with vanity. "Well, Barry *does* insist on Pilates twice a—" Carlos cut her off with Judy’s sharp laugh. "*¡Impresionante!* Makes *mi* flabby *culo* feel like *un globo*." He slapped Judy’s leather-clad rear with a resounding *thwack*, the sound echoing off the cedar lockers. Bev gasped. Linda froze.

Carlos peeled off the cardigan slowly, letting it pool on the tiled floor. He hooked Judy’s thumbs into the waistband of the faux-leather leggings. The material squeaked obscenely as he shimmied them down over her hips, inch by inch, revealing Judy’s own lace-trimmed slip clinging damply to curves Carlos had never owned. He kicked the leggings aside, standing defiantly in Judy’s stolen skin: the slip bunched at her thighs, Judy’s bare legs gleaming under the harsh locker lights. Bev averted her eyes, clutching her towel tighter. Carlos spun Judy’s body slowly, arms outstretched. "*¿Ven?* Still got it!" he crowed, grabbing Judy’s breasts roughly through the thin silk slip. "*Grandes y bonitas*!" Karen’s smile vanished. "Judy, that’s… inappropriate!" Carlos snorted, striding naked towards the sauna door. "Life’s short, *amigas*. Sweat now, regret later!" He thrust the heavy cedar door open, blasting them with dry heat that smelled faintly of sage and Carlos’s abandoned cigarette smoke clinging to Judy’s hair.