by Sable Jordan
“I’m Ben,” a cheery voice said from somewhere in the universe. Two glasses of water appeared on the table. Ben continued, either oblivious or completely accustomed to impromptu submission training at the restaurant. “I’ll be your server tonight.”
“Decided what you want yet?” He didn’t mean dinner, Kizzie knew, but he acted as though they’d been having the most banal chat over food choices. “If you could give us a minute, Ben. She’s not quite ready,” Xander said. His fingers shifted a hair and he added a thick, “Or are you?”
Kizzie couldn’t speak.
“Take your time.”
“I plan to.”
Ben moved away; the hand low on Kizzie’s belly moved too. Going down, a clear course charted for the throb between her legs, and then stopped. Teasing her. The hand on her neck squeezed harder, and she let out a breathy yelp.
“How many times, Princess?”
Kizzie had no idea what he was talking about and didn’t know if asking would make this continue or end, or which of those she wanted. She kept up her silent vigil, the zipper of her jeans doing the screaming she seemed incapable of as he traced little whorls over her panties.
“How many times while you were gone from me did you touch my pussy? Once…?”
Kizzie’s breath was coming faster than a bullet train, and she wanted to snap her legs closed. Maybe that would stop the admission from creeping over her face.
“Twice..?” Xander asked, his voice soft and coaxing. “No, I’m betting more than that. You touched my pussy and thought about me. Did you come?”
She squeezed her eyelids shut. Hopping on the table buck-naked would’ve been far less embarrassing than this. “Xander…”
“Called my name, too? Well that’s a nice stroke to the ego…”
Her fingers dug into his thigh; his froze, the tip of one thick digit so close to spreading her open through soaked lace. It took everything she had to finally grip his wrist. Xander tsked. “Moved your hand… What’s the count?”
“Twenty-four.” The number flew from her subconscious and right out her open mouth, and Kizzie hoped to hell it was right because she really hadn’t been keeping score.
“Good girl. So do I drag you over my lap right here and spank you? Bet my pussy would be soaked by then…”
Hell, it was flooding now! “Xander, please…”
“Thought you’d be safe ‘cause we’re not in some dark dungeon or designated club? That’s not how this works, Princess. A sub is respectful, no matter the location. She knows the rules, as does her Dom, and she behaves accordingly. And when she doesn’t…”
He moved again and she held his wrist firmer, begged, “Xander…”
“Is that how you ask me to stop?”
Damn him. Damn him and those hands.
And damn her body and vocal chords for not working in unison. Body screamed ‘Green!’ but what croaked from Kizzie’s dry throat was a soft and totally unbelievable, “Red.”
“Red, who?”
She swallowed hard, torn between wanting to kick his ass for this and the desire to give in. “Sir.”
The tight clamp on her neck morphed into gentle kneading; the hand down her pants retreated.
“Keep running, but let’s be clear. It wouldn’t matter who I let play with you.” Xander tightened his grip on her sore muscles. She flinched and bit her lip—useless in trapping the mewl that escaped her throat. “Because you only come for me, and only when I let you. Crystal?”
At her slight nod, the final connection to him broke and cool air rushed across Kizzie’s burning neck.
Xander sighed. “Guess it’s steak, then...”
The sound of ripped paper, and a plunk: a glass of water, complete with straw, came into her line of sight. She hated needing it; blessed the mouthful she swallowed to regain her composure. No getting around the embarrassment from the yell of the zipper as she drew it up the track and then buttoned her jeans.
Why did she react to him so easily? Let him touch her in the most intimate ways—in public, no less—and then want him to do it again?
And again…
The wait for Ben’s return seemed endless. One arm outstretched behind her on the top of the booth, Xander’s other forearm rested on the tabletop, fingers drumming a tattoo against the surface.
She turned from the sight of that busy hand; caught sight of a woman staring a short distance away. Lanky, high cheekbones, long, reddish-brown hair. In black skinny jeans and a white sequined tank, she wobbled in her heels. A moment later, she retreated to the opposite side of the eatery, taking careful steps.
Beneath the table, Kizzie lifted her foot to pull the knife from her ankle holster. “If I’m not back in fifteen, come after me.”
She was out of the booth and moving by the time Xander’s muttered curse reached her. She passed Ben, who finally deigned them again worthy of his attention, and wended through the tables, all the while ignoring the feel of Xander’s eyes on her and the little zing between her thighs firing with each step.
Compartmentalize. Focus.
As Kizzie rounded the corner to a small corridor, the woman ambled through the bathroom door.
Kizzie hesitated. Alone out here; anything could be waiting on the other side. Going in solo was a bad move, but a thousand ninjas in a bathroom were far less dangerous than the Dom she’d left at the booth. Knife at the ready, she opened the door and cautiously stepped inside.
* * * *
Oakland, CA
Five thousand miles east of Tokyo, two rust colored containers were being hitched to Mach trucks at the Port of Oakland in northern California’s Bay Area. The drivers chatted as they worked in the predawn hours. Done securing their loads, the two men shook hands. One went to a large black and purple cab with a lime green lightning bolt on the side, and the other climbed aboard an equally large black cab with bright red and orange flames painted on the hood and doors.
They trailed each other out the port’s security gate and all the way to the Nimitz freeway entrance; their horns tooted brief goodbyes. The flames chugged down the ramp headed south, where a connection with the MacArthur freeway would eventually point it southeast. The lightning bolt covered the yards needed to ride the ramp that would take it north a short distance until it merged with Interstate 80, headed northeast.
Half an hour later, a black SUV sped along the Nimitz freeway.
An hour after that, the flames were in the driver’s sights.
Tokyo, Japan
Four stalls in the bathroom, open doors touching the floor and extending high enough toward the ceiling that peeking over wasn’t an option. Opposite these were sinks and a long mirror. A quick survey of the reflecting glass and Kizzie determined they were alone. She gripped her lucky knife in her pocket, thumbing the wood; shifted her position so she was close enough to the exit to escape, but not so close as to be ambushed. “Got a name?”
He leaned against the bank of sinks: wide eyes, more height, slightly different build and completely different attire. The man from the tattoo shop, plus an appendage or two on his lanky body. If he had to cross-dress to have this meeting—a meeting at an American restaurant miles from the shop in Shinjuku—he had good reason to.
His eyes darted from Kizzie to the only exit and back again, realizing he’d painted himself into a corner.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Kizzie assured. “No one will know we spoke. Just looking for a friend last seen near your tattoo shop.” That didn’t garner any sympathy. “Okay, let’s go about it like this. You’ve seen that tattoo before.”
A nod.
“Where?” Still no response. With her body riding the tailspin from Xander’s hands, Kizzie was high on horny but perilously low on patience. She dragged a breath through her nose to keep the urge to snap at bay. “What’s your price?”
Another anxious glance and the man slipped a hand down the front of his tank, rummaged around the way an old-school grandmother would search her brassiere for her
cash stash, and then slapped what he’d extracted on the faux wood counter.
Two flesh-toned half-moons rested by the sink.
“Uhh…Boobs?” New car, location change, “medicine,”—those were the usual responses from paid informants. Silicone implants was a first.
He started on the button to his jeans. Kizzie’s hand flew up, palm out. “That’s— I see where you’re going with this. You want to transition?” Another nod and Kizzie said, “Need a name.”
He shoved the breast enhancers into the hobo bag hanging from his shoulder. “I go by Yukiko.” The low voice didn’t match the feminine appearance, but it was a positive for the man Kizzie met in the back alley of Ink-Scribed. “And you are?”
“Not a threat. So long as the info you give me is legit.” Kizzie flashed a wry smile. “Where’d you see the tattoo?”
Yukiko stared back, gaze unsteady. “This is…”
“I just want to find my friend. You want the surgery, I can get you money.”
His face brightened. “How much?”
“How much d’you need?”
“$35,000, American.” Said eagerly, and without hesitation. Yukiko had done his homework.
Kizzie whistled low and long. Not that she had an extra 35-grand lying around, but if that was the cost per gender reassignment surgery, was it too late for med-school? “Five.”
“Not enough.”
“Sounds like five more than what you have, or do you want to keep cleaning stations and getting barked at by Toru for the rest of your life?” Yukiko dipped his chin. “Maybe you can transition in thirty, forty years if you’re lucky…. ” Kizzie tilted her head to the side and risked a guess. “Think Toru will wait that long?”
Eyes wide, Yukiko slowly shook his head. “If…if I looked like them, we wouldn’t have to hide. He wouldn’t have to trick his family or,” his tone soured, “always flirt with those women.
“I’ve been saving all my money, but it’s not enough,” Yukiko explained, perhaps trying to absolve himself of guilt for betraying the man he loved by holding this meeting. “I’m just an apprentice. All he lets me do is clean the shop. He won’t even let me practice yet. How am I supposed to make any real money if he won’t let me start working?”
Ah, the entanglements of love…
Who’d let who do what was messy business, and yet another reason Kizzie didn’t do feelings. She nodded in an attempt to appear empathetic. Yukiko’s receding chin trembled, short nose twitching.
Kizzie sighed. “Look, I might be able to get you more, depending on the info. No promises.” She didn’t have the five she’d thrown out as a counter-offer, but since this was Xander’s mess, let him use some of that ill-gotten money to pay for it. What’s five large to a man with his own yacht and plane? Hell, she might even make it ten. “The tattoo...?”
A long moment passed before Yukiko spoke again. “I know her.”
“I’m listening.”
He pushed the tresses of the wig off his shoulder. “I don’t… remember her name, but if you pay me—”
Kizzie spun on her heel and reached for the door handle.
“Wait! Please…I…”
“You made sure I saw you in the tattoo shop. You wanted me to meet you here. You want to transition. Now you are wasting my time.”
“Let me…” he chewed his lip, “If Toru knew….” Yukiko glanced at Kizzie, fear in his eyes. Clearly he didn’t get the word that Kizzie and Toru weren’t exactly best buds.
“She came into the parlor a long time ago, wanted to get a rope tattooed around her ankle,” Yukiko said. “She didn’t flirt with Toru, so I liked her. When he was done, she was so proud of it she wanted another one. But Toru’s schedule was booked for months—he’s one of the best artists in Tokyo… in the world.” He smiled, a brief flash of little white teeth.
“I’ve apprenticed for years under him,” Yukiko’s cheeks went rosy and he stifled a giggle. “I mean, he’s taught me so much I knew I could handle such a simple design. So I offered…”
The truth. The faraway look in Yukiko’s eyes indicated the recital was from memory.
“What did you give her?”
He blinked, coming back to the present. “That tattoo from your picture. The In-Yo.”
The dam of anticipation finally broke, and Kizzie’s grip tightened on the knife. They had Sumi. “How many did you do?”
“Just one. She only asked for—”
“Did you tattoo any other girls?”
His chin lifted and he titled his head, brow furrowed. “Others?”
Kizzie abandoned that line of questioning. “This girl, the one you tattooed, you know where she is?” Yukiko hesitated; Kizzie popped a brow up, quirked her lips.
His expression turned pleading and his glossy, pink mouth twisted. “Please understand, this is a dangerous world you want access to. If Toru finds out—”
“Want the money or not?” Kizzie asked, done with the game.
The next moment, the bathroom door was coming at her fast. Kizzie blocked the swing with her booted foot. Another push, harder. She braced her shoulder against the door, took the knife from her pocket.
“Friend of yours?”
Yukiko eyed the blade and gasped. He slapped his hand over his open mouth and shook his head quickly.
“Don’t lie—”
“No, I swear.”
A palm smacked the wood. “Hey! Is somebody in there? I gotta pee!”
“You’ll take me to her,” Kizzie stated plainly, nodding her head, coaxing the man to agreement.
“I will meet you in back of the restaurant.”
“Open the door! I’m going to get the manager...” the voice on the other side threatened.
“Far stall. Lock it. Don’t leave until you’re alone. Don’t be seen.”
Yukiko hurried into the last stall and the lock engaged.
Kizzie waited a beat and stepped away from the door. It swung open; a teenager on the other side stumbled in, a flurry of skirts and chunky black boots. Thick mascara matched her black lipstick, the dark portal parting to tell Kizzie where to go and how fast to get there.
Hand still in her pocket, Kizzie fixed her with a look and Little Miss Fluffy Skirts remembered she had to go without so much as a huff. The second lock clattered into place.
Kizzie made her way back to the table.
And Xander.
Impassive expression, but chocolate gaze steady. Didn’t drum his fingers on the table anymore. Anyone looking might mistake him for relaxed, but Kizzie knew he was far from it. She sat beside him again, well out of reach of his kung-fu grip. Somehow, this chewing out would be worse than getting one from Connolly.
“Had sixty-eight seconds left,” Xander said, a little too calmly. A couple and their screaming kid went by and Kizzie watched them, stretching out her silence.
Xander reached for his water and took a slow sip. When he spoke again his voice was low and lethal. “Don’t ever run off like that again. I let it slide at the tattoo shop because I knew what you were up to. For now we’re on the same team. If there’s a plan, you tell me. Otherwise, I can’t watch your back. We crystal?”
“I watch my own—” He shot her a look and she shut her mouth, finishing the back-talk in her head—“damn back.” She could take care of herself—had been doing it just fine long before Xander Duquesne came into the picture.
“Nod.”
She bobbed her head. It wasn’t worth the argument.
“What the deal?”
Ben returned, hands full, balancing their food. “Steak for you, sir…” He reached across the table to set the plate before Xander. “And a burger for the lady. Can I get you two anything else?”
Kizzie stared down at the food she hadn’t ordered. A variety of little bowls—each containing a different condiment—circled the rim. It was exactly what she wanted, but now she’d never be able to look at a burger again without thinking of Xander. “Boxes… and the check.”
Ben lo
oked between the pair, pasted on a smile and set off again. Kizzie turned to Xander, staring into reserved chocolate pools and remembering that this cheap date just got a whole lot more expensive. How do you to tell a man you spent a large chunk of his money and he still wasn’t getting in your pants? Easy: Don’t.
Containers landed on the table and Kizzie busied herself with filling them, stealing glances at the exit in between transferring sides from plate to box. She peeked at Xander again, debated between his side dish and hers, snagged one of his asparagus spears and crunched into it. She offered the half-eaten veggie to him with an innocent grin. Now who had the control?
His brow lowered. “27…”
Her lips twitched. If he ever got those last three spankings in, they would be so worth it.
Ben arrived with the check at the same time Yukiko emerged from the bathroom. Green stalk clenched between her teeth, Kizzie slid out of the booth. “Come on, big daddy. You’re getting lucky after all.”
* * * *
Xander pressed his ear to the door. No movement from the other side but the faint sound of a breeze meant a window was open. Scratches around the lock could’ve come from keys—though modern, this was an older building that had probably seen its fair share of residents bumbling around late at night—but with the gouges so deep, he’d bet money it’d been forced by an amateur. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, gripped the knob and twisted. Locked but loose. Phil stood as lookout at the end of the hall, and Xander motioned to him; made a fist for Phil to hold position when Kizzie crouched.
She fished metal tools from her jacket pocket and made easy work of the mechanism. Seconds later, the trio stood inside the apartment. A woman lay unmoving near the desk, a lamp the only item atop the flat surface. The light was on, creating a circular pool on the wood that focused on nothing.
Phil remained at the door. Xander and Kizzie stepped lightly toward the body. The smell was terrible, not decomposition but purge fluid. Xander had been acquainted with it a time or two before and found it to be a scent fouler than standard decomp. It lingered long after the deceased had been moved, stuck in the nose the way a catchy song stays in the head and each time it comes on the radio you want to break the damn thing.