by Rhys Ford
The stranger ate up the air around him. Taller than Miki’s near six feet, he looked like a brawler with wide shoulders and lean hips, possibly one that spent his time breaking smaller men in half just to suck out the marrow in their bones. His black hair looked as if he’d been pulling at it in frustration, sticking up at all angles around his temples. His rough, handsome face sported more than a day’s growth of scruff along his strong jaw, but the laugh lines at the edges of his blue eyes said he smiled more than frowned. Although, by the scowl on his face, it’d been an eternity since his sensual mouth had seen a grin.
“What?” Miki growled before the intruder on his doorstep could say something.
The cold morning struck him fully and he shivered, wishing he’d taken the time to hunt up a sweatshirt. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself to ward off the biting chill, but he couldn’t let go of the cane. Not without falling flat on his ass. His leg was too sore and twisted to support his weight, and there was no way in hell he was going to let go of his hold on the door. If the stranger decided to push his way in, he’d need the leverage to shove the heavy door in the man’s face.
But at least the pounding had stopped.
“You live here?” The man definitely had a better growl than Miki’s. His voice was darker and deeper. A faint lilt ghosted through the man’s words, and the roll of his anger warmed the whiskey tone of his voice to a burbling heat. “That dog yours?”
The man looming over him was huge, and if push came to shove, Miki knew he’d lose more than a few teeth if they got into it. Miki never backed down from a fight, even when he was bleeding out. He’d always been proud of giving as good as he got. Even crippled and half-asleep, that wasn’t going to change.
“What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want?” Miki spat back.
They exchanged glares, and the man took a deep breath, as if to calm his temper. From what Miki could see, it didn’t work.
“If you’re going to own a dog, you should keep it on a fucking leash.”
“I don’t own a dog,” Miki spat back.
“Then what’s that furry thing next to you? A fucking kangaroo?”
Miki glanced down at the terrier sprawled by his feet. The dog’s tongue lolled to one side of his open mouth, and his ears perked up as a bird flew by. Looking back up at the furious man on his stoop, Miki shrugged. “Yeah, that’s not my dog. He just lives here.”
The man closed his eyes and slowly exhaled through his pressed lips. “Who owns him, then?’
“I don’t know who owns him,” Miki said. “He came by one day. Hasn’t left. Why?”
“Because the little thief stole a piece of my koa.” The man took a step forward, and Miki’s chin rose, a silent challenge, even if he had to look up to meet the man’s eyes. “I want it back.”
“Your what?” Miki shifted his feet. The cold finally reached his spine, its stiff fingers digging into his bones. His knee, on the other hand, was a searing hot spot, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. “Your cone? Like an ice cream cone? How the hell am I supposed to get that back? Dig around in his stomach?”
“Koa,” he said slowly, enunciating each flowing syllable. “It’s wood. From Hawai’i. Your dog took a big piece of it. I want it back.”
“He’s not… screw it. What does it look like?” Miki wasn’t going to argue over ownership of the terrier. Not with his brain sending fiery tendrils up and down his spine and leg.
“It’s wood. How many damned pieces of wood does the dog have?” The hint of Ireland in his voice thickened. Sighing, he held his hands out in front of Miki’s face. “Look, it’s about this big, rough, and dark red. Shit! It’s nearly the same size as the dog. The damned mutt grabbed it and ran off before I could stop him.”
“I’ll go look.” Miki gritted his teeth when he shifted his weight to turn around, and his bad knee nearly buckled. The rubber tip on the end of the cane squeaked loudly as it caught on the wooden floor, and he recovered his balance, breathing heavily from the spikes of pain.
Throughout the noise and Miki’s flailing, the dog lounged back and licked his lower belly.
Miki left the door open. The cold was already deep in his bones, and if he closed it, he couldn’t trust himself to open it up again. Bed seemed like a good place to crawl back into, but instead he hobbled through the room and opened the door to the garage.
And stopped to take a breath.
He could face the garage. The steel and glass pink elephant in the space was covered by a drop cloth that obscured most of its shape, but the car’s lines were still visible. Averting his eyes, Miki stumbled through the space, using what little light came from the terrier-height gap at the bottom of the garage door
Most of what the dog brought in from outdoors was small, such as a cast-off plastic toy or a sun-bleached bone he found in another dog’s yard. Braving the garage every week or so, Miki tossed away nearly all of it, saving only the occasional tennis ball to bring into the house for the mutt to chase after. All of the canine’s dubious treasures were piled up in a far corner, and there on the top of a torn, stained towel sat a milk-carton sized piece of wood, its rough bark still moist from the dog’s mouth.
Bending over, he nearly lost his balance when he picked up the wood. “Fuck, Dude. How the hell did you carry this? It’s a damned brick.”
It was heavier than Miki expected, and he grimaced at the twisting pain in his knee when he stood back up. Cradling the wood against his side, he shook his head in both disgust and amazement at the dog’s tenacity. The warehouse’s open space gave the man a clear view of when Miki came back into the house, and he looked as if he were going to cross the threshold but stopped when Miki’s glare dared him to take a step.
“Do you need…,” the man started to say.
“I don’t need anything,” Miki grunted as he slowly walked toward him. The dog was gone, and by the time Miki got to the front door, he had a light sheen of sweat on his face. Holding out the chunk of wood, he said, “Here’s your cone.”
“Koa,” the man corrected. The hardness seeped from his blue eyes, and he reached to take the wood from Miki’s hands. “Sorry about the… you know. It’s been a really rough day and… damn it, you’re turning blue. You should—”
“Yeah, whatever.” Miki shivered and his body prickled with goose bumps. The heavy door swung smoothly shut on its balanced hinges, and the world slowly closed behind him. “Take your fucking wood and go.”
THE cold never left his bones, or at least that’s what Miki felt like. Long, thick curtains and double-paned windows took the chill off of the San Francisco air, but the fire he finally coaxed to life in the narrow fireplace barely seemed to generate enough heat to warm its own hearth, much less the enormous open living space. Even with the central heating turned up to a comfortable seventy-two, the shuddering roils of cold rocked him with every other breath.
His knee throbbed with the fire of a thousand suns, but the memory of the infuriated man on his doorstep a couple of days ago burned Miki more. A tingle resonated in his cock when he thought about the man’s deep blue eyes, and the reaction startled him. His dick hadn’t shown an interest in anything or anyone since the accident. He wasn’t hard, not by a long shot, but the awareness was definitely there.
“Great, now I’m getting a kink for someone who wants to beat me,” he muttered, his voice rough with disgust. There’d been no lingering appraisal in the man’s eyes, only fury and then a dash of pity. Pity was the last thing Miki wanted or needed. “Like I can’t do that to myself. Fuck him.”
Curled up on the couch he’d brought from the apartment he’d shared with Damien, Miki drew a thick quilt around his shoulders, tucking the ends in under him. The flames lulled him, and he stared into the flickering heat, his mind drifting from the too-chilled warehouse and the echoes of his thoughts. He didn’t feel like gaming, even though he’d turned on the large-screen TV and the game systems. Food was out. His stomach rebelled at the mere suggestion of heading to the k
itchen.
Miki caught a fragile tune wrapping through his thoughts and reached a notebook from the pile he kept on the coffee table. Too focused on the page, he almost jumped out of his skin when a chirruping scared the hell out of him. Floundering to free himself from the quilt, Miki nearly knocked himself off the battered couch before realizing it was his phone.
The handset rang again, chittering across the flat storage container he used as a coffee table. He knew the number flashing across the phone’s display, and for a long moment, he debated letting the call to go the voice mail he never listened to.
“Hello, Edie,” Miki said softly into the phone.
“Hey, kiddo.” She exhaled breathily, and Miki wondered if she’d just let go a sigh of relief or if she’d taken up smoking again. “I’m glad you picked up.”
“You’d just keep calling back until I did.”
“You know me so well, Miki dear.”
He did know her and hated that she knew him as well as she did. Grabbing his coffee cup, Miki ruefully discovered it’d gone cold. Disappointed, he set it back down and cradled the phone against his shoulder. The sofa cushions dipped as the dog jumped up and settled down next to him. A spit-damp tennis ball rolled from the dog’s mouth, and he snuggled down into the quilt, twisting until he lay on his back with his feet in the air.
“What do you want, Edie?” The dog gave off some heat, and he shifted, sliding his feet under the mutt’s body.
He knew why she called. The business end of Sinner’s Gin still needed tending to, and she’d held those reins before the accident. It made sense for her to continue managing the group, even if Miki was all that was left. Back then Edie dealt mainly with Damien, but now she was stuck with the band’s gutter-raised singer. Every week the phone rang, urging him to pick up some of the pieces of his former life. Often he’d let it go unanswered, ignoring the outside world for another seven days.
“I wanted to see how you—”
“What do you need, Edie?” Miki said through gritted teeth.
The woman didn’t understand how her voice reminded him of the long weeks he spent on the road, complaining about the bad food, weather, and their bus drivers’ aversion to bathing. She shadowed them through the ups and downs, either soothing their nerves or pushing them past their fears. The others griped constantly as they dragged themselves and their equipment from city to city, but Miki had never felt more alive. Living in each other’s pockets strained their tempers at times, but they became tighter as a whole. He agonized over the loss of Damien’s bossiness or Johnny’s cocky, swaggering boasts of his hookups from the night before. Miki longed for a few more minutes of Dave’s quiet faith as he murmured thanks to some god before they hit the stage.
Hearing Edie made him miss them all the more, and his heart couldn’t take any more breaks in its already fragile shell.
“I need you to get out of the house, baby, but I’ll settle for a long chat with you on the phone,” Edie replied. “Let’s get some business out of the way, and you can catch me up on what you’re doing.”
He listened with half an ear while Edie ran down the finances. European and Asian sales were still increasing, and the band’s last album seemed fixed steady on album charts with no sign of dropping. Good news all around, and Miki wondered if he should feel anything other than the numbness inside of him. She continued to rattle off terms and agreements when something jarred him loose from his disinterest.
“Wait, back up.” Miki shifted, and the dog opened one eye in reproach. “What did you just say?”
“Damien’s parents were approached by a car company. They want permission to use a song for a commercial.”
“Did you tell them no?” It wasn’t much of a question. Damien hated hearing songs he loved being used to sell things, and the rights to Sinner’s Gin’s songs were solely Miki’s. Every few months, the Mitchells pushed to break his hold, and he shoved back… hard. Fighting with Damien’s parents seemed to be all he had left.
“I did. Their lawyer threatened to sue again to gain control of Sinner’s Gin’s catalogue.”
“Last time they did that, they ended up paying the court costs. Why do they keep doing this? We all have enough money. Damien didn’t want that shit. Why do they keep pushing?”
The tennis ball suddenly appeared in Miki’s outstretched hand with a wet thump. The dog was off the couch in an instant, wagging his stump of a tail as hard as he could. He encouraged Miki to throw the ball with a sharp bark and scrambled after it when Miki whipped the stained tennis ball down the length of the warehouse.
“I don’t know, honey,” Edie said in a soft whisper. Her Minnesota cadence rolled over him, and Miki rested his forehead against his pulled-up knees.
“You know I don’t care, yeah?” He fought a brief struggle with the sniffles, and tears filled his eyes. The ball reappeared at his feet, and Miki picked it up and carelessly tossed it over the shoulder for the dog to chase. “I don’t care if they sell everything we ever made to a pork rind company. I don’t give a shit, but Damien… he did. Why can’t they understand that? Why can’t they see that? Why the fuck can’t they just leave me alone?”
“We’ll let the lawyers handle it, kiddo,” she reassured him. “I can’t not tell you about these things, Miki. I have an obligation to tell you. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Edie. It’s… not you. It’s them,” Miki grumbled. “Let the lawyers deal with them. I’m not going to get into it. I’m too… tired for their shit.”
“You getting out more?” She slid her concern into the conversation as skillfully as Johnny had de-panned his famous jalapeño eggs. Like the eggs, Edie’s concern burned through Miki, and he blinked, hating his eyes for watering.
“I went for a walk yesterday.” He didn’t tell her it was to the liquor store to get bread and whiskey. The delivery truck had been in short supply of both, and he wanted a sandwich. He’d fallen asleep before he could get into the whiskey.
“Is the dog still with you?”
“He hasn’t moved out yet. Might have to raise the rent.” Miki glanced around. The tennis ball was sitting by the doggie flap he had a handyman put into the door to the garage. “Looks like he went out for a minute. Want me to tell him to call you back?”
“It’s good you have him. At least he’s company.” Edie laughed. “Name him yet?”
“He’s not my dog. He just lives here.” He snorted.
“You feed him.”
“Seems like the thing to do. I’d have to feed you if you came up here.”
“Would you let me in, Miki?” Edie asked softly. “If I came up there?”
He closed his eyes, but the past flooded him. Memories of Edie haranguing the band, coddling Damien when he was hungover, and the soft voice she used to coax Miki out of his antisocial shell before an interview. She’d been as much of a mother to him as Damien’s mom had been, and Miki hated that he couldn’t trust the feelings lingering inside of him. The Mitchells turning on him hurt. He cared too much for Edie to shut her out.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “Yes?”
The older woman sighed, “I’m here for you, Miki. If and when you let me, okay?”
“Okay.” He disconnected the call and lay still under the quilts. Edie’s warmth touched the cold inside of him, and he dozed, cradled in the cocoon he’d made for himself.
Chapter 2
You act like I’m the only sinner you know.
And say I’m someone who sets your skin on fire.
But I know different, little girl.
I know other men who’d call you a liar.
—Empty Promises
THE damned dog was back.
He never seemed to be there when Kane opened his studio, but it was like the dog had radar. He showed up solely to haunt the shop Kane leased from the art co-op.
But then so did the man who owned the damned thing. Well, at least he haunted Kane’s mind.
Something about the yo
unger man tugged at Kane’s guts. His green-gold eyes were enormous, with a faint slant to them, ringed black with heavy lashes, and there was a heated challenge in them that taunted Kane and pulled him in. Fuck with me and I’ll tear you a new asshole, that hazel glare said, but the simmer did nothing to hide the anguish lingering there.
“And I know him from somewhere,” Kane swore to himself as he unpacked a set of chisels he’d gotten shipped to him. “Damned if I haven’t seen him before.”
He was too pretty to forget. Not a delicate face, Kane thought, but vulnerable and beautiful. Those high cheekbones and full lips had been nearly hidden beneath the man’s shoulder-length mane, but when his long fingers pushed the dark brown strands out of the way, Kane forgot how to breathe. Now Kane caught himself wondering how the man’s wide mouth would taste, or if he could chase away the faint pain lines around the younger man’s lips.
The belligerent young man needed at least ten more pounds on him, and the kanji characters inked on his upper arm were splotchy and uneven, more like an old prison tattoo than calligraphy. The tips of his fingers ghosted over the ink, obviously an old habit, and the motion drew Kane’s attention to the man’s bared chest and the whorl of down around his flat belly button. The faint trail led down, disappearing under the younger man’s loosely tied cotton pants, the jut of hip bones barely holding the waistband in place.
“No, last thing I need is that kind of trouble,” he scolded his brain, then found himself fretting about the faint blue cast around the man’s mouth and his shivering, half-naked body. The guy was definitely trouble and, despite the lean muscles and long legs, much too skinny for Kane’s tastes. Too skinny and far too memorable.
The dog was still a menace, and its presence was a constant reminder of the pale, pretty-faced man next door. Sitting right outside of the workshop, the mutt woofed and scratched and panted like a blond, furry harbinger of doom.
It also reeked like it took a dive in the River Styx.