by Rhys Ford
“How old were you?”
“I don’t know. Two? Maybe three?” Miki wrapped the hoodie tighter around his chest. “Not like they could cut me open and count the rings.”
“Shit,” Kane whispered under his breath. “And St. John? Was that the family that adopted you?”
“Street I was found on,” he replied softly. “I went into the system. No one wants someone else’s kids, dude. Especially not some fucked up mongrel kid with shitty undies and a tattoo. Trust me on that.”
“It’s not like that,” Kane objected. “Not everyone’s like that.”
“Yeah, they are,” Miki asserted. “Life might be a magic mushroom ride for some kids, but most of us live in the cow shit it grows in. You just have to do what you can, that’s all.”
“And you became a rock star.”
“No.” Even in the watery reflection of the glass, Kane could see Miki’s eyes tear up. “The other guys were the rock stars. I was just there when it happened to them.”
“I’ve got some of your stuff, you know. It’s good,” Kane said, softening his voice. “Even Kel says you’re a big deal.”
“Kel was that guy in the room with me?”
“Yep, that’s Kel. Kel Sanchez. He’s my partner.”
“Yeah, he’s an asshole,” Miki said, turning around to face Kane. “Where are we going?”
“Small Mexican food place I know. They’ve got some seating outside and heaters,” Kane said. “Give me a few minutes to get there. It’ll be fast.”
One thing Kane learned as he drove was that Miki St. John was never really quiet. The man hummed. Constantly. The snippets of song were barely audible, but they rose and fell without stopping. At times, whispers would slip in, melodic drops of words following some tune Miki had in his head. Sitting in Kane’s SUV and staring out the window at San Francisco, Miki St. John sang to himself, building a soundtrack for a life he seemed to live behind brick and glass with only a mutt to keep him company.
Kane turned the SUV into a parking lot next to a brightly painted faux-adobe building. Despite the late hour, the place was busy, and the smell of carnitas and carne asada permeated the air. Kane got out first and waited as Miki grabbed at the passenger side door to maintain his balance.
The stiffness in the younger man’s knee was obvious, and it clicked loudly when he took his first step. It was difficult not to reach for Miki. Even when he stumbled, Kane was held back by the piercing glare Miki gave him. Beyond the stubbornness and pride in the man’s set mouth and hazel stare, Kane still saw the pain and hurt Miki fought to hide. The brittleness he’d hoped to coax from Miki was back, his spirit as tenuous as a pane of thin glass riddled with spiderweb cracks.
“You warm enough?” Kane asked.
Miki nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You can talk to someone, you know,” Kane said softly. He gave in to the temptation to touch Miki, and his fingers glided over the man’s shoulder blades, rubbing at the jut of bone he found hidden under the thick fleece. “About Shing, I mean. I can help you find someone to talk with. Someone discreet and private. We… the police… don’t need to know what you spoke about, but it might… help you heal, Miki. I can tell there’s something there you need to heal from.”
“I… can’t. I won’t.” Miki stopped walking, and Kane wondered if the young man would pull away from him, but instead, Miki leaned back, resting his slight weight against the flat of Kane’s hand. “Not about Shing. I’d sooner talk to you about the band, and I think we both know that’s not going to happen any time soon.”
“Okay, no rush.” Kane led Miki to an empty wooden picnic table. “Have a seat. What do you want to eat?”
“Tacos? A burrito?” Miki eased onto the seat and stretched his leg out. “No beans. I don’t like beans.”
Kane strolled up to the counter and placed a hefty order of carne asada burritos and quesadillas. Leaning on the tiled shelf, he watched Miki as he scanned the crowd. The singer kept his head down, with his face nearly buried in the fleece hood.
“Salsa? Spicy carrots?” the young woman behind the counter asked. Kane nodded and grinned at sight of the red peppers poking out amid the carrot and onion chunks.
He carried the overloaded tray back to the table. “The carrots look deadly tonight. Don’t choke on one. I come here a lot. Don’t embarrass me.”
“Are you talking to me or yourself?” Miki lowered the hood, exposing his face.
“You,” Kane replied, setting a burrito and a quesadilla in front of Miki. “Horchata okay? I should have asked. I can grab something else if you want.”
“No, it’s good,” Miki said, taking a sip of the cold spiced rice milk.
“You eat meat, right?” Kane glanced up and caught the smirk on Miki’s face. “Yeah, okay. Right now, I’m going to assume that’s a yes.”
Miki picked at his food at first. Then Kane nudged his foot under the table and nodded at the burrito. A few tentative nibbles, then Miki dug in. Chewing around his mouthful, he said, “It’s good. How’s yours?”
“Not as good as what’s across the table, but it’ll do.” Kane smiled as innocently as he could as Miki choked. “Don’t die on me just yet. I’ve got plans for you later. Especially teaching you a thing or two about dogs.”
Chapter 4
The poison inside of me kills what I touch,
So why should I love, when I know it’ll die?
—Arsenic Kiss
THE cop ate like he was performing surgery. Every motion was controlled and precise, from the dipping of a piece of quesadilla into tomatillo sauce to the selection of a hot pickled carrot slice out of the plastic bag. Kane fished out a tiny pepper from the baggie and popped it into his mouth, chewing through it before picking up his burrito.
Miki watched Kane from under his lashes. The tangerine glimmer from the street lights turned the hair on Kane’s forearms to a deep mahogany, with splashes of gold where the sun had bleached a few strands. A battered gold ring sat on Kane’s left pinky, the metal dinged and matte from wear, the only piece of jewelry Kane wore besides the thick-banded watch on his wrist.
There was a tiny chip missing from the tooth between his front tooth and incisor, a triangular imperfection that caught the eye when Kane grinned. From what Miki’d seen, the man did not smile softly. Instead, he threw his whole mouth into it, a slightly off-kilter, masculine expression that had more in common with Dude’s mischievous appearance than Kane probably would want to admit.
It was a grin that tugged at Miki’s belly and had his body tingling in all the right places. If only it did more than tingle.
It wasn’t that Miki wasn’t willing. Kane definitely had his interest. The man’s hands were strong, and Miki could almost feel them on him. It didn’t take a stretch of the imagination to feel Kane’s fingers digging into his hips or the heat of the man’s breath on his mouth if they ever kissed. A coiled power lay in Kane’s broad shoulders, his strength a casual confidence he wore as easily as he breathed.
Definitely more than a tingle, Miki realized as his cock thickened slightly for the first time since he woke up from his coma. And all for a cop who’d found his worst nightmare slaughtered and left on display in his car.
“You doing okay?” Kane looked up from his food and caught Miki’s eyes on him. “Kind of seem out of it. Tired?”
“Yeah, a little bit,” Miki mumbled, studying his food. “I want to go home and crash.”
“Any friends you need to call?” Kane asked, folding a piece of cheesy tortilla into his mouth.
“Nope.” Miki took a breath and blinked, willing away the sound of torn metal and cries he held inside of him. “Not anymore.”
The pain inside him grew, and Miki inhaled deeply, hoping the chill in the air would cut through him. Kane studied him, dark lashes hooding his bright blue eyes. It was disconcerting being under that stare, and Miki shifted on his seat, torn between walking off or staring the man down.
Kane threw a curveball. �
�Tell me what music you like.”
“You serious?” Miki looked away, thinking. “Um, different stuff, I guess. What do you like?”
“I like Metallica,” Kane ventured.
“I like them.” Miki paused. “Well, the Black album and anything before that. Things kind of went to shit after they hooked up with someone who told them the bass has to be in line with drums. It changed their sound. Yeah, that’s technically right, but it changed how they worked. Black’s more marketable, more approachable to mainstream listeners. You can definitely see that.”
“Who else?” Kane gave a small smile and leaned forward to listen.
“Tool,” he said, thinking for a second. “Ænima, and anything before that. After that, it’s too much Zomb, and I don’t like Perfect Circle. Love VAST’s Video Audio Sensory Theatre. That’s a perfect album. BRMC’s Howl is pretty good. I like to listen to it when I just want to drift a bit. Dave and Johnny used to argue about Lynyrd Skynyrd, but I only like some of their stuff. Anything by Stevie Ray Vaughan. Anything.”
“Mostly blues stuff, then?”
“Nah, depends on my mood,” Miki said, shrugging. “Hyde, I love Hyde. I like him solo or under VAMPS but only some of L’Arc-en-Ciel. Love X Japan’s trance album. That’s something else to listen to when I want to drift.”
Kane chuckled, and Miki gave him a hard sidelong glance. He sniffed, then picked at his food again. “What?”
“You sound like my brother when he talks about books. Quinn deconstructs what he reads. He just can’t read.” Kane reached for another carrot. “Can I be honest?”
“That’ll be different coming from a cop,” Miki snorted. “Sure.”
“I’m worried about you,” he admitted. “And fuck me if I know why.”
“I can take care of myself,” Miki huffed. “I’ve been at it a while.”
“You’re as skinny as shit and look like you haven’t been out in the sun since you were hatched. So excuse me if I don’t believe you,” Kane drawled and leaned against his elbows, cradling the remains of his burrito in his hands. He took a bite and chewed, then swallowed. “And God, you pissed me off when I first met you.”
“Dude pissed you off,” Miki pointed out. “I just answered the door.”
“No, you pissed me off too,” Kane said, waving the last bit of burrito at Miki. “You should’ve kept your dog inside or leashed. I only just found out you know jack shit about owning a dog.”
“He didn’t come with a how-to book, you know.” Miki helped himself to one of the carrots and tentatively took a bite. He spit out into a napkin and reached for the horchata to cool off his tongue. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
“I think you kind of need someone to have your back.” The cop reached over and took Miki’s bag of carrots. “Don’t take this wrong, but you’re kind of in a shitty situation. They’ve found a dead body in your garage—”
“You found a dead body in my garage.”
“What did you think I was going to do? Help you get rid of it? Walk away?” Kane lifted his eyebrows. “I’m a cop… what did you think was going to happen?”
“Dunno. Shing wasn’t there when I went out to start the car. Wasn’t like I planned anything.” Miki shrugged. “Like I told Sanchez, the car was running for about fifteen minutes before Dude came in and I grabbed him. He was being an asshole about the tub, so I thought I would turn it off. That’s when I found you all Malcolm Reynolds in my garage.”
“Someone put him there,” Kane said. “Someone went specifically to where you lived and dumped a dead man into your car. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Yeah,” Miki replied softly. “But what am I going to do? Crawl under my bed? I can ask Edie if she’ll find a security company, I guess, but I don’t want some guy I don’t know lurking over me.”
“I don’t like you being there alone, and I don’t know why I give a shit. You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass since I’ve met you,” he grumbled at the singer. “I don’t want you going back there without taking some precautions.”
“Luckily, you’re not my mother,” Miki shot back. “Or fucking me, ’cause then you’d have something to say.”
The scrutiny went from guarded to hot, and Miki met Kane’s gaze straight on.
“Who’s Edie?” Kane finally asked.
“My manager….” Miki paused. “Ex-manager. I don’t know. She’s… she deals with all the big life shit I can’t figure out. Taxes, music rights… that kind of stuff. She used to be on the road with us. Now she’s handling other bands, but she still… does Sinner’s Gin’s crap too. We talk every once in a while. If there’s something I’ve got to make a decision on, she calls. Sometimes she just calls to nag.”
“I’ve got to get this woman’s number,” Kane muttered under his breath. “Maybe she can get you to get some help.”
“She’s tried. I just want to be left alone.”
“Excuse me, Greta, but someone needs to watch your ass since you don’t seem to be doing such a good job of it.”
“You offering to?” Miki smirked, then wrinkled his nose. “Who’s Greta?”
“Jesus, it’s like you were raised by wolves. Greta Garbo. Never mind, we’ll catch you up to the real world later.” Kane sighed heavily. “And yeah, that’s what I’m offering, Miki. There’s something shitty going on around you, and if you’re not going to keep an eye on that skinny ass of yours, then I’ll do it for you.”
“My ass isn’t that skinny,” he grumbled. “And I’m fine. I don’t need—”
“You do need.” Kane cut him off. “That dog of yours only seems good for biting cops, and there was a fucking dead body left in your car. If you’re not careful, Miki, the next dead body is going to be yours.”
IT TOOK Kane five minutes of sitting in his car and staring at the front of the warehouse before he felt comfortable driving away from Miki St. John’s place. He knew it was silly. Someone from Forensics was still inside the garage doing last minute lab-monkey stuff, and Casey promised to have someone on patrol lurk nearby. Still, when the front door closed behind the singer’s pert ass, Kane wanted to pound on the door until he could see those hazel eyes again.
“Like it’s his door you want to pound, Morgan,” Kane muttered to himself as he turned the key in the SUV’s ignition. His phone started singing about being sexy and knowing it, and he sighed heavily before putting the car into gear. Kane thumbed on his earpiece and barked into the phone, “What’s up, Sanchez?”
“Got a small situation over here in Chinatown. Feel up to hanging out with a gorgeous Puerto Rican for a couple of hours?”
“Why? You know one?”
“Funny,” Sanchez snapped back. “Get your ass over to Shing’s restaurant. We got some strange things going on, partner mine. Figured you’d want in on the action….” He paused, then Kane heard him guffaw. “Unless you got some of your own action going on over there with the rock star.”
“Fuck off, Kel,” Kane replied without heat. “I left him at the door with orders to crawl into bed. I’ll be right there. Don’t start anything without me.”
The admonishment obviously came too late. By the time Kane pulled up to the alley behind the restaurant, the back door was open and clogged with uniforms standing guard over several overstuffed black trash bags. A few feet away, a skinny, middle-aged Chinese man Kane recognized as Bradley Shing stood, arguing heatedly with a placid Sanchez and Connie Lau, another inspector from their station. His partner looked serene, a far cry from the taut face he’d had on when trying to breach Miki’s defenses. From the looks of things, Shing wasn’t getting his way.
Kane parked behind Sanchez’s black Porsche Boxster, angling the SUV so he blocked any traffic from coming down the alleyway. A couple of patrol cars were across the other side of the alley, boxing in the restaurant. After activating the blue light flashers tucked up on the seam of his rear windows, Kane climbed out and headed over to inspect the bags. Sanchez broke off from the tirade and tucked his hands into the
waistband of his gray trousers, pulling his jacket back to expose the badge he wore on his belt.
“Funny time to be cleaning house,” Kane said, toeing one of the bags. “Anyone take a peek to see what’s in it?”
“Not yet,” Sanchez admitted. “There’s a transport coming to take them in. I want some space to spread out what Mr. Shing there thought he couldn’t wait until morning to toss out.”
“Who saw him toss the stuff?” Kane spotted someone he knew from his brother’s class, and he smiled, nodding to one of the uniforms standing by the open door.
“I did.” Sanchez shrugged when Kane shot him a look. “I discovered, after a long night of tracking down a murderer, I was hungry for some Chinese food. So while I sat behind the restaurant for an hour or so, deciding what I wanted to order, Mr. Shing came out and threw some trash bags into the dumpster over there.”
“Which you had to retrieve, of course.”
“Of course.” Sanchez had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Actually, I caught a patrol coming by and snagged one of them to climb in.”
“Dude, abuse of authority.” Kane clucked at him, grinning.
“These are new pants.” Sanchez tugged at his trousers’ pockets. “If you think I was going to get gau yuk all over a pair of new Pradas, you’re fucking insane.”
“You’re an embarrassment to cops everywhere, Sanchez,” Kane drawled. “Casey come across with the warrant yet?”
“Yeah, right after I called you. I was about to head in, but I thought I’d wait for your sorry ass. I’m tired of showing you up to the Loo.” Sanchez nodded briefly at Shing, who was trying to get around Lau. She maneuvered in, blocking him off. “There’s a couple of guys in the front closing the place down. Place is open until two in the morning, so there’s some stragglers. Martinez is in there. He said he’d take the kitchen staff’s statements. I already jotted down what Shing wanted to share with me.”