by Rhys Ford
His cock danced, spilling and gasping its climax as his balls emptied themselves of his desire. It was too much to take, and Kane sagged, buckling from the darkness threatening to overtake him. It seemed like an eternity of pleasure to the point of being pain when finally his cock gave up its writhing and sagged under the weight of its release.
The water continued to pour in a rush over Kane’s shoulders, tepid and comfortable, but if he didn’t move soon, his legs wouldn’t hold him up much longer. The slick stone was hard against his spine, and a creaking ache in his back and knees warned him of an impending, vicious muscle cramp. His hands shook as he reached for the hot water knob, but it twisted easily in his grasp, and a moment later, steam fogged up the shower glass, obscuring the rest of the bathroom from him.
He lathered up again, snorting when his dick responded feebly to the green-tea soap as it foamed on the washcloth. Carefully washing his cock and balls, Kane used one hand to lean against the wall, needing it to support his trembling muscles as he rinsed off his release.
“Jesus, Miki,” Kane mumbled, bending his head forward under the pour until the water ran through his hair. “What the hell have I gotten myself into with you?”
It was too soon for them. Kane knew that in his gut. Miki was riding a wave of nightmares and old pain. Something lingered in Miki’s psyche, something rotting so deep inside of him it made the man question who he was even as he clung to Kane for support. It’d risen when Miki’s silent tears succumbed to a whispering keen, and the man rocked slightly as Kane stroked his shoulders and sides.
They fucked me up so much. I don’t even know if I really like guys. Suppose it’s just ’cause of what they did to me? he’d murmured, nearly low enough for Kane to miss hearing. That why no one really wants anything but a fuck? You think that’s why no one sticks around? ’Cause that’s all they made me good for? Fucking?
It stung to hear those words. Kane’s stomach clenched when Miki bared his raw soul. Nothing Kane said would take away those doubts. They both knew that anything Kane could say to him would be fleeting and hollow. Instead, they just held one another, first in the soft light of the living room, then in the comforting darkness of a bed linen cocoon as they were serenaded by a snoring dog.
“Damn it, I just want to kill someone for putting this shit on him,” Kane swore. “Or go in there and fuck him, like that would do any good. I can’t do jack shit right now, and now I’m talking to myself like some fricking crazy person.”
He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, letting the steam pour out into the room. His muscles were still tight, even with the stroking off, and Kane hunted through the cabinets for anything resembling aspirin. Coming up with a nearly full bottle of ibuprofen, he shook out a few and gulped them down dry, leaving the bottle out so he could force two or three down Miki’s throat.
“Well, not like I didn’t wear enough of Connor’s shit growing up.” Rooting through what Connor left him, Kane frowned at his choices. He leaned over to roll the borrowed sweats up enough so he didn’t drag them on the ground. “Great, and they fucking say SWAT all over them. Egotistical bastard.”
The sweats were too soft from years of washing, and the hems unfolded when Kane walked to the kitchen. Digging out a package of Kona coffee from the squillions of bags Miki had stashed in his industrial-sized freezer, he tapped out a heap of grounds into the steel coffee filter and stepped back—falling flat on his ass when his heel caught the back of Connor’s sweats, and he slid forward, unable to catch himself before he slammed into the kitchen floor.
“To hell with this,” Kane growled, getting up slowly from the floor. “I’ve got to have something in the car. At least something to wear that won’t try to kill me until I can find the washing machine in this place.”
A quick glance toward the open archway reassured him that Miki was still asleep. Yawning, the terrier stretched and groggily stumbled off of the edge of the bed, shaking out his blond fur before trotting up to sniff at Kane’s ankle.
“I’m just going to the car,” Kane promised the dog. Grabbing his keys off of the table, he held his hand up to Dude. “Stay here. I’m going to be right back.”
Still barefoot, he opened the front door—and reeled back when the screaming started.
“FUCKING hell,” Miki swore as he tripped over a sneaker.
His leg hurt, and the throb in his knee was nearly seismic as it thumped its displeasure. The Nike was too large for his foot, and he blinked, trying to make sense of the size eleven shoe in the middle of his bedroom floor. His answer came to him in a rush of memory: disheveled black hair, a sinful Irish whiskey voice, and delectably large hands cradling him as he unsuccessfully tried not to cry. He sniffed, catching a whiff of Kane on his clothes, and yawned again, padding out to the living room to find out what all the yelling was about.
The front door was open, and Miki scrubbed at his eyes when the watery afternoon sun hit his face. Taking a few steps from the threshold was a mistake. When his bare feet hit the long swatch of damp grass separating the warehouse from the cement walk, a crowd of people swarmed toward him.
Miki turned his head, ignoring the crowd. He spotted his dog and limped over to where Dude stood, furiously ravaging a man’s pants leg. Further down the walk, Kane shoved a beefy-faced photographer to the ground, shattering the man’s camera when he threw it onto the asphalt.
Amid all of it, nearly every single person clamoring in on him was shouting his name, trying to get his attention.
“Miki! Is it true you murdered your own dog and blamed it on a stalker?”
He didn’t spare the man a second glance. Dude was done chewing up the tabloid reporter’s pants and was beginning to nip at the tender flesh he found under the fabric. The man’s alarmed shouts were shrill, and Miki precariously bent over to lift the dog off the ground. His knee joint protested being twisted around but held as he stood back up.
“Dude, cut your shit,” he scolded, hefting the dog under his arm.
“Miki! Over here! Is this man your new lover? Have you finally gotten over Damien’s death?”
“There’s a rumor the Mitchells are suing you over the rights to Sinner Gin’s songs. How do you feel about that, Miki?”
“Is this the detective investigating your prostitution charges? Do you have any comment about that?”
That caught Miki’s attention, and he narrowed his eyes at the reporter as he limped past the swarm to where Kane was shouting at the man he’d pushed. Dude squirmed in Miki’s arms, barking his head off at the people trailing after Miki like lost ducklings. The noise level rose and overwhelmed him, a buzzing cacophony he’d not missed since he was released from the hospital. The badgering stalked him with every step Miki took. Questions followed him, voices shouting after him about his injuries, his damaged relationship with Damien’s parents, and the dead man found in his garage.
“Let’s go back inside,” Miki shouted at Kane so the man would hear him above the fray. “I’ll call the cops.”
“I am the fucking cops!” Kane growled back. “God, I’m going to shoot one of these assholes.”
“You don’t even have your shoes on, and I think you left your gun in the house.” He laughed, then nearly toppled over when someone pushed him from behind. “I own this end of the street. It’s private property. There’s a sign and everything. I’ll call them in for trespassing.”
“I’d rather fucking shoot them,” Kane grumbled. “Give me the dog. I’ll hold him.”
“How about if I hold him and you shove us back to the house?” Miki nodded to the front door. Dude snapped at a cheek that got too close to Miki, taking a nip of skin with his bite. The man howled and clutched at his face, a small pinch of pink skin peeking out between his fingers. “Or I could just hold him in front of me like the Cleaners from Labyrinth.”
“I’m going to sue! Your damned dog bit me!” The scream was lost in the blizzard of shouts and cameras whirring for the perfect shot.
&nb
sp; “Talk to that asshole.” Miki jerked his chin toward the photographer who lost his camera to Kane’s temper. “You guys can go in on a lawyer. Now get the fuck off my property. All of you.”
It was hard going, much more difficult than most of the paparazzi crowds he’d dealt with before. Not for the first time in his life, Miki wished Damien was around. The guitarist seemed to have snake-charming ability to fend off the packs of photographers who stalked them. With Kane’s arm around his shoulders, Miki held the terrier as firmly as he could while the cop led him back into the house.
The crowd was reluctant to let them escape, blocking the front door. The press of bodies grew too hot for Miki to stand, and he gulped in large pulls of air, hoping to escape the claustrophobic walls of people. Kane shoved hard, pushing through the mass to give Miki room to walk.
It took Miki some time. The dog squirmed, eager to catch another bite of someone’s face or arm. Dude’s teeth came dangerously close to a woman’s nose, and she jerked back, toppling a cameraman behind her. They scattered and fell, human dominoes stacked too tightly together for comfort, taking Miki down with them.
He felt himself falling forward, his foot catching on someone’s leg or ankle. Miki twisted, holding Dude close to his belly when he went down. He hit the pavement and choked on the air rushing out of his chest. Something gave in his leg, a tearing heat spreading out from his knee to hook into his balls before twisting a snarling pain through his body.
Gasping, he let go of the dog and rolled over, covering his head to protect himself from the stampede of people around him. Dude jumped free, landing gracefully on the grass. Waves of pain hit Miki’s spine, and he let his stomach have its way, puking out what little he had left in him. Miki heard Dude barking and snapping at the people around him, but he couldn’t focus on the furry blond blur long enough to yell at the terrier to stop.
Strong hands grabbed Miki’s upper arms, hoisting him up. The world tilted, brightening when he was lifted up over the bodies around him. Slung across Kane’s shoulders, Miki hissed when another wave of pain hit him, and he horked, dry heaving over Kane’s chest.
“Shit, you sound like my mom’s cat. Hold on.” Kane turned, shoving people aside with his bulk. Miki was precariously balanced across his back in a half-assed piggy back. Hands were grabbing at his sweats, threatening to pull them down off his slender hips. Bodies jostled them, and Kane pushed back as much as he could. “Dude! Get in the house! Now!”
The dog took one last look at the throng, gave a final defiant bark, and trotted back into the house, tail up high in insult.
“Put me down,” Miki growled. “I can walk.”
For a second, Miki thought Kane was ready to dump him onto his feet on the sidewalk, but the cop was only shifting his hold on Miki’s arms. Draped down Kane’s spine, he had to duck his head when the man plowed through the last of the crowd. A brush of cold air kissed Miki’s bare hip, and he made a grab for his sweats, tugging them back up over his leg.
The press of warm bodies followed them to the threshold. Kane gently put Miki down, his eyes narrowing when Miki yelped in agony. His knee buckled, and he grabbed at Kane to keep his balance. Clutching the man’s arms, he bent his head down and panted, forcing himself to work past the crippling pain. He let go of Kane suddenly and pushed against the man’s broad chest.
“Close the door,” Miki spat out. “If they stick their fingers in, just slam it harder.”
Someone snagged Miki’s arm through the opening of the door, and Kane pushed back. Shoving at the man holding Miki, Kane balled his hand into a fist and let fly. His knuckles connected with the reporter’s nose, crunching it to the side. Wedging himself into the doorframe, Kane stood his ground, keeping his body between the horde and Miki.
“Get inside, Miki,” Kane growled. “We need to get somebody down here to get these assholes off your property.”
A camera stuck through the opening clattered to the floor as its owner’s wrist was caught against the door. From the resistance against Kane’s shove, Miki guessed the man caught more than one person’s fingers. The door bounced slightly as Kane gave the reporters space to pull out their various body parts. Then he shoved it closed again, snapping the door tightly against the jamb.
Miki hobbled over to the couch and grabbed at the back for support. His left leg hurt from taking all of his weight, and the twinge in his right ankle was a warning he’d injured more than his knee. Sitting on the far end of the couch, Dude lolled a smile at him, clearly pleased at the battle he waged against the people outside.
Kane stood by the door and stared at Miki, stiff, furious, and brimming with energy. The man’s deep blue eyes were snapping with anger, and Miki almost winced under the intensity of Kane’s stare. As calmly as he could, he edged around the arm of the couch and tried to ease into the cushions without making too much noise.
He failed miserably.
The pain was intolerable, jerking his nerves up his spine and tingling shockwaves into his teeth. His mouth thickened with viscous spit, and Miki gulped, choking on the sudden mouthful of liquid moving across his tongue. Grabbing at the sofa with both hands, Miki tilted forward and panted, riding out the scorching heat traveling up his leg.
“Come here,” Kane murmured, stepping up behind Miki.
He tried shoving the cop away, but Kane’s arms were already around his waist, lifting him up to ease the pressure against his joints. Kane ducked his head, nudging Miki’s arm up over his shoulder.
“Hold on to me. Let’s get you into the bathroom.” Kane hitched his stride short, gently easing Miki to the bathroom. “I’ll grab some ice for your knee, and you can sit in there with your leg up while I hunt you down some drugs.”
“I’ve got some Jack on the fridge,” Miki grumbled. “God, this fucking hurts.”
“Whiskey isn’t the answer,” Kane sighed. “As much as I’d like to get stinking drunk with you, I think it’s time to give some of the crap the doctors pushed on you a try.”
“Don’t want to get addicted to that shit,” Miki said, shaking his head. “I’ve got to watch for that. They think I had some shit in my system when they found me.”
“You were like, what? Two? Three?” Kane stopped walking and peered down at Miki. “Jesus Christ.”
He shrugged. It wasn’t anything he thought much about, not after so many years of not knowing where he came from or even really giving a shit about the people who let him wander out into the street covered only in a dirty diaper.
“Doesn’t matter.” Miki sucked in a mouthful of air, and Kane lifted him up again. “Old news. No one gives a shit about it now, especially me. Don’t get your panties up in a twist.”
“It’s still not fair.” Kane grimaced. “Yeah, I know. I’m a cop. Life isn’t fucking fair, but shit, sometimes I hate people.”
“Yeah, me too,” Miki admitted. “Especially the ones banging down my door right now.”
“Bathroom first.” Kane’s voice dropped an octave, a grumbling roar that tantalized Miki’s cock more than he’d like. “I’ll call the station and get someone out there to chase them away. Hell, I might not even wait for someone to show up ’cause I’m serious about going out there and shooting them for doing this to you.”
“Yeah, just don’t go do that before you get me the ice.” He grunted when Kane eased him onto the long bench next to the whirlpool. “And if you really fucking loved me, you’d make sure that ice has some whiskey around it.”
Chapter 12
I promised to take you, take you to the stars.
Way past Pluto, once we clear Mars.
We’ll dance in the black, and I will right all my wrongs,
And before our fall from Heaven, we’ll sing our old songs.
So long that we’ve danced, we’ll forget how they go,
Mumble a few words, then bask in our glow.
I’ll teach you to fly, And you’ll teach me to win.
Made me survive, and taught me to sin.
&nb
sp; —Letters D and S
HE LEFT Miki asleep in his bed. The afternoon had been filled with cops, questions, and curious looks that made Miki shuffle his feet and retreat behind an icy mask of cynicism and aloofness. It’d gotten to the point where Miki couldn’t even put together the timeline of events, and he stumbled when trying to get his thoughts together. His body grew tense, tightening with stress as each minute passed, and Kane finally broke off the questioning, secreting Miki back in the warehouse where he could collapse on the bed.
A call to the station ensured the presence of a patrol car in front of Miki’s warehouse, but Kane still scanned the main street as he drove away, memorizing the cars clustered near Miki’s driveway in case they needed to be rousted when he came back.
In a city whose lifeblood was tourism, finding a quiet spot was still relatively easy. Driving from Miki’s place, he slid into Chinatown’s busy traffic, heading toward Mission street. The spiced aroma of sizzling meats wafted through the district, and locals fought for space on the sidewalks alongside visitors, heading to favorite hole-in-the-wall places for a late lunch.
He pulled into a space near St. Patrick’s and strolled to the tall brick building, stopping on the sidewalk to let a pair of wind-burnt women in floppy hats finish taking pictures of the church. Kane mounted the short flight of cement steps, entered the church where he’d spent his childhood Sunday mornings, and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of ancient wood, candle wax, and old paper. After dipping his fingers into the font, Kane crossed himself, dabbing the water on his body. Dipping his head toward the central altar, he continued to walk along the back aisle, then slid into a pew at the rear of the left conclave.
It was an old church with a history that stretched back decades before the Great Quake. Originally built to serve the area’s Irish community, the congregation grew to embrace the Latino and Filipino families that moved into the area. The ornate altar and stained glass windows were framed by arched ceilings and slender marble columns, the cream interior softened by years of burning candles and seasoned stone. The building continued on through the worst of the city’s times, opening its door for those who needed its gentle grace, especially to a growing Morgan family.