by Rhys Ford
“Considering a couple of days ago, you didn’t even believe I’d seen a dead guy, maybe no one wants to say they saw anything,” Trey remarked, glancing at his sister, then up at Kuro’s face. “I don’t know what you want from him, Kimber. It seems like you keep hammering at the two of us instead of trying to figure out what’s going on.”
Kuro was sick of seeing cops. In all of the years he’d worked behind a shadowy curtain, he’d had little interactions with law enforcement. A lot of it had to do with being a part of his job, hard to be a covert operative when the local police had their eye on you—regardless of what country you are in—but mostly it came from his deep-seated dislike for people wearing a badge. He was going to have to put that away in order to deal with Lieutenant Kimber Bishop, but it was hard, especially since the first thing the woman did when she arrived on the scene was corner her little brother, demanding to know what he was doing there.
“That’s because no one can believe a word that ever comes out of your mouth,” the lieutenant snapped back. “If you told me it was dark outside at midnight, I would still look out the window to make sure I couldn’t see the sun.”
Trey flinched.
It was the type of flinch Kuro’d seen in people mired in emotional and physical violence. He’d seen it while working in the field, an instinctive reaction rolling off of a seasoned veteran slipping toward the edge of a forced retirement. Trey braced himself for his sister’s presence, his shoulders stiffening and the fatigue in his face deepening the shadows beneath his eyes, his brilliantly stormy gray gaze going flat and dark.
Kuro hadn’t wanted to get involved. Didn’t want to get involved. He wasn’t looking for sex or friendship, but there was something about Trey standing up to his sister despite the obvious beatdown he was expecting that invigorated a part of Kuro’s soul he thought long dead. He could acknowledge his lust. God knew, he lusted every day while standing behind the glass panels at the shop, watching a parade of pretty boys go by, but there was something special about Trey. Or maybe, Kuro thought, he hadn’t quite shaken off his white-knight-to-the-rescue tendencies. Either way, he was glad he’d thrown in his lot with Trey.
Not that it looked like Trey needed rescuing. He waded right into the conversation, backing Kuro up.
“What you are not listening to is me saying that’s the guy I saw them drop that night. I recognize the plastic. It was hard to see at night, so I thought they were just dirty, but it’s a pattern. They’re shower curtains. The kind you would use in a hotel.” Trey jostled in, edging his sister back with his shoulder. “Like the kind Sera puts into the bathrooms at the rentals. Heavy-duty so they can put up with a lot of people using them. Besides, that stink, it isn’t just coming from the garbage. That guy has been dead for days. He couldn’t have been in the dumpster that long. Somebody would’ve seen him before now.”
“I’ve also been working the shop nonstop since four o’clock. There’s always been somebody with me, and if you need to, I’m pretty sure we can go through credit card receipts and find customers who can verify I was there during the dinner rush.” Kuro jerked his thumb toward the back door. “Shift details are on the walk-in. Trash detail is alternated between two or three runners working every night. It has to be pulled and dumped in the first ten minutes at the top of every hour, then they initial the space for that timeslot on that day’s sheet. They can tell you the body wasn’t there earlier. Aoki came and got me as soon as they found it.”
“Look, I need to verify you were there. So don’t go anywhere just yet,” the lieutenant growled, shooting her brother a filthy look. “And Harry, I want to be able to find you if I need you again. I’ll see about getting a uniform to drive you home.”
“I’ll be taking him home,” Kuro replied sharply. It was an overt play of possession or at least establishing a connection between them. Kuro didn’t know how Trey would take it, but he was tired of seeing the man being shoved around. “If he wants me to, that is. Just let us know when we’re clear, because neither one of us had dinner and we just sat down when all of this dropped.”
“You seem to be popping up every time I turn around, usually around Harry. Any reason for that?” The detective ignored Trey’s exasperated hiss, turning slightly to edge her brother out. “I’m kind of curious about a guy like you suddenly showing up in his life. And now we find the dead man he allegedly saw that night in the dumpster outside of your shop. These kinds of things lead to a lot of questions.”
“A guy like me?” Kuro cocked an eyebrow at her. “I own a ramen shop.”
“You’re licensed to own everything from a military tank and downwards,” she said, stepping in closer. Her voice was low, practically a whisper, but the menace in it was clear. “But I can’t get any information about you, even through unofficial channels. To me, that raises enough red flags to start the run of the bulls in Pamplona.”
“I own a ramen shop. Everything else that’s happened is shit your brother and I did not start,” Kuro asserted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let anyone hang it on us, including you. I’ve got Trey’s best interest in mind, because from where I stand, it looks like he needs somebody on his side of the road. And that doesn’t seem like it’s you. So unless you need us for something else, I’d like to find something to eat and take him back home, not necessarily in that order. You okay with that, Trey?”
“You seem to be under the impression that I went shopping since last time you were digging around in my fridge,” Trey drawled. “There’s nothing in there but a bottle of pickles and a lonely Diet Coke.”
“Luckily, I own a restaurant. Once they let us back inside, I’ll forage through the walk-in and see what I’ve got.” Kuro caught the flush of red coloring Trey’s cheeks. “If you don’t mind me taking you home and feeding you. I did promise you dinner.”
“It’s good. Especially since she yanked me out of bed before I got something to eat.” Trey shook off his sister’s hand on his upper arm. “I’m tired, Kimber. I’m sick of looking at the inside of a police station when I haven’t done anything wrong, and I’m really sick to death of you calling me Harry. I’ve never been called Harry. Our grandpa was called Harry. But most of all, I just want to go home and not have anyone wearing a badge try to pick my brain for something I don’t have. So let us know when you’re done and Kuro will take me home.”
“I was thinking of taking you myself,” Kimber replied, her eyes narrowing when she looked toward Kuro. “There’s some personal stuff I want to talk to you about.”
“In the words of our esteemed father, call my secretary and make an appointment.” Trey stepped back from his sister, lengthening the space between them. “I’ll see if I can fit your personal problems into my very busy schedule.”
THE BUNGALOW was quiet. So was the main house. Lights were off in Sera’s apartment on the top floor, something Trey expected since it was her yoga and drinks with the girls night. The neighborhood had an odd hush to it, as if it were holding its breath. Kuro’s muscle car broke the silence, its throaty rumble echoing through the space between the buildings.
“So, I’ve got to ask,” Kuro said as he got out of the Challenger, “do you not drive, or does your sister just like to play power games and load you into cop cars against your will?”
“My license was suspended for… well, a bunch of shit. I have a provisional that allows me to drive to and from jobs, but no one’s going to hire me for their show, so there’s a bunch of sports cars parked in the garage behind the bungalow,” Trey replied, closing the heavy car door carefully. “There’s a guy who comes out once a month to run them on the street for a little bit and check them out so they don’t get screwed up while they’re sitting there waiting for me to get my shit together. I’ve got a few more months before I can reapply to drive. I’m probably going to have to take driving lessons again. I don’t think I even remember how to parallel park.”
Trey waited for Kuro’s reaction. Nothing came other than a slight shrug and
the man pulling forward the driver’s seat so he could get to the tote bags of groceries in the back. He didn’t know how to respond to the lack of comment. Trey’d taken a lot of crap from his so-called friends at the time, but lack of license did nothing to slow down his partying. His lack of heartbeat did.
“You’re going to have to open the door.” Kuro’s voice cut through Trey’s melancholy thoughts. “Or I’m going to have to put down the bags to pick the lock. Either way, I’m going to get to a stove so I can make some dinner.”
His smile warmed away the last of the ice left on Trey’s soul. They had nothing in common other than a dead body and some bullets, but there was something there. Something inexplicable and unexplainable drawing Trey to the seemingly complicated and mysterious man who fed him at the drop of a hat. He knew nothing about Kuro Jenkins other than the man could make a mean bowl of ramen and knew his way around karage and tonkatsu, but for right now it was enough.
“Let me get the door,” Trey said, jingling his keys. “I can at least promise you clean dishes and, if you want, some help chopping things.”
“Considering the state of your knives when I first used them, I think it would be safer if you sat at the island and kept me company while I cooked.” Kuro stepped up onto the front stoop behind Trey as he fit the key into the lock. “You can be my official taster and tell me where I’ve gone wrong.”
“You’re talking to a guy who grew up eating the orange powder out of the mac and cheese boxes while I was waiting for sets to be struck. My idea of cuisine usually came with an easy-open pop top and in colors not found in nature.” Stepping into the bungalow, Trey caught a whiff of his shirt and wrinkled his nose. “Okay, this isn’t meant to be sexual in any way, but I really need to shower. Do you mind if I take a few minutes and wash up?”
“Take your time. I’ll reacquaint myself with your kitchen.” Kuro set the tote bags down on the counter, looking around. “But fair warning, I find any of that orange cheesy powder and it’s going into the trash.”
“You won’t,” Trey promised. “But only because it comes in microwave cups now so it’s all mixed in together.”
The hot water felt glorious, and by the time Trey climbed out of the shower, he’d washed off all of the filth he’d rolled in during his time at the police station. Dealing with Kimber always made him feel small, an insignificant speck she would gladly flick off her fingernails if she could. He dealt with her more than he dealt with Maggie and Scooter, and while scrubbing himself off with a thick towel, he vowed to reach out to his other sisters, hoping to make some amends.
“Not like it’s going to do any good,” he grumbled to his knees, wiping them dry. “But if I don’t, then I’m being the person they expect me to be, just another self-absorbed asshole.”
Tugging on a pair of jeans and a stretched-out faded gray T-shirt he usually wore while attempting to paint, Trey braced himself for another confusing evening. The first time he had Kuro in his house, they’d talked about dead bodies and assaults. Then the man slipped out into the night, leaving a wake of frustration and sexual tension behind. This time, he brought both with him, along with enough groceries to feed a small army. Trey resigned himself to ending the night with a full belly and a hard cock, just like the last time.
Those expectations were partially met when he padded out of the bedroom to find Kuro humming to himself as he stirred something around in a pot on the stove, then turned around to begin tearing apart something lying on the peninsula’s prep counter.
The sight of Kuro standing in his kitchen in low-slung jeans and bare feet did something to Trey’s insides. It was too easy to imagine coming home to the long-legged man every day. Even easier to imagine him spread out over Trey on the king-sized mattress in his bedroom. A few seconds of erotic pleasure in watching Kuro suddenly became a domestic daydream with hot chocolate and a fire in the fireplace while cuddling on the couch. It was all too white picket fence and a couple of long-haired dachshunds for Trey, but… or maybe it had been something lurking in the back of his mind for a long time.
He wanted normal. He wanted Kuro Jenkins. But there was no way in hell the broad-shouldered, trim-hipped ramen master was normal, and Trey couldn’t see a future that had Kuro waiting by the door every night for him with a pair of slippers and an evening newspaper.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Trey swore under his breath. “I’ve become my father.”
“What?” Kuro glanced over his shoulder at Trey. “What about your father?”
“Nothing important. He tends to lead his life with a want-take-have philosophy and damn everybody around him. I think I just realized I’m a lot like him, except without the ambition.” Climbing up onto the barstool meant Trey didn’t have to take in any more of Kuro’s assessing look, but it was there when he settled in. “I haven’t really done much with my life in the last two years. I don’t count trying to stay sober as employment.”
“Is there anything you want to do?” Kuro held up a piece of long triangular meat Trey couldn’t identify. “And before you answer that, tell me you like duck. I’ve brought other stuff with me, but this was what I grabbed first. I can put it into the freezer with the rest of the meats I threw in there and grab something else. You can cook the duck breasts later.”
“Well, it’s no cheesy orange powder, but I’m sure I can choke it down.” He grinned, leaning his elbows against the raised bar section of the peninsula, craning his neck to watch Kuro work on the lower slab. “And honestly, I have even less of an idea about how to cook duck than I do about what I want to do with the rest of my life. If it’s not frozen and burrito-shaped, it’s got to be in a Styrofoam cup and I can add water to it before throwing it into the microwave.”
“You had food in the fridge the first time I came by. You’re not that helpless.” Kuro pulled a chopping board from someplace in the depths of the peninsula’s cavernous storage and laid it on the counter. The knife he was using definitely hadn’t come from Trey’s kitchen, and there was an arrangement of spices and other things in bottles clustered at one end of the stone slab topping the prep area. “You’re telling me you don’t cook at all?”
“A little bit. I can make a mean assemble-your-own pizza, and if you count scrambled eggs with stuff thrown into it as an omelet, then I’m your guy. Usually Sera takes pity on me and cooks me something. She’s my dad’s ex-mistress or girlfriend, depending on who you ask. She runs the rentals in the big house. She was supposed to live here in the bungalow, but well, that’s a long story. She likes living in the big house. I think she likes the noise. It’s too quiet out here for her.”
The duck meat was dark, a rich burgundy with a layer of white skin Kuro was scoring a latticework pattern into with his knife. Trey watched with interest, fascinated by Kuro’s light, gentle touch. It wasn’t hard to imagine his long, blunt-ended fingers running down Trey’s sides or legs.
“I’m going to prep the breasts first and let the spices get into the meat. They don’t take that long to cook, and can I tell you I am very glad Sera left you a seasoned cast-iron skillet, because it makes tonight’s dinner a lot easier.” Kuro began working on the other breast, running his knife along its skin. “So what do you want to talk about? Your dad’s ex-mistress? You needing to figure out what to do with your life? Or should you and I get our heads together and figure out what’s going on so we can get the cops off of your ass?”
Ten
“SO YOUR father has mistresses, including one who’s your best friend, and your mother doesn’t divorce him? But his other wives did?” Kuro’s chopsticks stopped halfway to his mouth, a thin slice of duck dangling from their clenched-together ends. “I’d have dumped him as soon as I found out he was warming someone else’s sheets.”
“Dad can’t afford it. His lawyers forgot to get Mom to sign a prenup, so one whisper of divorce and it’ll be a bloodbath, so he works to keep her happy,” Trey said with a shrug. “So far she’s got the record for being married to him the longest, and
I think they’re content in their own way. I think they’re friends with benefits. Dad falls in and out of love with every pretty woman who crosses his path, and I don’t look too closely at Mom’s male friends. It works for them, and I guess that’s all that matters. At least they don’t fight anymore.”
It wasn’t hot chocolate, but the crispy duck and fragrant fried rice more than made up for it. There was something fruity, sweet, and hot poured over the meat, a light drizzle of the sauce with enough of a punch to set the back of Trey’s mouth tingling. Imaging that’s what it’d be like to kiss Kuro, a hint of sugar with a lot of spice, he dipped his finger into the liquid, then placed the dollop on his tongue, savoring its taste.
“What’s in the sauce?” Trey said around his fingertip. “It’s good.”
“Guava jam, garlic, and jalapenos,” Kuro replied, expertly scooping up a bit of rice with his chopsticks. Trey envied the skill, but his pride came a far second to his hunger and he’d opted for the spoon to deal with the fried rice. “It’s something I threw together once and liked it. Are we ever going to talk about the dead men or just rattle on about your dad’s love life and the food?”
“I’m not sure what good it would do. I mean, I’m caught up in something I don’t understand, and it’s not like I can solve it. I’m an actor. And not even a good one anymore,” he reminded Kuro. “I’m pretty sure the guy they found in the dumpster is the one I saw that night. But he looked exactly like my dad’s friend Mathers, so I don’t know what’s going on there.”