Cole McGinnis 05 - Down and Dirty (8 page)

“How the fuck old were you?” Bobby turned away from the stove to stare at Ichiro.

“First time? I was eleven. I was sick for a week,” he mumbled, sipping his coffee. “
Aish
, this is hot. He stopped taking me when I was sixteen because he found one of his competitors groping me under the table. I was so drunk—I think I thought I was dreaming or something. He was more mad at me for conspiring with his rival. So mad. He had me taken home, and when he came in to yell at me, I threw up on him.
That
was awesome.”

Leaving the hamburgers to cook on the grill top, Bobby leaned on the counter opposite Ichi. The man glanced up, his thick lashes nearly obscuring his eyes, but they were moist and fiery with a hint of anger. Despite his gut screaming to back off, Bobby reached over to brush Ichi’s hair out of his face, stroking his knuckles over the man’s cheekbone.

“I’m sorry, Sunshine. Really. You deserve better than what you got. You and Cole.”

“Not Mike?” Ichi grinned, sniffing slightly.

“Nah, Mike probably crawled out of your mom with a business plan in one hand and a gun in the other,” he teased. “Does your dad know about your… what you like to do in bed? Or who you like to do?”

“Sort of. Yes. Okay, very much yes.” Another sniff, but this one came with a wicked grin. “I told him if he wanted my leftovers, he could have her—which wasn’t fair to Megumi, but shit I was pissed off.”

“Megumi is your… stepmother?”

“Ex-girlfriend. Well, fiancée really. Our parents had it all planned out before they even decided if they were going to cut the skin off the end of my dick. I veered from my dad’s life plan and went to art school. So, my father decided; fuck my son. I’m going to marry her myself.” A nod soon followed Bobby’s disbelieving grunt. “No, really. Probably the most screwed up week of my life. Well, that and the time my dad said I was
kutabarizokonai
when I came home to tear him a new asshole. My grandmother—his mother—slapped me because I spoke up against him. The family—way too traditional. So I went out, got drunk, and committed the ultimate sin. I got a tattoo, thus sealing my fate in the family.”

“Okay, back up. What does koo-tah mean… less Japanese than a box of Gansitos here, bud. You’ve got to throw me some clue.”

“Somebody who wouldn’t be missed if they died—because you know,
he’ll
be mourned by everyone who even knows he exists.” Ichiro guffawed, nearly toppling his coffee. “Pretty sure when he goes, the company should give everyone a week’s vacation to sleep off the hangover they’re going to get from celebrating. He’s… mean. Just mean. I don’t know why Megumi married him. She says she loves him, but… who the hell can love
that
?”

“Your mother must have.”

“Want to know what my mother’s last words were? She grabbed my hand and told me to run and be free. Go find my brothers.” Ichiro played with the rim of his cup. “That’s what her dying wish was. She couldn’t take care of the son she had with her, but she couldn’t let go of the ones she abandoned. I promised myself I wouldn’t be like her—wouldn’t let my father erase me like he did her. So here I am. Inked and owning a motorcycle… but still not any better at holding my tequila. Shit, this coffee isn’t working. I still can’t feel my lips.”

“Drink some more coffee. I’m going to turn the burgers over.” The meat was sizzling, and Bobby scrabbled through his kitchen utensil drawer for a spatula. He grabbed the pan’s handle, shaking the skillet slightly to help break the meat’s sear from the cooking surface, then carefully slid a spatula under one of the plump, juicy patties. “You know the one thing I wished your mom had done? Take a picture with Cole, because for a long time, he thought she had, but then Mike opened his big fucking mouth and told him the baby she was holding was really him. I wanted to pound the shit out of your older brother—gotta tell you. Not like Cole—”

A light snoring stopped Bobby in midflip, and he let the burger fall where it landed in the skillet. He turned off the heat, then wiped his hands of any grease splatters, walking around the kitchen counter to reach Ichiro’s side.

“Shit, kid—” He stared down at Ichiro, shaking his head. “Yeah, I know. Not a kid, but fuck, it’s easier for me if I call you that. Because… well, fuck.”

It was easier to think of Ichiro as a kid. Older than most of the twinks Bobby fell into bed with, calling Ichi a kid put him out of reach. A stupid mind game he played with himself, much like setting the clock in his truck ahead twenty minutes so he was never late.

But the body he gathered up to pour into bed definitely did not belong to any kid—not by a long shot. He gave a halfhearted hope Ichiro could walk on his own steam, but a few fumbling tries to get him up onto his feet only showed Bobby how Ichi’s legs could double as overcooked noodles.

Giving up, Bobby leaned over and slid one arm under Ichiro’s bended knees. Ichiro tumbled backward, and Bobby caught the brunt of his weight with his other arm, lifting him carefully off the ground. His burden muttered something that sounded more Korean than Japanese. Then his head flopped over, resting in the crook of Bobby’s neck.

“Watch your teeth there, Sunshine,” Bobby scolded when he felt Ichi’s mouth moving against his throat. “Jae told your brother I took you home after you fucked up your phone. I don’t want a hickey when we go into the ring tomorrow. I like my teeth.”

“You smell good.” A flick of Ichi’s tongue on his skin shocked Bobby, and he nearly dropped the man. “God, I wanted to bite into you the first time I saw you, but then Cole—he says you’re an asshole. And no… no touching Bobby. No licking Bobby. No everything Bobby.”

“Don’t talk like that, Ichi. Just… out of your head, okay? Probably the tequila—” His words were buried under a loud, burbling snore, and Ichiro went slack, becoming dead weight in Bobby’s arms. “Shit, no—no. Don’t do this right now. Christ, you’re too skinny to weigh this much.”

The bed was unmade, but he was pretty sure the sheets were at least clean. He dumped Ichi onto the mattress, then stared down at the unconscious man for a second, wondering if he should strip him so he could sleep more comfortably.

“Hungry.” A slow, simmering murmur escaped Ichi’s parted lips, making Bobby’s decision for him.

“Okay, let’s talk about what we don’t say when we’re drunk tomorrow, okay? Or better yet, let’s just not do this again.” He patted Cole’s younger brother on the head, then grabbed a pillow. Taking one last look at Ichiro’s sprawled body nestled into his sheets, Bobby sighed. “Fuck, I wonder how much tequila is left? Could use a damned drink.”

Chapter 5

A
WEEK
after his disastrous encounter with a tequila bottle and his brother’s muscular, older best friend, Ichiro found himself on a wild goose chase to find Bobby’s loft. He didn’t remember much about the neighborhood Bobby lived in other than brick warehouses, golden stone buildings, and the smell of old city clinging to the sidewalks when he’d stumbled out to the street and caught a cab back to Cole and Jae’s home. Ichi hadn’t taken the time to explore the long streets filled with street vendors and colorful streams of people. Instead, he’d woken up groggy, hungover, and horny—a sure sign he and Dawson hadn’t done more than sleep during the night.

It kind of pissed him off—kind of.

The Fashion District in Los Angeles wasn’t the glittering press it was in New York—at least certainly not with the Big Apple’s reputation. Sprawled out in the shadow of Downtown’s towering skyscrapers, the area gave up fighting off the harsh sun and sweltering grit and packed itself in tight, dedicating long stretches of alley and reclaimed buildings to selling cheaply made goods and wholesale flowers.

With the sun flirting with the horizon, the sidewalk buzzed with activity, and the air hung heavy with the scents of cooking meats and aging bouquets. A wave of powdery carnation slapped Ichiro when he made a U-turn onto a side street. A splash of lime and carnitas chased off the florals as he waited for a round Hispanic woman to hustle her brood across an alley entrance so he could turn back the way he’d come. He’d become an unwary victim of Los Angeles’s tangled one-way and truncated streets, suddenly discovering a building in the middle of an up-till-then reasonable grid pattern.

The area resembled an enormous swap meet, cheap, glittering goods meant to entice passersby, much like a pitcher plant tickles flies’ senses with the scent of honey and splashes of color.

And from what Ichiro could see, Downtown LA was just as deadly, especially while driving, and he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he came upon a minotaur in the city’s labyrinth of streets.

A forced right turn, and Ichi stared in amazement at the brick edifice he’d been hunting for. Ignoring an irritated honk from a man in a listing delivery truck, he jammed past a line of traffic, then parked his Jeep in a pockmark of asphalt set aside for the converted paper mill Bobby lived in. Pulling a brown grocery bag out of the backseat, Ichi gathered up a stray zucchini that’d gone rogue during his drive, then locked the doors behind him, hoping he hadn’t parked in someone’s covered space, because the last thing he wanted to deal with was springing the Jeep from car jail.

“No, the last thing you want to face is Dawson.” Juggling the bag and his keys, Ichiro pressed an intercom button at the building’s entrance, hoping Bobby was home.

The buildings’ half-underground parking level was tenant only, and while he could peek through the level’s grated half-moon openings, it was too dark to see anything other than shapes and a spot of bright color where a neon green Volkswagen Bug waged its own battle with Los Angeles’s fine buff grit.

“Yeah?” Bobby’s gruff voice crackled across the intercom. Before Ichi could answer, the older man snapped out, “Ichi? That you? What the hell?”

The door buzzed, and Ichiro took it as a cue for him to go on up. He vaguely remembered passing through the glass-enclosed lobby with its sleek black floors and steel door elevators, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall the number of Bobby’s loft. A glance at a bank of old-fashioned filigree mailboxes helped, especially since the residents of the building appeared to be in it for the long haul, because each box boasted an engraved plaque and loft number above its scrollwork front.

“Two-oh-six,” he repeated after he got off the elevator and wandered into the hall. Curiously, the elevator appeared to have dumped him on a hallway nestled against the side of the building, with tall windows stretching nearly floor to ceiling to let in the Los Angeles evening’s neon and orange light. With six doors to choose from, Ichi followed a trail of increasing numbers until he got to a thick steel door at the end of the hall. Looking around, he shook his head in amazement. “Don’t remember jack about this place. Sheesh. How out of it was I?”

“Pretty jacked,” Bobby answered gruffly through the partially open door. It swung open the rest of the way, and the man stepped into the threshold, taking up most of the space. “What are you doing here?”

He’d seen the riot video on the shop’s television while he’d been unpacking ink, and in every single angle and frame, Bobby Dawson went down hard into the cement and then up against the side of a police car, his arms stretched up until his elbows nearly reached his skull. Ichi’s spine ached every time one of the seemingly endless video clips played, as apparently every amateur moviemaker was shopping on that corner.

The rasp of cement burn on his cheek did not detract from Bobby’s strong, handsome face. He’d not shaved, probably to avoid scraping at the speckled scatter of healing skin, and the silver-fleck scruff gave him a slightly piratical look—or at least added to his already roguish appearance. His short dark brown hair stood up a little bit, ruffled away from his face, probably from a rake of fingers through the thick strands before he answered the door. His mouth was hard, its edges tight over his firm jaw, and Bobby’s odd light brown eyes were hooded, turned to shadow from his long lashes. Topping Ichiro’s decent height by a few inches, he looked down at his unexpected visitor, then shrugged.

“Sunshine, I’ve got no patience for a back and forth with you right now. In or out. Your choice,” Bobby muttered as he limped into the depths of the loft, leaving the door open behind him.

The couch Bobby eased himself onto was very familiar, and Ichiro’s memory tickled with something about sliding over Bobby’s hard body and pressing into the man’s chest. Bad timing on the part of his brain, because his face flushed hot as he closed the door behind him.

From the line of empty beer bottles on the coffee table, Ichi guessed Bobby’d crawled home from the riot’s aftermath and promptly begun to self-medicate himself and his pride.

“Why are you here, Tokugawa?” Bobby winced a bit when he stretched forward to grab one of the unopened bottles. A twist of his fingers, and the cap popped off in his hand. Then it joined a few others on the table with a tinny clatter. “Guessing you saw my takedown. Damned little uniformed shit kneed me in the crotch when he spread my legs. If that’s what they’re teaching rookies these days, I’m glad I’m the fuck out of there.”