Addicted to Lust

by Amy Tasukada

  Masuo crossed his arms. “Aren’t you a yakuza? Shouldn’t it be easy for you to get your stuff back?”

  “Aren’t you a yakuza? Shouldn’t it be easy for you to get people to gamble?”

  Masuo’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His face grew hot, and he wished he could’ve been anywhere but there with Hayato staring at him in disgust.

  “That’s what I thought.” Hayato grabbed his briefcase. “Do better tomorrow.”

  Hayato walked out, and Masuo didn’t mean to stare at Hayato’s ass, but he did. Masuo pressed his fist against his palm.

  Everything about Hayato pissed Masuo off. Especially how when they were together, Masuo immediately thought of their New Year’s evening in each other’s arms Whatever had happened between the party that night and Hayato crawling on the floor to look for his underwear the next morning was better left forgotten.

  Still, Hayato thought Masuo was an idiot, and he needed to prove himself. He was a good yakuza and deserved the same level of respect as all the other parlor managers. He knew just how to earn it.

  Masuo pulled out his phone and called Arashi.

  “You free tonight?” Masuo asked.

  “You wanna get drinks?”

  “Maybe after, but first I need your help playing dress-up.”

  7

  Masuo and Arashi stood outside Hayato’s sleek tower of an apartment building. It couldn’t have been more than a few years old and probably charged rent to match its height. No one needed a doorman at midnight, but there one stood in the freezing cold. Poor guy.

  “This is going to be fun,” Arashi said.

  Masuo swept back his hair and returned the police cap to his head. “Glad you think so. It wouldn’t be half as fun alone.”

  The police uniforms had been easy to get. No one would question the wrong shade of blue or look long enough to discover the badges were cheap plastic. Acting the part mattered most, and Masuo knew how to pretend.

  They strolled through the door and into the swanky lobby. The floors shined so much, and he could see Arashi grinning like he owned the place.

  “Damn.” He whistled. “When do we get paid enough to afford a place like this?”

  Masuo shook his head. “What apartment is it?”

  “One, one, two.”

  “First floor. That makes it easy.”

  Arashi had gotten Hayato’s address from an “in case of emergency” checklist. Masuo hadn’t gotten one, or maybe it was somewhere in the desk drawers he hadn’t had the heart to clean out.

  They strolled past the hallway of elevators and into a corridor, but instead of leading to apartment twelve, it led to offices.

  Arashi shrugged. “Must be floor eleven, apartment two, then.”

  Masuo blinked. Eleven? What kind of madman made an apartment building with eleven floors? Didn’t the Kyoto ordinance limit obscenely tall buildings?

  Arashi pushed the elevator button. Masuo rubbed his hands against his slacks and cleared his throat. He could do it. Eleven wasn’t too bad.

  The doors opened. Arashi stepped inside the elevator car, but Masuo’s feet remained stuck to the floor.

  “Come on,” Arashi said. “It’s just an elevator. This one’s even bigger than most.”

  It was still the middle of the night. What would happen if they got stuck? Who would come for them? The power could go off, and they could fall all eleven floors to their death. New constructions always cut corners. They’d probably left out all the safety devices to come in under budget.

  Arashi sighed. “You’ve got to get over this sometime.”

  The doors closed, and Masuo could think straight again. The stairs stood beside the elevators. He had no other option.

  Masuo’s short breaths echoed through the concrete coffin that was the stairway. He clutched onto the cold metal railing and took his first step. The stairs might’ve been better than an elevator, but it didn’t mean they were easy.

  He had to do it. He had to prove himself to Hayato, and the fastest way to do that was to do something he couldn’t.

  Masuo could imagine the look on Hayato’s face already. His plump glossed lips opened wide in shock. His gaze would soften, and he’d look at Masuo with the same awe he had when Masuo had made him come for the third time. Masuo swallowed and took the first flight of stairs with his eyes closed, his heart bouncing in his chest like a pachinko jackpot.

  By the eleventh floor, Masuo’s breaths were short and shallow. He stood outside the stairwell door and took a few deep breaths so he wouldn’t look like a weakling in front of Arashi.

  Masuo opened the door, and Arashi was waiting for him.

  “You need a second?” Arashi asked.

  Masuo flexed his arms. “Eleven floors were nothing. You ready for this?”

  “I’ve been practicing my bad cop persona.”

  “What happens if I want to play bad cop?”

  Arashi shrugged. “Then there’re two bad cops. The ex sounds like he deserves it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Masuo knocked on the door. “Police.”

  No answer.

  “Police, open up.” Masuo deepened his voice, making it low and threatening.

  A lock turned, and the man Masuo assumed was Jiro opened the door. His short hair stuck up in serious bed head. His striped button-up pajamas were comically conservative. How had such an obvious corporate slug ended up with Hayato?

  Masuo flashed his badge. “We’re with the organized crime unit.”

  Jiro’s face turned red, and he cleared his throat. “I don’t know how much help I’d be, officer. I’m a simple salaryman.”

  Arashi pushed open the door and made his way inside. “I think you have information we need or else we wouldn’t be here.”

  Masuo followed and pulled out a small notepad from his pocket. He turned to a random page, pretending to read. “It says here you are in contact with one Hayato Kobayashi.”

  “Maybe as a passing acquaintance, but the name isn’t familiar.”

  “Then why are his possessions here?” Arashi pointed to a random fuzzy purple cushion. It was the brightest thing in the minimalist room.

  “I-I…” Jiro’s eyes went as large as five-hundred-yen coins. “I was so scared. I couldn’t even bring myself to touch his things. Once I learned he was yakuza, I completely disconnected from him.”

  Masuo rolled his eyes. “He has a dragon tattoo on his back. How could you think he wasn’t a yakuza?”

  “I thought it was a twin thing. His brother is a bouncer or something and has the same one.”

  “And the huge scar on his stomach?”

  “He told me he had his appendix removed.” There was panic in Jiro’s voice. “I was away on a work trip when it happened. I didn’t know. I swear.”

  Masuo laughed. “The law makes it very clear. Citizens are not to have relationships with yakuza. You work at Sunrise Electrics, right? I’m sure they wouldn’t like to know one of their workers keeps yakuza among his friends.”

  Arashi nodded along. “The company has some government deals they are looking to bid on. It wouldn’t look good if your relationship with a yakuza was brought up.”

  “Please don’t tell the company heads! I kicked Hayato out. Changed the locks and everything! He’s not in my life anymore.”

  Masuo clicked his tongue and glanced around the room. “Keeping so much of his stuff doesn’t look like you’re trying to dissociate. We’ll be happy to dispose of Hayato’s items, for a fee, of course.”

  Jiro’s hand shook as he grabbed his wallet from the coffee table. Arashi glared at him, looking as intimidating as someone with a pop idol’s face could. Still, Jiro’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped and handed his thick wallet to Masuo.

  Jackpot.

  Masuo pocketed the large stack of cash and dropped the wallet on the ground. The wad of bills meant he could get the parlor carpet replaced.

  He whistled to Arashi. “Let’s go. Clear it out.”

  “Than
k you, officers!”

  Jiro fell to his knees and pointed to a paperweight on the table. It was shaped like a popsicle made from brains. It was kind of cute in a creepy way.

  “That horrible thing is his,” Jiro said.

  “Suitcase?” Arashi grunted.

  “I’ve got a few in here.”

  Masuo grabbed the brain freeze pop figure and followed Jiro to the bedroom. He pulled two suitcases from underneath the bed: one was bright pink with neon-green flowers, and the other was black. Clearly the vibrant one was Hayato’s. Masuo unzipped it and put the paperweight inside.

  “Everything in this closet is his too,” Jiro said.

  Arashi grabbed an armful of clothes and put them in the case. Masuo took a step to help, but then a picture frame caught his attention. Masuo plucked the polished silver frame off the nightstand.

  A woman stood underneath a blooming cherry tree with twin boys holding each of her hands. Their features matched, so the woman had to be the boys’ mother. They looked about six, and the little uniforms and backpacks probably meant it was their first day of school. One of them had to be Hayato, but the boys looked identical down to their bowl cuts.

  Hayato didn’t seem sentimental enough to keep an old family photo next to his bed.

  Masuo’s eyes narrowed. What kind of an ass was Jiro for not returning Hayato’s family photo?

  Masuo pulled Arashi aside and whispered, “Jiro’s an ass. Fill the second suitcase with crap that’s going to inconvenience him as much as the bastard inconvenienced Hayato.”

  Arashi chuckled and took the second suitcase into the other room. Jiro didn’t even notice, instead he fidgeted, neatly folding Hayato’s clothes. Surprisingly, they were not as colorful as Masuo had imagined. Hayato must’ve kept it to his underwear.

  Masuo shook his head. “You seriously had no idea?”

  “I swear. He never talked about his work, but he’d always ask about mine.”

  Or Jiro was too full of himself to even bother asking Hayato.

  “How long were you two living together?” Masuo asked.

  “About two years,” Jiro said.

  “Any of the furniture his?”

  “I lived here before, and he moved in.”

  Masuo raised a brow. “When did he move in?”

  “About a month after we met.”

  Hayato moved in with a scared little wimp after a month but had had the best sex in years with Masuo and wouldn’t give him his number?

  “I didn’t know he was a yakuza.” Jiro returned to pleading. “Hayato has more lip gloss than I have ties. How could I have known?”

  Masuo’s skin burned. What had Hayato seen in someone like Jiro? Some boring salaryman who was too scared to realize he was being conned.

  Hayato had held Masuo’s hand all fucking night. Through every twist, every turn, Hayato clutched on like they were eternal lovers. When Masuo had woken with their fingers laced together, he’d never felt so needed, so desperately connected to someone in his life. But now it felt like a plague instead of a blessing.

  “What else is his?” Masuo asked between clenched teeth.

  The makeup.

  The contacts.

  The perfume.

  Hayato had better be fucking grateful for each thing Masuo lovingly packed.

  Arashi whistled from the living room, stuffed black suitcase in hand.

  “If we have any trouble, you’ll hear back from us.” Masuo’s voice was flat and stern.

  Arashi gave a final grunt.

  They headed out, Arashi taking the suitcases into the elevator and Masuo taking the stairs.

  8

  Hayato followed the apartment manager into the staged bedroom. The closet would hold all his clothes, even the ones still hanging in Jiro’s closet.

  Hayato hated to admit it, but Masuo had a point. Hayato was a yakuza. He should’ve been able to grab Jiro by the collar and force him to open the door. Instead, Hayato had avoided the uncomfortable conversation and had gone shopping, thinking it would all blow over in a few days. Too bad he couldn’t avoid moving into a new place.

  “What floor is the available unit on?” Hayato asked.

  “The seventh.”

  The model was on the fifth floor, and the street traffic hummed at the same frequency as the refrigerator. Not good. His old place on the eleventh floor had contained no reminders of the existence of humanity below, and it had also come with a boyfriend to prevent loneliness from sinking into Hayato’s marrow.

  “It’ll be available this Friday?” Hayato asked.

  “That won’t be any trouble at all.”

  “Awesome.”

  Nothing could be further from awesome. The obligation to allow his brother to start a life detached from him weighed down Hayato like concrete shoes. If responsibility were an ocean, Hayato would’ve drowned long ago.

  “I’ll be in the office if you need anything. I know most people like to take some time to look around without feeling rushed.”

  The manager left, and Hayato plopped down on the sofa decorated with enough pillows that he risked accidental smothering. The apartment hit everything on his wish list. The perfect distance from the parlors, his brother, and his favorite bar. It was newly built and Western-style. Nothing he could say no to.

  He might as well get it over with and sign a lease agreement. He stood, his joints snapping.

  Then the silence closed in.

  He was alone.

  The ceiling fan resembled the one from his childhood home. White. In the center of the living room. Each time he opened the door, the fan would be the first thing he’d see. Exactly like his childhood home. Exactly like that day when he was ten. But Subaru wouldn’t be there yelling at him not to look.

  Hayato staggered back, but the tide of his thoughts had already tossed him out into the violent sea. Being alone was dangerous. People did stupid things when they were alone. No one would be there to stop him.

  The doorknob stabbed him in the back. Hayato’s fingers shook as he groped for the handle. His throat closed, the breath growing stale in his mouth. He ran, but it didn’t stop the memories from chasing after him.

  He escaped the building, but his thrashing heart didn’t slow until he became part of the crowd. Shoulder to shoulder with others, the memory of the worst day of his life faded like a ship sinking to the bottom of the sea. His heart slowed to a steady rhythm.

  Hayato encouraged himself with each step. He was surrounded by others. People would stop him if he tried to do something stupid. He wasn’t alone, and everything was perfect.

  He followed the stream of people to the train station. His favorite twenty-four-hour manga café stood among the storefronts. Rows and rows of manga lined the front entry. Everything from One Piece to the latest volume of Hayato’s favorite gay series, My Master’s Wish. He grabbed enough volumes to keep his mind afloat until work rescued him. A few hours with the books and the short partition wall that separated him from his neighbor but still allowed him to see someone was there would dispel the last of Hayato’s loneliness.

  The handcuff chain clanked against Hayato’s metal briefcase. No matter how many layers he wore, the cuff always sent a cold shock up his arm like he’d been stabbed with an icicle. At least it wasn’t raining yet.

  Masuo’s parlor had a few more people in it than it had had the day before. Still not enough to make it worth Hayato’s time. At some point, he needed to show Masuo the ropes, but with everything going on, Masuo sat low on his priority list.

  Oh well. Masuo was fun to tease if nothing else. Though today the pinstriped vest he wore hugged his body in all the right places. The sharp lines of his crisp white collar emphasized his neck and sharp jaw. In a few years, the last of Masuo’s boyish features would turn into the fully chiseled face of a man. He wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without turning heads. A part of Hayato wished he could remember New Year’s. It might’ve been a bright patch in the depressing month.

  Haya
to set the briefcase on the prize counter and tapped his fingers against the metal.

  “You’re early,” Masuo said.

  “I’m full of surprises.” Hayato winked. He couldn’t help but flirt.

  “I’ll keep that in mind. I have money for you today.”

  “Maybe you’re not so incompetent after all.”

  Hayato followed Masuo into the office. On top of the desk were his and Jiro’s suitcases. Hayato’s jaw dropped. He unzipped his suitcase, exposing his neatly folded clothes.

  “How did you get all my stuff back?” Hayato dug around in the suitcase even though the briefcase chained to his wrist made the process cumbersome. “Everything’s here. Everything! From the brain freeze statue down to my favorite lip gloss.”

  Masuo leaned against the doorframe, a well-deserved smug smile across his face. He wouldn’t be so bad if he could rein in his pride, but Masuo grinned like every cheeky early twentysomething who’d somehow managed to do the right thing.

  Hayato had never been that bad, had he? No. Subaru would never have allowed him to be so cocky.

  “So you know how to fetch, but you’re still not good at getting people to hand you money.” Hayato uncapped a pale-rose gloss and dabbed it across his lips. “Maybe you should try stripping.”

  Masuo shook his head. He was so easy to tease, and he looked too damn cute when he pretended he could take it.

  “Keep looking,” Masuo said. “If you’re still missing something, I can go back and get it for you. I know you had a hard time getting your stuff back.”

  Oh, so he did have a little fight in him. Like one of those fuzzy little dogs that barked a whole bunch but were smaller than pigeons and not nearly as brave as they seemed.

  Hayato fanned through his suit jackets and his sweaters, but one was thick and unmoving with something tucked inside. He reached inand pulled out the framed photograph of his mom. A brightness coiled around him, banishing the swirl of heaviness January brought. It might’ve been small, just a photograph, but it stood like a lighthouse in the raging storm inside Hayato. He pressed his lips together and hugged the frame.