I hold back a laugh as Kaito steps up to remeasure my bicep. He takes down the number without another comment and proceeds to measure my chest and waist. His hands shake, but his expression never changes—he stares with a stony glower and a hue of red across his face and ears.
Is he uncomfortable with nakedness? That would be odd, considering Japan’s love of bathing naked in a public onsen—natural hot springs found throughout the country—but a small part of me wonders if he likes what he sees.
Kaito catches me watching him, and he turns away with a huff. “This is not a brothel,” he snaps.
I furrow my brow. “I didn’t think it was.”
“Then keep yourself three meters from Ren at all times. I will not have your lust interfere with work. It is not appropriate.”
“I agree one hundred percent.”
Kaito glances over his shoulder with a lifted eyebrow. “You do?”
“Yes. If anything is to happen, it should be on private time, not work time.”
He turns away again and returns the measuring tape to his desk with a snap of his wrist. “Ren is a wild dog that will jump from one piece of meat to the next. I suggest you stay away from him, regardless of work hours.”
Harsh.
Then again, I remember his anger at Ren last night, and I suspect they have some sort of prior relationship. A sexual relationship? That would explain Kaito’s staring and jealous statements. He doesn’t seem like the sexual type, however, like it would be an activity too “dirty” for the likes of him.
“You can dress now,” he says, keeping his back to me.
I chuckle as I pull my shirt over my head. “When do I start?”
“Friday. I expect to see you here promptly at four.”
“Four? Isn’t that a little early?”
“We need to begin your training.”
Chapter 3: Rules of the Workplace
I SILENCE my cell phone and stare at the Dusk Parlor door.
What have I gotten myself into? I glance one last time at my phone and realize my mother called an hour ago. I’ll call her tomorrow afternoon when I know she’ll be awake. I don’t know how she’ll handle the news that I’m working at a nightclub—she has aspirations of me working at a museum, and I have no idea why.
With a held breath, I enter the Dusk Parlor and stop only once as I reach the main room. To my surprise, Ren and Kaito are both working at the bar. They mutter to each other in angry tones but silence themselves the moment I come into the picture.
“Hugh!” Ren calls out. He effortlessly leaps over the bar and jogs out to meet me, his metal bracelets jingling as he goes. Despite the summer weather, he’s got a T-shirt and a long-sleeved shirt on underneath.
“I can’t believe it,” he says with a smile. “I thought I’d have to speak to Kaito for sure to get him to hire you.” He laughs and elbows me. “Kaito said you wouldn’t leave without the job.”
“It is five after four,” Kaito snaps. “Professionals do not begin their day late.”
Ren runs his hands over my chest, and I shudder from the unexpected contact. I spot Kaito glaring from halfway across the dim room. I step away from Ren and lower my voice. “If I’m going to work here, we should keep things… civil… until after hours.”
With a sardonic glower, Ren crosses his arms over his chest and huffs. “Tsk. You sound like Kaito. He got to you, didn’t he?”
“Drill sergeants pound rules into your head.”
“I see.”
“Seven after four,” Kaito drawls aloud. “Is this how you would conduct yourself in the States, Hugh?”
Ren cocks his head to the side. “You better get to work, then, Army-man. I can’t wait to see you in uniform.” He eyes me with a desire I haven’t experienced in years. I almost regret the rules—it’s been a while since I’ve had company other than my hand, and Ren is the type that doesn’t waste time.
I step around him and approach the bar with an apologetic bow of my head. “I’m sor—”
“You will not be late,” Kaito interjects. “If you take the subway, you should leave thirty minutes early. I will forgive it this time, but I will not be overlooking it in the future.”
“I understand.”
“Now change into your uniform. I’ve left it in the locker that’s labeled with your name.”
Kaito glances over me before turning away on his heel. He has a haughty air about him as he flounces into the kitchen, and I feel my anger rising already.
He thinks I can’t do this. He thinks he’s going to prove me wrong.
Well, he’s going to be disappointed.
“HUGH. PAY attention. All bills are calculated here at this computer.”
I watch Kaito type in the amounts, and I cringe when the hypothetical total for my practice table comes to 700,000 yen. It’s an outrageous sum of money for a few drinks. I want to ask about the clientele, but I suspect I’ll find out soon enough.
I glance at the clock. Six. The doors open at seven.
I straighten my uniform and grow redder with each passing moment. The sack coat, vest, and trousers are some of the highest quality clothing I’ve ever worn. It fits me perfectly—much to my surprise—and when I catch myself in the reflection of the bar mirror, I know I look good.
Ren fixed my hair to look more “American.” It’s lighter now than it was before, and disheveled. He says patrons expect Americans to be gruff and wild, even in a professional setting. I don’t bother to correct him and instead play to their expectations.
“Are you paying attention?”
I turn back to Kaito and nod. “Yes. I use the computer.”
“Hmpf.”
He returns his attention to the screen.
The front door opens, and I get tense. Customers? No. The red-haired waitress from the night before.
She enters with a smile that brightens even the darkest of corners. “Good evening, Hanamura! Tonight I need—” She stops herself short the moment she catches sight of me. For an awkward second, she mouth-fishes for a response, only to turn up empty-handed. “Uh….”
“I’m Hugh,” I say with a bow of my head. “I’ll be working as a waiter tonight.”
“I’m Lottie,” she replies once she regains her words.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah….”
She offers me a one-sided smile and scuttles around the bar, keeping an arm’s length between us at all times, her eyes glued to mine. Lottie disappears into the back, no doubt to change, and I stare at the door with a bemused expression etched into my face.
What was that about?
“You will be shadowing Lottie tonight,” Kaito says. “I expect you to learn from her over the weekend. Hopefully, by Sunday night, you will know the basics.”
“Of course.”
He straightens his glasses and sneers. “Of course? You think this will be easy?”
“I can wait tables.”
“We will see.”
God, I hate his patronizing attitude. I hold back commenting, but my face must betray my anger because Kaito matches it in kind. I step around him, heading for the kitchen, and he jumps back, hitting the bar in his haste to move. I stop and stare, which only causes him to grow red. He averts his gaze and motions me away with a wave of his hand.
“Go,” he commands, his voice unsteady.
He’s a little tense—did he think I was going to do something? I don’t know and I don’t ask. Turning away, I continue into the kitchen. To my surprise, Lottie has already changed and walks out of the employee lounge. She spots me and stops, the look of a frightened animal caught in the headlights plain on her face.
“Kaito says I’m to shadow you tonight,” I say, trying to sound relaxed, but my voice echoes with an odd timbre, like I’m lying. She frowns. I take a quick breath and continue, “I’m from the United States. Are you… from around here?”
“I’m from Ipswich,” she states in English as she ties her hair.
“In the UK?”<
br />
“Yeah. You know it?”
“I went there once.”
Lottie’s anxiety visibly dissipates. She forces a smile, and I take note of her interesting outfit. It’s a flapper dress—not exactly Gilded Age America—but I imagine it’s fun to wear and not many patrons in Japan would know the exact date of popularity. Lottie has only a handful of freckles, and they span the bridge of her nose and upper cheeks. I’d say she’s Irish, but she doesn’t have a heavy accent, not even a British one.
“You don’t have any tattoos, right?” Lottie asks, taking a step close and examining me with squinted eyes.
“Tattoos?”
“Yeah. Do you have them?”
“No….”
She lets out a sigh of relief. I chuckle.
“What does it matter if I have any tattoos? My clothes cover me from my feet to the top of my neck.”
Lottie closes the distance between us and shrugs. “You must be new to Kobe. All the gangster thugs here tattoo themselves. Everyone knows it. I thought… given your size… that you were part of them, but you seem too polite for that.”
I lift an eyebrow. She shakes her head.
“Sorry,” Lottie says. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not appropriate to make assumptions. You seem nice so far.”
“So you’ll help me learn the ropes?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” I grunt. “I need to show up Kaito and prove to him I can handle the job.”
Lottie covers her mouth as she giggles. “Oh, don’t worry about Hanamura. His standards are high, but he’s a good guy. He won’t fire you unless he thinks you’re irredeemable. Or you steal. And don’t think you can get away with stealing, either—Hanamura notices everything.”
“Is that why you guys are short-staffed?”
“Yup. Two guys thought they had the perfect plan, but Hanamura’s no fool.”
I stand a little straighter and narrow my eyes. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life, and I don’t intend to start now.”
Lottie fluffs her long red hair and nods in agreement. “I believe you. So, you ready to get to work? You might have to remember a lot.”
“I’m ready.”
I WASN’T ready.
Waiting tables sounds easy. I thought—what could possibly be hard?—but Kaito really does have a lot of expectations.
Lottie waits only two tables, and I stand in the shadows watching her with an intent focus. She doesn’t have a notepad or pen… she has to remember everything they order, and Kaito doesn’t want the waiters repeating orders either. He says it is low class and the sign of a terrible listener. This is a high-class establishment, he stressed. Our guests expect better treatment than what is found in a chain restaurant.
To make matters more complicated, she has to stagger her care of the tables so that her customer’s needs never overlap. Lottie doesn’t want people running out of drinks at the same time, and she watches the tables like a hawk while maintaining an appropriate distance so she isn’t hovering.
So many weird details—it’s only two tables!
Additionally, there are no menus. The guests order, and Lottie relays the information to Ren, the Dusk Parlor’s bartender, and the kitchen, in the case of food. Lottie has to remember the price and order until after her guests have their refreshments—Kaito doesn’t want anything in the computer until the guests are satisfied with their meal. Any mistakes made come out of Lottie’s pay.
And that’s not taking into account what she has to do between orders.
All the waiters and waitresses have to play into the “act” of the Dusk Parlor’s theme. Lottie sways up to the table and “talks shop” about Andrew Carnegie before ever mentioning things like ordering drinks.
I’m woefully undereducated about America’s Gilded Age. When I hear the name Andrew Carnegie I think of a circus. Apparently he owned a fair number of steel factories and became a multimillionaire after starting as a janitor. I would definitely fail a high school history course at this point in my life, but I don’t mention any of this aloud.
At least not in front of Kaito.
I catch him watching me from time to time—like he’s obsessed. I don’t show my irritation, but I feel my frustration growing. A part of me, an unreasonable part, thinks he doubts me because of my heritage. I know it’s absurd, but that’s how I feel. I want to prove to him, like I want to prove to most Japanese who question my blood, that I can be every bit as capable as they are.
“Are you paying attention?”
I snap my gaze over to Lottie and nod. The music is upbeat, and the guests get to their feet in order to dance. It’s an intermission for the servers, so to speak. She pushes me to the kitchen door.
“Hanamura doesn’t want us out here during the dancing,” she says. “Take this time to get a drink and relax. He’ll handle everything while we’re in the kitchen.”
“Why do you call him by his last name?” I ask as we head into the back.
“That’s what he prefers.”
Huh. He’s never corrected me when I called him Kaito. Odd. He doesn’t correct Ren either.
I get half shoved into the kitchen, and a myriad of pleasant smells fill my nose. Lottie skips over to the other workers on break as they gather in the corner of the giant room. In total, there are four waiters, Ren the bartender, Kaito the host, a chef, and a single sous-chef. They’re a small collection of people, but I can tell, from what little interactions I’ve had with them all, they’re close.
I’d approach the others enjoying their break, but my stomach demands food after being assaulted with such delicious aromas. My mouth waters, and I realize my sandwich for the night is in the employee’s lounge. I walk over to the back door, enter, and go straight for my locker.
The door opens behind me, and I turn to spot Ren standing with his hand on the doorknob. He smiles his wide smile, and I nod to him.
The click of the lock changes the casual attitude of the room to something tense. I freeze midway through searching my locker and listen to Ren saunter over to me.
“How’s your first day going?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement and punctuated with a husky breath.
“Informative,” I drawl. “This place is… different.”
“Yeah? But in a good way, right?”
His English is amazing. I swear I’m talking to a guy from California.
I turn to him, and he’s standing mere inches from me. With a smirk I stare down at him—he’s a neat little thing in his bartender outfit. His black spiked hair is still frosted at the tips and gives him a not-too-period-appropriate look, but I think it suits him.
“Like what you see?” he asks, catching my expression.
Before I can answer, he’s on me like a shark on chum—his grabs the back of my pants and pulls me closer by the waist.
I take hold of his arm and stop him. “Not at work.”
“We’re not working right now.”
He slithers out of my grasp and presses up against me. I feel his erection through his slacks. His excitement is infectious, but I attempt a second time to deflect his lust.
“Someone will notice things like wrinkled shirts and odd stains,” I say in a huskier tone than I intended. “We should get back to the group.”
Ren backs away and I go to step around, but he pushes me onto the nearby couch and plants his knees on either side of my hips, half straddling me.
“I’m real good at making sure no one will notice a thing,” he breathes. In one swift movement, he removes his button-down shirt and vest and tosses them over the back of the couch. I bite back my comments and stare at his lean physique. He’s muscled well, smooth, and looks great without a shirt.
I’ve never known anyone as comfortable in their own skin and sexuality—Ren knows what he wants. My body knows what it wants too. It’s a shame my body doesn’t understand things like needing to pay rent. I don’t want to get fired. I shouldn’t think with my dick on this one.
&
nbsp; After a moment of staring, my breath held, I notice the sleeve-tattoo on his right arm. It’s a serpent-style dragon done in black, red and green. The detail work is amazing… I’ve never seen anything like it.
Ren locks his mouth with mine, pulling my attention away from the situation with a wave of lustful sensations. He grabs my hand and runs it along the front zipper of his pants, inviting me to stroke him while he works my mouth with his tongue. He’s rock hard—an erotic heat radiating through the fabric—and he half moans the moment I squeeze my fingers around his shaft.
“Let’s see what we’re working with,” he says with a playful laugh, reaching for my belt and undoing the restraints without skipping a beat. I tense and suck on his lower lip, loving the way he tastes but knowing each moment I spend in his arms is a mistake.
Ren throws open the front of my slacks and slides his hand over my boxers.
“Oh? Are these piercings I feel?”
I grow hot, and normally I’d want to answer, but instead I force my mouth over his, preventing him from further comment.
He chortles and grazes his fingers under the elastic band around my waist.
Chapter 4: Coworkers
THE LOCK on the door unclicks.
I sit up and Ren wraps his arms around my neck, confusing me in my rush to hide our activity. I’ve scooted to the edge of the couch with Ren still in my lap by the time the Dusk Parlor’s chef walks into the lounge.
She’s in her early sixties—a Japanese woman with a harsh squint and a hunched back—and she holds herself with an “I don’t give a shit about anything around me” attitude. I freeze up in embarrassment and grit my teeth in preparation for an awkward explanation, but the woman doesn’t even give me or Ren a second glance.
Without a word she walks over to her locker, fiddles with the padlock, removes a pair of ornate chopsticks, and exits the lounge, locking the door behind her. Ren and I stare at the door for a prolonged period of silence.
“I like Chef Mio,” Ren says with a chuckle. “She’s a class act.” He sits back and unwraps his arms from my neck, half covering his tattoo with his hand. Had he been trying to hide it from the chef?
The Dusk Parlor Page 3
