Yeah, they wouldn’t be doing that.
“What else did you have in mind?”
Paige shrugged. “Theatre, maybe? A poetry reading?”
Jesus.
“Gavin Hurst is reading at the Barnes & Nobles by my house tonight. We could do that, and go back to my place afterward for drinks.”
“Gavin . . . Hurst, you say?”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of him?”
“Maybe.” Absolutely not. “Let’s make it a date.”
Paige smiled. “Awesome. See you tonight.”
Kenji gave a short nod and watched her ass on departure.
~*~
Gavin Hurst was a short and big-bellied man who forced Kenji to look away each time he licked his lips, usually in vigorous fashion and about every moment or so. Black hair draped his arms right down to the knuckles, and he wore a red cable knit despite the full seventy-five degrees outside. As he stood at a podium in the café section of Barnes & Nobles, he thumbed through a tiny green hardback in search of something to read. Only women were in attendance; women and Kenji, that is—the latter of which sat in blue jeans and a sports coat that belonged to his brother and looked decidedly better on him.
Kenji and Paige were on a chocolate leather couch at the back. He had an arm around her, though she seemed not to notice, so engrossed was she in this hairy and ultra-gay poet. Her pale hands clasped as if in prayer at her lips, her eyes never left Mr. Hurst.
Gavin took a sip of water, paused, and then chimed into the silence like thunder. “Volcano. Volcanoes erupt like the soul. Inward. Upward. Quaking.”
Kenji stared at the guy. He bet he drank. Beer. Scotch. Whiskey. Wild Irish Rose on tough nights. He bet he drank too much and pissed himself. He bet he gambled all his money away and owed a guy named Big Larry way more than he could pay. He bet he wrote about love yet been divorced three times. He bet the guy was full of shit.
Gavin read three poems. The first one about volcanoes and his soul, the second about the illusion of completion, and the third, well, hell, Kenji didn’t know what he was talking about there. He exhaled audibly when the crowd leaped to their feet in applause, signifying the end of his ordeal.
“You didn’t enjoy it,” Paige accused, arms folded as they walked the three blocks to her condo. After leaving his Audi in her parking lot, they’d hiked to the bookstore.
“I pick the next outing,” Kenji reminded her, and was met with a giggle.
It was dark out, but downtown, the part of town that housed the American Airlines arena, the docks for the cruise ships, and a varying assortment of tourist traps, action never quite died out.
They were coming up on her building, a five-story white stucco just ahead on the left.
“Next outing? Are you asking me out again, Kenji Tanaka?”
He smiled—but not much, though—because he knew his gums would show.
“Something like that.”
Her apartment was small compared to Kenji’s, a series of white walls compacted with a suede red couch, 27-inch tube, and a massive bookshelf in the living room. He could see the kitchen and hall from where he stood.
On entering, Paige locked the door and gestured to the couch. Kenji sat gingerly and on edge, the way people did when sticking around wasn’t a given.
“What do you feel like drinking?”
“I don’t know. Whatever you have.”
Paige headed for the kitchen. “There’s a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Probably not as nice as what you’re used to.”
Of course. Because Tanakas took Dom Pérignon daily with their breakfast.
“Pinot’s fine,” Kenji said.
When Paige returned, she had the bottle of refrigerator-chilled wine and two glasses. She poured and set one before Kenji on the coffee table.
He took a sip. Sweet, dry, went down easy.
She sat down with him, and they launched into awkward talks about working for his dad, architecture, Gavin Hurst, when Kenji grew desperate. She took long swallows from her glass, going back for seconds.
They sat that way, talking and not really talking, with her going for seconds, thirds, and a portion of a fourth. When the last stood close to empty, Kenji’s temples began to dampen with the urgency of a man failing to conjure nerve.
“So, are you going to come on to me or what?” she demanded.
“I, uh—is that what you want?”
What a stupid-ass question. He thought to replace it with another.
“So, is this, uh . . . something you like to do often?”
Stupider. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Do you like me or do you just want to sleep with me?” she asked, wine sloshed her words.
Kenji’s gaze fell to her neck. He could kiss her there he supposed, and she would know what he wanted. But his heart was beating too hard.
“Both,” he admitted.
She looked at him, eyes wet and laughing. Even her laughs rang thick. “You’re not supposed to tell me. You’re just supposed to try.”
She threw back the last of her wine emphatically.
“You’re not drinking,” she accused.
He looked down at his glass, still holding half of the first contents.
“Drink more,” Paige said. “I can’t get drunk alone.”
Kenji threw it back and instantly, his belly warmed with wine.
“That’s better,” she said.
Paige finished the Pinot Grigio, and they started in on a half-emptied bottle of vodka. A few sips in and Kenji’s head began to whir. Once he was significantly sloshed, he scooted over, close to Paige. He kissed her cheek first, as a friend would, and when she didn’t resist, he set his glass down and kissed her mouth. She tasted like booze and onions, and it distracted him, causing him to try to recall when she would’ve had time to eat onions. She wrapped arms around his neck and leaned back, inviting him to climb atop her on the couch.
He was hard in an instant, hands falling to hips and simultaneously wishing there was more there to grab. He pushed the thought from his mind.
“I’ve never been with a Japanese guy,” she murmured.
“Me neither.” Kenji nipped at her neck.
But she didn’t get the joke, or didn’t notice, and suddenly, she was pulling off her top and therefore pushing that thought from his mind.
It occurred to him that there wasn’t much between them; that she was an ambitious accountant who spent meals and casual conversations engaged in what she only thought was a casual assessment of his wealth. In the few dates he’d had with Paige, they’d discussed his stake in the firm, his trust fund, the vacations he took, and what he stood to inherit on his father’s death. Still, here they were, because here was where he was dying to be.
Her breasts were disappointing, oblong instead of round, and too far apart. But he’d never been especially picky before and couldn’t understand his sudden fussiness. Kenji pushed it from his mind and reached for the button of her jeans.
It was like pulling pants from a pole, so bone straight and thin was she. Nothing to grab, nothing to hold, but her mouth felt good on his neck, then his chest ,and even lower. She started sucking him—and it was incredible—warm and wet and tight and perfect. Rigid friction, damp and gliding. And in his mind, another woman’s lips were suddenly upon him, a woman with S-curves, wild brown hair, gold-flecked eyes, and honeyed skin.
He leaped to his feet with a start, dumping Paige onto the floor and upturning the last of her vodka. Clear liquor gushed emphatically, plummeting to the carpet, darkening and spreading by the second. Still, his brain worked; worked around the image he’d birthed at the worst moment, wrestling it from his mind.
Lizzie.
“I—I have to go,” Kenji blurted, only vaguely aware of the instantaneous death of his erection at the moment when cognizance put a name to the image. “I can’t—”
He shook his head, grabbed the car keys, and burst out the door.
“Send me the bill for the carpet,” wer
e his last words to Paige.
~*~
When Lizzie rang Kenji’s phone the next morning, he answered with the resonating pitch of a guilty man. One glance at his clock alluded to the reasons why. One, he was late for work, and two, he could remember little of his dream, except the voice he now heard.
“I wanted to know if you were doing anything later,” she said softly.
Kenji sat up, sluggish and groggy from alcohol.
“Later?” he echoed stupidly.
“Yeah,” Lizzie said in an uncharacteristically softened voice.
Kenji sat up.
“Why? What’s happened? What do you need?”
“I call you so I need something? What the hell is that?”
Kenji snorted. “You’ve never called before.”
“And you’ve never called me! Ass-wipe.”
“Fine. Bye.”
“Bye,” Lizzie spat.
Still, neither hung up the phone and the seconds ticked toward infinity.
“So,” Kenji said finally, “what are you doing? Picking your nose?”
“Being mad at you,” Lizzie snapped, though the edge had seeped from her voice.
“Want to be mad over here?” he asked.
She paused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’m about to order a shitload of hot wings and watch a few a movies on rental.”
“You’re not going to work?”
Kenji glanced at his clock. “No. Don’t think I’ll bother.”
So, she agreed to be ready in an hour.
Two hours later, Kenji and Lizzie were in a battle over who could down the most Lava-Scorched Hot Wings from Bass Charlie’s. Kenji won with seventeen to Lizzie’s measly ten. They ate them and watched a slew of old films, getting into it each time she complained about the picture quality.
A week later, Kenji happened on a pair of tickets to the Maddox-Princely fight and figured Lizzie would be better company than Paige. A week after that, it was a hip-hop concert with Young Benjamins, backstage passes included. On Sunday, she trekked with him to the batting cages, a weekend ritual of which he’d never included another.
Eventually, they went to the zoo. The zoo at twilight had been her weird idea of a good outing, but one that paid off for him the moment she cooed over pandas in surprising fashion. He could almost see her as a mother that day, fussing over a newborn, saddling up a toddler in snow boots and a wool cap the way crazy Miamians did when it dropped down to 60 degrees. Still, days lapsed between one moment when they saw each other and the next, days in which his mind taunted him with the absurdity of the thought and of his time with her. After all, she was still Lizzie.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Deena, Tak, Tony, and Mia stood in a tight room at the back of the Guest Relations office at Epcot. Low ceilings, baby blue walls, and a single oversized desk were the whole of their surroundings. Behind the desk, Mickey cupped a hand to one ridiculously large mouse ear and declared that he wanted to hear their thoughts. Nonetheless, Deena got the distinct feeling as she sat on the glossy, hard-backed red bench, with a bastion of hospitality out there and an even glare on her in there, that no one wanted to hear her thoughts. Red-faced, she looked from the officer who stood over them to Tak, imploring someone to see reason.
“I’m telling you, what you’re saying is impossible. He was with me the entire time.” Deena looked at Tak. “Tell him that Tony was with me.”
Tak rubbed his face in fatigue. Still, he said nothing. Deena turned on Tony.
“Tell this man you were with me.”
Tony looked him straight in the eye.
“I was with her.”
She shot him a look of satisfaction. “There,” she said.
“The truth is simple enough to get at,” the officer said, tall and imposing despite the powder blue cast member uniform. He bent low so that his face fell even with Tony’s.
“Turn out your pockets,” he said.
Tony’s eyes went wide. “No. I won’t do it.” He turned to Deena. “This man’s a racist.”
“What?” She shot the officer an apologetic look.
“He’s racist,” Tony insisted. “Outside. I heard him use the ‘n’ word.”
Tak sighed. “Empty out your pockets, so we can pay the man already.”
Tony turned on Tak, his gaze wild. “You can’t believe him! I wouldn’t do that! I wouldn’t—”
Tak got up.
“I’ll be outside,” he said and shouldered past the officer.
“Deena—” Tony started.
She massaged her temples with trembling fingers. “Please, Tony, just take everything out of your pockets. I’m very tired.”
Mia looked from new brother to mother, back stiff, eyes bulging.
Slowly, Tony reached in his pocket. A wad of tissue emerged, and beneath it, a silver Mickey Mouse spoon.
Deena gasped, disbelieving gaze on Tony.
The officer took the spoon.
“How—how much do I owe you?” she managed.
Though she stared at Tony, he carefully avoided her gaze.
“Nothing,” the officer said. “We’ve recovered the property. But you’ll have to leave the park. And forfeit your tickets.”
Mia burst into tears.
The ride from Orlando was stoic. Mia, in the back, sniffling the whole way; Deena in the front, doing the same. Tak drove at hypersonic speed down the turnpike, jaw clenched, eyes keen on the road.
“Half a dozen shirts from Disney,” Tak said. “Three key chains, six snapshot pictures, two water bottles, mouse ears—”
“Tak—”
“A lanyard, a pin collection kit, a watch, sunglasses, a Pirates of the Caribbean hat—”
“Tak, stop.”
“A pirate makeover, a jacket, a friggin’ knapsack—”
“Would you stop?” Deena cried. “What are you doing? Keeping score?” She shot a wounded look at Tony in the backseat. “If we only knew why he did it!”
“We know why! Because he’s a thief or greedy or both!” Tak said.
“Calm down,” Deena said. “Don’t let your temper—”
“Too late,” Tak snapped.
Face pinched, she careened around for a better view of Tony, hoping for an inkling of understanding and found him face-passive, eyes on the pavement. And when Deena turned back to Tak helplessly, he fed her a withering glare before accelerating headlong into a traffic ticket.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tak opened the front door wide enough to let Deena and the children in. Tony eked past, head lowered, not having uttered a word since the revelation of his thievery.
“Get back here,” Tak said.
“Tak, maybe you should calm down before—”
He shot Deena a single, acrimonious look and her mouth clamped shut.
Tony, halfway down the hall and toward the safety of his room, stood with his back to Tak, waiting.
“I’m pretty sure I told you to get back here.”
With a dramatic sigh, Tony returned to the middle of the hall, technically listening to Tak but managed to stay safely out of arm’s reach.
“You’re gonna find that I don’t have a lot of patience for nonsense,” Tak said. “The way this works is that I’m the adult and you’re the child, meaning I tell you what to do, and you do it. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Good. Now tell me why you stole a spoon when we have plenty in the house.”
Tony’s eyes remained on the floor. “But, I didn’t even—”
“Room. Now,” Tak spat.
He watched his nephew slump away, lips thinned to nothing in anger.
“Tak—”
He started for the kitchen, convinced that he didn’t want to hear a thing from Deena.
She followed him.
“Tak—”
He opened cabinets and slammed them until he found the Wheaties he needed. Another handful of cabinets later and he had a porcelain bowl in one hand, a silver
spoon in the other.
A spoon.
It occurred to him that they knew nothing about this kid, family or otherwise. Only that he was the son of a confessed murderer, and to his own credit, a thief. In Tak’s overzealous effort to make his wife happy, he’d neglected to consider reality.
Gingerly, Deena placed a hand on his arm. Tak glanced at her, fully intent on railing about the slack hand she had with Tony and the excuses she’d made from Disney to doorstep, but the look on her face stopped him. He knew it well, had seen it often back when Lizzie would go missing and they’d have to go searching. Back then, she looked half hopeful, mostly fearful, and wholly convinced that he’d get some sense and get the hell away.
As if he ever could.
Tak set his cereal aside and embraced her with a weighty exhale. She held him—clung to him, and they stood that way for a long time.
Four hours of ESPN highlights later, Tak peeked into Tony’s room. He found the kid on top of a made bed, fully dressed, including the new Jordans he got so excited about. The moment he’d shown interest in them, Deena insisted that he have not one pair, but three. As Tak took inventory of the new console, sneakers, video games, sports equipment, and clothes, their error was made plain.
In an eagerness to earn his love, Tak and Deena had been unwise in an obvious way. Jordans, video games, the basketball hoop getting installed on Monday—what was it all for? It would bring them no closer to knowing him, or understanding.
Tak stepped into the room and leaned against beadboard wood paneling. Before Tony, the room had been fluffed and preened for guests. It still bore the distinct mark of impersonal hotel accommodations. They would have to do something different.
“You haven’t eaten today,” Tak said. “You’ll worry Deena if you don’t.”
Tony met his gaze evenly. “Most everything still has the tags on it. I was careful not to mess your stuff up. I’ll—be outta your way by morning.”
Tak crossed the room, but Tony sat up quick, scrambling back like a spider—tense, guarded.
Tak froze. Jesus, he thought, what has this kid been through?
He held out a hand to him.
Crimson Footprints II: New Beginnings Page 7
