Crimson Footprints II: New Beginnings

by Shewanda Pugh

  When hunger finally overcame Deena, she ordered Thai for delivery. On arrival, she took her Hot & Sour soup, Pad Thai, and report and ventured down to the break room. Unlike her early days at the firm, she had no trouble finding lunch mates now. Firmly wedged between a second-year intern from Bangkok and a veteran five years her senior, Deena confirmed the rumors of possible expansion into Sydney and swore them to secrecy. When she left, it was with the knowledge that half the Miami office would be privy to the news by quit time.

  Back in her office, she skimmed through a copy of Skyscrape, the leading periodical on tall and supertall construction. In it, an article about the skyscraper boom in India caught her eye. She read through all nine pages without hesitation, noting points of contention in the margins. Quickly, she typed up a formal response and e-mailed it to the editor, knowing that the Tanaka letterhead guaranteed its publication.

  It was now time for her masterpiece.

  Modeled after the infamous supermax federal prisons, the women’s correctional facility Deena designed to replace the crumbling one which housed her mother would be buried entirely underground, with each inmate in a cell unto themselves. Perforated steel doors would open and close on the command of another, and everything—bed, stool, desk, and toilet—would be formed of concrete.

  Gloria Hammond would want death over her daughter’s prison. Deprived of the most basic human interactions, even her food would come and go without need of human intervention. Mandated exercise would demean her further. Deena’s mother would circle a concrete concave, a hollowed out pool dug on the orders of her own daughter, made to flex useless legs in a useless life that should’ve ended twenty-five long years ago.

  Deena folded her designs and stuck them in a drawer, locking it in for safekeeping. Secretly, she had always known she’d win the contract. Both Deena and the state were in a dangerous game with the same aim: maximum punishment for minimum dollar. An architect could only understand one of those goals; someone affected by murder the other.

  It just so happened that Deena Tanaka was both.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Right from the beginning, Lizzie sought to earn her keep, cleaning with enough bleach to flare the nostrils and burning dinner every night. Miss Alvarez, the widowed Cuban woman who usually cleaned and cooked for Kenji, cursed in Spanglish and muttered about wasted food and cleaning products. In fact, most everything about Lizzie irritated her, right down to the way she incessantly washed and wore the few clothes she’d permitted Kenji to buy. More often than not, Miss Alvarez complained of Kenji placing too much stock in appearance, instead of searching for a girl who better met his needs. Clearly, she wasn’t as enamored with Lizzie as he.

  Though the two of them didn’t talk about it, Kenji knew Lizzie spent her days walking the beach, judging by the amount of sand he crunched underfoot each evening after work. Even on the days when sand proved absent from his foyer, the complaints of Miss Alvarez, incoherent to Lizzie, told Kenji that she’d been to the beach nonetheless. They spent the evenings watching cheesy anime, which she studied and asked too many confused and only slightly exasperating questions about.

  There were also the action films, which she argued were appallingly unrealistic. That lack of realism, however, did little to curtail her obvious interest. When they weren’t on movies, they were into old board games like Clue, Monopoly, and Life. On evenings and weekends, the sun would disappear from the sky and reappear again, casting rays of light on a bleary eyed pair, neither willing to declare loss, bankruptcy, or hopelessness. When their games did end, either by Lizzie flipping the board in a poorly orchestrated accident or Kenji inquiring of her fatigue so many times that she quit in irritation, the two of them would retire to their own beds, sleep in late, get up, and do it all over again.

  Those were the better evenings. Other nights, she proved restless, listless, cranky, piteous, or just plain annoyed. Knowing her mood shifts to be part of the healing process, he ignored them when possible and crossed swords when temperament got the best of him. But it seemed that when he’d been taken to his very worst, when he muttered and slammed doors and told her to piss off, Kenji would close himself in the room, fume, and then open it to find her waiting on the other end. “Kenji?” she’d say, the pain in her voice unmistakable. And he, feeling like three parts ass, would give a deep sigh and bury an apology somewhere in the midst of a hug.

  Though he was quick to rise with Lizzie, he was quicker to mellow out, so easy was it for him to go soft over her. So pathetic was Kenji, in fact, that he rarely needed an apology for her less-than-ideal behavior. For him, it was enough that she fed him a heartrending look, complete with the softest, most doelike brown eyes possible.

  Paige stopped by unexpectedly one night. On opening the door, Kenji’s first reaction had been to shut it on her nose. But immediately, she began talking.

  She stood before him with her sweeping, swooshing curls pinned up to emphasize a pale and slender neck. Dark makeup rendered oversized eyes dramatic, peach lips looked unexpectedly lush. A cream tank fell just short of her jeans, revealing floor-flat abs in peek-a-boo fashion.

  “Kenji!” Paige said a hand on the door frame. “I’ve been thinking about you so much.”

  A hand on the doorknob, he peeked out of the corner of his eye for so much as the shadow of Lizzie.

  “I swear, after what happened between us, I felt so bad!” Paige gushed. “Almost immediately I wanted to come see you—”

  Go away.

  “I wanted to make things right—”

  Go away.

  “But I didn’t know how you’d take it!”

  Goawaygoawaygoawaygoaway.

  “Given everything that’s happened and is happening between us, I thought it best that—”

  “Kenji?”

  And . . . shit.

  He turned ever so slightly, absurdly really, at the sound of Lizzie’s voice. Eyes widened in agony, she looked at him, only him, demanding, without speaking. Like an ass, he looked away. Slender golden feet pounded in their retreat.

  “Kenji?”

  Unlike Lizzie, Paige’s inquiry only forged emotion, mocked affection, pretended hurt. He harbored no delusions that he was just as robustly attractive to her without the benefit of a multimillion-dollar trust fund or the eventual inheritance of the architectural equivalent of Coca-Cola. So he raised his gaze in annoyance.

  “What?” Kenji snapped.

  “Who is that?” Paige cried.

  “My sister-in-law!”

  “And what? She’s living here? Right under my nose?”

  Kenji snatched Paige’s hand from the doorway, whirled her around, and on her gasp of perplexity, slammed the door on her backside.

  “Lizzie!”

  Kenji tore through the house to her room, shoved the door open, and froze at the sight of her dormant on the bed.

  Funny, he thought, how a woman pulled the collar of her dress way down and her hem way up in the hopes of achieving something sexy. He’d seen Lizzie in the short, ripped, barely there, and graphic. But for Kenji, nothing topped Lizzie Hammond in things that belonged to him, that still managed somehow to smell faintly of him. That day, the handful of items she now owned were in the wash, leaving her to wear his fitted tee and boxers.

  “Lizzie—” he started again, only to have her turn completely away from him, head on a pillow.

  “She’s my coworker—”

  “And I’m your sister-in-law!”

  Kenji flinched. It was true and not true. She’d made a point, and yet in doing so, had missed the obvious altogether. Paige was his coworker, and Lizzie his sister-in-law, and yes, he’d taken the easy way by describing them with the truth’s bare minimum. But he hadn’t taken the easy way with Lizzie, not literally. Not once.

  “Jesus, Lizzie! You know that I never get it right! That I always say and do the wrong thing! But can’t you see how I look at you? Can’t you figure how I feel about you by now?” He stared at her, at her back,
waiting, hoping she understood.

  Nothing.

  With a snort of frustration, Kenji burst from the room, down the hall, and into the kitchen. There he paced, paced, and paced some more. And finally, he turned.

  “Lizzie.”

  “Kenji.” Her voice trembled with emotion.

  He took a step at the sound of his name, spoken with something so potent he didn’t dare name it but checked himself almost immediately.

  “I feel like . . . like I’m bursting a thousand times over,” she whispered. “Is this—the way it works?”

  “Yeah,” he breathed, and closed his eyes against the tremble within him.

  She took his hand, hers small and slender next to his, fingers lacing. She leaned up and into him until their lips met deliciously.

  Something unleashed.

  He submerged with her, lips meeting, conquering, desperate in an instant. With a hand in her hair and the other firmly locked in hers, he swept her round till her back faced the counter. She met his eagerness and swallowed it, hand in his hair, pressing, a mountain of desire, hunger overwhelming. It was as if another second disconnected from him was a second she couldn’t bear. And there he was thinking the same thing.

  He pulled away.

  “Lizzie—”

  She moved in again. To stop her from kissing him, he took both her wrists in his. “We should get some sleep, Liz. We’ll talk later.”

  He fled from her before she could convince him to stay. Lord knows another word from her would’ve done so.

  Kenji lay awake for far too long before falling into a deep and uneven sleep. When he woke, it was to Lizzie, tucking in next to him. No doubt she’d had another bad dream. So he made room, muttering something sleepy and incoherent, before returning to abstract shapes and a hopefulness he couldn’t quite understand.

  When morning came, Kenji woke to find that he and Lizzie fit together easy as lovers. Her snoring and partway on her stomach, legs spread; him behind her and to the side, a leg draped lazily but parting her thighs. His hand cupped one rounded breast through fabric of his orange UM shirt. It rode high enough to expose the swell of her ass, clad in simple white panties. Kenji swallowed at the sight of all that flesh. Cursing himself for waking from a sleep so sweet, he pulled away in regret.

  “Don’t,” Lizzie said. “Not yet at least.”

  She rolled onto her back and sat up, moving in so close that their noses nearly touched.

  “No?” he said, gaze locked on her mouth.

  She licked her lips.

  “Kiss me.”

  He did as he was told.

  Mouth claiming hers in slow and thoughtful fashion, he took his time with her, moving in when her chin tilted upward and climbing atop when she leaned back. Light and teasing painfully, he reeled from the taste of her. She was unbelievably soft beneath him, and he stirred, nibbling at her lips, relishing deliciousness.

  How bad had he wanted her? Fear had kept him from knowing. But he knew now. Hunger escalating to madness, Kenji’s open mouth feasted on Lizzie’s, lapping, longing, pressing for more than even this. She swallowed his kisses as if desperate for them, tugging on his shirt till he tore it off, pulling off hers and returning again.

  She wrapped arms around him and drew him in quick, as if even his brief parting was too much. Her kisses were slow and drugging, urging him as she parted legs for him, encouraging with a hand in his hair as she leaned back.

  He could kiss her forever that way; easy, indulgent, savoring the velvet of her mouth, or hard and hungry, grinding and surging fire through to their very cores. It was almost as if she’d never been touched, never teased, as every whisper of flesh against flesh brought a never-ending surge, an ambush of emotion. Lizzie had no answer for how a whore could quiver from the caress of a man, or find tears at words that were sweet. After all, hadn’t she been told she was beautiful before? Perfect? Worthy of worship?

  She hadn’t.

  Lizzie thought she might drown with him, drown from him, so submerged she was in his scent, taste, and hardness against her body. Every inch of him was masculine, every morsel man, from the bristle of his face to the ripple of his chest. She had been with others, so many others, but never had she felt all woman and helpless altogether, overwhelmed and emboldened, in one.

  Lizzie reached for him, and he pushed her aside. When she reached a second time, he drew her fingers to his lips and kissed. Fingertips, first; then palm, wrist, and upward: even there where heroin had scarred. He shushed the beginnings of her protest and silenced her to whimpers when his lips trailed from arm to nipple, flicking with a tongue. Lizzie stiffened in an instant, head back, jolted and breathless. Kenji returned, teasing her with his tongue, flicking, hardening, sucking two tender peaks. He massaged her, caressed her, and ran lips across her body, before returning to her mouth once again. The warmth of her mouth and its willingness made him stir, hard between damp, sweat-laden legs.

  Lizzie curled at his touch and moaned with his kisses, driving him to agony in his desire. He ran a hand down her side to sopping white panties, removed them, and followed with his boxers. For all the sex she’d had, all the moments, never had one hinted at this—the silent promise of Kenji’s mouth, the constant shocks of pleasure. Heat rose in Lizzie in new and foreign fashion, stockpiling and threatening a magnificent release. She crushed underneath him, thrusting to meet his slightest motion.

  Dangerously they moved, one against another, bodies one in heat and desperation. She arched for him, torturing by begging with her body. He met soft wet flesh between her thighs with the brush of a finger and a ragged moan escaped her. Kenji stroked, gently, just there, and bit a lip at the whimper of his name.

  He dug a condom out of the top drawer and slipped it on, fingers trembling. Hardened beyond reason, stirring in anticipation, he climbed atop her and pressed his hungry lips to hers tenderly.

  He pushed and pulsating softness enveloped him.

  Goodness.

  Eyes shut, he was inundated by the feel of her. Soft. Quivering. Damp. Even on entry, she lifted for him, begging him deeper with that, the first thrust. He held her, and she clung and instantly, he needed all of her. Kenji pushed back a feeling of greed with weak resolve and moved against her slow, stoking moans with each deepening stroke. Breathless and haggard, he ran a hand through her hair, fingers tangling and loving it. Hands on her ass, filled and overflowing—he loved that too—and knew he could have it no other way. He wanted no other girl.

  It wasn’t her fault.

  She had thought that he would be like the others; that he would take only his fill. She had wanted it, if for no other reason but to have his nearness. But she hadn’t anticipated the inevitable. Scorching and bursting, she could withhold nothing from him, not even her trembling, as she rushed to peak frantically. She had come to him the fool, thinking herself the experienced one. After all, she had nothing to give that another hadn’t had, nothing so far as she knew. But he’d taken what hadn’t been there; what was his; what was promised.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Kenji sat on the edge of his bed, head lowered, bile and regret coalescing in furious fashion.

  How had he let passion consume him so completely? Let it evict rationale, sanity, and the need for peace of mind? What Lizzie needed was a friend, a confidant, a guy who could see her instead of her body, who could find worth without lust. He’d thought himself that man. But his cock had shown him different.

  “Kenji?” Lizzie said.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Damn, it was just the opposite. But by acting on it, by acting on his emotions, he’d mangled what he wanted with what it was Lizzie needed.

  Then there was Tak and Deena.

  What would they make of it? What would happen when they found out? Would it happen as it did with Tak and Deena, when his father stumbled in, hurt, outraged, furious?

  No.

  Because he would tell Tak now.

  Kenji leaped to his feet, shrugging Lizzie�
�s touch from his shoulder. He snatched his cell from the nightstand and burst from the room. Once in the hall, he hit two on the speed dial and waited.

  “Bad time, Kenj,” was Tak’s greeting.

  “What’s happened?”

  Never in his life had Tak been too busy to listen to him. Neither spoke for a moment.

  “Nothing,” Tak said with false brightness. “Nothing that can’t wait. So, what’s up?”

  Kenji inhaled and knew that his big brother wouldn’t have missed even that. After all, this was a guy who’d been his mother and father, when Mom doused herself in alcohol and Dad chased glory further and further from home. Here was his only brother, who’d managed to be both parent and friend. Never had Tak hurt him. Yet he suspected that was about to change.

  “Okay,” Kenji said. “You’re definitely gonna lose it when I tell you this, but I need to do it anyway. Even if this goes somewhere or nowhere, it’s important to me that I don’t do it behind your back.”

  “Talk, Kenj.”

  The breath Kenji took was mile-deep, and with it, he snatched all the nerve he could muster.

  “I slept with Lizzie.”

  Tak chuckled. “What?”

  Kenji cringed. Would he really have to say it again?

  He would.

  “I slept with Lizzie,” he said quietly.

  “Lizzie who?”

  “Lizzie Hammond.”

  Silence.

  The pregnant kind, heavy with unspoken words.

  “Kenji.”

  “I know, Tak, I know.”

  “No, you don’t know! Not if you thought that shit was a good idea!”

  Kenji leaned against the door, chest clenched with the worst of internal conflict. “Tak, I’m crazy about her. I—”

  “What are you talking about? Are you insane? The girl’s on drugs! She’s a prostitute! How could possibly be crazy about—”

  “Don’t,” Kenji said, and his voice trembled with the warning. “Just—don’t say it.”