This time, however, he was on a leash, with a lanky, pretty-faced singer skulking in behind him, humming an old rock song that tickled Kane’s memory.
He’d spent the rest of the afternoon chasing down Vega’s foster kids and writing reports. When the lab technicians showed up to catalogue the walls and remove Cynthia Vega’s body, Kel waited in the living room while Kane walked the remains out to the curb. They were silent on the way back to the police station, but once they sat down across from each other at their desks, they both breathed a soft sigh and forged ahead, scrambling to find answers in the muck Vega made of so many lives.
When he finally got free, Kane headed for his workshop. A quick text to Miki, and he picked up his tools, needing to lose himself in the wood. A single chirp on his phone made him look up, and he smiled for the first time since stepping out of the unmarked police car and finding Cynthia’s body swinging from the light fixture. Miki was promising him company and some food. Kane replied, asking for a little time to shake off the day. Miki’s vow to bend over and kiss it better gave him his second smile… as well as a quick erection he needed to lose before stepping up to a power tool.
Kane almost didn’t hear them approach. The lathe wasn’t loud, but the constant hum and the sound of the wood peeling away from the chisel often masked everything but a cacophony. He finished the pass he’d started, then switched the power tool off, taking his foot off of the pedal to let it wind down to a standstill. Shoving the safety glasses up onto the top of his head, Kane grinned and nodded a hello at the young man hovering at the threshold of his studio.
Kane was surprised at the time when he glanced at the clock. He’d gotten over to the art co-op after work, intending only to put in a couple of hours, then see if Miki wanted to grab something to eat. Somehow, ten o’clock crept up on him and smacked him unawares. Or at least he was unaware until he moved, and then the strain of working the hard wood became apparent, and his shoulders whined in protest.
Miki rattled the brown paper bag he brought with him. “Hungry?”
“You cooked?” Kane grinned at Miki’s derisive expression.
“You crazy? I poison a cop and they’ll shoot me,” he sniped playfully. Dude trotted in behind Miki as he made his way through the studio’s shotgun layout. Sprawling out in a metal folding chairs Kane brought in for him, Miki dug out a couple of sandwiches from the bag and held them out for the other man. “Pastrami or roast beef?”
“Sauerkraut on the pastrami?” Washing his hands in a work sink, he dried off and used a shop towel to dust off his shirt and jeans.
“Doesn’t that make it a different type of sandwich?” Miki curled his lip at the idea. “And why would you put that shit on a sandwich? Kim chee, maybe, but sauerkraut?”
“With kraut, it’s a Reuben,” Kane replied. He was okay with pretending they’d not spent ten minutes of their lives with Miki holding onto the cop for dear life, but his body burned with the memory of Miki’s lithe body pressed into his. “Well, and it would have some Russian dressing on it too.”
“Then no, this is a pastrami sandwich,” he said, waving it at Kane. “Take it or leave it.”
Kane took the pastrami, opened it up, and grabbed a few packets of brown mustard from the bag. He spread the mustard, then stopped to watch Miki as he arranged barbeque chips on his sandwich. One of the kettle-fried potatoes made it into Miki’s mouth, and he chewed noisily while he placed the sourdough slice back on top.
The young man caught Kane watching him and visibly moved the chip to the side of his mouth, speaking out of the side of his lips. “What?”
“Do you eat Captain-Crunch-and-sugar sandwiches too?” Kane chuckled when Miki gave him a quizzical look. “You are one strange kid.”
“Not much of a kid,” Miki pointed out. “I’m twenty-six. Maybe. Pretty sure. Whatevers.”
“You know what ‘whatevers’ means, don’t you?” The cop bit into a pickle spear, enjoying the garlicky snap. Miki shook his head, and he waved the end of the pickle at the man. “It means ‘fuck you’.”
“Nuh-uh.” Miki shoved Kane lightly with his hand, barely nudging him. “Christ, you’re like trying to move a tree.”
“Genetics,” he replied. “That, and in our family, the strongest survive.”
“Even the girls?”
“Especially the Morgan girls,” Kane teased. He liked coaxing Miki’s skeptical glances into the barest of smiles. “Ryan’s the youngest, and even Con’s scared of her. She bites.”
“Ryan’s a girl? Shit, and I thought my name was fucked up.” He made short work of half of the sandwich, then picked out the tomatoes from the rest. “How many kids did your mom have?”