He studied the unaware man, letting his eyes roam over Miki’s exposed slender body. Soap bubbles hid anything below Miki’s hips, but a hint of fine hair ran from Miki’s navel to the cloudy water. His muscled arms were stretched out to anchor himself against the tub’s rim. The tattoos on Miki’s arm were uneven splotches on his ivory skin, the edges faded and almost transparent in places where the ink had run thin.
The man’s nipples were a startling plum on his slightly developed chest, splashes of color compared to Miki’s pallor. A dip under his sternum formed a deep shadow on Miki’s belly, and his torso was lightly scored with two old scars, one running straight down his ribcage from below his left armpit. His Asian blood showed in his near-hairless skin. Miki’s arms were bare, and his pits held only a ghost of fine strands in their hollows.
His face was fully exposed, his dark hair falling back from his cheeks and jaw to rest on his shoulders and the towels. The man’s strong, triangular chin was as baby smooth as the last time Kane saw him, without even a hint of a beard. Miki’s mouth was slightly chapped, either from the pervasive San Francisco chill or his bad habit of chewing on his lips.
Either way, Kane wanted to feel their slight roughness on his skin. Barring that, he settled for clearing his throat and scaring the hell of out of the dozing singer.
“What the fuck?” Miki flailed and caught himself before he slid into the water.
“Door was open,” Kane said innocently. “I let myself in.”
“Fucking hell,” Miki swore again. “You trying to kill me?”
“If I was trying to kill you, I would have shoved you under the water, but I don’t think there’s enough in there for you to drown in.” Jerking his thumb back toward the main room, Kane said, “I brought some steaks. How do you like yours?”
“Cooked.” Miki frowned and scrubbed at his face with a handful of water. “I’m not picky. Whatever.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” Kane paused in the doorway. “You have pots and pans, right?”
“Yeah, I think so,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t cook a lot. There’s some shit in the cupboards. I don’t know what. I only use the rice cooker and a couple of saucepans.”
“Didn’t you used to work at a couple of Chinese restaurants?”
“I washed dishes,” Miki replied. “And I know how to soak noodles before they get cooked. So unless you want to eat soapy water soup or need chow fun prepped, you’re shit out of luck for anything fancier than ramen and scrambled eggs.”
Kane whistled as he headed out, taking the memory of a soapy, naked Miki with him. The kitchen had been designed by someone who knew how to cook. Unfortunately, it was being used by someone who had little need for the restaurant-grade stove and oven. A set of Henckels knives sat pristine in a block next to a large wood-fiber cutting board. A smaller plastic board sitting by the microwave showed signs of use with light gouges in its white surface. A clean serrated steak knife lay next to it. From the looks of the scratches, Kane guessed it was the only knife Miki used.
Opening a large cabinet was enough of a culinary horror to give Kane nightmares. Stocked with what looked like a year’s supply of calrose rice, ramen noodles, and iconic blue boxes of macaroni and cheese, Kane could only stand in front of the carbohydrate cornucopia and gape. A couple cans of chili—sans beans—stood as quiet sentinels of protein with a lone can of devilled ham. The refrigerator held even less promise. Mostly, condiments and tubs of butter kept close company with takeout containers Kane wasn’t brave enough to open.
He refused to look in the freezer. There was only so much horror Kane could take in one evening.
The dog trotted into the kitchen and looked up expectantly at Kane after nosing an empty dog bowl on the floor. A thick-walled plastic water dish sat next to the metal dish, filled to the brim and set on a towel. Dude stuck his head into the water and nearly submerged himself up to his ears, drinking noisily before coming up drenched down to his neck. He shook off the excess water, then nudged the bowl again and barked impatiently at Kane.
Dangling from the dog’s new collar was a silver tag with “Dude” written on it in block letters and Miki’s cell-phone number underneath it.
“Guess you officially live here now, Dude.” Kane didn’t fight his grin as he hunted for the dog’s food. The tag sang a bright chime against the metal ring attaching it to the collar when the dog jumped in place to beg. “Now let’s see if we can get you some dinner.”
A small can of wet dog food and some kibble seemed to satisfy the terrier, and Kane returned to shuffling food from plastic bags to the icebox. Miki padded in as Kane was lifting the metal cover off of the grill on the stove, his bare feet making light shuffling noises on the tile as he walked.
“Shit, I didn’t know that was there.” Miki peered around Kane’s shoulder. “That’s like a hibachi, right? Where does the coal stuff go?”
“The briquettes?” Kane shook his head. “This is a gas stove. You don’t put… are you trolling me?”