Knave of Broken Hearts (8 page)

His mother’s head bowed. “Our firstborn son died very young. He had a weak heart and was killed by a doctor during a surgical mishap.”

Mrs. Okuwa’s face paled a little. “Forgive me. Kenji’s name—”

“It is most understandable. You are forgiven.”

Mickey waved a fork. “I don’t get it.”

Ken gazed at him. “Kenji means second son. You don’t speak Japanese?”

“As little as possible.” He laughed. “Oh, so that’s why you became a heart guy, right?”

Ken swallowed more tea.

His mother glanced at Mickey with a little frown. “Kenji was far too young to help his brother. He is a brilliant physician and could have chosen any specialty.”

After endless compliments and small talk, the meal that lasted forever finally ended and the Okuwas got up to leave. They all walked to the door. His mother stepped beside him and spoke under her breath. “Walk out with them, Kenji.”

Sigh.
Ken smiled. “I’ll see you to your car.”

Out in the cool evening air, he held the car door for Mrs. Okuwa and bowed to Mr. Okuwa. Mickey held back. When his parents had their doors closed, he sidled up to Ken. “Hey, man, time for my good-night kiss?” He winked.

Ken smiled. “I never kiss on a first date.”

Mickey lowered his voice. “But I’ll bet you fuck on first dates, don’t you, gorgeous? Why don’t you call me and I’ll ream that pretty ass of yours later?”

“I don’t bottom for kids.” He said it with a smile but let the edge in his voice show.

“I can make it worth your while. Hell, our parents want us to get together. We might as well make the best of it.”

“Perhaps.”
In another lifetime.

“Give me your phone.”

I seem to be doing this a lot today.
He handed Mickey his phone and the guy input digits. Funny how the man who had put his number in earlier seemed much more like someone Ken would want to call.

Mickey handed back the phone. “So call me, baby.” He opened the back door of his parents’ car, gave Ken a long lingering view of his ass in tight slacks, finally closed the door, and they pulled off.

Ken wanted to run. He didn’t. With determination he mounted the front steps and entered the house. His mother gave him a huge cat-eating-canary smile.

You can do this.
He walked to her chair and bowed. “
Okaa-san
, I am deeply honored and appreciative that you have accepted that I am gay. I know this was a difficult step for you, and it moves my heart that you have shown me such consideration. But I must ask you not to try to pick a partner for me. I’m grown and able to do this for myself.”

She shook her head. “It is not your job to find the right man, Kenji. It is mine. You are too busy with man’s work. I must find you a suitable partner.”

“I must point out to you respectfully that I like men, not boys. This young person you brought here tonight is a boy.”

His father cleared his throat loudly at that, but his mother ignored him. “Having a younger partner is appropriate for an established, professional man such as you. This boy has much to learn, and you will teach him. Meanwhile, his youth and vigor will keep you youthful.”

“Mother, I’m only twenty-eight.”

“Yes, but you have so much responsibility with these sick people, you will be old before your time. You must enjoy this boy’s spunk.”

He coughed to cover his laugh.

“You must promise me you will give Mikio a chance. His family is old and influential in the community. A match between you would be most honorable.”

“Mother, please.”

“Promise me.”

Oh, what the hell.
At least it was a male. “I promise.”

It took another half hour to get himself home to his condo in Crystal Cove, and he closed the door behind him like the solid core could shut out his mother’s expectations. He stared around the wide living room with its curved tangerine sectional and print chairs. He usually loved coming home. It was one of the few places he ever felt like he could be himself, but tonight not so much. It almost felt too neat. Too perfect.

He shook his head and walked into the gleaming kitchen with its granite counters and stainless appliances. It took two glasses of water to get his throat from feeling stopped up with all the things he’d wanted to say and hadn’t. On his third glass, he leaned back against the counter and sipped. What a phony he was. He pretended to be so free, so self-actualized. He couldn’t even say no to his mother. Of course, Attila the Hun might have quaked at the prospect of crossing her.

He sighed and walked back into the living room with his water, flopped on the couch, and turned on the sixty-inch TV that established his credentials as a full-on “guy.” Now he faced the prospect of calling Mickey Okuwa and making some kind of date.
Giving him a chance.
He made mental quotation marks around the words. The guy was cute as hell, but still Ken didn’t look forward to it.
What
do
you look forward to, old man? Are you getting tired of the scene? Too much sex?
He half smiled.
Nah.

He flipped through his recorded shows and settled on the new episode of
Project Runway
. Funny. One thing he did look forward to was lunch with Jim Carney and, considering he had to endure Gene Willings to have that lunch, “looking forward to” was saying something big.

He flipped on his side and settled in to watch cat fights and fashion. His anticipation of lunch the next day with a straight, blue-collar worker was not going to get examined.

W
HOA
. C
RAPPY
.

Jim sat
on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair.
Drying out, do ya think?
Jesus.
Just how much had he been drinking the last few months? One hair from one dog right now would get him feeling right and able to work. He massaged his aching neck.

Not going to happen.

The comic book lying on the floor caught his eye. Of course, it didn’t help that he’d wacked off three times to his favorite yaoi comic before he crashed. Probably used up all his energy.

Get up.

Ten minutes of wasting hot water and he felt like he could face a glass of tomato juice—if he had any. Out the window, he could make out the edge of the building next door, so it must be nearing sunrise.
A few more minutes to recover.

He reached for his faded, dirty jeans and stopped.
Lunch.
That made his heart race, and he fell back on the edge of the bed.
Do not be thinking about your heart or that doctor.
Just consider it lunch with some architect who might save your ass. Plus it may not even happen.

Still, he dragged himself up and got a fresh pair of jeans from the closet and pulled on a clean long-sleeved T-shirt that just happened to be the same color as his green eyes. Quietly, he opened the door into the short hall. Like some kind of symphony, the smell of frying bacon drifted on the air. Obviously bacon went with everything, because his stomach didn’t even rebel. It actually growled. In three steps he walked into the living-dining-kitchen room. “Are you seriously cooking bacon at five a.m.?”

Ian, fully dressed in his own jeans and T-shirt, flashed a grin over his shoulder as he flipped bacon in a pan. “Can’t think of a better time.”

“Jesus, that smells good.”

“Come and get it.” He transferred some to a plate that he put on the small dinette table. “Want some juice to go with it?”

“Hell, yeah.” He sat and picked up a perfect, crisp slice of bacon and took a big bite.
Oh man.
That sharp/sweet, pungent, oily, crunchy experience that every human practically loved from birth. “I’d ask why you aren’t sleeping in, except I’d never want to talk you out of making bacon.”

“I figured I’d go to work with you in case you need someone to look at that suite layout.”

“Hey, thanks, but I’m not sure it’s even going to happen.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t get in the way. I have to be at work at noon, so I’ll take my own car. Might as well use it while I can.” He sounded unconvincingly cheerful.

“Did you get notice that he’s going to take the car away?”

Ian shrugged. “Kind of. I talked to Mom. She said he’s planning to stop making the payments, so I guess I better drop it off at his place so they don’t come repossess it from me.”

“The bastard. I’ll drive you tonight if you want.”

Ian just nodded and breathed.

“How’s Mom?”

“She’s better than he is, I guess, but she still acts like I brought this on myself by making crappy choices.”

“Yeah, sure. It’s good ignorance isn’t fucking hereditary.” The last bite of bacon didn’t taste quite as good. “I’ll brush my teeth and we’ll go to work.”

Ian nodded, but a lot of weight seemed to shift around on his skinny shoulders. “I’ll clean up.”

Jim put a hand on Ian’s back, and the boy stopped but didn’t turn. Jim stared at those tense shoulders. “You don’t have to work hard to impress me. I’m your brother. I love you just because.”

Ian’s head dropped forward and kind of bobbed. “Thanks, man.” The words barely got out.

“Will Anderson be okay alone?”

“Yeah. He’s settled in fine. Owns the place.”

Jim patted a couple more times, then gave Ian a moment while Jim brushed his teeth. A half hour later, they walked into the building carrying coffee they got at the drive-though. Ian perked up instantly and started examining the plans Jim had from Billy, along with the work that had already been done.

Charlie walked in a few minutes later and Jim introduced Ian, followed shortly after by Raoul.

Jim looked around the wide-open suite. “I let the demo guys go. I figured the three of us can easily finish what’s here, and then we’ll see if the owner has new instructions. If not, we can start building according to these plans.”

Ian nodded. “It’s a good, practical layout. Not totally inspired, but workable, I think.”

Jim grinned. “I neglected to mention that my brother is the next Frank Lloyd Right-on-the-Money.”

Charlie smiled. “So what would you do with this suite, Ian?”

The kid was clearly into it. “It depends on what the client specified, but based on these plans—” He grabbed a piece of extra paper from the stack of plans and sketched. “—I’d open this out so the private offices didn’t block all the light from the reception area. Maybe use some glass here.”

Jim nodded. “Glass is expensive.”

“Yeah, but you’d avoid long institutional-looking hallways this way, so it might be worth it.”

Raoul shrugged. “Looks great to me, man. Where’d you learn this shit?”

Finally, Ian looked self-conscious. “I kind of picked it up. Did an apprenticeship in an architectural firm in high school. I read a lot.”

Raoul nudged Jim. “Good to see some brains showed up in your family, Carney.”

Ian frowned. “Jim’s smarter than me. He always had to take care of himself. He’s plenty brainy—”

Raoul clapped his shoulder. “Hey, I’m just joking. I know my man here is bright as hell. No offense.”

Ian’s cheeks turned pink. “Sure. That’s good. I figured.”

Jim smiled. It was kind that his brother leaped to his defense, but maybe the kid protested too much?

They swung into work, and Ian pitched in. By a little after nine, the trash had been removed and the suite was an empty shell waiting for building to begin. Jim stared at the drawings. Like some cue in a bad movie, the plastic flew back and in swept Constance Murch. She saw Jim and made a beeline. “Oh good, you’re here. I need to speak to you right away.”

Jim caught his breath. “Yes, ma’am.”

She slipped her arm through his, pressing one perky boob against his bicep. “Ma’am? Please, you don’t want to make me feel old.”

He smiled down at her. “No, ma’—uh, no Mrs. Murch, because that wouldn’t be true.”

“It’s
Ms
. Murch. And you should call me Constance.”

“Yes, ma—yes, Constance.”

She snuggled her arm more solidly against his body. “So we have moved tenants. The company that was going into this suite has requested the new vacancy on the eighth floor. We have a new tenant for this space.”

Small heart attack. Do not show it.
“Okay, good. We’re ready to do whatever your tenants need.”

“Excellent. So come with me to the eighth floor and look at the space so you can determine if the plan for this suite will work there as well.”

Would he be able to tell?

She stared past Jim and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, is this a new plan?” She let go of his arm and stepped over to where Ian had left his drawing.

Jim glanced over her back at his brother, who was lurking at the rear of the suite pretending to be working. Ian gave him wide eyes. “That’s just a concept one of my, uh, consultants doodled for us. He felt this space could be—” What had Ian said? “—more open, and the light from the windows could penetrate into the interior of the suite.” He swallowed hard.

“Very interesting. Quite original. Not just the same old same old. How much more would it cost to build this?”

“Uh, we haven’t priced it out, ma—uh, Constance, because it’s just a doodle, as I said.”

“Do a breakdown and give me a more formal plan. I suspect one or the other of the tenants will buy this—and extend their lease term to do it.” She smiled widely. “Very good thinking, Jim.” She took hold of his arm again. “So shall we go to the eighth floor?”

“Uh, is there a chance I could get a key and slip in later when I can take my consultant? He’d know better if his idea will work in the space.” He held his breath.

Her eyebrows drew together slightly, then smoothed. “All right, it’s suite 807. Go as soon as you can. And in exchange, you must agree to have lunch with me to discuss other potential assignments.”

This was business, right? Still, did he really want to go to lunch with the building owner? What if he blew it for Billy? Shit, based on the smile he was getting from Constance Murch, if he said no, he’d blow the whole fucking deal anyway. “That sounds wonderful.”