Sake Bomb (16 page)

“You could just trust me.”

“Worst plan ever.”

Hand on the knob, Xander expelled a harsh
breath. “Here’s the plan. Wing it—”

“Nice and specific. Thanks for that.”

“Use your secret-agent magic. Worst-case no
one talks. Frankly, I’m hungry, and could have stayed at the hotel
if I wanted to sit around all day.” He opened the door. Hand at the
small of her back, he ushered her into the parlor.

Armed with a double shot of pessimism,
Kizzie stepped into the ultra-chill atmosphere of
Ink-scribed
, Xander on her heels
.
The place was
deeper than it was wide. Beyond the receptionist’s desk were six
tattoo stations, four of them occupied. Instead of the J-pop she’d
heard so much of since being in Tokyo, or the death metal she
expected to come blaring at her—as that’s what Kizzie associated
with tattoo parlors—American hip-hop floated through the speakers.
The few patrons inside rhymed along with the timelessness of Tupac
and the artists, fully engrossed in pushing ink into their client’s
skin, nodded to the beat.

A short, deeply tanned Japanese girl sat at
the front desk, black and blond cornrows in her hair. Ears
pin-cushioned with studs and lobes dangling huge gold hoops weren’t
the only piercings; there was a little one in her nose, a small
hoop in her lower lip, and a gold stud in the space above her
sternal notch.

One shoulder of her pink and black top had
slipped down to mid-bicep, revealing intricately detailed flowers
that stretched from her collar bone to wherever they ended on her
back. She glanced up from her fashion magazine, all huge black eyes
and wide smile. “Your jeans are
fly
.”

So
not what Kizzie expected. She
quirked a grin, looked down at the distressed denim on her legs.
They got the holes honest, the largest courtesy of a barbed-wire
fence that decided to get cute when Kizzie scaled it. Plus it took
a couple washings to get the grass stains out after one job or
other giving the jeans a threadbare look that was on trend at
present. If this woman wanted to bond over a pair of frayed and
faded Levis, maybe this would go smoothly.

“Thanks. So’s your shirt,” Kizzie added, to
which the girl popped her collar. “I take it you speak
English?”

A nod. “More tourists are coming to get real
Japanese tattoos,” she rolled her eyes, “but none of the artists
are fluent. I’m in school in the States, just here for the summer
to help my brother out.” She tipped her head toward the back and
then extended her hand. “Aimee.”

“Gigi.”

“So, what ‘real’ Japanese tattoo can I get
for you? Koi fish? Dragon? Ninja star? Nah, you look like a tiger
kinda girl…Tramp stamp… Or maybe the shoulder.” Still firing
suggestions about the details of Kizzie’s impending tattoo, Aimee
looked to the open appointment book on the countertop. A neon pink
nail scrolled down the list. “It’s kind of late, but I might be
able to squeeze you in wiiiiith—”

Kizzie placed her hand on the page, fighting
a shiver. A glance at Xander—needles of any sort were definitely a
hard limit. “Not here for ink. Actually, I’m wondering if maybe you
could help me out? I’m looking for someone.”

Aimee’s mouth formed a soundless O and she
bobbed her head like they shared a secret. “Toru! There’s
another
woman here to see you.” Her gaze roamed over Kizzie.
“You’re much prettier than the last few.”

The artist named Toru looked up from the
exposed flank of the woman he was working on. 30 pounds lighter and
he’d make weight for a professional Sumo team. He smacked his
customer’s rump and she giggled, turned back to flash him a smile
and issue an empty threat. Another man, much thinner and holding a
broom, watched the scene and then went back to sweeping.

Toru lumbered his gelatinous mass from the
stool. Kizzie waved him off.

“Not what I meant. I’m with him.” She jerked
her head toward Xander, who scanned the artwork on the walls. “I’m
looking for a friend, heard she had some work done here not long
ago.”

A brow rose from the other side of the glass
counter, suspicion clouding Aimee’s eyes.

“Please,” Kizzie said, her voice hushed and
urgent. “I…I think she might be in some kind of trouble. I just
want to know she’s safe. I don’t have many pictures…they’re all
back home, and my phone,” she yanked the device from her pocket,
holding it in a tight grip while speaking fast and going all
panicky, “this
stupid
phone…
erased
all of my contacts
and pics. But I have….”

Sniffing, Kizzie reached into another pocket
and retrieved the printed photo of the dead girl’s shoulder as well
as a page she’d sketched the tattoo on; slid both over.

“Her name’s Kasumi, Sumi for short.” She
waited for recognition, saw only hesitation, and continued lying.
“She hasn’t answered her phone, Aimee, and I haven’t heard from her
in weeks. We talk every day, so this silence isn’t like her. I just
know
something’s wrong. So I got on the first flight from
the U.S.”

On cue, Xander came over and wrapped his arm
around her shoulder, tugging her against his chest. Leaning into
him, Kizzie swallowed hard, summoning quivery voice and watery eyes
on command—no easy feat for a woman not prone to emotion. Then she
pressed her hand to her heart. “She’s…She’s my best friend… Her
parents and family…we’re worried sick. Please, Aimee…just…ask
around for me?”

Aimee took the page, head bobbing in short
little jerks, gold hoops swinging. “I’ll go see.”

And the award for best bullshitter goes
to…
“Thank you.” Kizzie curled into Xander’s embrace, hiding
her face against his neck, shifting her shoulders and throwing in a
little hiccup for good measure. He held her tightly, smoothed a
hand up and down her back.

And for best supporting bullshitter…

“I almost believed you,” Xander whispered,
pressing a kiss to her temple. Hand stroking lazily, he shifted a
bit, giving Kizzie a clear view of Aimee. She’d reached the first
tattoo artist, waiting for him to finish a line or shade before
relaying the inquiry.

The external source of warmth reminded her
where she was. Reluctantly, Kizzie cleared her throat and stepped
out of Xander’s hold, glancing up at him sheepishly. He
looked…different. Not quite relaxed but less…intense. A study in
black from his ball cap to his shoes, his deep brown orbs were
clear, focused on the people in the back. Watchful, but not so much
as to bring attention.

Head bobbing slightly, Xander’s mouth moved
in time with the lyrics coming through the speakers.

Kizzie breathed a laugh through her nose and
he looked down and smiled, slow and easy. “What? Pac had
skills.”

“Didn’t take you for a hip-hop head.”

“Why’s that?”

She flicked her gaze over to Aimee, looked
at Xander again. “You just seem too…composed most of the time. And
all the novels say you Doms are the serious ones. Gregorian chants
and chamber music. Moody, moving classical. The reflective
stuff.”

“Chamber music and classical…”

“Naturally, since you’re expert pianists.
Baby Grands in all of your mansions,” she said offhandedly. “I’ll
be
so
disappointed if you don’t play a mean piano,
Xander.”

“I’m a beast on the spoons.” He chuckled.
“What else do you need to unlearn about Doms?”

“Oh, you’re
Mary-freakin’-Poppins—‘Practically perfect in every way,’” Kizzie
sing-songed, even threw in a little Brit for good measure.

Her focus shifted from Aimee to the man
pushing the broom. Mid- to late-twenties, rail thin in stonewashed
jeans two sizes too large and an oversized white tee. He worked
near the station where Aimee stood, an ear tilted toward the
conversation, making sweeping motions but clearly distracted. He
snuck a peek at the pages in Aimee’s hand, another, and then moved
away, going to clean around a different station.

“You’re all handsome and rich— Are there any
poor Doms? Never read about a broke Dom…” she mumbled thoughtfully.
“Hung…
Amazing
in bed.”

Xander brushed wisps of hair from her
shoulder, knuckles softly grazing her neck. She shivered. “And the
important parts? A Dom’s duties…? A sub’s obedience…? Trust? If you
have questions about submission, ask.”

It was her turn to snort. “Not much to
figure out. Follow a bunch of rules, get spanked, fall in love by
page fifty-four.” Kizzie gave a dreamy sigh and tilted her head up,
batting her lashes. “Or sixty-five if she’s
really
stubborn.”

Xander cocked his head, the intensity in his
gaze back full force. It seemed he always looked at her that way,
as though he were absorbing her. Osmosis by eyesight.

“What page are you on, Kizzie?”

She blinked, one corner of her mouth
quirked. “Sorry, slick. We’re not even in the same
book
store
. Zero submissive bones in my body.”

“Doesn’t mean you won’t submit.” He cupped
her cheek in his palm, thumb caressing the apple. “It’s not in the
bones, Princess, it’s in the brain. Headspace. You already know
what you want, just haven’t decided when you want me to give it to
you. Stop running and I’ll show you…” His gaze fell to her mouth
and he thumbed over her lips. “You have
no
idea how bad I
want to show you.”

Hand still on her chin, his fingers clenched
just to the edge of pain, the move so quick Kizzie sucked in a
startled breath. Xander leaned forward, tone darkening. “Quit
calling me ‘slick,’ Kizzie, or I’ll show you right here.”

Was it possible to have the oxygen sucked
from her lungs
and
fire in her veins? His hand moved; Kizzie
worked her jaw, half confused, half aroused. The impulse to mouth
off died right where impulses to mouth off originate, and she
twisted toward the back of the shop, working to ignore the man
standing beside her.

Aimee left the second tattoo artist, heading
for Toru. He scowled at being interrupted again, spared a glance
toward them. Setting down his machine, he pushed his big body from
the chair and snatched the pages from Aimee’s hands.

Angry was an understatement—eyes narrowed,
wormy lips curled in a snarl. Every slow step conveyed his
annoyance with the foreigners in his shop. His voice boomed when he
spoke, directing all eyes toward the receptionist’s desk. Toru
turned back to a visibly frightened Aimee, barking at her to make
the translation.

Kizzie glanced at Xander to see how much he
understood, yet he appeared unaffected by the man’s words—most of
which weren’t favorable at all—or the escalating situation.

Toru turned to Aimee again, hands
gesticulating, the force of his hammy, tattooed arms rippling his
belly beneath the short-sleeved shirt. Hair and hoops swung as
Aimee nodded. Cheeks pinked, she altered Toru’s words to soften the
harshness.

From the back of the shop, the man with the
broom looked up, his eyes locking with Kizzie’s. He didn’t look
away until becoming the focus of Toru’s ire, the heavier man
ordering the “stupid prick” to leave for the day. A flicker of pain
crossed the man’s face. He slunk over to return the broom to a
nearby closet, grabbed his coat.

Toru ranted and Kizzie jerked back to avoid
the spittle flying from his mouth. He shoved the pages at her, hand
on a collision course with her chest. “…
kono kuso ama
…”

And that’s when she knew Xander understood
every word.

His arm shot out—the rest was a blur. By the
time Kizzie’s vision caught up with the time warp, Toru’s wrist was
bent back in a most unfortunate position. The mouth of the
Technicolor woman tattooed on his forearm gaped wide, screaming
from the strain. Aimee’s eyes bulged, braids stone-still.

No one in the shop moved.

Pac rhymed on…

“Apologize,” Xander said, voice full of
sand. He increased the torque, forcing another high-pitched squeal
incongruent with Toru’s large body. “You disrespect her, you
disrespect me.”

Toru resisted, swinging his free arm in a
wide arc. Xander dodged it easily, slipped behind the man and
delivered a sharp kick to the back of Toru’s leg. Toru dropped like
an overstuffed sack right at Kizzie’s feet, arm still wrenched
behind him. Xander’s grip tightened to the point Kizzie swore she
heard the bones grind.

Movement to her side; someone wanted in on
the action.

Kizzie liked action.

“He moves again, I break it,” Xander said,
bringing her fun to a swift and decisive end. Spoilsport.

The unnatural turn in his wrist made Toru’s
face flush. He muttered a few words and the other tattoo artist
backed off.

“Apologize. Now.”

Through puffing cheeks and squinting eyes,
Toru grit his teeth, eked out the world’s softest “Sorry.”

Xander didn’t relent. “Have you seen the
woman or not?”

“No, never,” Toru said from the floor, face
red and damp with perspiration. Xander kept going and Toru
screeched. “No!”

“That’s all I needed to know. But you had to
go and be an asshole about it and make me embarrass you in front of
your friends. Now, while you’re down there, be a doll and pick
those up for me.” Working blind, Toru groped along the floor with
his other hand, grimacing anew with each subtle shift. He snatched
the pages up and held them out. “To her,” Xander ordered.

The broom boy patted his pockets, slid his
gaze to Kizzie’s once more, and then disappeared through the rear
exit. Kizzie took the two pages from Toru.

Xander met her gaze. “Show that around,”—to
the other artists in Japanese—“Anybody know who did this tattoo
might want to speak up. Quickly.”

How much time had passed? Thirty seconds?
More?

Kizzie flashed the picture to the artists,
who gave it more than a cursory glance now that Toru’s hand was
held hostage. The final artist confirmed it was a negative.