Page 55 of Cunning Lies
CHAPTER17
VI
I wake up disoriented.My body aches like a millennium has passed, but it’s just past midday. Kenzo’s humming floats through the penthouse, mixed with a savory scent. I crawl out of bed, throw my hair into a ponytail, and right as I leave the room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. Light purple bruises, the size of fingerprints, are scattered along my neck. I should put on a scarf or a choker, but instead, I glance down at the diamond wedding ring on my finger. His bruises on me are more of a demonstration of ownership than this expensive ring.
Not that I want to be ‘owned,’ but there is a certain appeal to it. Life with Uncle Jay and Patrick means always being on the run, and the longer I stay with Kenzo, the more I think of him as safety. Like a home. Even if he is crazy.
In a way, his craziness is reliable. I can count on him for it.
In the kitchen, he’s shirtless. Tattoos shade his chest and neck. A koi fish fights against the current of a blue ocean, and a skull breaks up the waves in the middle. His chest flexes and his singing stops. I sit at the dining table and he flips to me.
“Damn, baby. You sleep late,” he teases. “I’ve already been to work and back.”
My jaw drops. “How?”
“Working on a big deal. GHF—ever heard of them?”
I’ve been mentally pouring over the papers on his desk since I first saw them.Golden Honor Firearms.How could I forget? I lift my shoulders, trusting my body to do the lying for me. Technically, I’m still on the job. I need to learn as much as I can from him.
“What’s it about?” I ask.
“Guns direct from the manufacturer. If we can cut a deal, we can stop getting our weapons from—” he pauses, his jaw clicking, then winks. “I’m getting way too damn comfortable with you.”
He almost told me everything.
“You can tell me,” I say. “Besides,” I lower my voice and add a sultry twist: “I already know you’re a bad, bad man.”
“You don’t need to know the ins and outs of our smuggling,” he grins. “Just know that this is a big deal for us. Weneedthis to work.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and I connect the dots; if they’re switching from smuggling to a legitimate deal, then that means they’re probably going to make better money overall.Ifthe deal goes through.
This is the kind of information our client wants. GHF.That’swhat they’re after.
My stomach pains as I think about telling Uncle Jay. I don’t want to, but I should.
But I can put it off for now.
“I get it,” I say. Then I change the subject, “What are you cooking?”
Kenzo grabs a ladle and dumps out two large scoops of soup into a bowl, then brings it to me with a deep spoon. Miso paste undulates in the broth like lava in a lamp, tofu chunks float, and seaweed sinks to the bottom of the bowl.
“Truth is, I can’t cook for shit,” Kenzo says. “But I can dump packets into a pot of water.” He crooks his head to the side. “My mom used to make this for me when I was sick. Homemade though—not this packet bullshit. Still, I make this instant crap whenever I need to feel like myself again.”
My stomach dips as I think of my own mom. Is Kenzo’s mom still alive? Does he visit her?
But why doesn’t he feel like himself? How could he run away from home, yet still crave the comfort of his biological family?
My mind jumps to Uncle Jay and Patrick.
Patrick.
Images flash before me: blood on Kenzo’s cheeks, smeared across his forehead, his stained gloves.
Sweat covers my palms. “Why were you covered in blood last night?” I whisper.
He snickers, scooping himself a bowl too. He slides into the seat across from me and slurps up a spoonful.
“It was a drop of blood, not a gallon,” he says.
