The Dusk Parlor Read online

  “You’re quiet for an American,” Ren whispers as he leans in closer to my neck. “Normally they’re loud and demanding.”

  I snort. “You want me to be loud and demanding?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You seem disappointed.”

  “Hm. Maybe just a little.”

  An exhilarating version of “Maple Leaf Rag” rings from the band, and the patrons get up from their booths to dance. I glance up to the capacity sign and see the Dusk Parlor only holds forty-eight people. It’s a tiny, exclusive bar for the wealthy.

  Ren glances up at me and smiles. “Wanna dance?”

  “No,” I reply. “I’m not dressed for it.”

  “I’m not dressed for it either, but I want an excuse to rub up against you.”

  I lift an eyebrow and restrain a laugh. “You’re brazen for being Japanese. Normally they’re quiet and reserved.”

  “You want me to be quiet and reserved?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Good. Because that’s not how I like to operate.”

  He leans in closer and nuzzles my neck. His hot breath on my skin gets me worked up. I wrap an arm around him and feel the solid muscles of his back as I make my way to his waist.

  The way he playfully nibbles at my flesh gets me thinking he’s wanted to do this the entire time we’ve known each other. Did he single me out when we were outside? I thought our meeting happened by chance, but perhaps he knew what he wanted and waited for an opportunity to pull me from the crowd….

  As the song progresses, he gets bolder and bolder until his mouth reaches mine. He tastes of whiskey, and he’s no blushing virgin—his tongue is slow and deliberate, running the length of my lips and deep past my teeth.

  A hand slams down on the table, and I jerk my attention to a man who hadn’t been in the bar a few minutes ago. Ren slides away and regards the man with an expressionless gaze.

  The man is short, dressed in a fine black suit, and glowering. His gaze darts to me several times, but he avoids eye contact.

  “Yoshida,” he snaps, addressing Ren. “We need to talk. Now.”

  The man speaks with the same formality as Kaito, but his gruff voice and uneasy movements betray his nervousness.

  Ren glances to the door. The bouncer, watching the event unfold, shrugs.

  “I told you that you’re not welcome here, Tanaka,” Ren says. “We don’t have anything else to discuss.”

  “The oyabun thinks otherwise. Come with me before things get messy.”

  He pulls back his blazer and flashes his handgun resting in a shoulder holster.

  Ren gets tense and loses the edge to his confidence.

  “Well?” Tanaka asks. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 2: Interview

  GUNS ARE unheard of in Japan.

  I even left my own when I came over, despite keeping them with me at all times while I worked for the US Army. Japanese citizens aren’t allowed to own more than a few select types of weaker sports guns, and even the police have to keep their weapons separate at the station when they’re off duty.

  Seeing a gun on our new “friend” awakens all my training. I stand from the booth, a good foot taller than Tanaka, and he cowers back. I take a step forward.

  “Wait,” he grunts, his Japanese slipping into a casual tone. “I don’t have business with the likes of you. S-step aside.”

  “I’m not going to stand around and watch you intimidate people,” I reply.

  “You don’t know what you’re doin’, hāfu.”

  Hāfu.

  The word gets me agitated, and I take another step closer, practically right on top of the guy. The music stops, and Tanaka glances around. The other patrons watch—the scene has consumed the atmosphere of the tiny bar.

  “I… can see this was an inappropriate time,” Tanaka drawls. He keeps his body stiff and his narrow eyes on me at all times. “Yoshida can’t avoid the oyabun forever. You should rethink your involvement.”

  Before I can answer, he skirts around me and flounces for the door, never once reaching for his weapon. He didn’t want to fight—it’s obvious to me now—but it’s also clear he had no contingency plan.

  Once Tanaka leaves, the patrons regard me with wide eyes and anxious fidgeting. It makes me uncomfortable, and I shove my hands into my jeans pockets and turn to leave.

  I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t need to. The Dusk Parlor took my mind off things long enough for me to have a brief evening of fun, and I’m thankful, but I’m done. I shove my way out the front door and through the dark hallway.

  “Wait!”

  I turn and see Ren shadowing my steps. He jumps to my side and motions back to the bar.

  “Where’re you going?” he asks. “Tanaka left. There’s no need to go. You were splendid back there, by the way.”

  “I’m not in the mood,” I say in a curt tone. “I’m going back to my apartment.”

  “Whoa, whoa!”

  Ren jumps around in front of me and leans against my chest.

  “You said you were looking for a job, right?” he asks.

  I narrow my eyes as I stare down at him. “Yes.”

  “Work at the Dusk Parlor. With me. We obviously don’t discriminate. You’ll feel welcome.”

  “I—”

  “Think it over,” he interjects before I can say my piece. “You don’t have to answer now. Come back tomorrow.”

  “I have no experience in—”

  “That’s all right. I’ll bring you up to speed. It’ll be fun, trust me.”

  I take in a deep breath and exhale. Ren’s smile slips into the realm of mischievous, and I can’t help but feel hot all over again. He’s not a subtle man—he just goes for what he wants in the most direct manner.

  I roll my eyes and shrug. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.”

  “But I’m going home.”

  Ren steps away and motions toward the elevator. “I can’t wait to see you again.”

  DREAMS ARE the playground of memories, and every night I find myself jerked from one happy recollection to a quagmire of dread without warning.

  First I’m awash in the warm glow of childhood memories—my father taking me out to play catch, my mother walking me through the local parks to spot butterflies—but the next moment I relive the funeral and the tense soul-crushing hours I spent in the hospital waiting to hear if at least one of my parents would make it through the accident.

  My father died. My mother lived, but she didn’t walk away without permanent injury.

  I awake on my tiny mattress, my heart pounding and my body drenched in sweat.

  I sit up and run a hand across my face. With a deep breath, I glance around my apartment. It’s tiny enough that I can see the entire layout from where I sit in the main room. There’s a bathroom, a kitchen and… that’s it. The main room acts as a bedroom and living room all in one.

  The place is empty except for me, my mattress, and a couple of dishes stacked in the sink. The silence thickens with each passing moment. It’s the exact opposite of my old home back in Sacramento.

  The city of Kobe wishes me good morning with the hushed melody of urban life. There are cars and people and businesses, but the noise is a few decibels quieter than in the States. I glance to the window and see the orange rays of the sunrise.

  Although I have nothing planned for the day, I get up and begin my daily routine regardless. A strict schedule is burned into my mind from years in the Army—especially after boot camp. I stretch, do my push-ups followed by my sit-ups, and finish with a jog around my apartment complex.

  The neighbors give me odd glances as I go past, despite having done it for the last few weeks now.

  Most people in my apartment complex ride bikes, and I see them saddling up for a commute into town. I think it’s a great way to get around, especially given the packed and dense city streets, but the subway suits me more. Japanese bikes have always been to
o small for me to ride properly.

  Once I reach my apartment, I hop into the shower and rinse away the bad dreams that linger on the edge of my thoughts. The water on my body soothes me, and I remain in the stall far longer than I should. Japanese showers are wonderful. When compared to American showers, they’re huge, taking up half the bathroom and allowing for a bench to sit and relax. Of course, that’s the exception to the rule. Most things, when compared to their American counterpart, are tiny.

  I force myself to think of something else—something other than my dreams.

  My musings turn to Ren. I don’t know if he’s the type of guy who wants a relationship, but I’d be willing to bet he’s the type who doesn’t mind fuck buddies. I’ve always had a hard time dating due to my commitments with the military…. Of course, that isn’t a concern now.

  I step out of the shower and dress for the day in loose cargo pants and a T-shirt.

  My plan had been to explore the museum of literature—on my mother’s recommendation—but I know that won’t help me find a job.

  Ren’s offer to work at the Dusk Parlor is tempting… but a part of me doesn’t want to mix work and pleasure. If I am going to hook up with Ren, it would be weird to work with him as well…. Then again, it’s not like I have a million offers on the table. Perhaps I should go and see what he has to say before turning it down.

  I can’t live forever on what little savings I have. My aunts and uncles in Kobe have been kind enough to offer me support and a place to live, but I’ve been independent most of my life, and I want to keep it that way.

  After gathering my wallet and keys, I exit my apartment and make my way deeper into town, taking my time to enjoy the sights.

  Suma Beach glitters in the sunlight, and I admire the blue waves and flocks of people under their umbrellas. Signs mark all the entrances to the beach—NO TATTOOS—and I chuckle to myself as I pass them. I don’t have any tattoos, but I find it funny that the city would be concerned with such a trivial thing. How did an ordinance like that ever pass through the legislature?

  Men and women alike stop and stare as I make my way by. I grit my teeth and ignore their curious susurrations. My mixed blood is easy to spot in the cloudless midmorning light.

  I try to push the thoughts from my mind, I really do, but I’m not sure how to deal with the situation. Instead I focus on the airport island out in Osaka Bay. It’s beautiful. It calms me for another long hour of my walk.

  My feet are sore by the time I reach my destination. It’s high noon, and I’m sweating from the heat.

  The multistory building looks different in the light of the sun. There aren’t lines of people, and I suspect that most of the nightclubs aren’t open yet. I decide to try the Dusk Parlor regardless, just in case Ren is there. My body tells me I want to see him, and intellectually I know he’ll pull me from my doldrums.

  I take the elevator and exit on the “fifth” floor. The lone solid wood door to the parlor appears shut, but when I try the handle, I find it’s unlocked. I allow myself into the dark hallway and walk inside unimpeded.

  The place has no windows—the sun could be plummeting to earth and not a single ray of light would pierce the dark ambiance of the Dusk Parlor.

  My gaze lands on the sole person manning the bar. Kaito glares at me through his glasses.

  “We are closed,” he says. “Please return during standard business hours.”

  The man is dressed just as sharp as he was last night. His slick suit and white gloves give him a butler vibe, but he holds himself with more pompous pomp than most princes.

  “Ren told me to come back today,” I say as I cross the large room over to the bar. “He mentioned something about a job.”

  Kaito turns his gaze down to a mountain of paperwork. There are open boxes all around the bar and on the floor—each box containing a shipment of bottles and food—and he seems to be taking inventory. Some of the paperwork is riddled with numbers and complex math, but Kaito closes it all the moment I draw near.

  “We do not have need for a person such as yourself,” Kaito states. “Thank you for your interest.”

  He doesn’t even look up from his work. I hold my breath for a moment before asking, “A person such as myself? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think it is obvious. I trust you can find your way to the door.”

  “Because I’m hāfu?”

  “Because you are unsophisticated,” he drawls. “This is a high-class establishment, not a construction yard. I think your talents would be best utilized elsewhere.”

  His statement rocks me for a second and all other emotions are burned up by my ensuing anger.

  I storm up to the bar—directly across from him—and slam a fist down on the smooth surface. Kaito snaps his gaze to mine, a look of shock written across his face.

  “I’m sick of people judging me before they know anything about me,” I say in a tone of reserved rage. “I can handle whatever level of sophistication this job requires.”

  “Yes, and you have proven that perfectly by demonstrating your brute force all over my bar.”

  I open my mouth to retort but shut it when I realize I have nothing. I pull my hand back and shove it deep into my pants pocket.

  Kaito sneers and returns his attention to his work. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but we both know you are not suited for this line of work.”

  I didn’t even want this job when I walked in, but now I can’t stand the thought of leaving without it. I can show him—I can show everyone here—I’m not some sideshow of mixed blood. I’m not some muscle-bound thug or amateur. I’m not some rowdy American or college-age frat boy. I can work a fucking bar, goddammit!

  Kaito turns with his paperwork in hand when I reach out. “Wait,” I say. “I….”

  He waits, his eyes set in a permanent glower.

  “…I know you’re in the middle of Gilded Age America.”

  “What of it?”

  “I’m American. You don’t get more authentic than that for a theme. I can even serve tables in perfect English, if need be.”

  “That does not—”

  “I can learn whatever etiquette is required,” I say, cutting him off.

  “You cannot—”

  “After years of military service, I’m good at following orders! Trust me. I can do anything just as well as anyone else in your employ.”

  Kaito stares for a long moment.

  Without warning he turns away and huffs. “Follow me.”

  The command takes me by surprise, and I watch, stiff, as Kaito walks into the kitchen through the bar door. After he disappears I hustle to follow, but I’m unsure whether my pleading actually persuaded him.

  The kitchen is straight from a fancy magazine, complete with stainless-steel countertops and a walk-in freezer. It has the air of a television cooking show, and I marvel for a second as I jog through it all.

  Kaito walks through a doorway on the other side of the room, and I shadow his steps the last leg of the journey.

  The back room is an office and employee lounge. I see a set of lockers for clothing and a magazine rack full of restaurant-themed issues. The large desk set against the side wall holds all the business paperwork, and Kaito sets his work down in a neat and organized manner.

  I glance around.

  Everything is neat. Everything is tidy. I daresay even the dust falls into place with precision.

  “I will hire you for a trial period,” Kaito states as he finishes tucking away his paperwork. “If you have not demonstrated your ability to learn proper service etiquette in a few weeks, I will be forced to let you go.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Your willingness to work hard and our desperate need for servers is what got you hired, not my generosity.”

  “Still. Thank you.”

  Kaito walks over and examines me from head to toe. “Your lineage bothers you?”

  I bite back a whole slew of comments. “It bothers me fro
m time to time.”

  “I want you accentuating your American side for the rest of the month and your Japanese side for the coming theme of Tokugawa Japan. Will that be a problem?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  He hands me a pen and pulls a contract from the drawer of his desk. I look it over. The complex Japanese kanji is confusing, but I get the general gist. It’s an employment contract. I sign my name.

  He snatches the paperwork from my hands and reads it over.

  “Hugh Harris?” he asks. “An unusual name.”

  “Thank you?” I quip.

  “Hm. Very well.” He places the contract back into the drawer of his desk. “The Dusk Parlor will provide you with theme-based uniforms. I will need to take your measurements.”

  Kaito removes a measuring tape, and I relax into a casual stance. This happened a few times in the military when I needed uniform replacements. It’s nothing new, and I sigh in anticipated boredom as Kaito holds out my arm and measures my wingspan.

  Up close I can tell that Kaito is only a few inches shorter than I am—a rare sight in Kobe—and it pleases me. He smells good too, like expensive cologne.

  Kaito wraps the measuring tape around my bicep and frowns.

  “Americans,” he mutters under his breath. “You are always so large.” He measures my bicep a second time and glares at the number on the strip of yellow tape. “This cannot be right.”

  He takes a step back and his frown deepens. “Remove your shirt. I need accurate numbers before I send anything to the seamstress. I would not be surprised if she guessed your ethnicity from the numbers alone, considering—”

  I pull off my shirt, and Kaito stops himself midsentence, his eyebrows rising in equal amounts as his gaze drifts lower and lower.

  He stops at my belt and regains his composure. “Ah. Well. I see. You are muscled more than I anticipated.”

  “Is that a problem?” I ask.

  Much to my surprise, a shade of pink surfaces across Kaito’s honeyed skin. He fidgets with his glasses. “Your uniform will cost twice as much,” he says, his tone indignant. “And they are not cheap. You should be grateful.”