Chapter 1: A Twist of Fate, A Change in Plans
Notes:
Big, big THANK YOU to the talented DrLemurr who created this amazing cover art!! ✍️ Oh dear, I wonder who could be holding the gun on Porsche? 🥺 (Be sure to go check out DrLemurr's other art!)
ETA: I forgot one thing! A special shout out to DasWarSchonKaputt for help figuring out what time of day an international chartered flight from Cape Town to Bangkok would arrive. (Y'all. I'm not even kidding.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Cover art by DrLemurr
Cape Town, South Africa
Kinn’s plan is to get in, conduct his essential business, and get out. But in Kinn’s life, very little ever goes according to plan.
Steeling himself, Kinn walks up the steps to the mansion and hands his invitation to a bespectacled man at the door. Kinn’s entourage of three guards trails behind.
The greeter checks the invitation against a list on his tablet and then inclines his head. “Welcome, Mr. Theerapanyakul. Mr. Davies is delighted to have you join the event today. You are aware that no firearms are permitted on site, yes?”
“So I was told,” Kinn says, and he holds out his arms and submits himself to a pat-down by a burly guardsman. His guards follow his lead, allowing the check.
“Mr. Davies appreciates your understanding,” says the greeter. “The entire east wing is available to our guests for the night, as well as the side yard. If you’ve set up your betting account as instructed, betting can be conducted through handlers, and all transactions will be conducted automatically within one hour after the final fight. Any purchase during the auction will be transacted immediately. If there’s anything you need, or if you have any questions, our staff will assist you.”
“Thank you.”
Kinn walks in with his head held high, cash to burn, and a clear goal in mind.
Benny “The Ghost” McLintock has proven extraordinarily elusive, just as his name implies, but Kinn has it on good authority that the man plans to make an appearance. Benny can hack into just about any system and is a known recluse, but he also has certain predilections that occasionally draw him out into the public.
The event in question caters to a specific audience: people with a surplus of wealth and a deficit of scruples. And although Kinn admits to having both those traits, even he has his limits.
Normally Kinn wouldn’t be caught dead at an event like this.
On the surface, it’s an exclusive party for elite businesspeople, the cream of the crop from around the world. These are people who conduct interviews with business journals, own diverse portfolios across a wide array of industries, and make appearances at charity galas. Beneath the surface, every last one of them is mafia, one way or another, either by association, employment, or leadership.
Kinn makes his way through the mansion and enters a large, spacious party room, which leads to an equally large, furnished patio. Kinn finds he knows roughly a quarter of the guests from past business engagements. Most of the remainder he knows by name, reputation, or both.
Glamorous guests mill about, mingling and laughing and sparkling in what passes for “casual” fashion among this crowd. Kinn himself is wearing a white jacket and fawn-colored slacks, and he isn’t overdressed. Waiting staff in gray suits with waistcoats, jackets, and bow ties cruise among the throng, carrying trays of canapes and beverages.
Silently, Big and Ashing fan out to case the venue. Pete stays by Kinn’s side.
Reese Davies, a man of middling-to-advanced years, is the host and a man of great consequence in the mafia world. He’s blond, with a wide smiling mouth and very square shoulders. This mansion is not his house but merely one of many venues. He spots Kinn just moments after he arrives.
“Anakinn, my boy, it’s been so long!” Mr. Davies is all smiles as he approaches. He carries a glass of red wine. “Why, the last time I saw you, you were still in college, weren’t you?”
Kinn bobs his head, smiling back with respect if not sincere pleasure. “Mr. Davies has a very good memory,” he says in English. The words are uncomfortable in his mouth. “I was a senior then, not graduated.”
Next to Kinn, Pete is tense as he watches Davies’s every movement. Davies is a gregarious man, but he also knows better than to reach out to shake hands or grasp a shoulder among such guests as these.
“I do hope you enjoy the evening,” Davies says. “We have quite the lineup, I assure you, guaranteed to entertain. The guests of honor who will be modeling for us are from all over the world, each of them the very best. Just between you and me,” he leans in a bit, “the past few events have been a little disappointing. That’s why I’ve pulled out all the stops this time.”
“The specter is not in the building.” Big’s voice comes across Kinn’s earpiece at just the right time. He nods to acknowledge both Davies and Big. Although Kinn can’t see Big, he trusts that Big can see him.
“I’m sure you’ve outdone yourself,” Kinn replies, encouraging words tempered with a perfectly neutral smile.
Davies gives a booming laugh that draws attention. “Of course, exactly right! I tell you, Anakinn, I was so surprised when you asked for an invitation.” A bright, diamond-like sparkle appears in Davies’s small eyes. He lowers his voice to a more respectable level. “Am I too bold in assuming that under your more direct leadership, the Theerapanyakuls might be looking to, perhaps, expand business operations sometime in the near future?”
Kinn’s bland smile starts to ache. He can already feel the start of a headache. “I have to see how things go. I have many factors to consider, including my father’s opinion, even though he’s taken a step back.”
Davies nods, and his expression is both conciliatory and conspiratory. “I understand completely, I assure you. But I do hope you’ll reach out to me if—”
Davies is cut off as an aide approaches him. “Sir? It’s time.”
“Oh, excellent! Excuse me, Anakinn, but it looks like I need to get this show on the road.”
“By all means,” Kinn says.
Davies strides away into the middle of the room, and meanwhile Kinn edges toward the nearest wall.
Kinn tilts his head slightly in Pete’s direction, speaking quietly. “I want to know the minute we have eyes on the specter. If he doesn’t show…” If he doesn’t show, this whole trip will have been one monumental waste of time. And Kinn will be subjected to a massive flood of enthusiastic email spam from Davies for no damn good reason. Kinn starts mentally questioning the intel source that claimed Benny would be here.
In the center of the room, Davies is putting on a wireless over-ear microphone handed to him by his aide. The host then steps onto a small stool the aide sets in place for him so he can be more visible.
“Excuse me! Is this— ah, yes, good, it’s on. Can I have your attention please?”
Guests turn to him, and several who were milling out on the large patio come inside.
“Yes, yes, that’s it. Gather ‘round, the show is about to start! Hello ladies and gentlemen and all types. As your host, I’d like to welcome you here. In addition to our auction for some absolutely stunning jewelry, we will be putting on a death-defying spectacle of delight for you after the sun goes down. But before that, I’d like to ask all potential buyers, and one guest permitted, to join me in the theater for a brief presentation. I promise it won’t be too much like homework, and I won’t even quiz you afterwards!”
A few very polite guests laugh at the joke.
“If you’ll just follow me this way.” Davies hops — literally hops with childlike glee — down from the stool.
Kinn contains his sigh and follows along where Davies leads. Not all of the guests peel off from the throng, perhaps a third, and Kinn joins them. In his ear, he hears Big and Ashing trading occasional brusque notifications.
The theater isn’t as large as a public cinema, but it’s still large enough to easily accommodate the audience. Instead of chairs, there are narrow, small tables placed throughout the room for people to stand around and set down their drinks. It’s a smart design, allowing Davies to pack in more of his guests and their personal guards. The large double-doors to the theater remain open. Some of the waiting staff follow the crowd into the room. One offers Kinn a drink, and she leans in close with a friendly smile, but he waves her off.
Davies, thriving on the anticipation and attention, takes position at the front of the room to the side of the screen.
“I’m sure you’re very interested in seeing the delights we have for sale later on. Let’s roll!”
The lights dim but don’t go entirely dark. On the screen, a trailer-style video plays, showing brief glimpses of people in dramatic poses. They’re primarily men, but two women also make an appearance. The music builds dramatically, and then the video shows the people facing off against one another, staring intensely into each other’s eyes the way that pay-per-view prize fighters do. The trailer ends with a panorama of all ten individuals.
Then the video transitions into a still slide, showing a headshot of a single man. He’s posing with his hand held up to show off a dainty, bejeweled bracelet on his thick wrist. The model has short-cropped blond hair and an indistinct European look about him. Next to the headshot is a single line about the bracelet, along with a detailed description about the model.
Davies makes a sweeping gesture with one hand. “For your enhanced entertainment, and to put you in a buying mood, all the models we’ve hired are also highly trained martial artists, and they’ll be giving demonstrations of their skills before the auction. First up, we have Thunder, who’s sporting a lovely antique emerald bracelet. I’m sure you’d like to know a bit more about this impressive Thunder cloud, wouldn’t you?”
Several in the crowd cheer and call out for Davies to tell them details. Kinn barely refrains from rolling his eyes.
“Alright, alright, I can see you’re eager. Well, let me tell you just a bit about his background…”
The bracelet that Thunder wears isn’t the point. The model himself is what’s for sale. Everyone here knows it, and everyone knows better than to say it aloud.
Kinn tunes out the presentation. He has no interest in hearing about Thunder or Everest or Tigress or any of the other strange names assigned to the unlucky bastards. As Davies drones on, Kinn waits for word from Big or Ashing. He grows more frustrated as the minutes tick by. One of Kinn’s associates in the cartel business approaches him, surprised to see him here. Bai Jingjing is an older woman, though how much older Kinn has no idea — she seems to have stopped aging long ago. She could be forty or seventy. They quietly exchange pleasantries in Chinese, as well as a few snide remarks about Davies’s presentation style.
When the lights come back up and people file out of the theater, Kinn takes advantage of the general noise and distraction.
“Pete.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Get me something from the bar. Unopened.” He doesn’t often drink beer, but in this crowd, he’s not consuming anything that isn’t factory-sealed.
Desperate times, desperate measures.
“Sir.” Pete gives him woeful eyes.
“What?” It isn’t quite a snap, but it’s close.
“I’m not leaving your side, sir. We can go together, or I can pull Ashing off the perimeter to get it for you.”
Of course Kinn isn’t pulling Ashing from the perimeter. He needs those eyes peeled. “You’ve gotten damn sassy since you got your new title. I can take it back, you know.”
“I understand, sir.” Pete had stepped into his role as Kinn’s head bodyguard and VP of security a month ago, and now he’s second only to Chan. The position should have gone to Big, but circumstances being what they were with the Ken incident, it hadn’t been an option.
Pete hasn’t budged. They’re just about the last ones still in the theater.
“And?” Kinn prompts.
“And I’m not leaving your side, sir.”
“Fuck you, Pete.”
“Thank you for the offer, but you’re not my type, sir.”
Kinn can’t help himself; a snort escapes him, and a smile sneaks onto his face. Pete’s humor is a recent revelation. It started showing up after the promotion, and it appears only at the precise moment when Kinn is too keyed up and needs to relax.
Kinn wipes the smile from his face and raises a brow. “You’re doing three movie marathons with Tankhun when we get back as punishment.”
Pete barely flinches. “Yes, sir.”
It takes some maneuvering to get to the bar — the main gathering space is more crowded than before. Almost all of the guests are inside, because the main attraction has arrived: The “models” are among the throng.
Kinn gets his beer, some sort of fancy import, and he looks over the room as he takes a long, overly hoppy drink.
The models are shirtless, except for the women, who wear tight black crop-tops with straps that cap their shoulders. They all wear loose, flowing black pants, and their feet are bare. Their bodies are oiled and shining, the bright lights in the room sparkling off defined muscles. A handler accompanies each of them.
Kinn wants to park his ass on a barstool and wait for word from his people, but Davies is already throwing him hawk-like glances. Stifling a sigh, he makes his way into the crowd.
He joins the small throng around Thunder first, the only model he recalls from the presentation. He has a bodybuilder’s physique, heavy muscle and a healthy layer of fat to support it, making the man thick and broad. He has a long, well-aged scar across his rib cage.
A man next to Kinn asks how Thunder got the scar.
“From sword,” Thunder answers in heavily accented English. “I not recommend trying to hug sword. Is not good time. The other guy, he got much worse hug, though.”
The pampered guests all laugh at the joke, and Kinn takes a drink of his beer so he doesn’t have to laugh with them. Thunder smiles stiffly.
“If anyone would care to place a bet,” says the handler, “Thunder will be fighting against Zanzibar in the third bout. The fight will be hand-to-hand, bare-knuckle boxing. Odds for Thunder are three-to-one.”
A couple of people place their bets. Kinn wanders away to find Zanzibar and learn about him. He finds Zanzibar easily enough — his skin is as black as night, and he’s of a similar build to Thunder. Zanzibar doesn’t speak English, but the handler explains that the odds are one-to-two. Kinn places a respectably sized bet of one million South African rand on Zanzibar.
“Eyes on primary entrance for verification?” Ashing requests over comms.
It takes all Kinn’s willpower not to snap his gaze over to the entrance.
“False, stand down,” Big counters a moment later.
Kinn is going to have to suffer through another beer at this rate.
He wanders to another one of the models. Just two admirers are currently inquiring about him, whereas the other models are practically swarmed. This model has a distinctly south east Asian look to him, with a golden complexion and short hair as black as a crow’s wing. As Kinn gets a better look, he notices a stark difference between this man and the others: He’s much more heavily scarred. White and pink marks of varying sizes and shapes decorate his torso and arms, evidence of a dramatic history.
As for the man’s face, it would be almost preternaturally perfect if it weren’t for the scars. He has a pair of them, two vertical, jagged lines etched over the high arch of his right cheekbone, like shallow crescent moons bracketing his face. The larger scar is probably almost four inches long, and it tugs at the corner of the man’s right eye.
He’s still beautiful. An observer is more likely to notice that first, and the scars second. But his beauty somehow makes the scars even more difficult to look at, more offensive and painful.
Someone has also made a half-hearted attempt to cover a large bruise on the man’s rib cage with makeup. A wide bracelet of rubies and gold adorns his right wrist.
The most unnerving thing, though, is the vacant, hollow expression in the man’s eyes. He stares off, silent and unmoving, eyes locked on some distant, fixed point.
The two people next to Kinn are talking with the model’s handler, a white South African woman, about the merits of Krav Maga versus Muay Thai. The woman leans toward the handler and asks, “What were this one’s odds?”
“The odds for Tsunami are nine-to-one,” the handler replies evenly.
Kinn expected the odds to be bad, but not that bad. He raises his eyebrows in surprise.
The woman makes a considering sound and then says to her companion, “I still want to meet Everest, honey. Shall we?”
They walk away, leaving Kinn with the handler’s undivided attention.
“I’m happy to answer any questions you may have, sir,” she says.
Kinn nods in acknowledgement but looks back to the model, Tsunami.
“Where are you from?” he finds himself asking, curiosity slipping out at the wrong moment.
Tsunami doesn’t react, not with so much as a blink. Kinn can’t be certain he understood the question… or even heard it.
“My apologies, but Tsunami is the quiet type,” the handler says with a smooth-as-silk smile. She scrolls through her tablet for a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t have that information on file. However, his name is Tsunami, so he could be Japanese, I suppose?” She pastes on the large smile of a salesperson on commission.
Kinn feels physical pain at the restraint it takes to keep from calling bullshit. This fighter is no more Japanese than Davies is.
Just behind Kinn, Pete covers a choking sound with a polite cough, the closest Kinn has ever seen him come to being a distraction in public.
The oblivious handler continues. “Tsunami will be fighting hand-to-hand MMA in the second bout. Would you care to place a wager, sir?”
Kinn narrows his eyes and gazes at Tsunami’s empty eyes again. He gives a small shake of his head. “I don’t think so. He looks like a bad bet.”
At last, that gets the first reaction from Tsunami. An expression flits across the model’s face so quickly that if Kinn weren’t watching closely, he’d have missed it. It could be mistaken for a flinch, but Kinn is close enough to recognize it as a sneer, a moment of irritation and clear disagreement with Kinn’s assessment.
Interesting.
He at least understands English, Kinn thinks.
Belatedly, he realizes he’s been staring too long. He takes another pull from his beer, empties it, and heads back to the bar.
Over the next twenty minutes, the sun gradually sets, falling from rose gold into twilight blues. Kinn consumes his second beer and places two more smaller bets — one of them against Tsunami. He’s already been respectful and paid his entrance dues with the first bet he made.
Eventually, Davies climbs back up on his ridiculous little stool and claps his hands for the room’s attention. He starts to speak, realizes he forgot to turn on his mic, and then tries again. “Friends, betting will close in the next few minutes, so I hope you’re wrapping up. And right after that, who’s ready to see some action?!”
The gathered crowd starts to get rowdy, like a tank of sharks scenting blood. There’s cheering and jeering, less directed at Davies now and more at the models. Each guest calls for their favorite to destroy their opponent, all in the name of honor and money. Some guests engage long-standing rivalries, taunting each other in a verbal mockery of the physical combat that will soon be enacted by proxy.
Kinn idles his time away until outside on the lawn, someone strikes a gong three times. Davies loudly invites guests to come out to the patio to view the fights, and he points out that the balcony on the second floor is also available.
Big, anticipating Kinn’s next question, speaks over the comms. “Balcony checks out clear, no distant sightlines, good viewing.”
Kinn makes his way to the stairs along with multiple other guests. The upper floor reminds Kinn of a deck on a luxury yacht; it’s a large open-air room, half-covered. Kinn smoothly claims a spot along the railing that has a good view, both of the lawn and the exit.
The grounds below are dark for just a moment, illuminated only by the light spilling out from indoors, but then there’s a loud sound that makes both Kinn and Pete flinch, and the flood lights come on.
The lawn is tidily trimmed and has a large white ring painted onto it. Off to one side, behind the lights, the models are stretching out cold muscles and doing light calisthenics. A handler approaches each of them to collect the bracelets on a display tray.
Davies, unsurprisingly, sees the spotlight and immediately steps into it, walking into the center of the ring.
“Esteemed guests, my assistant is gathering the jewelry now. We take precautions to ensure that none of the merchandise will be seriously damaged. And for our models-turned-fighters, I assure you we have a medic standing by as a precaution.” He gestures off to the side where handlers and other staff are milling about, and Kinn presumes a medic is among them.
Davies continues. “Now, without further ado, let’s see some real skill!” The crowd cheers, the super-wealthy and the elite of the underworld baring their teeth ferociously, ready for a show by the gladiators.
And it is indeed a show. Blood-pounding music starts to thrum throughout the party, pumped in through strategically placed speakers. Everest enters the ring and faces off against another fighter whose pseudonym escapes Kinn. They each carry a switchblade in one hand.
The gong rings out to start the match.
They circle carefully for a few tense moments before putting on a dramatic display, lots of feints and close encounters that leave the crowd gasping and leaning in, but Kinn grows bored one minute into the fight. They’re excellent at what they’re doing and can fool most people into believing they’re out for blood, and they do indeed catch each other with shallow swipes. Everest catches his opponent across the chest, and his opponent returns the favor. Thin trails of blood begin to drip red down their skin, mixing with oil and sweat. However, Kinn can see through the movements to the control and restraint beneath the surface.
It comes to a head when Everest gets a grip on his opponent’s arm, knocks it to force the knife loose, takes him down, and then pins him with his blade at his throat. Their chests are both heaving with exertion.
Kinn scans the crowd, failing to find the face he’s looking for. All he sees are the delighted guests, some applauding and others jeering.
Then, suddenly, Ashing reports, “The specter is on the balcony. I repeat, the specter is on the balcony.”
“When the fuck did he get there? ” Big asks urgently. “How did he slip past?”
Kinn forcefully keeps his gaze on the crowd below, but he senses Pete craning his neck behind him.
“Hell if I know!” Ashing responds. “Pete’s upstairs, so specter got by him, too. He’s on the opposite end of the balcony from Khun Kinn. Maybe he really is a ghost?”
“Fuck,” Big mutters, apparently forgetting he’s still active on comms.
“Cut the chatter,” Pete orders, causing a voice echo over the comm in Kinn’s ear. “Eyes up.”
“Confirm, eyes on,” Big replies.
Kinn spares a glance at the opposite end of the balcony, across the numerous people dividing them. There he is, Benny McLintock, leaning against the railing with both elbows on it. A guard stands at his back, casually dressed in a black shirt and khakis. Benny is in his mid-thirties, with wavy brown hair that falls unkempt to his shoulders. He’s thick and solid without being truly overweight, a stocky sort of man. His face is round, his eyes sharp.
He’s a normal, average-looking man with extraordinary skill at everything to do with computers. And his skill has caught Kinn’s interest.
As Kinn watches, Benny’s eyes suddenly light up with excitement, and he straightens, saying something enthusiastic to his guard and gesturing to the lawn below. Kinn glances down to see what sparked the reaction, leaving it to his men to keep eyes on Benny. On the lawn, the next bout is about to begin. Tsunami is squaring up to off against another fighter — Kinn is fairly sure the other man’s name is Striker.
The difference in Tsunami is breathtaking.
He bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, loose and limber, and his entire countenance is animated. His eyes are locked onto Striker with a bloodthirsty intent that Kinn can practically taste on the air. Before, when Kinn had looked into Tsunami’s eyes, it had seemed like no one was home, but now he’s practically on fire.
The two fighters circle warily, waiting for the match to start. Striker is more subdued, watching Tsunami with a gaze like cold steel.
The second the gong sounds, Tsunami takes off like a bullet from a gun. He gets directly into Striker’s reach, but the move is only to draw out an attack. As soon as Striker commits to a roundhouse kick, Tsunami is back out of his range, and he spins in around behind Striker to give him a straight-on front kick to his back, sending Striker stumbling forward.
Tsunami's kick isn’t a move meant to cause damage — it’s meant to humiliate. And it works.
Striker whips around, a fierce, angry look in his eyes, and he says something to Tsunami that’s covered by the outraged cry of the crowd. The audience is mad. Although the rules for fair play are minimal, it’s taken Tsunami all of three seconds to get on the audience’s bad side.
Tsunami gives Striker a feral grin and makes a “come at me” gesture with both hands.
Where the first two fighters made an artful display of well-executed movements, like a dance, this round is brutal and raw, a true fight where almost anything could happen. Tsunami soon takes a nasty blow to the side of his head, but he rolls with it and gets out of range. It takes him only a second to shake it off, and then he dives back in, weaving beautifully with Capoeira-like movements until he’s in a position where he can deliver a back kick to Striker’s midsection. Striker stumbles back and nearly goes sprawling, but somehow he maintains his feet.
Off to the side and behind the lights, Davies is watching the match and arguing wildly with two of his staff members, gesturing at everything happening in the ring. The gathered guests, meanwhile, are having the time of their lives. Most of them are screaming for Striker to draw blood, but a respectable handful have begun cheering for Tsunami.
Striker does indeed draw first blood, busting open Tsunami’s lip.
Tsunami returns the favor with a kick to the side of the head that somehow leaves blood in Striker’s buzz cut, possibly from a toenail.
The crowd is surging, enthralled, captivated, eager for more. It’s a good thing this mansion is remote and widely spaced from other properties, with forest along one edge — otherwise the noise would surely draw attention.
Davies is practically frothing at the mouth as the fight drags out. Tsunami continues to play with Striker, enjoying every minute of it. Tsunami may be taking hits, but he’s controlling the fight — he repeatedly backs Striker against the white line, only to give him an opening to get clear.
A random guest in the crowd can’t handle the tension anymore, and he screams out above the music…
“Kill him!”
Tsunami’s whole attitude changes from feral fun to cold, white-hot rage. Then he’s suddenly a flurry of fists and feet, and in mere moments Striker is overwhelmed.
On the sidelines, Davies looks panic-stricken, ready to run into the ring and call it off. His aides have to hold him back. His calls for the fight to stop can’t be heard over the roaring of the audience.
Tsunami backs Striker to the white line and kicks him soundly in the chest, sending him sprawling on his back outside of the ring.
Tsunami stops and pants for a moment, and the noise of the crowd dies down before surging again, the cheering a mix of anger and delight. Tsunami’s eyes scan the crowd with all the rage of a trapped panther, searching as though he can find the person who called for the kill. It’s a lost cause, though. He spits blood into the grass and slowly walks out of the ring, while two of the handlers rush to help Striker limp to the medic.
“If the specter leans any farther over the railing, he’s going to fall off,” Ashing says over comms.
Kinn startles. He’s been so engrossed in the fight he utterly forgot his objective. Recollecting himself, he looks over to Benny.
The hacker is cheering, a huge smile on his face and a covetous leer in his eye. His gaze trails after Tsunami even when the fighter steps into the shadows.
Kinn thinks back to the intel he received. Rumor has it Benny is here tonight to buy. Seems like rumors are true, and now Kinn has a good idea of what — or rather, who — Benny is shopping for.
“Specter is on the move,” Big reports.
“Don’t worry,” Kinn murmurs aloud, “he’s not going anywhere.”
The rest of the event is a waiting game. Davies, now in a flustered and frustrated mood, tries to get the crowd back under control, but the toothless fights that follow pale in comparison with the show that Tsunami put on.
Kinn lingers on the balcony and watches Benny from above as the man mills about the patio. The hacker sticks to the fringes of the party and continually talks to his guard. At one point, a man tries to approach Benny and offer him a business card, but he rejects the advance, cool and unmovable.
Sometime later, the fights come to their inevitable lackluster conclusion. The guests’ interest already peaked and crashed, but Davies does his best to rally. He explains the details of the silent auction, which guests can conduct via an event-specific app over the next half hour.
“Now that our models have finished their fights, the rest of the battle is up to you! Good luck winning whichever gem you have your eye on. And please remember, no hard feelings if you don’t get your heart’s desire — by all means, I welcome you to speak to me personally if I can find you anything special for the next auction, which will be held in beautiful Monaco. And with that, let the bidding begin!”
The gong rings out, and then Kinn’s phone chimes, but it’s only one of many. All around the event, phone notifications go off.
The flood lights on the fighting ring get shut off, and Kinn watches as the handler who collected the bracelets before the fight returns them to their bearers. Fighters turn back into models once more as they attach their jewels to their wrists.
Delicate, shining shackles.
Benny is glued to his phone.
A moment of inspiration strikes, and Kinn pulls out his own phone. He pulls up the auction app and finds the ruby bracelet. Kinn makes a bid that’s a minor increase on the minimum starting bid, and then he waits.
Sure enough, the next time Benny checks his phone, he curses. He says something to his guard and types on his phone. A moment later, Kinn checks the app to find he’s been outbid.
Perfect. Benny is apparently smart enough not to make the first move right out of the gate, but he’s anxious enough to counter quickly. Kinn is getting to know Benny better already, and they haven’t even met yet.
Kinn puts his phone away. He doesn’t need it anymore.
For the next half hour, he’s able to relax enough to socialize and network with some of his acquaintances, while in the background his guards keep tabs on Benny. Eventually, a warning notification on his phone announces that the auction is about to expire, and shortly thereafter the final gong of the evening rings out.
Kinn isn’t the least bit shocked when Benny heads to the patio to claim his prize. As Benny comes back into the great room, he’s beaming from ear to ear. He has an arm slung around Tsunami’s bare waist, and they’re walking side by side. The ruby bracelet glints on Tsunami’s wrist like drops of blood.
“He could be leaving, should we…” Ashing says from a discrete corner.
“Hold,” Big orders before Pete can. “It’s boss’s move. Stand by.”
Already, a few guests are saying their farewells and departing, but the majority still remain. Kinn narrows his eyes.
Benny isn’t leaving; he’s taking a victory lap. He spends time first with his fellow auction winners, congratulating and being congratulated in return. Then he begins to make his way through the room in a broad circle…
…which inevitably leads him by the bar, and Kinn.
Just as Benny and his company are about to pass behind him, Kinn makes a show of noticing them.
“Your new friend cost me about ฿50,000 tonight,” Kinn says to Benny, smiling to show he means it in good humor. The friend in question doesn’t react to Kinn’s statement, merely blinking and staring over Kinn’s shoulder at a wall.
Benny, on the other hand, reacts with delight, laughing from his belly. His wavy hair bounces with the laughter.
“Haha, that’s the beauty of him, though. He fools everyone, but not me.” Benny grins at Tsunami, a thumb caressing his waist absently. Then he looks at Kinn again. “Sorry about your loss, but you know how it goes.” He’s very sympathetic in the kind of way that seems more like he’s boasting.
“Not to worry. It was a minor wager.” He made up for it with a much larger win, but there’s no need to mention that. “You’re Benny McLintock, aren’t you?”
That gets a raised eyebrow. “You know me?”
“By reputation,” Kinn confirms. “You helped my friend, Sandoval, with a little encryption problem a while back.”
Benny relaxes, nodding. “Ahh, yeah, I remember. That was an especially tough nut to crack. And you are…?”
“Kinn Theerapanyakul.”
“Kinn… Kinn… where do I know that name? Oh!” He snaps his fingers and points one at Kinn. “I know! You’re a big name in Thailand, aren’t you? Yeah, cool cool.”
“Actually,” Kinn says with a gracious incline of his head, “there’s a matter I hope to discuss with you, an opportunity. You were highly recommended to me, and I’m not sure anyone else could handle this. It’s a difficult matter.”
Benny frowns and holds up a hand. “Hold on, I have to stop you there. I don’t talk business in person. Since you already know about me, I’m sure Sandoval can set you up with info on how to get in touch. I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Theerapakul.”
Benny turns to leave, but Kinn hasn’t given up yet.
“That’s too bad,” he says. “It’s been a rough night, losing the wager and then also losing the auction to you.”
Tsunami’s eyes somehow become even more blank. Benny, meanwhile, turns back to Kinn with his full attention, a spark of both delight and annoyance in his eyes.
“That was you bidding against me? Ha, you sure came around from betting against him, didn’t you? You saw him fight and couldn’t resist?”
Other guests must have gotten into a bidding war with Benny after Kinn placed his sole bid, but Kinn doesn’t correct him. “Indeed. I’ve never seen a fight quite so breathtaking.” That statement comes out alarmingly honest.
Benny nods thoughtfully. “Don’t feel bad about underestimating him; everyone does. But that’s what makes him special.” Benny takes Tsunami’s chin in hand and tilts his head just slightly, angling for a better view of the unscarred side of his face. “I saw him for the first time about a year ago, and it was something else, let me tell you. But he wasn’t available at the time, if you catch my drift. I’m not surprised he made it all the way to this circuit, though.”
“You have an eye for quality, then.”
A little flattery…
“So I’ve been told.” Benny scratches his own cheek thoughtfully. “You know, for a man like yourself, it wouldn’t hurt to hear you out about that business deal. I’m not in a rush. I can also tell you about the first time I saw Tsunami in a fight, since you’re a new admirer.”
…can go a long way.
“Ah, wonderful, you do me the honor,” Kinn says with a big, surprised smile. “I understand there are quieter rooms in this wing…”
“Mm, I don’t know about a room,” Benny hedges. He looks over his shoulder at his guard, who makes a subtle shrug.
Kinn raises his hands. “We’re all unarmed here. Let me tell you what; I’ll compromise. To show I’m peaceful, I’ll leave my man just outside the door.” Kinn leans in and lowers his voice. “I wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you should know. And you can even bring your new friend in, for greater security.”
Kinn can tell his offer strikes home, tickling Benny’s fancy.
“Oh yeah?” Benny looks at Tsunami, takes his chin in hand again and tugs to make the model-fighter face him. “What do you think of that option? You gonna defend me, since we’re friends now?”
“Yes, sir,” Tsunami replies flatly.
“Aww, now, that’s not right. There’s gotta be something else you can call me.” Benny’s voice drops lower, becomes a little firmer.
“Yes, master.”
Benny’s hand tightens on Tsunami’s waist. “No, no, that’s so crass. You can do better, can’t you? Because you’re a good boy.”
There’s a brief pause, and then… “Yes, daddy,” Tsunami says in the exact same emotionless tone.
Kinn keeps his face placid even though nausea rolls over him. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world for him to deal with this shit.
Benny, meanwhile, smiles smugly, giving Tsunami’s waist a tight squeeze. “There you go.” He meets Kinn’s eyes and jerks his chin, proud of himself as though he’s just done something impressive. “Let’s do this.”
“Excellent.” He gets up from his barstool and starts to lead the way.
“Specter engaged,” Big says over the comms.
“Wait! No, hold it,” Benny says. “My man will pick a room. Just a precaution, of course. No offense.”
“None taken,” Kinn replies serenely. He gestures for Benny to take the lead.
As they’re walking toward a side hallway, one of the wait staff, a woman, is looking exactly the wrong way as she walks into the room. She comes closer and closer, in a hurry, until she’s almost on top of him… and then she makes the mistake of reaching into her pocket.
Pete takes offense at that. “Stop right there!” he says.
He gets a hold of the staffer, pulling her away from Kinn and taking both of her arms behind her back, causing her to gasp.
They’re drawing attention from other guests. Benny and his guard look at them in alarm.
“What were you reaching for?” Pete demands to know, one hand starting to search her for weapons.
“Nothing, nothing, I swear, I was just checking my tips!”
Pete’s hand goes to her pocket, and sure enough, there’s cash in there.
“Pete, stand down,” Kinn snaps. “Let her go. It was an honest mistake.” Pete rushes to comply, freeing her arms and then helping the girl straighten her jacket and shirt again. Kinn is quick to point a finger at Pete. “We’re going to have a long talk about protocols after this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Benny tuts. “So hard to find good help. Looks like you and Davies are both having problems.”
Kinn gives Benny a “what’re you gonna do” shrug. “I’ll deal with you later,” he promises Pete, a clear threat in his voice.
“Sir.” Pete lowers his head.
The eyes that fell on them during the interchange peel away just as quickly when there’s no further hope of entertainment.
“Come on,” Benny prompts. “I said I wasn’t in a rush. I didn’t say I had all night.”
Kinn follows, and Pete shadows him once more. They reach a door to a side room, and by agreement, Benny’s guard and Pete do a simultaneous sweep of the room while Benny, Tsunami, and Kinn wait outside. When the guards finish, Pete comes back out, while Benny and Tsunami go in.
Pete turns concerned eyes on Kinn. “Sir, are you sure—”
“Leave it,” Kinn snaps. He enters, shutting the door behind him with a firm thunk.
It’s a spacious room, with contemporary paintings on the wall, a plush couch and chairs, a TV, and even a small bar.
Benny pulls Tsunami along to the couch and tugs him down to sit next to him, while his guard stands vigilant just to the side, hands clasped below his waist. Kinn takes a seat across from the couch.
“Sir, just confirming, the bar is fully stocked.” Pete says in Kinn’s ear.
Thank fuck. If it hadn’t been, he’s not sure what he would have done.
“Now, about this business opportunity…” Benny begins. His arm is around Tsunami’s bare shoulders, and he seems to be trying to tuck the man into his side. Tsunami isn’t resisting, but he isn’t cuddling up to Benny, either.
Kinn smiles. “I always believe in pleasure before business.” He crosses his legs, leaning back in his chair. “I’m very curious to hear more about your friend Tsunami.”
“Well, I can’t say I blame you. You have good taste, I’ll give you that.”
Then Benny launches into a lengthy story about how and why he was in Hong Kong for business, and how the head of a faction personally took Benny to the largest underground fight ring in the city. He explains that Tsunami was under the name Fire Devil at the time, and how Benny instantly admired the way he fought like the devil he was named for. He goes into extensive detail about each of Tsunami’s fights, and some others besides.
The longer he talks, the more handsy he gets with Tsunami, palms wandering over shoulders and scarred chest, a thumb over the split lip. At one point, he pinches a nipple — Tsunami barely flinches, and his breathing only goes deeper and more controlled.
“Isn’t he just perfect?” Benny gushes. “Except for these scars, of course.” Benny runs two fingers along the right edge of Tsunami’s face, directly over the twin scars. One of Tsunami’s hand twitches, an involuntary reaction.
Kinn has to control his own reactions as well. He manages to say, “They have their own sort of charm. The mark of a fighter.”
“Oh, I suppose if you’re into that, sure.” Benny waves a hand and shrugs, tearing his eyes off Tsunami to look at Kinn again. “But I’ll get rid of them. I already have a plastic surgeon lined up to fix him, so he can be as pretty as possible. I just love that he’s a pretty, quiet doll out of the ring, but a real monster inside it.”
“I wouldn’t have believed his skill if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” Kinn says.
Then Kinn moves to rise, and both the guard and Benny tense.
“Ah, excuse me,” Kinn says, raising an empty hand. “I want to get myself a drink, and then perhaps we can get down to business. It’s been a very long day.”
Benny and the guard relax. Benny waves Kinn off. “Of course. If there’s spring water, I’ll take some, too.”
Kinn isn’t sure he’s ever met someone with a bigger pair of balls on him, and that’s saying something considering the company Kinn keeps.
As Kinn goes to the bar, Benny starts talking to Tsunami, telling him that he’s going to help get him back in the real fights where he belongs, and won’t that be the best?
Kinn looks around behind the bar and experiences a moment of tension, a moment when his heart is in his throat with uncertainty. Then he opens the small, under-the-counter fridge, and there it is: one glock, complete with suppressor.
He pulls out the gun, turns, and fires.
Thwick, he takes out the guard with a single shot.
Benny has just enough time to curse and open his eyes wide before…
Thwick-thwick, Kinn shoots Benny in the throat and then the head, and blood splatters into squiggly brown hair.
Benny’s eyes roll back, and he falls on top of Tsunami, momentarily obscuring Kinn’s next shot. Tsunami doesn’t scream or cry out, only inhales sharply and jerks to sudden life and alarm. Benny’s body rolls lifelessly over his lap and onto the floor.
Tsunami stares at Kinn with wide eyes and hands raised. His eyes drop from Kinn’s gaze down to the gun.
Kinn is frozen. He needs to pull the trigger. His hand is like ice.
Tsunami’s breathing grows faster, but somehow he relaxes. He closes his eyes, whispers something that Kinn can’t hear, and waits.
Kinn lets out a short curse. He should kill him; he really, truly, deeply understands that he should kill Tsunami. Instead, he starts walking sideways toward the door, gun still trained on the other man and keeping obstacles between them. Kinn thinks he can let him live, as long as he doesn’t make a noise or pull a stunt.
When Tsunami hears Kinn moving, his eyes flash open. He looks between Kinn and the door, and there’s a spark of understanding as he realizes Kinn is about to leave. He leans forward urgently, a hand clutching a couch cushion so hard that his bruised and bloody knuckles turn gray. Kinn freezes, eyes locked and reassessing the threat.
“Take me with you,” Tsunami begs.
Not exactly what Kinn expected to hear. “The hell I will,” Kinn replies automatically.
“I can fight,” Tsunami offers. A pause, and then, “I can fuck.”
“I have people who can do that for me already.”
It takes Kinn a half moment to realize they’re speaking Thai.
That hardly matters, though. Kinn starts easing toward the door again. Tsunami’s eyes flash with desperation, and he scrambles a few inches along the couch, not daring to get up but unable to hold still.
“Do you have any idea what Davies will do to me with a dead buyer?”
Kinn doesn’t, but he can make an educated guess. He hesitates.
“Boss? It’s too quiet. Please check in,” Pete says in Kinn’s ear.
Kinn raises his free hand and uses his own comm for the first time that night. “Specter eliminated, stand down.”
Kinn considers Tsunami’s pleading expression. Too much risk, not his business. He needs to get clear of this place right the hell now, not take on extra baggage.
He reaches for the door.
“If you think not shooting me is mercy, you’re wrong.” Tsunami’s words are full of righteous anger, but his eyes still beg, his brows scrunched and face twisted. “A clean headshot would be more merciful.” He waits for a split second, but Kinn is caught in his eyes and can’t think clearly. “What about self-interest, would that do it? Wang Xin, Nishigaki Kenta, Dominik the Dealer, Chase Lounge, Allegra Bianchi… any of them familiar?”
Almost all of them are familiar, if not by direct dealings then at least by reputation.
Tsunami sees the answer in Kinn’s eyes and leans in further. “Yeah, you know ‘em. I’ve been bought by all of them in the past couple years… and I know things they don’t know I know.”
Kinn’s doesn’t let himself react on the surface, but under his skin he just about starts vibrating. God, if he can get that Nishigaki bastard off his ass even for a fucking minute, it’d be worth a shit ton of hassle…
He makes a pointing gesture with his raised gun. “If you come with me, you follow my orders and my men’s orders without question. And when we ask you questions, you hold nothing back, not even the smallest piece of information. Got it?”
Tsunami’s jaw drops, and he seems to choke on thin air. He has to swallow twice before he can answer, “Yes!”
Kinn nods sharply, gun still raised. “Deal.” Then he activates his comm again. “Pete, get in here.”
Pete slips in and shuts the door, and then his gaze quickly begins to ping-pong back and forth between Kinn and Tsunami. “Sir?”
Kinn lowers his gun. He puts the safety on and tucks it into the back of his pants, suppressor and all. God, that’s uncomfortable. “We’re taking him with us,” Kinn says, with authority in his voice that forestalls any questions. “Both of you, see whether you can salvage the guard’s shirt or Benny’s.”
He can see in Pete’s eyes that he really wants to argue, but he visibly tamps it down. “Yes, sir.” He gets to work, and Tsunami helps him.
Kinn, meanwhile, has more orders to hand out and turns on his comm again. “We’re taking on an extra passenger. Arm, pull the SUV around to the front.”
“Yes, sir.” They’d left Arm outside in the van with a small fortune in tech and weapons.
“Big, what’s Davies’s position?”
“On the patio, sir,” Big responds.
“Good. Let me know if that changes. Ashing, what’s Fern’s status?”
“Ready to go, sir,” Ashing replies.
“Good. Be ready to move.”
Kinn looks over and sees Pete and Tsunami rushing to change him into the nameless guard’s casual clothing, slacks and all.
“Sir, do we need to know who the extra passenger is?” Big asks. He’s gotten cleverer at his wording lately. Big obviously wants to ask exactly who the passenger is, but he deftly dances around it.
“Yes,” Kinn answers. “It’s Tsunami, from the auction.”
The line goes quiet, most likely because everyone on the team is cursing his name right now. Heh. They should be used to it. He never sticks to the plan, and it would be a shame to break his streak now.
Kinn turns off the comm and checks with Pete and their new, temporary, teammate. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir. This is the best we can do,” Pete replies.
Tsunami looks a little ridiculous in the khakis and black button-down, both of which are oversized for him. They had to roll up the hems of the khakis, and they clearly stole the shoes as well. That scar, though…
Kinn takes out his own reading glasses, the ones he swears up and down that he doesn’t need, from the inner pocket of his jacket. He tosses them to Tsunami, who deftly catches them.
“Put these on,” Kinn orders. “Stay on Pete’s left side. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Tsunami responds, looking like he’s ready to head straight back into the fighting ring. The glasses don’t hide the scar, exactly, but they provide another noticeable feature.
“In position, sir,” Arm reports.
Kinn turns his comm back on. “Good. Moving out.”
Kinn takes a breath. He opens the door and leads the way, his heart hammering. Pete and Tsunami follow, and Pete carefully shuts the door behind them, leaving behind two warm bodies.
The front door isn’t far.
Ashing and Fern join them first. Fern has changed out of her waiting staff jacket and shirt and slipped into a slinky, glitzy silver top, complete with fine jewelry and hair piece. Kinn crooks an elbow for her, and she takes it smoothly, no longer the humble servant but a pretty heiress or socialite. Ashing falls into line on Tsunami’s other side.
A moment later, the rapid clop-clop of dress shoes lets Kinn know that Big has caught up and is taking up the rear.
The front door is in sight. The path is clear. As they exit, there are still two of Davies’s men standing by the entrance, but they look bored as fuck and are watching out into the darkness of the fancy drive. They’re unconcerned with departing guests. One of the men yawns.
The door to the SUV slides open, and Kinn assists Fern into one of the mid-car seats and then clambers in next to her. As he settles into his seat, there isn’t a power in the universe that could keep the smile from his face. Triumph and adrenaline rush through his veins, quickly making up for the appalling lack of quality liquor.
Now that he thinks of it…
“Big?”
“Sir.” Big is in the front passenger seat. Without further discussion, he opens the glove compartment and pulls out a flask, handing it over to Kinn. He takes a big, long pull from the flask as Ashing, Pete, and Tsunami all somehow cram themselves into the back row bench seat.
The door slides shut, and Kinn lets out a small, satisfied sigh, the golden smooth aftertaste of bourbon on his tongue.
Everyone grows silent as Arm puts the car in drive, still waiting for a shout or alarm from inside, but it never comes. Arm drives the van sedately, at least until they leave the mansion property, at which point he begins accelerating until finally he’s speeding along like the proverbial bat out of hell.
Kinn starts to laugh, adrenaline and hysteria overwhelming him. He takes another big drink and lets out a bigger, louder gasp of appreciation this time.
“Everyone’s getting a bonus because Big remembered the booze,” he announces.
The team whoops and cheers, and suddenly Big is in everyone’s good graces.
Kinn knows they can’t fully relax yet, but for the moment, the victory is worth celebrating.
Rest in peace, Ghost, Kinn thinks with great satisfaction.
Kinn has a chartered plane sitting at the airport, waiting to go. Getting Tsunami onto it is a simple matter of an extra bribe for the same custom official who’s already well aware of the kinds of firearms and explosives in their baggage. The flight attendants are also his own people, certified by the FAA.
As soon as they’re all on the plane, the team experiences a second lift to their morale and a relaxation in protocol. The positive energy expresses itself in sudden chatter, with “did you see this” and “what about when” exclamations. Most of them are from Ashing, but Pete and Fern also chime in, and even Big seems pleased enough to smile for once. Arm asks leading questions because he couldn’t be inside the mansion. Fern boasts about her undercover skills. They’re all bustling about the cabin, while Kinn is squared away in his seat.
“Okay, okay, calm down,” Kinn calls out. “We have a long flight and a pit stop to get through.”
One of the pilots comes to speak with Kinn, and he makes all the appropriate, friendly gestures. He assures Kinn that they can lift off in short order.
While the captain is talking, Kinn’s phone, the burner that he used for the auction, starts ringing. He has a feeling he knows who it is. Sure enough, as soon as he pulls it out of his pocket, he sees on the screen that it’s Davies.
“If you’ll excuse me, captain?” Kinn prompts. The pilot begs his pardon and returns to the cockpit.
As soon as the pilot is gone, all eyes are on Kinn, waiting to see how he’ll respond to the call.
With flair, he raises the phone, lifts one finger, and then sends Davies to voicemail. The team laughs and applauds.
It’s only a moment later that his phone starts blowing up with irate text messages. Kinn reads them and starts to giggle.
“What’s he saying, Khun Kinn?” Arm asks.
“It would appear that I’m barred from showing my face on any of Davies’s properties or at any of his events for the rest of my life.” Kinn raises both eyebrows at Arm and says in his driest voice, “What a shame.”
That sets everyone off in another peel of laughter, and the chatter starts up again.
One of the flight attendants calls for everyone to take their seats. Kinn hardly pays attention, eyes glued to his phone and thoroughly entertained by every new message that comes in.
Pete slides into the empty seat that faces Kinn’s.
“Khun Kinn, about our extra guest…” he prompts.
Kinn looks up from his phone. Sure enough, there’s Tsunami, standing in the middle of the plane, looking out of place and stressed. The rest of Kinn’s team members are giving the man occasional glances that are a mixture of wary and curious.
Without a word, Tsunami reaches for his own wrist. Suddenly all guards are watching him, and the gazes don’t waver. But Tsunami merely pulls off the ruby bracelet and holds it out toward Kinn.
Kinn frowns. “What?”
“You can have it. For the deal you made with that official. For the plane trip.” Tsunami’s eyes are darting wildly all over, seemingly unable to settle.
“I don’t need it,” Kinn says simply. He really doesn’t; the bribe was pocket change.
And he’s painfully aware that the bracelet is the only thing of any value that Tsunami has on his person.
Tsunami’s eyes settle somewhere over Kinn’s shoulder and stop moving. He doesn’t budge, simply says, “I don’t want to owe you.”
Kinn lets out an aggravated sigh. “Arm, take it.” Arm is the closest. All he has to do is hold out his hand, which he does, and Tsunami drops the bracelet into it. Tsunami also takes off Kinn’s glasses and hands them to Arm.
Kinn points to a seat that’s within his sights, but which faces away from him. “Tsunami, you sit there. Pete, keep him company. Big, you’re with me.”
The three men in question shuffle around and settle into their assigned seats.
Kinn turns off the burner phone and drops it in his bag, no longer quite so amused.
A short while later, they’re in the air. As soon as they reach altitude, Kinn asks the attendants to serve dinner immediately — he had arranged ahead for a nice menu to be available, anticipating the need for a reward. He has the steak with shrimp, as well as a glass of champagne. He wishes he could give permission for everyone to enjoy drinks along with him, but until they’re back in the tower, his team is still on duty… especially considering they have an unexpected addition on board. Pete won’t be able to sleep a wink — Kinn will have to switch him out with Big when they refuel in Yemen.
After dinner, everyone’s energy seems to crash. The team members start to drop like flies, asking the attendants for pillows and blankets, setting their seats back to recline. Across the aisle from Kinn, Ashing puts an earbud in one ear and soon begins to lightly snore, while Arm curls around a large pillow like it’s one of Tankhun’s teddy bears.
Kinn pulls out his tablet and does a little work, catching up on emails. Time ticks by slowly, as it tends to do on an airplane. The attendants dim the cabin lights.
When everything is quiet and his team is mostly asleep, Kinn rests his tablet in his own blanket-covered lap and closes his eyes for a few minutes.
A flight attendant does a slow walk through. Kinn listens as she makes a stop next to Pete and Tsunami. Kinn cracks his eyes open just a fraction.
The attendant leans over Tsunami and asks whether she can get him anything, a blanket or pillow to help him rest.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he replies in a small, polite voice.
The flight attendant walks on, and now Kinn has a clear view of Pete. He looks fast asleep to the untrained eye, but Kinn knows he’s awake.
Tsunami’s next statement is almost too quiet for Kinn to hear. He barely catches it when the man murmurs, “It’s more comfortable than the cargo hold.”
Fuck. Kinn turns his eyes to stare out the window into the black night, the light on the tip of the wing winking at him slowly. He wishes he’d shot Davies. It wouldn’t make the underlying problem go away, and someone would inevitably rise up to take the man’s place, but Kinn sure would feel better about it.
Kinn is suddenly so overwhelmingly, fiercely pleased that he took Tsunami away despite his reluctance. The feeling of it, the shocking amount of pride and satisfaction, just about chokes him. He has to breathe deeply to wrestle the unwelcome emotions under control.
Hardly anything in Kinn’s life goes according to plan, but he’s beginning to wonder exactly what he’s gotten himself into this time.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
In this chapter, Porsche is being sold at an exclusive auction for the elite of the mafia world. As a part of it, he puts on a fighting demonstration in which he gives and receives non-life-threatening injuries. Porsche is sold, and his new owner makes Porsche call him "daddy" and also touches him on the upper body without consent. The new owner states plans for planned body modification to Porsche, without concern for Porsche's consent. Also, there is some casual racism.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Chapter 2: Code Yellow Protocols
Summary:
Porsche returns to Bangkok for the first time in... well, in a very long time. There's no enthusiastic "welcome home," only another locked door to deal with, as well as a need for a lot of patience.
Notes:
In past fics, I've pretty much kept POVs strict. This fic? Not so much. Any POV I need, I will use. 🤣
REMINDER: I have posted a brief spoiler description of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bangkok, Thailand
The city lights are beautiful at night… just like the lights of any other city.
Porsche had always imagined he would feel something when he finally returned to Thailand, perhaps a special sort of relief welling up from deep inside his gut, or even something like joy. It’s been years, or more like an entire lifetime, since he set foot in his country of origin.
However, as he leans his head against the car window and watches the lights trailing against the night, all he feels is exhaustion and uncertainty.
The exhaustion is a long-time friend. The uncertainty, though, has a different flavor than usual. He’s completely unclear about where he stands right now. He’d thought the questions about his past buyers would start right away while they were on the plane, but it never happened. Will Kinn ask for the information Porsche promised when they reach their destination? Will Porsche be able to provide details that are satisfactory? And what happens if Porsche’s information isn’t good enough?
Probably best not to think about that.
Then there’s the biggest question of them all: Will Kinn let Porsche go when all the questions are over? He’s been offered a chance at freedom before only to have it snatched away by a change of heart.
The list of uncertainties go on and on, to the point that it leaves him drained. So instead, he thinks about the one constant he has. There’s one thing Porsche is certain about, his guiding light and sole objective: He’s going to find Porchay, no matter what it takes and no matter how long it takes.
The first step to accomplishing that, get back to Thailand, is done.
The driver weaves through the city, sticking close to the two cars ahead in the caravan. The three men in the car with Porsche exchange only a few words, meaningless small talk. The clock on the car’s dashboard tells Porsche it’s almost two o’clock in the morning.
Eventually, the cars pull up to a literal tower with the Theerapanyakul name emblazoned on the side of the building.
It wouldn’t be hard to hide people away in a building like that, Porsche thinks, a nervous flutter in his gut.
When the cars stop, everyone starts to get out. Hesitantly, Porsche lets himself out as well. Then he simply stands there, waits to see whether he’ll be forgotten or remembered. It happens, sometimes — people simply forget they’ve acquired a person.
Kinn stands just outside the lead car, doing his best to straighten his airplane-wrinkled jacket. Something about the set of his jaw is tighter, harder. He stands up even taller than he did before.
As though sensing Porsche’s gaze, Kinn’s eyes slide over to him. Then the mafia leader gives another of those little irritated sighs he’s been letting out since they left Cape Town.
“Pete,” Kinn says.
Pete smoothly strides over to Kinn and stands at attention. “Yes, sir.”
“Get Tsunami set up with a room on the eighth floor. Pick someone, a guard who’s already on night duty, to keep watch. Stick to code yellow guest protocols.”
Pete nods and smiles. “Accommodations should already be arranged, sir. I called ahead to P’Chan during the layover.”
Kinn lets out a little scoff. “Don’t look so insufferably smug. It’s too late at night for that. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
“The rest of you, report for debriefing in the morning.”
The team choruses a firm, “Yes, sir!”
As Kinn walks into the building, all the guards in the vicinity bow.
Pete asks another of the guards — the man named Arm, Porsche recalls — to get Pete’s bag for him. Then he turns to Porsche and nods his head in the direction of the glitzy glass doors.
“Come with me,” says Pete.
Porsche follows Pete into the sparkling, glamorous tower. It gives off the vibes of an upscale business and a really nice hotel at the same time. Pete leads Porsche to a lobby desk where a man verifies that a space is available for Khun Tsunami and that a guard is available to be posted outside his room. The man makes a phone call and then tells Pete that the guard, a man named Mek, will meet them at Porsche’s room.
The shoes Porsche stole from Benny’s dead bodyguard are pinching his feet, hard edges rubbing against his bare ankles.
Pete leads Porsche to a super-fancy elevator with glass walls. Porsche can see into the lobby, and anyone can see into the elevator.
The doors close with a pleasant-sounding ding , and they start to rise. The elevator doors show their reflections. Pete stands tall and straight with a permanently pleasant expression pasted onto his face.
Pete gives Porsche a big smile through the mirror, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” Pete says. “It’s a nice room. Khun Kinn told me you two made a deal, and the boss always honors a deal.”
Porsche has heard that line before, but he isn’t about to call Pete out for bullshitting. Instead, he merely bobs his head in acknowledgement.
When they reach the door to the room, a guard is already waiting outside it, and he greets Pete. They walk in, and Porsche finds that it’s exactly like a hotel room but much, much higher end than he usually ever sees. It’s clean, with pristine white sheets and decorative paintings on the walls. There’s even a television. On the bed, there’s a small pile of folded clothing.
Thank fuck. With any luck, they’ll fit better than the dead guard’s clothes.
“These are for you,” Pete says, indicating the clothing. “You seem like a smart guy, so you probably know this already, but we can’t let you wander the building at will. It’s basically like house arrest. I also don’t recommend making any trouble for us. We do have other rooms that aren’t as nice. Someone will come to get you when we’re ready to take the briefing you promised Khun Kinn.”
Pete pauses and seems to be waiting for acknowledgement, so Porsche nods.
“Good.” Pete gives him a big, beaming smile that has grit and steel in the corners of it. “Oh, and meals will be provided for as long as you’re with us. Any questions for me?”
Porsche has dozens of questions. How long do you expect me to be here? When will the questions start? After the questioning, do you plan to let me go, keep me, or kill me? What sort of disciplinary system is in place? Can you help me find a boy named Porchay Kittisawat?
Instead of asking any of these, he merely shakes his head. “No. Thanks for the clothes.”
Pete nods. “Goodnight, then.” He looks like he wants to say more, but then he shakes his head and leaves. Porsche hears an extra click and snick at the door latch from the other side, and Porsche is locked in.
He stares at the door for a minute before he looks through the folded clothes to take inventory. Plain white T-shirt. Athletic track suit. No underwear. No socks. Despite the exhaustion, Porsche carries the fresh clothing into the bathroom and showers off what feels like a dozen layers of dried sweat and grime. He takes a quick, perfunctory inventory of the bruises and aches from his most recent fight, as well as older bruises that are still healing. Absently, he scratches at his leg where one of his more recent scars is itching.
After he climbs out of the shower, he steps up to the bathroom sink. There’s an electric razor there, the bulky kind without a straight blade, not something that can be hidden in a pocket. Porsche shaves quickly, refusing to let his eyes linger on the two dented white scars on his face. As soon as he’s done, he covers the mirror with a towel.
When he gets dressed, he has a moment of concern about the lack of underwear while wearing what are basically sweatpants, easy for causing embarrassing moments. But he brushes the thought aside.
How likely is it he’ll get pantsed in the middle of the tower, anyway? Seems pretty unlikely to Porsche, and there’s little he can do about it anyway.
Best not to ask for anything if he can help it. That’s one of his many rules.
Clean, shaved, and dressed, Porsche looks through the drawers of the sink. He gets lucky again: In a drawer are individually wrapped toothbrushes and small tubes of toothpaste. He even belatedly finds little sample bottles of shampoo — too late for tonight, but still nice to find. It really is like a hotel. He pulls a small bottle out and sets it in the shower, just a little sign of hope that he might get a chance to use it.
Abandoning the old clothes in a corner of the bathroom, Porsche drags his tired ass to bed. As he curls up in the soft sheets, he half expects to be unable to sleep, plagued with questions and fears and desperately thinking about contingencies. Instead, he drifts off in no time.
They forget about him for three days.
That’s fine, though. Porsche spends most of the time sleeping.
In his many years working for the Theerapanyakul family, Chan has conducted countless interrogations in a wide variety of circumstances. He’s questioned gang leaders, prostitutes, street runners, politicians, office workers, murderers, housewives… someone could name a random occupation and type of person, and Chan would most likely say he has at some point questioned someone of that description.
To put it simply, he knows what he’s about. He knows when to put on pressure and when to back off. He knows at a glance whether someone is nervous or angry or busy slyly calculating how to lie and get away with it.
But as he stares through the window of the one-way mirror into the plain, gray room and its occupant, he thinks this particular interrogation is going to be a nightmare.
Art by Khathastrophe
Chan is interrupted from his thoughts when Kinn walks into the observation room — he’s alone, leaving his guards outside. Chan bows his head.
“Khun Kinn,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Kinn stops in his tracks, looking through the glass. “What is he doing?”
“Ah.” Chan looks again at the man in question. “He seems to be doing Tai Chi, sir.”
Kinn nods slowly, as though agreeing with a child. It’s a move he picked up from his father.
“I can see that,” Kinn says, “but why is he doing it?”
“I assume he got bored, sir,” Chan replies.
“How long have you left him in there to stew, Chan?” Kinn asks with a knowing quirk of one eyebrow.
“Not quite two hours, sir.” All in all, it’s not that long. Usually two hours is just long enough to make most people nervous, easier to manage.
Most people… but not this one.
In the room, the man under the alias Tsunami is moving slowly and elegantly, practicing his forms in a steady circle around the table and chairs. His every motion is precise and measured as he glides from bow step to bow step, arms floating and falling with relaxed, circular movements. He sinks into a crouching stance, and a photo of him could serve as a textbook reference. He’s wearing the Theerapanyakul training uniform.
“He’s barefoot,” Kinn observes.
Chan doesn’t have much he can say to that, so he settles for a simple, “Sir.” The interrogation rooms aren’t heated for comfort, either; the floor is bare and undoubtedly cold.
Kinn says nothing further, merely continues to observe Tsunami with a small, perplexed frown on his face.
“Is there something you wanted, sir?” Chan prompts.
Kinn waves a hand dismissively. “No, there’s nothing. I heard through the grapevine that you were starting the questioning. I had a few minutes, and I thought I’d see how things were going.”
Not well, in Chan’s opinion. When he’d first checked in on Tsunami about an hour ago, he’d appeared to be asleep, sitting at the table with his head resting on his arms. Chan had turned around and walked back out again to get some work done.
Kinn shoves his hands in his pockets. “You don’t need to go hard on this one, Chan. He’s not some insider turned traitor. He’s not playing both sides of the fence.”
That doesn’t mean he can’t have an angle, Chan wants to argue, but he keeps his mouth shut. Kinn looks at him and seems to read it on his face anyway. Another trick he’s picked up from his father.
In the room, Tsunami settles into a horse stance, and his arms rise in a beautiful circle, making it seem as though he’s formed the sun.
“If you have any further insights or suggestions, sir… ?” Chan prompts. He’s read the briefs from every member of the strike team twice. Arm put together a rough and incomplete history on Tsunami that he pulled from the dark web, and Chan went over that three times. Arm’s sketchy dossier goes back about three years. All the info Chan has rests in one thin folder placed on a small table next to him.
“He’s observant,” Kinn says in a thoughtful tone. “And I want to know anything and everything he knows about Nishigaki.” He looks at Chan for a moment. “You’re not going in alone?”
“I’ll have a guard in the room with me.”
Kinn’s gaze slides back to Tsunami, who’s balancing on one leg now. “Take two.”
Chan’s brows rise before he can stop them. “I thought you said to go easy on him.”
Kinn shakes his head. “I said go easy. I didn’t say take unnecessary risks.” Kinn gives Chan a meaningful look. “He fights like a demon.”
It could almost be interpreted as concern, if Chan hadn’t been trained to know better.
Kinn continues. “You can have one of my guards for your extra man — they’re both right outside.”
“Sir.” He knows a suggestion disguised as an order when he hears one.
Chan collects the pathetic excuse for a dossier and leaves Kinn alone in the observation room. Then he collects Big and Mek, both of whom are out in the hall. He takes his keys out of his pocket and lets himself into the interrogation room.
Tsunami has already straightened and is on the opposite side of the table, watching Chan enter with the two guards filing behind him. His eyes skitter around, taking in details. He watches Big for a few extra seconds, making note of the familiar face.
Chan drops the folder on the table with a loud smack, and Big and Mek silently take up positions in the two corners, facing the one-way mirror. Chan gestures to the empty chair in front of the two guards.
“Please, have a seat, Tsunami,” Chan says, gesturing to the seat.
The man spends a few extra moments looking at the guards. He clearly doesn’t want to turn his back on them, but Chan watches as he fights down his instinct and does it anyway.
Then Tsunami looks straight at Chan — assessing, studying, taking him in inch by inch. His expression reminds Chan of the way Korn looks at someone when meeting them for the first time, only they lack the aggression and judgment. Instead, Tsunami is simply understanding him, categorizing and cataloging.
Observant, Kinn had called him. An understatement.
Chan opens the folder and points to the first line.
“Hello Tsunami, Fire Devil, Dikiy Pes, Temnyy Volk, Tempest,” he reads off one by one. Tsunami doesn’t flinch or show any reaction. “Did I get all of your aliases, or am I missing a few?”
Tsunami quietly says, “Lobo de Oro, Sandstorm, and Pogpung, sir.”
Chan doesn’t bother writing that down — the entire session is being recorded on two cameras that feed directly into a secure server. Arm should be watching the feed live from the weapons vault and continuing his research in real time.
“You have a lot of interesting names,” Chan says. “I have just one: Chan.”
Tsunami bobs his head in acknowledgement.
“Now that you know my name, how about you tell me yours? Your real name.”
Although Chan used a mild tone, Tsunami stiffens as though Chan just asked him to stick his hand directly in a blazing fire. He hesitates, shifting in his seat uncomfortably and checking over one shoulder and then the other to double-check the positions of the guards.
Finally, he shows some sign of having nerves. Chan mentally files that away.
Then he waits for a response. It takes a while. Eventually, Tsunami licks his lips and looks Chan dead in the eyes again.
“What happens if I don’t tell you, sir?”
His words and eyes reveal a lot of secrets. First, that he thinks he might get the crap beaten out of him or worse for failing to answer a question. Second, that he knows exactly how much of a beating he can take. Third, that he won’t share his name unless forced.
Chan tilts his head, adds a little steel to his voice. “That depends on why you want to keep it secret. Is there any particular reason for that?”
Instead of getting more nervous, Tsunami seems to deliberately relax his muscles, one by one. “I used to be nobody, and I’d like to go back to that, sir. That life has nothing to do with my deal with Khun Kinn.”
On the surface, Tsunami seems incredibly calm. But Chan can tell he has no idea whether that deal will be honored. However, it’s Tsunami’s lucky day. Chan can practically feel the weight of Kinn’s gaze boring into the back of his head through the one-way glass.
Korn would have expected Chan to push. Kinn told Chan to go easy. Kinn still has a long way to go, Chan thinks.
Chan changes tactics. He pulls out the chair and sits.
“Tell me about your previous owner,” Chan suggests. “It was Chase Lounge, wasn’t it?”
That takes Tsunami by surprise. He frowns — it’s small and fleeting, but Chan still sees it.
“What would you like to know?” Tsunami asks quietly.
Chan makes a “go on” gesture. “Anything you’d care to share. I’ll follow up with questions as needed.”
Tsunami thinks for a few moments, searching Chan’s face for anything he might be able to glean. But Chan gives him nothing.
Eventually, Tsunami opens his mouth and begins to talk, starting from when Chase purchased him four months ago.
And amidst the countless meaningless details and casual horrors that emerge from Tsunami’s story, useful intelligence starts to drip like so many scattered diamonds. All Chan has to do is gather them up as he listens to tales that will fuel his nightmares.
The first day of questioning lasts about five hours across two sessions, not including the time Porsche spent waiting alone in the dull, gray room. In those five hours, they cover just two of Porsche’s previous buyers.
That evening, Porsche can barely find the energy to eat. He forces himself to eat what they bring him, and then he sleeps like the dead.
On the second day, during the first session, Chan doubles back and asks Porsche a variety of questions about the events he described the day before. He tests Porsche’s story and seeks to expand on it, ferreting out more details. Porsche fills in with more info as best he can, but he doesn’t always have the answers Chan is after.
Then in the second session they cover two more buyers. By the third session that day, Porsche can feel himself glazing over.
Talking about this brings up a lot of memories he’d rather leave buried.
By the time Porsche is dismissed on the second day, his brain is nothing but static. He’s not sure he can even form words anymore. When he gets back to the suite, he climbs into bed and falls asleep immediately, despite the fact that it’s only seven o’clock and he hasn’t eaten dinner.
He wakes up ravenous. A cold breakfast is waiting for him — all he has to do is knock on the door, and the guard of the day unlocks the door to pass it to him. The meal isn’t enough, but it’ll have to do.
Then he waits, but today no one comes to escort him away. So he continues to wait. He paces, stretches out his underused muscles. He wishes he could turn on the TV, but he found out on the first day that it’s just there for show and isn’t hooked up to anything.
When it begins to look like no one is coming, he considers the possibility of washing his clothes in the bathtub. They’re more than a little ripe because he hasn’t had anything else to change into for days.
Eleven o’clock rolls around, well past the strict nine a.m. pickup of the previous two days, and Porsche decides to go for it. He strips naked, wraps a towel around his waist, and uses hand soap to scrub out the clothes in the bathroom sink. His eyes trace the various small and large scars on his forearms, and he almost starts counting them but instead tears his eyes away to stare at the wall. He keeps scrubbing.
A short time later, just as he finishes hanging the clothes on towel racks to dry, there’s a rattle at the door as someone unlocks it.
Pete steps into the suite, and there’s a thud as he drops something to the floor. The bathroom door is open, and as Pete walks in he immediately notices Porsche. Pete’s eyes briefly go wide as he takes in the situation. Then he plasters on that big, fake, “I’m the friendliest guy you’ll ever meet” smile.
“I see it’s laundry day,” Pete says.
Porsche takes hold of the corner of his towel where it’s tucked together. Uncertain what Pete might want to hear in response, he simply nods in agreement.
“Well, that’s perfect timing then,” Pete says. “Chan was saying he’s sick of seeing you in our training uniform, so I brought you some alternatives.” He picks up the box he’d dropped by the suite door and shows it to Porsche. “Come on.”
Pete walks into the bedroom, and of course Porsche follows. Pete sets the box on the end of the bed and starts pulling out two pairs of sneakers, two pairs of jeans, and a few shirts.
Pete gestures at the mess he’s created. “I brought a couple sizes of everything because I wasn’t sure what would fit. Go on, try it on.”
Porsche hesitates. “Right now?”
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead,” Pete says. He starts fussing with the box, pulling out one more shirt from the bottom of it.
Porsche drops the towel and reaches for the closer pair of jeans.
“What do you think about— Woah, wow, holy shit, man! Here, here.” Pete hurriedly bends down to pick up the towel from the floor, which only brings him much, much closer to Porsche’s crotch. Pete’s head is turned resolutely away, though. He straightens and holds the towel out wide and outstretched for Porsche, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly that it’s making his face scrunch.
Strange guy, Porsche thinks. It’s also a dumb move to close his eyes in Porsche’s presence if he thinks Porsche might be hostile, so perhaps that means they’re not categorizing him as a threat… or at least less of one than they used to.
Porsche ignores the towel and slips into a pair of jeans. The still-healing scar on his leg gives a funny little tug as he does.
“You can open your eyes now,” he tells Pete. Then he reaches for one of the shirts, a dark red one, briefly looking over the size and style of it before he slips it over his head. The material is extremely soft.
When Porsche looks at Pete again, the guard is giving him a befuddled look.
“Aren’t you going to put on any underwear?” Pete asks.
Porsche does everything he can to keep the sarcasm out of his reply, but a little still seeps through. “I don’t have any.”
Pete’s eyebrows rise, and his eyes go very, very round. “You don’t… have any.”
And then Porsche has to grit his teeth and bear with it as Pete slowly looks around the room and has the dawning realization that Porsche owns absolutely nothing. Pete has the decency to look embarrassed by it, which improves Porsche’s opinion of him.
“Let me get this right,” Pete says slowly. “You mean you’ve been getting interviewed by Chan for two days straight, and you’ve been going commando the whole time?”
Porsche shrugs and nods.
Pete smiles, and for the first time it’s a real one. His face goes through a series of spasms that soon devolve into full-on snickers.
“You are something else, man, you really are! Hey, I can’t do anything about the underwear situation immediately, but give me a little time on that. In the meantime, what would you say to lunch?”
Porsche hesitates. What does Pete mean by that?
Pete must read his mind, because he fills in the blanks voluntarily. “You’ve got clearance to step out to the cafeteria, with supervision. I’m the supervision.” He points to himself at that with a plastic smile. “The higher ups are pleased with how things are going, and you’ve been really good about everything, so it’s like a gesture of good faith. Kind of like parole, if you want to look at it that way. Whatcha think?”
Porsche swallows and speaks up before he can stop himself. “Socks.”
Pete’s smile melts away into confusion. “Huh? You think socks?”
“Can I have some socks, too?” If Pete is getting him underwear, now might be Porsche’s only chance to make the request.
Pete’s mouth slowly opens and closes once before he says, “I can make that happen, no problem. Now, how about that lunch?”
Porsche doesn’t relish the idea of spending the entire day staring at the same four walls, so he puts on a pair of sneakers — sans socks — and follows Pete to the cafeteria. On the way there, Porsche tries to keep his head down, but he can’t help looking around at the place at least a little. It’s bustling and active, a far cry from how quiet it was when he first arrived in the middle of the night several days ago. The decor is modern and ornate, and the people are all very well dressed, as though they work in a normal upscale office and not for the mafia.
They soon reach the cafeteria, and Pete heads straight to the service counter, where he greets a middle-aged lady.
“I’ll be having the usual, auntie June,” Pete says. “But my friend can have whatever he likes.”
“Of course, Pete,” June replies. Then she addresses Porsche with a sunny, “What would you like, dear?”
Uncertain what’s available and not wanting to misstep, Porsche opts for the easiest route. “Whatever Pete’s having is fine for me.”
Pete shakes his head quickly. “He didn’t mean that, auntie. Um, maybe just the specialty of the day? You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”
The last question is for him, and Porsche shakes his head “no.”
June gives Porsche a look that’s a mix of curious and dubious, but she tells them their food will be ready shortly.
While they wait, standing near the counter, Porsche glances around the seating area. It’s busy with the midday rush. Several tables are filled with bodyguards, some wearing black suits and others dressed in track uniforms identical to the one hanging to dry in Porsche’s “guest” suite. Many of the guards cast wary glances at Porsche, and his skin starts to prickle.
Pete notices all of this.
“Don’t mind them,” Pete says. “We have a bunch of nosy busybodies around here.” The statement is pitched loud enough for others to hear, and it carries just the right touch of authority. Suddenly the curious guards are more interested in making conversation at their tables than they are in looking at Porsche and Pete… all except one. In a corner, Big sits in his black suit, eating alone. He mostly focuses on his meal, only occasionally looking at Porsche and Pete with a steady, heavy gaze.
A few minutes later, their food is ready, and Porsche finds himself sitting across from Pete at a small table. In front of Porsche is a plate piled high with fried noodles, mixed with fresh vegetables, coated in sauce, and topped with large, tender shrimp. Meanwhile, Pete’s meal looks plain in comparison, a simple combination of some brown rice, chicken, and plain steamed vegetables.
Porsche wants to ask Pete whether he’s sure this is right, but he also… doesn’t.
He takes his first bite of shrimp, and it’s heavenly. He can’t help but close his eyes and savor it just a little.
“That good, huh?” Pete asks. “They’ve got us bodyguards on a special diet, supposedly optimized for perfect nutrition.” He pokes at his own food with his fork to demonstrate. “But obviously you aren’t stuck with my fate. Say, are those scallops hidden in the noodles?”
Pete reaches with his fork to point out the scallops, and Porsche has zero control over what his body does next; he moves before he thinks, wrapping one arm around the edge of the plate and pulling it close, curling his upper body over his food protectively. In his haste, he knocks his spoon to the floor.
The clatter echoes, and all around, eyes turn toward them.
It takes Porsche a second to register that Pete isn’t trying to take his food. Pete is looking at him with wide, astonished eyes.
Slowly, Porsche forces himself to uncurl and sit up normally.
Pete brushes it off, that big smile of his firmly pasted back on. “Haha, sorry about that, my bad, my bad! I didn’t mean to surprise you like that. Hey, here, lemme help.” He picks up the spoon off the floor and sets it aside. “Didn’t need that anyway, right? Hey, here, you can have my napkin for that.” He slides his napkin across to Porsche, telegraphing his movements.
Porsche has sauce on his clean shirt from pulling the noodles too close and hovering over them.
Fucking hell. Now he has to wash this, too.
Porsche takes Pete’s napkin and his own and cleans up as best he can. Pete keeps up a steady stream of inane chatter, and the staring eyes slowly wander away from them.
“Sorry,” Porsche eventually gets out.
“Nah, nah, don’t mind it,” Pete assures him. “I should have known better. There’s a lot you’re not used to right now, isn’t there?”
That’s an understatement. Having a civilized meal at a table with another person is a novelty, and the strangeness of the whole scenario is more than a little disorienting.
Porsche realizes Pete is still waiting for an answer to his question, so Porsche gives him a belated nod. He picks up his fork and starts to eat again, trying to act as though nothing happened.
Pete seems encouraged by this and also starts to eat. Fortunately Pete seems able to keep up a steady conversation mostly on his own, and Porsche finds that it’s… pleasant. A relief. Pete isn’t asking him questions or dredging up memories best left buried. He’s simply chattering about his grandma, about food, about his plan to spend part of his recent bonus to buy a new console game.
Porsche eats all the shrimp first. Then he starts hunting for the scallops.
They’re halfway through their meal when it gets interrupted by a pink-haired man in a bright yellow poncho. He storms into the cafeteria and comes to a halt with his hands on his hips. There are two bodyguards with him, one of whom Porsche recognizes as Fern from the Cape Town mission. The guards seated in the cafeteria all get to their feet and bow their heads to him, including Pete. Porsche stays seated, keeping his head down.
“Who stole my Pete?!” the man demands to know in a loud voice. It echoes in the open space. “I want my Pete right now.”
The tall guard at the man’s side taps his shoulder and points in Pete’s direction. The poncho flares and flaps wildly as the man stomps over to their table.
“Pete, Kinn just lost the custody battle,” the man declares. “He refuses to let me have Arm back, says he can’t do without him, so I’m taking you back as compensation. You’re officially collateral until Arm is released. I’ll give you a chance to make it up to me for the fact that I’ve been cruelly abandoned.”
Porsche freezes. What’s going on? Is Pete okay with this? Is Pete in trouble? Porsche isn’t certain who this wild-looking man is, but it’s clear he’s an authority figure. Porsche risks a glance up, and Pete looks stressed.
“Khun Tankhun, I can’t leave right away, but if you give me just ten minutes, I’m all yours.”
“No!” The man, Tankhun, literally stomps a foot, and Porsche has to suppress the way it makes him jump. “We’re going to be late if you don’t come right now. Are you willing to accept the consequences of that? Besides, what do you even need ten minutes for? And who is this?”
He gestures with one bright poncho wing at Porsche dramatically. Porsche lets his body go relaxed to keep from flinching. It’s an old trick, one he learned long ago to keep from drawing attention. Flinching only invites trouble.
“This is a special guest, Khun Nu,” Pete explains. “I just need to—”
“Special guest?” Tankhun asks. “What’s wrong with his face? What’s wrong with your face?”
Too much attention. Porsche keeps his eyes locked on the table. How should he answer? What does he mean about Porsche’s face? Does he mean the scars?
But Porsche doesn’t answer fast enough.
“Wow, oh no no, how many cuts are on your arms? And why are you just staring like that? What’s wrong with you? Look at me, look at me, up here!” The man snaps his fingers in front of Porsche’s face three times, and it’s impossible not to flinch.
Porsche lifts his chin and meets Tankhun’s wide, furious eyes. “Yes, sir,” he says, unconsciously reverting to English.
“Oh my god, what’s wrong with you?” Tankhun asks again. His breathing is becoming faster and his hands start flapping wildly. “Pete, tell me who this is! Why does he look like that? Get him out of here! He shouldn’t be here!”
Porsche keeps his head up as instructed, but he sort of just… loses touch. All he can and should do right now is just… follow orders as best he can.
Vaguely, he hears Pete giving an explanation to Tankhun, whom he calls Khun Nu in pleading tones.
If the young master would just give a clear order, Porsche could do something, but there’s nothing he can do. So he simply waits for something, anything, a direction, a punch, a slap, whatever will calm the man down.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, Pete calls Big over.
“Hey, Big, will you take Tsunami back to his room?”
Something is happening with the other guards. Tankhun is being drawn away, pulled away.
Big says, “Hey, you, come with me.”
Finally. “Sir.” Porsche gets to his feet.
He must follow Big, because the next thing he knows, they’re arriving at the door to the suite Porsche is occupying.
“You got the key?” Big says to the guard who’s still outside the door. He does, and he opens the door for them.
As soon as the door is open, Porsche is tempted to bolt inside. He makes himself walk in at a normal pace. Big follows behind and glances at the box and clothes still scattered on the bed.
“All good?” Big asks Porsche.
“Yes, sir,” he answers, still in English.
Big nods and starts to walk out. Then he pauses and half-turns back to Porsche.
“Khun Tankhun is… don’t worry about it, okay? He has his own issues, and it wasn’t personal, so just shake it off. You’re not gonna be punished or anything.”
Something tells Porsche that calling him “sir” again would be the wrong answer, so he just nods instead. He gets a silent nod back in return. Then Big tugs at his suit cuff, turns, and leaves.
Porsche slowly sinks down to sit on the floor with his back resting against the bed.
He loses time for a while, waiting.
Hours pass like that. He’s forced to move when his legs and ass are aching from his seat on the floor, and he lies down on the bed.
Eventually, as he expected, someone comes to find him.
It’s Chan. Porsche has only met the man in the shadows of the interrogation room; he’s surprisingly bright to look at in the light.
He looks Porsche up and down where he sits on the bed, waiting for instruction. His eyes land on Porsche’s stained shirt.
“You’d better change,” he says. “Khun Korn would like to meet with you.”
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
In this chapter, we see some of Porsche's dissociation happening from his own perspective. Porsche has some minor issues with looking in the mirror due to his scars. Porsche also has a knee-jerk panic response related to food trauma. When Tankhun encounters Porsche, Porsche is frightened by his behavior and starts to dissociate, and in response Tankhun has a panic attack.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Wow, okay, heavy chapter is heavy. 😅 Still with me? I hope you're still with me. There's so much more still to come.
Chapter 3: Cut Loose
Summary:
Eventually, Porsche runs out of new information to share with Chan. The real question is, what comes next when he's no longer useful to the Theerapanyakuls?
Notes:
I am utterly delighted that I now have a grammar beta! Big, big, huge thank you to enbymoomin for your eagle eye! 😍 Fic gets better thanks to you.
REMINDER: I have posted a brief spoiler description of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Korn Theerapanyakul is not at all like what Porsche expected him to be, at least in most regards.
Porsche had expected him to be an imposing man, a middle-aged mafia leader with a stern jaw, broad shoulders, and cunning eyes. Essentially, an older version of Kinn.
Instead, Khun Korn is a man who dwells on the far edge of his middle years, or perhaps the life he’s led has aged him prematurely. He sits in a comfortable chair on a veranda overlooking a garden, wearing a soft sweater that sags on his frame. Something about his complexion gives an impression of long-term illness, and his face is lax and sallow. Overall, he gives the impression of a helium balloon that’s partially deflated, hovering halfway to the ground with its string falling slack. A walking cane leans against the brick ledge of the veranda.
His eyes, though, are shrewd and sharp, exactly what Porsche would expect from a senior player in the Thailand underworld. The kindly, grandfatherly appearance does little to hide the cunning old fox who evades the hunter and kills the hare.
Chan stands next to Khun Korn, hands loosely clasped in front of himself, and two more bodyguards stand by the doorway. Kinn is also present, leaning against the railing with his feet crossed at the ankle, his body parallel to the cane.
Porsche has no doubt that the bodyguards aren’t the only ones who would protect Khun Korn with their lives.
Korn smiles. It fails to put Porsche at ease.
“Hello, Tsunami. I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately, and I thought it was high time I met you in person.”
It’s a statement without demand or question to it, so Porsche settles for a simple, “Sir,” in response. He’s sorely tempted to look at Kinn, whose eyes were so easy to read back in Cape Town. This doesn’t seem like a scenario for a “clean up,” but it can be hard to tell.
Korn folds his hands in his lap, still smiling casually. “I admit, when I heard my son had made a snap decision to smuggle you back to Thailand, I had my misgivings. And I let him know it, too.” He gives a small chuckle and a glance at Kinn, who only tilts one eyebrow and gives a shrug in response. “But I will cheerfully admit to being wrong in this case. The information you’ve provided has proven immensely valuable. For instance, did you know that just a few hours ago, Tokyo police conducted a massive four-site sting operation and arrested Nishigaki Kenta? He’s under charges of allegedly running a child pornography and prostitution ring, among many other allegations.”
Porsche inhales sharply and briefly closes his eyes. If that’s true — and he desperately wants it to be true — then it’ll be the first worthwhile thing he’s accomplished in a very long time.
“Thank you for telling me, sir, and fuck that lowlife son of a bitch,” Porsche says vehemently.
That startles a laugh out of both Korn and Kinn.
“Crass, but I happen to agree,” Korn says mildly. “I wanted to personally thank you for your cooperation so far. I realize our security measures are a bit extreme. I also understand you had a disturbing encounter today with my eldest, Tankhun.”
A chill goes down Porsche’s spine, and he takes a steadying breath. “Sir.”
Korn pats the air in front of him gently. “Now, now, don’t be nervous. I’m keenly aware of my sons’ faults, and I’m afraid Tankhun went through some experiences that might shock even you.”
Porsche doubts that, but there’s no need for him to share his opinion aloud.
Korn continues, unaware of Porsche’s skepticism. “I assure you that we will continue to extend your privileges during this debriefing period, and we’ll ensure there are no further encounters between you and Tankhun. In the meantime, you’ll continue to be just as forthcoming, I hope.”
That is not a statement of optimism but a clear demand.
“Yes, sir,” Porsche says. “I’ll do my best to honor my deal with Khun Kinn.” A movement in the corner of his eye draws his attention, and he darts a glance at Kinn, who gives him a small smile and a nod.
Korn is also eyeing Kinn. “It was still risky.”
Kinn ducks his head, and he seems sincerely contrite when he says, “Yes, pa.”
Kinn is on a short leash, Porsche thinks. He’s seen the dynamic time and again, played out across different cultures and classes, countries and races. Sometimes it occurs between family members like this, sometimes not.
Korn turns his attention back to Porsche, and his mouth turns upward into a deceptively soft smile. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me, Tsunami?”
He should just say “no.” Logically, he knows he should just say “no.”
Instead, he asks, “When the questions are done, will I be allowed to leave?”
The smile falters only fractionally at first. “It might not be the best path for you, but I give you my word that you’ll be free to go. However, I hope you realize that your discretion is mandatory.” With this last statement, the smile disappears completely.
In the midst of all the upheaval, Porsche nearly forgot that he was a witness to a double murder carried out by none other than Kinn Theerapanyakul, who is currently staring at Porsche just as intensely as his father is.
“Khun Korn, Khun Kinn,” he says, slowly and deliberately, “I don’t really have anything to swear by, but I swear anyway, I won’t pay back a helping hand with a knife in the back. I’d rather cut off my own hand than be ‘indiscreet.’”
“Oh my, that won’t be necessary,” Korn chuckles, but something in the corner of his eyes tells Porsche he appreciates the sentiment regardless. “Now, I’m curious. I hope you’ll allow me a question in return, since you asked one.”
Tension threatens to creep through Porsche’s muscles, but he forces it back down and nods.
Korn props an elbow on the armrest of his chair and rests his chin against his hand. “Tell me, how did you end up in the trade?”
It’s a very gentle euphemism, “the trade.” It doesn’t sound at all like slavery.
Uncle Thee stood at the door. He waved urgently. “Come on, come on, we’re going to be late.”
“Just a minute!” Porsche shouted back. He ruffled Chay’s hair, which was getting long and falling in his face. Porsche needed to cut it again. “Chay, just try your best, okay? I’ll help with whatever’s left as soon as we get home.”
Chay gave him big, doubting eyes from where he sat cross-legged in front of the coffee table, homework splayed out in front of him. “Okay. I’ll see you later, hia.”
Porsche rushed out the door, and Uncle Thee ushered him to the car. “You got your tape? Mouth guard? We can’t turn around if you forgot. Fight is in twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got ‘em.”
It was quick cash, Thee assured him months before. Porsche knew they were struggling, knew the loan sharks could be at the door any day. He also knew his Taekwondo coach would chew him a new asshole if he found out what Porsche got up to some nights.
But they needed the money, and Porsche was on a winning streak. It wasn’t a big deal, right? He went, fought some other kids around his age — sometimes older, sometimes bigger — in front of a crowd, and he and Thee went home with money. No problem.
No problem until he lost a couple of bouts. No problem until he saw men cornering Uncle Thee in the middle of one of his matches. No problem until there was shouting in the locker room, until Thee was crying and saying, “I’m sorry, Porsche, I’m sorry,” over and over again. No problem until Thee stumbled out with a wad of cash and left Porsche behind, two pairs of hands holding him tight to stop him from running.
Porsche’s mouth is dry. He has to swallow twice before he can get the words out. “Same way a lot of people do. I was young and stupid. I trusted the wrong person.”
Kinn is looking away, his mouth a thin line. Korn nods, scrutinizing Porsche as though he can see the entire scene play out in front of him the same way it just played out in Porsche’s memories.
“I see,” Korn says, and he probably does. “Trust is, indeed, not a thing that should be given or taken lightly.” His eyes cut to Kinn, who flushes just slightly. “I think we’ve covered all we need to.”
Korn gestures, a dismissal, and something in the far-back of Porsche’s mind wakes up at the last second and prompts him to make a polite wai. The gesture had long ago been trained out of him as irrelevant, but returning to Thailand has already begun to dredge the habit from his memory.
Just as he’s about to go back into the building, with Chan as his escort, Kinn’s words catch him.
“We don’t do that,” says Kinn.
Porsche stops and half-turns, looking at Kinn. Korn, too, is gazing at his son, eyebrows quirked in curiosity. Kinn is looking straight at Porsche, unblinking.
“We don’t deal in human trafficking,” Kinn says, his voice firm and assertive.
In other circumstances, Porsche might have trouble believing him. Theerapanyakul is a big name in the mafia world, and big names like that have their hands in a lot of different operations. Plus, the bigger the organization, the harder it is to keep an eye on all branches; details slip through cracks.
But what reason does he have to lie to Porsche? Why say it at all? It’s almost tempting to just accept the words at face value.
Then again, they do still want something from him: information. So who knows?
“I’m glad, sir,” Porsche says.
Chan leads him back to the suite.
They still lock him in, but that evening he gets a steak dinner, and Pete escorts him to the gym for an hour so he can burn off some energy.
When Porsche goes to sleep that night, he dreams of Porchay.
His brother is just as he remembers him, round-faced and shaggy-haired, wearing a shirt with a big cartoon cat face on it. Porsche can lift him with one arm, but it’s getting harder to do. Chay is standing in their house, which is also just as Porsche remembers it, full of dozens of trinkets and pictures, each one tied to a specific memory.
Chay is crying. Uncle Thee walks into the room, and Chay asks where Porsche is, over and over. Thee tells Porchay to be calm, that Porsche is just fine. Chay starts throwing pillows off the couch, knocking books off shelves, displaying a proper tantrum the likes of which he’d never done before, even when he was a toddler.
Thee tells Chay that he can take him to see Porsche, and Chay demands they leave right away. Thee ushers him toward the door, and now Porsche suddenly isn’t just a witness to the events but present in the scene. He’s on the outside, however, looking through a window, and he can’t get in. He pounds his fists on the window, shouts at Chay not to go with Thee, screams for him to run, but Chay doesn’t hear.
They leave through the front door, and Porsche tears himself away from the window, determined to chase after them and save Chay, but brambles have grown up around the house, and he has to fight his way through them. By the time he gets through, suddenly he doesn’t recognize where he is anymore. He’s lost, but he runs anyway, because if he can just run fast enough, he can catch them in time, so Chay doesn’t have to…
Porsche wakes abruptly, thrashing in his sheets and pulling himself into a sitting position. He’s panting, sweating, jaw clenched on a scream that squeezes through his teeth as a strangled moan.
Slowly, he pulls his knees up and rests his arms on them, hanging his head.
Please. Let Chay be okay.
Porsche doesn’t sleep again that night.
Kinn is sitting in the café located on the third floor of the tower, occasionally sipping his coffee as he scrolls through international news on his tablet. It’s mid-morning.
He is not, by any means, hiding from work. Reading the news is essential to his dealings for many reasons — and right now it’s a much needed reprieve.
Nishigaki’s recent arrest has thrown the black market into chaos. He’d been a lynchpin in the system for years, a big name with influence who made connections happen. Various supply chains for drugs, cars, and weapons are up in the air, and numerous players are jumping at the chance to snatch up business opportunities.
Work has been busy, with early mornings stretching into long evenings and international Zoom meetings at all hours of the day. He got just five hours of sleep last night and considers himself lucky for it.
Which is why he’s in the café, even though he is not hiding. He’s reenergizing while he catches up on business-relevant information. Plenty of people know exactly where he is and can find him if and when they need him, which is exactly what Chan does.
Kinn sighs and puts down his coffee cup when Chan approaches, giving a short bow of his head. “Khun Kinn.”
“Chan,” Kinn says. “How are things progressing?”
“The Tsunami file is updated on the secure server with the latest information,” Chan reports. “We’re reaching what I’d consider the point of diminishing returns, sir.”
Kinn could pull up the file on his laptop, but he doesn’t bother. Chan isn’t here to discuss the contents, although they’ve done so in great detail, discussing angles and new lines of questioning.
Kinn takes a sip of his coffee before asking, “And you’re satisfied you’ve already uncovered the biggest returns possible, I take it?”
Chan nods once, decisively. “We’ve covered multiple years and buyers in exhaustive detail. Any further back…” He shakes his head slowly. “The buyers in question are of little significance, and memories from that long ago are also less detailed, more unreliable.”
Kinn takes a hold of his coffee cup by the rim and gently turns it in place. Chan knows very well that this is a situation where he won’t get a do-over — if any follow-up questions come up later, and Tsunami isn’t on hand to answer, that’s that. They won’t spend resources hunting him down again, not for anything less than vital information.
Kinn could, if he wanted, comb through the latest additions to the file in search of new questions, but they’ve detained Tsunami for more than a week now. In the grand scheme of things, eleven days isn’t a long time, but the man’s been in the slave trade for years — exactly how long, they don’t actually know. As patient as Tsunami appears to be, even that will stretch thin eventually, if it hasn’t already.
There’s also the fact that Tsunami witnessed Kinn’s stint in assassination, but the man would be a fool to even think about snitching. The Theerapanyakul retribution for loose lips would be swift and merciless.
“And he never revealed personal information? A name, any family, his age?”
“No, sir. Whenever I skirt the subject or give him opportunities to slip up, he clams up. Are you sure you don’t want Arm to run a check through the missing persons database…?”
Kinn waves a hand. “With so little to go on, I won’t waste Arm’s time. Besides, Tankhun is threatening to burn my Armani if I don’t give Arm back in the next twenty-four hours.”
Chan barely reacts to that, only giving subtle, bemused tilt to his head.
“It’s time to cut him loose,” Kinn says. He drinks the last sip of his coffee, now gone tepid, and pulls up his schedule on his tablet. “I want to see him before he goes, though. I have a few minutes to spare — bring him to my office at twelve-thirty.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kinn takes a scone from the café’s display of baked goods and returns to his office, where he fires off a request to Arm. Ten seconds later, his secretary rushes him into an impromptu Zoom meeting.
By the time Chan escorts Tsunami into his office, Kinn has nearly forgotten to expect them. Tsunami is wearing plain jeans and a black T-shirt. It leaves his arms bare, displaying an array of scars.
“I just need to finish this email,” Kinn says. He points to the coffee table that’s surrounded by plush leather chairs. “Have a seat in the meantime.”
Tsunami quietly bobs his head and takes a seat. He looks supremely uncomfortable. Chan silently goes to stand across from Tsunami, next to the seat that Kinn will occupy.
If Kinn rushes his email response and is more curt than necessary, no one needs to know but him. Then he presses the intercom button that connects to his secretary’s desk.
“Wanna, did Arm stop by with that request I sent him yet?”
“Yes, Khun Kinn. Shall I bring it in now?”
“Yes, please.”
He goes to join Tsunami. At the same time, Wanna brings in a small black box and sets it on the marble table in front of him. She bows politely before leaving again.
“Chan tells me he’s run out of questions for you,” Kinn says, “but I have just a few more.”
Tsunami looks at him with those dark, wary eyes and nods his head. “I’ll do my best to answer, Khun Kinn.”
Looking at all of Tsunami’s mannerisms and reactions, some might be tempted to think that he’s a lost cause, damaged beyond repair or usefulness. Kinn would disagree. From the moment Tsunami stepped into that ring back in Cape Town, he’s impressed Kinn again and again.
It would be foolish to throw away a gemstone simply because it’s uncut and unpolished. And Kinn is no fool.
“What are your plans? When you leave, where will you go?”
That wary look comes back in full force. He shifts in his seat, making the leather chair creak, but he doesn’t answer.
Kinn steeples his hands together and presses further. “Do you have a place to stay? And what about work?”
A flash of irritation shines in Tsunami’s eyes — it’s a spark of life and spirit that the man works so hard to hide. “I’ll get by,” he says, his voice still soft and polite, but his eyes drift away, falling to the rug and staring at the patterns there.
Kinn allows himself a little smile. Chan will definitely go running to Kinn’s father after he hears this next bit.
“You should consider working for me as a bodyguard,” Kinn says. Tsunami’s eyes snap back to his own, and Kinn can practically feel Chan going stiff next to him. “You’d need to start at the bottom, a junior trainee, but I believe you’d do well here. We train almost all our bodyguards in house. Usually they’re selected for special skills, or they’re ex-military. Your background would be… unique, but I think it could be valuable. You’re welcome to stay another night in your suite if you’d like time to think it over.”
Kinn watches his proposal settle over Tsunami, moving along his body like a deep breath that travels from head to toe. The man doesn’t respond right away, but Kinn is patient. He can see the thoughts churning behind Tsunami’s eyes as he weighs his options, his lack of resources, and yet…
“I can’t,” he says at last. “Thank you, but I can’t.”
Not I won’t and not I don’t want that, but I can’t.
It’s disappointing but not surprising. And Kinn isn’t without sympathy — the man undoubtedly has unfinished business, perhaps even vengeance to extract, which Kinn can respect. But Kinn also doesn’t give up easily, especially when his target is already pressed for options.
“That’s a shame, but don’t be too hasty. Let’s call it a standing offer. If you change your mind in the next month, reach out.” Kinn then slides the box from Arm across the table to Tsunami.
He eyes the box warily, like it’s a bomb that’s about to go off. “What’s this?”
“Compensation,” Kinn says. “Open it.”
Tsunami gingerly opens the box. Inside is a basic-model smartphone, adapter, and a business card.
“The phone bill is prepaid for the next year,” Kinn explains.
Tsunami frowns. “I told you I don’t want to owe—”
Kinn rolls his eyes. What a frustrating guy. “Yes, I know, I know, you don’t want any debts. But you’re thinking about it wrong. It’s not a gift. It’s compensation for your time and for the intel you provided, which has vastly exceeded expectation. If you weren’t complete shit at negotiation, you could have asked for a lot more than this.”
The phone is also an excellent way to track him via GPS, and Kinn thinks Tsunami might realize that fact as he carefully turns the phone this way and that, looking at it like it could bite him. But everyone needs a phone; a person is practically handicapped without one. Plus, he’d risk offending Kinn if he refused.
Tsunami could always ditch the phone after leaving, but Kinn is counting on his basic needs getting the better of him.
He picks up the card next and looks it over. His eyes dart away from Kinn to Chan.
Kinn looks at Chan, giving him a cheeky grin. “I gave Tsunami your number. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not, sir.”
Oh, he definitely minds. Kinn smirks.
“His number is also programmed into the phone,” Kinn tells Tsunami.
When Tsunami’s face goes from pinched to relaxed, Kinn knows he’s won this round.
“I’ll… accept it, then,” he says as he pockets the phone, adapter, and card. “Thank you. I can… go then?”
The question, spoken so hesitantly, does something to Kinn’s insides, throws him back into the moment when he couldn’t pull the trigger to end this man’s life.
He might just be sending Tsunami to a harsher fate now, but still, he jerks his chin at the door.
“Big is just outside, in the receiving room,” Kinn says. “He’ll see you out.”
Tsunami hesitates, but he rises and wipes his hands on the front of his pants. He goes to the door, but before he reaches it, he turns around and looks Kinn straight in the eye, no hesitance and no wavering.
“Thank you for sparing—” he swallows and shakes his head, “for saving my life.”
He bows deeply, as though he means the respect from the bottom of his heart, and then he turns again and walks out the door, leaving Kinn to deal with all of that.
Kinn hasn’t quite recovered when Chan moves to face him, looming.
“Khun Kinn, do you really think that was the right move?”
What Chan really means is, do you think your father would believe that was the right move?
Kinn glares up at Chan, but Chan isn’t cowed. He never is.
“A leader who can’t make good use of potential talent isn’t much of a leader, is he?”
There’s little Chan can say to that except, “Yes, sir.”
Kinn’s tablet dings cheerfully with a reminder of an upcoming meeting. He rises and straightens his cuffs.
“When he contacts you, let me know immediately,” Kinn says.
“Of course, sir.”
Chan doesn’t question Kinn’s certainty that Tsunami will call. He gives a small bow and leaves, head held high. No doubt he’s going straight back to Kinn’s father.
“We all have our burdens,” he murmurs before getting back to work.
As Porsche follows Big through the tower, he can’t help but touch his pocket over and over again to confirm that the phone is still there. The device may be a double-edged sword, but he doesn’t have the luxury of turning up his nose at it.
Kinn is puzzling to Porsche. He’s a strange mix of thoughtfulness and ruthlessness, of businessman and mafia leader, a unique and rare sort of animal.
Porsche isn’t fond of unique. Unique is unpredictable, and he’s learned to hate surprises.
For instance, right now he’s disoriented as Big guides him through the tower, never quite turning his back on Porsche. He could in fact be leading Porsche to some store room or back alley for disposal — in which case Porsche needs to be ready to fight like hell — or he could be taking Porsche to the exit as promised.
The phone in his pocket makes Porsche tentatively hopeful.
Big makes a turn and then suddenly there’s light, the golden colors of the main entrance with its gleaming glass gates… and they’re outside.
Big shoves his hands in his pockets. “There you go, man. See ya.” He turns to go back inside, and Porsche panics.
“That’s it?”
Big looks around in confusion. “Uh, yeah. There’s no send-off ceremony — this isn’t something we do regularly, you know. But good luck, I guess.” He shrugs and leaves.
And Porsche is… free? Free to go, just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic escape, although he supposes the late-night speed run out of Cape Town counts as a “dramatic escape.”
He looks right and left and just simply has no idea where to go. He knows he’s in downtown Bangkok, but he isn’t even sure which way is north right now, not to mention the fact that he has no way of getting anywhere except by using his own two feet.
He’s frozen in place. The two guards standing by the door are staring at him.
He’s waited for this moment, breathed and fought and bled for this moment, but now that it’s finally here…
…he’s terrified.
He has nothing, literally only the clothes on his back and the phone in his pocket. And even more to the point, he has no one. Part of him is tempted to turn right back around, walk up to Kinn, and say he’ll take the job, except for one thing, the only thing that matters: He needs to find Chay.
Porsche takes one deep breath, another, and one more. Then he turns right and starts walking. He can find a landmark or ask directions. Maybe he can find a restaurant or bar that needs a hand and can pay him under the table for a night’s work.
“Hold on! Tsunami, wait, hold on!”
Porsche almost bolts, but he knows that voice. It’s Pete. Porsche turns and sees Pete running toward him, his straight hair flopping. He has a bag slung over his shoulder, rumpling his suit. He comes to a halt in front of Porsche, bending over to pant heavily.
“Ah, hi, Pete,” Porsche says. He’s unsure what else to say, and frankly, he’s relieved to have been stopped, to be able to see Pete’s big, fake smile once more before he goes.
“Whew, ah, oh man,” Pete says as he straightens up. “Barely made it. I’m glad I caught you! Here, your clothes.” He pulls the small duffle over his head and hands it over to Porsche, who’s stunned as he takes it.
“Clothes?” he repeats stupidly.
“Except the company tracksuit; can’t let you have that. The rest are all yours, though.”
He clenches his hands on the strap of the bag. “Mine?”
“Yeah, yeah, you can have ‘em. Not a big deal, don’t sweat it. And hey, do you know where you’re going?” Pete flaps his hand wildly a few times. “You don’t have to tell me an address. I’m not prying. Just give me a general idea, so I can tell you how to get there.”
Porsche’s throat gets tight, and he swallows hard. He knows the place he has in mind to go isn’t logical, but… “East. I want to go east.”
Pete nods slowly. “East? Okay, not a problem. You probably want the train line to the airport. Hey, Arm said the boss set you up with a phone? You got it?”
They spend the next ten minutes or so looking together at Porsche’s new phone as Pete shows him how to use the map and helps him download one app with train info, and another app for the subway in case he needs it. Porsche asks a few questions about the phone and how to use it, and Pete gets him started without missing a beat. He even shows Porsche how to get to the train station.
“Also, you’re all set for the train fare,” Pete says. He pats the front pocket of Porsche’s bag, and it rattles with the sound of pocket change. “The guys and I got you covered for that.”
What?
Porsche looks at him sharply and then hurriedly unzips the front pocket.
“Wait, no, no, don’t look!” Pete glances around, blushing. “That’s supposed to be a surprise. Hey, stop it!”
The pocket doesn’t just hold change… there’s a total of ฿15,000 in bills as well.
“Pete?” Porsche asks, alarmed. “Your bonus. I can’t take this.” He tries to shove it into Pete’s hands.
Pete makes a tsk sound, holding his hands up and away. “Shut up. It’s not even my bonus money. Or only a little of it. The other day, Big dropped me a few bills to hand to you, told me to give them to you before you left. Then Arm thought it’d be a great idea to take up a pool among the guards. It’s just something to help get you started, not a big deal, okay? It doesn’t even seem like enough.”
Porsche swallows hard again, and his vision starts to blur. “I don’t… I don’t know how I can pay back—”
“Don’t worry about it. Just put it away, huh?” Pete says, shoving Porsche’s hand away from him. “You’re embarrassing me.” He pointedly looks over his shoulder at the men guarding the door.
Porsche tucks the bills away and hastily scrubs at the wetness on his face, sniffing a few times before he gets himself straightened out. “Thank you. Really, thank you, Pete.”
Pete nods. “Don’t mention it. And I hope you land on your feet.”
Porsche’s eyes start watering again, but this time he doesn’t try to stop them. He makes a wai and thanks Pete profusely, until he’s blushing and waving him off. Pete practically runs from the praise, scurrying back in the tower to escape it.
Porsche waits until Pete is out of sight. Then, armed with cash and a direction, he finally bolts. He doesn’t quite run, but it’s the next closest thing. It feels good, the rush of blood through his system and his sudden pounding heart.
Almost half an hour later, he’s sitting on a train heading east, biting a thumbnail as he looks out the window, one leg bouncing uncontrollably. The elderly man next to him ignores him, but the auntie across the aisle from him occasionally looks up to frown at his jittering leg. He couldn’t care less what she thinks.
Where he’s going is probably pointless, but everything inside of him is screaming to go there anyway. He has to see it with his own eyes.
It takes almost an hour to reach the Ban Thap Chang station, or at least that’s what he estimates — he turned off his phone as soon as he got on the train, both to avoid tracking and to conserve power.
He gets off at the station, and it’s vaguely familiar. He didn’t spend a lot of time on the train in his youth, but he used it just enough to recall some of the more prominent landmarks.
Porsche starts walking north.
It takes longer than it should to reach his destination, but that’s primarily because he gets lost twice. The farther he goes, though, the more recognizable the neighborhood becomes, and the faster his feet carry him. They don’t slow until at last he turns down a particular street in a neighborhood filled with bright green trees and ornate gates.
His heart is in his throat as he steps up to the gate of his childhood home.
It’s been painted dark gray, the color of a thundercloud, with light blue trim.
The thudding of his heart slows, calms.
The swing is gone. A kiddie pool sits in the middle of the yard, and a toddler’s plastic bicycle lies next to it, overturned on its side. The curtains to the door are drawn, but through the window Porsche sees the figure of a woman walking through the house.
He knew… he knew logically that they wouldn’t be here, his brother and his betrayer. But some instinct drew him back, demanded that he begin his search in the last place he knew as home.
The tears that came so easily when Pete handed him the bag and the money are nowhere to be found. His eyes are dry, his mind numb, his stomach twisted in knots. His feet throb from walking for more than an hour.
Slowly, oh so slowly, Porsche moves to lean against the gray brick wall, sinking down to sit on the ground.
He just needs a minute to rest. The shoulder holding the bag strap has started to ache.
Honk!
Porsche looks up, startled. An unfamiliar man sits in a car that’s pointed at the gate, and he presses a button in the car that makes the gate slowly start to open. Ah, the family must have installed a motor for that, then.
The man pulls partway into the drive, and then he opens his car window.
“This is private property, friend,” the man says. “Move along.”
Porsche gets up and bobs his head politely, but before he walks away, he asks, “Could you maybe tell me what happened to the previous owners of this house?”
The man’s frown deepens. “That was a long time ago. And it was a foreclosure. Sorry, but I can’t help you.”
The man pulls into the drive. Porsche hears the suctiony-slide of the glass door opening, and then a child crying, “Daddy!”
Porsche walks away and doesn’t look back. It isn’t his home anymore.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
There are brief, referential mentions to the sexual abuse of children. Porsche has a flashback to the moment when he was betrayed by a family member, Uncle Thee, and sold to human traffickers. Porsche also has a nightmare about Thee possibly doing the same thing to Chay. Porsche experiences nerves and anxiety due to uncertainty about his situation and lack of basic essentials for survival.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
This is the completion of the first major arc of the story. If one named arcs, I'd probably call the chapter 1-3 arc "Reorientation."
Also, this is where I started getting a little ridiculous with researching real locations. I used the actual address of the house that was the Kittisawat house in the show, and then I found the right Bangkok train line to reach it from downtown, and it was pretty easy to pick the right train station. In the next chapter, I start to have even MORE fun with Google Maps. (BTW, fellow KP fans have done all sorts of research into real set locations from the show. Check the Damn Good KP Meta Doc if you want to know more.)
Chapter 4: More Deals, More Bets, No Debts
Summary:
After finding his childhood home filled with another family, Porsche hits the streets. He has no home, no connections, and no job, but he keeps moving forward anyway. He meets a few people along the way.
Notes:
Thank you once again to enbymoomin for beta review! 💖 Ahh, I feel so much better having you around to save me from my own typos. 😍
REMINDER: I have posted a brief spoiler description of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After Porsche walks away from his old house, he has no exact destination in mind, nowhere to go and nowhere to be, so he lets his feet carry him where they will.
He ends up at the small public park a couple blocks away, the one he walked to hand-in-hand with his parents so many times. It’s still just as he remembers it, if a little worse for the wear. The court is more of a mess than ever, and there’s rust on some of the playground equipment where there used to be shining metal.
The little blue gazebo is unoccupied, so Porsche helps himself to a bench, glad to put down his bag after carrying it for so long.
Furtively, he double-checks that the cash is still in the bag’s front pocket. Then he parcels it out and redistributes it to multiple places — some in his pockets, some tucked in a sock in the bag, some in another pocket hidden in the bag’s inner lining. Can’t be too careful.
Then he pulls his phone out of his pocket and turns it over in his hands a few times. He doesn’t turn it on, doesn’t want to turn it into a shining beacon that indicates his location to the Theerapanyakul clan.
He needs to find Chay, and it’s tempting, so tempting, to think only of that. He could turn on the phone and start searching right now, tracking be damned. But who knows how long the search will take? He needs more than just determination and fraternal instinct if he’s going to find his brother.
He needs a place to stay. He needs a source of income. He needs… he needs a glass of water. The sun is shining brightly, the hottest part of the day pressing down around him with oppressive humidity. Porsche runs a hand through his hair and finds it sweaty from all the walking.
Regretfully, he puts the phone away again. He tucks himself and his bag into a corner of the gazebo, crosses his arms, and closes his eyes. Behind the gazebo, children play and scream on the plastic slide and jungle gym.
Porsche dozes his way through the heat. For a little while, a pair of middle-aged mothers come and sit in the gazebo, chattering away while their children play. They direct a couple of disapproving looks at him, but they leave him alone and eventually collect their children so they can head home.
When Porsche feels somewhat rested, and when the weather is still hot but less brutal, he gets up and starts walking again. He makes the trek to the southern Sammakon Village area, and when he arrives there, he slows his pace. The village is an old, familiar stomping ground for him, one he thought he might never see again.
Porsche stops at a small corner grocery. He picks out a bottle of water, a bottle of mango juice, and a bag of day-old sweet rolls — the same kind he used to buy here and bring home for Chay.
The auntie who rings him up is the same woman who sold him a bag of rolls the week before his life turned upside down.
As they’re finishing the transaction, he asks her, “Do you need any help, have any odd jobs?”
She turns him away.
A little farther down the road, he stops in at Hana Café. He uses the restroom, quickly washes some sweat off his face and neck in the sink, and goes back out to the front. He buys a small iced coffee for an energy boost. Then he asks the woman behind the counter, “Do you have any work or odd jobs?”
She turns him away.
He repeats the process over and over, approaching the myriad small businesses along the main street. The pet supply store, the dispensary, the various bakeries and eateries, they all turn him down and send him along. Most of the people are nice enough about it, though a few grump and mutter at him, complaining about “the economy this” or “the inflation rate that.”
When he reaches the little strip where the businesses peel away on one side of the street to reveal the large lake, he plops himself on the ground and puts down his bag. The bottle of mango juice has gone tepid, but it’s still refreshing. It has a flavor he remembers, one that says “you’re home” better than anything else has so far.
After a reasonable rest, he gets up and keeps going. And when he reaches the end of the shopping district, he turns around and goes back the same way he came. He starts poking his nose into places he didn’t try before: the barber shop, the appliance repair shop, the health and beauty supply store.
He doesn’t even get around to asking a question at the health store. The shopkeeper takes one look at Porsche’s scarred face, grimaces, and Porsche knows it’s a “no.”
The sun starts to sink and turn golden and pink as he heads south along the strip. Many of the shops are closing up for the day; others are already shuttered and locked.
Eventually his stomach starts reminding him, violently, that he hasn’t eaten since before his meeting with Kinn. He could dig into his bag of sweet rolls, but they won’t tide him over for long.
He ends up going into a little dive bar called The Red Onion. The place is lively, but it isn’t overly crowded yet. A group of post-college women with tidy hair and tidy dresses have already claimed the pool table and the dining table next to it. A couple other tables are filled with mixed groups of Thai and non-Thai customers. A big television hangs behind the bar with a sports channel playing at a moderate volume.
Porsche claims an empty seat at the bar, on the far edge of it nearest the wall. He puts his bag between his stool and the bar, keeping one foot in contact with it. After a couple minutes, one of the bartenders comes over to check on him. He’s a black man with short dreadlocks bunched on top of his head. His eyes slide to the right side of Porsche’s face, and he flinches ever so slightly before he redirects his gaze.
“Hey, welcome to The Red Onion,” he says in Thai. The accent sounds British. “Do you need a drink menu or know what you want? We have all sorts of beers, domestic and imported.”
“Just water, please, and a dinner menu.”
The bartender looks at him speculatively; Porsche knows he probably seems odd, coming to a bar alone and skipping the alcohol. The man is most likely sizing him up and regretting the loss of tip money.
The bartender hands Porsche a laminated piece of paper with a list of options on the front and back. “Our curries are on special tonight, ten percent off.”
Porsche barely has to look at the page to decide. “Can I have the chicken madras?” He hasn’t had a decent curry dish in a long time.
The bartender lifts his chin in a nod. “Sure thing. And if you change your mind about the drink, just holler for me. I’m Dan.”
Porsche nods, and Dan steps away.
A short time later, Porsche is tucking into a plate of curry with fluffy rice and a generous slab of naan for dipping and scooping. It’s so delicious he could cry, if only he weren’t busy stuffing his face.
When Dan comes by to check on him, he laughs mildly at Porsche’s cheeks, which are puffed and full of food.
“I can let the cook know you like it, then,” Dan says.
Porsche mumbles agreement around his mouthful. He holds up one finger for Dan to give him a moment, and he chews quickly.
“It’s great, and your cook is five stars, the best,” Porsche says, meaning it from the bottom of his heart. Then he leans forward a bit over the bar. “Hey, um, I wanted to ask, is there any chance you need some help around here? Cleaning? Heavy lifting? Bussing tables? My English is good, too. It looks like you have a lot of English-speaking customers.”
A look comes into Dan’s eyes then, one of mixed speculation and pity. It’s a look Porsche has seen on a lot of faces today.
“You enjoy your dinner, and I’ll get you an application to fill out.”
Porsche’s stomach does an uncomfortable little flip, the rice feeling heavier. “I don’t really have the, uh, paperwork for that.” No ID, no address, no references. All he has is a cell number, and he doesn’t even want to turn on his phone. “Could we do something less formal? I’m a hard worker.”
Dan shrugs with a polite frown. “Really sorry, buddy, but we can’t help you with that. Boss has strict policies, everything by the book. But I tell you what, if you get the paperwork sorted out, come back and I’ll put in a good word for you.”
Porsche nods quickly. “Thanks,” he mumbles. Dan wanders away, and Porsche tears off another piece of naan.
The serving size is generous. After Porsche takes the edge off his hunger, he lingers over the meal, drawing it out. He takes breaks to lean back in his seat and watch the boxing match on the flatscreen, and sometimes he lets his eyes wander the dining area, observing the decorations and the occupants.
It isn’t like he has anywhere to go. Plus he’s not budging until he’s eaten every bite.
More customers gradually come in the door, and the staff members greet most of them by name. Porsche is surrounded by the happy chatter of couples and small groups of friends.
The men sitting at the bar let out a sudden loud cheer at the boxing match on the TV, startling Porsche. He wiggles his left foot to feel that his bag is still there on the floor, and its presence is a comfort. He can pay and leave whenever he needs to.
“Did you see that? Did you?” A man gestures excitedly at the screen, where one boxer lies sprawled on his back while another paces near a corner.
“Yeah, yeah, I see it, Ton,” says the first man’s companion. “Calm down, would ya?”
“You can’t tell me that wasn’t one of the best knockouts you’ve seen,” Ton replies excitedly.
“You’ll feel differently about that after tonight,” the second man says with confidence.
There’s just one empty seat between them and Porsche, making it easy for him to overhear their conversation.
“You two heading pool side tonight for the group fights?” Dan asks the two men as he mixes a drink in a shaker.
“Yeah, just killing some time before it starts,” says the second man. “Ton here’s never been to the pool before.”
“Well, it’s an experience,” Dan tells Ton. “Loud as hell, but the fights are the real deal.”
Street fighting. They’re talking about street fighting. And street fighting means money. Money… and risk. But as long as he’s only fighting and not gambling the way Uncle Thee did…
This is possibly the worst idea he’s ever had. But how else is he going to build up cash? Doing odd jobs for a few baht here and there? Find a street corner and start begging? If he weren’t scarred to hell, he could turn tricks, although the last thing he wants anymore is someone’s hands on him. Though it could still come to that.
He’d much, much rather beat the shit out of someone.
Porsche still has more food, but it looks less appetizing now. A twisty, turny feeling is forming in his stomach, even as something electrical and hot fires its way up his spine and into his brain.
Meanwhile, Dan wanders off to deliver a martini, and the conversion spirals away to another topic. Porsche loses himself in thought.
When Dan is close enough again, Porsche flags him down.
“Want to settle up, or get a drink?” Dan asks.
Porsche shakes his head and leans over the bar to get a little closer. “I overheard you and those guys talking about some local fights,” Porsche says, pitching his voice lower, letting it get lost under the television and chatter.
Dan looks him over again, more carefully this time, but he seems unable to find anything in particular about Porsche to put him off. “Just so you know, we really don’t like tattletales around here. If someone were to, say, talk to the authorities, that someone had better not show their face around here again. ”
Porsche feels a sneer pull at his lip before he even fully registers the disgust he feels. “Fuck the police.”
Dan raises his eyebrows and nods approvingly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say. What do you wanna know?”
“They take newcomers in the ring?”
Dan gives him a look that’s hard to read. “Yeah, they take newcomers on Thursdays and Fridays.”
That’s when Porsche realizes he has no idea what day of the week it is. He hesitates. However, Dan seems to be even better at reading people than he is, because he supplies the answer.
“Today’s Thursday,” Dan says.
Porsche nods. It’s Thursday. That’s good. That means he can fight, get some money. He leans forward even further on his stool. “Is it nearby? Can you give me an address?” Depending on how far it is, it might even be worth his while to get a taxi, if that’s even possible in this area.
Dan shakes his head and waves his hand. “Not how it works. You don’t get in unless you know somebody. Gotta have a person who can vouch for you.”
Fuck. Of course a small-time, underground ring like this would have to be careful; there’s always the threat of shutdown if the police catch on and the ring manager doesn’t have money for bribes. But Porsche has exactly zero connections.
Dan taps his fingers on the counter a few times and then seems to come to a decision. He looks at the other men at the bar. “Hey, Pravat?”
The man sitting with Ton watching the boxing match turns their way. “Yeah? What’s up?” Ton also looks over.
“Since you’re already going pool side, you okay with taking one more with you? My buddy here…”
Dan looks at Porsche, and Porsche almost says Tsunami before he catches himself.
He has a name ready, the one he decided he’d use if he ever got to choose for himself. “Phoenix,” Porsche says.
Dan nods. “My buddy Phoenix wants to get in the ring, but he’s not a member yet. Help a guy out?”
Pravat and Ton both light up like school boys who just got told their class was canceled. And just like that, Porsche is roped into their conversation. They start talking, and Ton switches seats to occupy the empty space between Porsche and Pravat. Dan steps away to serve other customers, and Porsche is left to answer a flurry of questions from the two enthusiasts. He replies as best he can.
“Did you get your scar in a fight?” Ton asks, pointing at the side of his own face to indicate what he means.
Porsche hesitates, and Pravat hits Ton’s arm.
“Dude, that’s fuckin’ rude,” Pravat snaps. “Don’t mind Ton; he’s an ass. What sort of training do you have?”
“Uh, a lot of different things, really.” Porsche doesn’t want to get into details. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem like he has to.
“Ooh, a true mixed martial artist!” Ton says with glee, tapping his hands several times against the bartop in his excitement. “Pravat, remember that time we watched…” and then they launch into a detailed recount of a broadcast fight from months ago.
It goes on like that for a while, the two of them talking and occasionally asking Porsche questions. His answers send them down tangents that Porsche can barely follow. While they chat with each other, Porsche regretfully pushes the remainder of his curry to the side; if he’s going to fight, best not to do it on an overfull stomach. It’s a lesson he’ll never forget.
“Eat, eat!” the American, his latest buyer, said to him. “Eat all you want.”
Porsche, who’d grown used to sporadic meals, did just that. He stuffed himself on the food, cheap burgers and fries, without hesitation. He ate until he felt like he’d burst.
Then the man took him to a filthy, low-class fighting venue. The adults put him in the ring with a teen who was older, taller, and much more muscular than Porsche. The teen had scars all over and a feral look in his eye. He noticed Porsche’s bloated belly and went right for it, as though he knew the game. Whenever the other teen made Porsche vomit, the audience shouted in horror and delight, using words that Porsche only half understood.
Later, a Russian buyer would teach him the same lesson all over again, only with alcohol instead of food.
On the flatscreen, a referee holds up the arm of a victorious winner.
“They should be opening soon,” Pravat says. “We’re probably okay to head out now. Phoenix, you ready to show us what you’ve got, man?”
Porsche nods. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll just settle up.”
“Sure, that’s fine,” Pravat says. “Gonna have a smoke out front. Meet us when you’re ready.” He and Ton wander out the front door.
When Dan comes around, Porsche pulls some bills out of his pocket. “What do I owe you?” he asks.
Dan does a slow blink and shakes his head. “Put it away, man. Don’t worry about it. Just glad you enjoyed the meal.”
Porsche frowns, hesitating. Dan looks like he’s about to walk away, so Porsche says, firmly, “I don’t like owing people.”
Dan’s eyebrows shoot up, his dark skin reflecting the bar lights.
Porsche looks at the tip jar on the bar and pulls out a bill. However, when Porsche reaches for the jar, Dan’s hand covers it before he can slip the money in.
“Stubborn, aren’t you?” Dan says, smiling. “I tell you what. You keep that money and consider it my bet on you tonight. If you win, come back and bring me my winnings. No rush, just when you get the chance. Square deal?”
Porsche lets his hand drop to his side, clutching the money. “You sure? I’ve been told I’m a bad bet.” He’ll never forget the way Kinn had looked, so perfectly put together and arrogant as he said that.
Dan smiles. “Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. Win anyway and bring me that tip. Good luck, buddy.”
Still holding the bill in his hand, Porsche fumbles to make a wai and thank him. Dan is already moving on, though, waving him a carefree farewell.
It’s a shame there wasn’t any way to get a job here. It’d be cool, Porsche thinks, to work alongside a bartender like that.
The ride to the venue is tense for Porsche, seated in the back of Pravat’s Toyota. He clutches his bag close and stares out the window, occasionally responding to questions from the two men, but they catch on quickly that he doesn’t want to share personal details. He’s grateful that they’ll get him into the fight venue, but he doesn’t know them and doesn’t trust them. If anything goes sideways, he needs to be able to run at a moment’s notice.
He knows what he’s doing is dangerous. But he also knows how these things work, much better than he did when he was sixteen. More than that, he knows people, and people like Pravat and Ton are easy to read. The instant one of them twitches the wrong way, he’s out.
The car ride is just long enough for him to work himself up into a mess of nerves. He watches the route closely; if they end up anywhere near the docks… but they’re heading north, away from the river with all its warehouses, ships, and containers, along with the waters leading out to the gulf and the ocean beyond.
Eventually, Pravat parks his car in what appears to be a completely ordinary neighborhood shopping district, not unlike Sammakon Village.
“Hey, I hope you don’t mind, but we have to walk the rest of the way,” Pravat says over his shoulder to Porsche. “It’s one of the rules; don’t park at the venue. It would draw too much attention from the neighborhood.”
He’s saying this as if it’s an important instruction to a newbie, so Porsche nods. “Got it.” He doesn’t have a car anyway.
They get out and start walking, Porsche trailing just behind the two chatting friends.
“Are you nervous?” Ton asks Porsche. “You look nervous. I mean, I’m nervous and I’m not even fighting.”
Porsche makes a noise that he hopes passes for laughter. It sounds off even to his own ears. “Yeah, I guess I’m a little on edge.” Fighting isn’t what makes him nervous; in fact, he looks forward to the fighting. No, it’s the people that make him question whether this is a good idea.
The straps of his bag are good to fiddle with. He can still back out. He isn’t desperate yet; he has enough cash to avoid going too hungry for weeks if he’s careful. But just “getting by” and avoiding starvation doesn’t get him to his goals.
“Don’t worry, bro,” says Pravat. “All you gotta do is stay loose and keep an eye on your surroundings. You ever done group fights before?”
“Yeah, a few times.” More than a few.
Pravat waves a hand. “You’ve got this, Phoenix! No problem. Hey, I should bet on you. You gonna bet on Phoenix, Ton?”
Ton hedges, muttering about wanting to see all the contenders first. Smart guy.
Eventually, Pravat leads them into a side gate for what appears to be an old, long-abandoned high school. Porsche has fought in a lot of different venues, but a high school is new even for him.
They make a bee line across the campus, cutting across the unkempt lawn. Porsche sees other people milling about, smoking and talking, and he hears the distant sound of bass before he sees the destination. They make their way to a second gate, where they come face to face with a burly man.
Beefy seems to recognize Pravat and gives him a nod. “Pravat. They with you?” He looks at Ton and Porsche. His eyes linger first on Porsche’s scar before dropping to the bag he’s carrying.
“Yeah, Boss,” Pravat says. “They’re with me; they’re cool. You need my ID?”
“Nah, you’re good. But I do need to know what’s up with the sack.” Boss points at the duffle slung across Porsche’s shoulder.
Porsche stiffens and looks at his bag. “It’s clothes.”
Boss narrows his eyes, and he looks at Porsche more closely. He nods at a table off to the side, where a girl wearing studded leather stands, looking bored. “Jazz will search it. Cover fee’s ฿1,000, gents.”
No one mentioned a cover fee. Reluctantly, Porsche reaches for his pocket. But Pravat stalls him, putting a hand out.
“Hey, hey, hold on,” Pravat says to Boss. “This guy, he wants to fight. This is Phoenix. No cover for fighters, right?”
Boss sighs as though Pravat is putting the weight of the world on him. “Fine, but if I don’t see him in the pit later, you both owe me double. And you, Phoenix, you talk to Happy down in the pool, and he’ll get you set up to fight.”
“It’s no problem, man, no problem,” Pravat says, and he gets out the money to cover both him and Ton.
Porsche submits his bag to Jazz for a search, and the whole time he watches her like a hawk. Fortunately she doesn’t appear to raid any of his cash stashes; she just makes a perfunctory check for weapons and then shoos him away.
He needs to leave his erstwhile helpers, so he makes a wai to Pravat and Ton, thanking them for the ride.
“Good luck, Phoenix,” Pravat says. “You’ve got this!”
Porsche smiles and waves, and then he takes a few minutes to wander the venue and check it out. There’s loud music being pumped in through stereo stands, and someone has put up some cheap but attractive colored lights. The fighting pit turns out to be a dilapidated pool, with loose tiles and plenty of space. The tiles could be a footing problem, he thinks. The doors to the high school are boarded, but there’s a second gate with another bouncer manning it.
After getting the lay of the land, Porsche steps up to the side of the pool and crouches down, looking over the fighters. There are several people in the pool, but it’s pretty easy to pick out the fighters when one knows what to look for, and Porsche definitely knows what to look for. They have a sort of spark in their eyes, adrenaline rushing through their veins and making them twitchy. The fighters are all sorts and sizes, and a wide range of ages as well, but they all have one thing in common: lower-class style. Even as Porsche watches, another young man jumps down from the edge of the pool and whips off his shirt, whirling it over his head as he whoops, and a couple other fighters greet him by name.
The most important thing, though, is that none of them have handlers.
Porsche breathes a little more easily.
He jumps down into the pool and asks one of the gathered fighters to point out Happy. The ring manager is a short man, bald and overweight, and he wears an expression of seemingly permanent stress on his face. Happy is talking to a couple of guys, explaining the rules. Porsche stands on the edge, and Happy spots him quickly. He looks Porsche over.
“You here to fight, bro?” he asks. “You’re almost too late. I’m not explaining this a fourth time tonight.”
“Yeah, I want to fight.” Porsche has to raise his voice over the music.
“What’s your name?”
“Phoenix.”
“Okay then, get in here, Phoenix.” Happy quickly waves to bring him into the small circle.
The system is simple. There are a lot of fighters, and each round is melee with groups of five or six men, fighting to the last man standing. Elimination rounds continue until only two fighters are left. The final two then fight it out for the champion position. There’s no pay out for anyone eliminated in the first round, but fighting in a second or third round pays out at least a little something for the trouble, leaving the big prize for the ultimate winner.
After the explanation, Happy and another ring organizer start grouping them. There’s a lot of fuss and arguing, which Porsche just tunes out. He stands where he’s told, and he moves when he’s told; that part’s easy. In the meantime, he sizes up the other fighters while stretching himself out. He jumps in place a bit, working to get his muscles warmed up — he’s all healed up for once, and despite all the walking earlier today, he’s more rested than he’s been in a long time.
The groups seem to finally get settled. Porsche is doing squats when Happy barks out a “hey” to get his attention.
“Yes, Phi?” Porsche asks.
“The ladies like to see a bit of skin, if you know what I mean. And shirts get ripped sometimes.” Happy jerks his chin. “It’s fine if you take it off.”
Is that a demand or a suggestion? Porsche isn’t entirely sure. He decides it’s probably best to just do what the man says. So he takes off his bag, setting it by his feet, and he starts to strip off his shirt.
“Woah, woah, fuck, god, what the hell? Put it back on,” Happy says in a rush of mixed Thai and English. “Damn, kid, I don’t even want to know what’s up with that.”
Porsche slides his shirt back down his torso. Probably for the best; he didn’t want to take it off anyway. He picks his bag back up and slings it over his shoulder again. Happy, who had already started moving on to dish out more directions, does a double-take and refocuses on him.
“What are you doing with that bag? You’re not planning on wearing that in the ring are you?”
He actually had been planning on that. He’s confident he can maneuver with it and still kick ass. “Yes?”
Happy winces and waves both hands in a big motion. “No way, no way. Not allowed, bro. What, you want to cushion some blows with it? Use it to hit someone? That’s not okay. Put it down.” He waves to a corner of the pool.
Porsche hesitates. “What if someone steals it?” He really shouldn’t be talking back so much, but his blood is already singing, making him forgetful, his manners slipping away so easily.
Happy throws his hands up. “ Aish! Pain in my ass. Jom! Where the fuck is Jom? Best,” Happy calls out to his second in command. “Best, go get me Jom.” Best scrambles off to the side of the pool, where he shouts up at someone standing on the edge.
Good. Porsche isn’t in trouble. That’s all that matters.
A moment later, Best and the other guy come back. This new guy is clearly not a fighter; he’s dressed in decent clothes, lots of jewelry. He has a long, angular face and eyes that look permanently sleepy.
Happy pats Jom on the shoulder, making him stagger a bit.
“This is Jom, probably the most honest guy in the place,” Happy says. “He’s here every week. Now, you can either pay him to watch your bag, or you can go home and stop bothering me. Sort it out. Matches start in just a few minutes.” With that said, Happy walks away to yell at some other young men, telling them to warm up.
Porsche looks at Jom, and Jom looks at Porsche. Jom shrugs affably. “You need me to watch your stuff, man?”
Porsche doesn’t want to, but it seems like he doesn’t have a choice. “Yeah. Is ฿500 enough? You’re not gonna mess with anything, right?”
“Nah, man, I’m not gonna mess with anything,” Jom says with a lazy flap of his hand. “And ฿500 is great. You a good fighter, man? What’s your name?”
Porsche pulls his bag over his head and puts it down for a second. Then he pulls a bill out of his pocket, along with his phone.
“I’m Phoenix,” Porsche says, “and yeah, I’m good.” He tucks the phone into the bag and hands the money to Jom.
Jom snaps two fingers together and makes a punching jab in the air. He gives Porsche a huge, dopey grin. “All right! Okay, I’m gonna bet this on you winning in the second round, so you can pay me even more. Awesome!” He picks up the bag and slings the strap across his torso.
Jom’s smile is big, open, and warm-hearted. It glows in the rainbow-colored neon lights.
“What if I lose the second round?” Porsche asks.
Jom shrugs. “Then you’re out of the fight anyway, and I give you back your bag. It’s whatever, man. Good luck, and go win me some cash!”
Jom trots away, but he doesn’t leave the pit area of the pool. Instead he goes to the ledge and leans on it, while another guy standing on the deck crouches down to talk with him.
Great. Now Porsche is going to have to keep half an eye on this Jom guy to make sure he doesn’t wander off. It’s fine, though. He surveys the other fighters, particularly the ones he’s up against in the first round.
After all his experiences, maybe it should be scary to put himself back in the ring. Probably any sane person would be terrified. But for Porsche, stepping into the ring feels like coming home when nothing else does. He owns any ring he steps into, no matter what country he’s in, no matter who he’s facing.
Porsche feels good, muscles limber and supple, all warmed up. Feet are a little tired from pounding the pavement, but otherwise he’s in vastly better shape than he’s used to.
Happy instructs the first group to step into the ring; Porsche is in the first cohort. Two girls in matching red dresses dance on a raised block in the center. They’re waving flags, and the crowd is cheering, calling out names, making bets.
Looking at the other fighters, Porsche smiles and thinks, I’m going to have to hold back.
Even holding back, he makes a clean sweep.
By the end, his shirt is soaked with sweat, his knuckles are bloody, and he’ll have a few interesting bruises blooming on his sides and face in the next few hours.
When he wins, the crowd yells with delight, rooting for the newbie underdog who was never an underdog at all. Jom comes rushing over to him, bag bouncing on his hip. Porsche almost flinches when Jom grabs his wrist and lifts it high in the air, screaming wildly.
But then, what’s truly amazing is that when it’s over, it’s over. Some of the other fighters congratulate him, want to ask about his moves. Jom lingers at his elbow and makes introductions. A man called Tem, the one Jom was talking with earlier, hops down into the ring and joins them.
There’s no one to claim him and take him away. He gets… disoriented, just a bit, as he catches his breath. He goes where Jom guides him, replies succinctly to questions.
“Hey, Phoenix! Phoenix?” Jom says.
Porsche blinks a couple times. “Yeah?”
Jom grins. “Ready to collect your winnings?”
That’s right. He’s getting paid for this. The winnings are his, not anyone else’s.
Porsche smiles, and it feels strange. It makes a cut on his lip sting. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
Jom whoops. “That’s the spirit, man! You deserve it. Oh my god, you were so awesome. Best night I’ve had in a long time. Here, take this back, too.” Jom hands over Porsche’s duffle, and he slips it over his head.
“Hey, man, I’m going to head out,” Tem says to Jom. “See you next week?”
“Yeah, see you then. Hey, tell your mom I said hi,” Jom replies with an eyebrow waggle.
“Ha ha, fuck off.” Tem gives Jom the middle finger as he walks to the pool ladder.
Other people are also clearing out, but Jom steers Porsche over to Happy. The ring manager is leaning against the pool wall, counting out cash.
Happy takes one look at Porsche and shakes his head, wiping his sweaty brow with a towel. “Kid, where did you even come from? Are you ex-military? Former secret service?”
Porsche shrugs. “No.” He leaves it at that. Jom and Happy both give him perplexed looks, but what else is he supposed to tell them? The truth? Not happening.
Happy waves a hand. “You know what? Nevermind. I don’t wanna know. Here’s your winnings.” He passes the stack of bills in his hand to Porsche, and Porsche takes it.
Jom nudges Porsche and says to him quietly, “You should count that.”
Porsche looks at Jom, and Jom jerks his chin at the money. Porsche follows the advice and counts out ฿10,000.
“Oi, Happy, what about the rest?” Jom asks. “You gave First ฿13,000 last week when he won.”
Happy shrugs, unrepentant. “Yeah, but this guy,” he points at Porsche, “finished the fights too quickly, so we didn’t make as much. It’s what I’ve got, man.”
Jom groans beside Porsche. Porsche supposes he should be upset and demand the extra ฿3,000, but he’s suddenly exhausted. He can always come back and make more tomorrow night. If Happy needs him to draw out the fights, make them exciting, he can do that.
Or so he thinks, until Happy opens his mouth again.
“And Phoenix, I don’t wanna see you in my ring again,” says the little man. “This is kiddy shit for you, bro. It’s like letting a shark loose in a fishbowl.”
Fuck. “I really need the cash,” he says simply.
“Don’t we all?” Happy laughs. “But I can’t have you fucking up my guys. And the audience may have loved you tonight, but they’ll turn on you. Our people, they like fair fights. No, man, you gotta go.”
Porsche clutches the cash in his hand. He increased his reserves, but he’s still right back where he started.
Happy’s face goes through a series of emotions, but then finally he nods. “Let me put in a good word for you with Mark. He runs a bigger op downtown. That’ll be more your speed, and Mark lets me recommend guys to him sometimes, if the guys are really good. But it’s normally invite-only, so if I give you the rec, you gotta show up. Don’t make me look bad, got it? You’ll never get another shot.”
Porsche considers for a moment. He relaxes his death grip on the stack of ฿1,000 notes in his hand, makes himself tuck them in his pocket.
Then he asks, “It’s a clean ring? No handlers?”
Happy’s eyes slowly go wide, and his numerous frenetic, anxious movements stop. He takes Porsche in again with something like concern in his gaze. Jom looks back and forth between them, appearing bewildered.
“Clean ring, man, I swear,” Happy says.
Porsche stares at him, hard. But Happy, small and weak as he is, even knowing how strong Porsche is, doesn’t flinch. That’s what makes Porsche finally nod.
“I’ll take that rec, then,” he says. “I appreciate it.”
Jom and Porsche wait while Happy makes a couple phone calls. Then Porsche reluctantly gets out his phone and turns it on to make notes about the location of this downtown fight club, a place called the Blue Room. The next fight is tomorrow, and Porsche has to show up at six on the dot. After imparting the essential info, Happy scurries off. Porsche quickly turns off his phone again, putting it away.
The makeshift venue is closing down for the night. Happy’s helper starts going around the place, turning out the various lights.
“Come on, man,” Jom says, indicating the pool ladder, and Porsche follows his lead.
They walk out in silence. Where there had been so much noise before, now the place is going quiet and still. Porsche’s mind is also going quiet and still.
When they step outside the high black fence, Jom stops him with a hand on his arm.
“Hey, man, I know it’s not my business, but you okay? You got a place to stay tonight?”
Fuck. Reality starts to come crashing back into Porsche, the stillness in his mind shattered with a kind of buzzing. “I’ll find something,” he hears himself saying. A park bench. A quiet alleyway. At least he has a change of clothes in his bag.
Jom takes a deep breath and looks at him thoughtfully. “I have a couch. It’s not much, but come crash at my place.”
Porsche hedges. He doesn’t know Jom… but he watched over Porsche’s bag and gave it back, just like he said he would. Of course, that’s no guarantee that Jom is truly trustworthy.
“I don’t want any favors,” Porsche says.
“I get that, I get that,” Jom says, nodding. Then he nods thoughtfully. “Hey, how about this? I’ve never been able to get into the Blue Room, and Happy said you can take one person with you, right? If you get me in, that’s worth more than a night on my couch. C’mon, do me a favor? I’ve heard the fights are next level.”
Porsche should argue, or just flat-out refuse. But he’s tired, so tired.
Jom coaxes, “My apartment is shitty and small, but my couch is the best. And I’ve got ice for your knuckles.”
Mention of ice suddenly reminds Porsche that he’s banged up and throbbing in multiple places. That’s what does it; he caves and nods. “Yeah, yeah, okay. It’s a deal.”
About an hour later, Porsche has taken up residence on Jom’s really nice couch in his small, one-bedroom apartment. Porsche is freshly showered, wearing a clean set of clothes, and has a bag of ice resting on his left hand.
Jom is puttering about in the closet-sized kitchen, cleaning dishes. He keeps trying to offer Porsche something to drink, offering to get him another ice pack, suggesting late-night snacks.
Finally Porsche blurts, “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to steal something?”
Jom gives him an exasperated look. “Weren’t you afraid I was going to steal your bag?”
Embarrassment creeps up Porsche’s neck, heating his cheeks.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jom continues. “Not like I have much worth stealing. My TV? It’s bolted to the wall. I suppose you could try for my laptop or my phone, but I’ll just lock my room. No offense, man.”
Porsche snorts softly. “None taken.” Jom is one of the most casual, unassuming guys he’s ever met. Porsche can’t help but enjoy his banter.
Porsche looks at his phone where it sits on the banged-up coffee table. He doesn’t dare turn it on while he’s in Jom’s apartment — best not to give the location away to Kinn and his people. He doesn’t want Jom mixed up in his personal shit.
He’s half-tempted to ask Jom whether he can borrow his laptop, do some basic searching to get started. But… no, best not.
Besides, he’s not even sure where he’s going to start.
Jom comes over and stands next to the couch, hands on his hips. “Hey, I’m gonna head to bed. You can dump the ice in the sink when you’re done. You got everything you need, Phoenix?”
The name startles Porsche, but he nods and pats the pillow and blanket that are sitting next to him on the couch. “Yeah. Really, thank you for this. I owe you one.”
Jom shrugs, a big goofy grin on his face. “No you don’t. Remember? You’re paying me back tomorrow night. And I get to watch you kick ass again. Ya-Wacha!” Jom makes a bad fake karate move with his arms. Then he laughs at himself amiably. “G’night.”
“Night.”
Jom disappears into his room, and Porsche hears the click of a lock.
For a while, Porsche watches the ice melt in its little bag, and he thinks about what it might be like to trust someone again.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Porsche faces tough realities of homelessness, not having a place to stay or a way to provide for himself. He has a flashback to being made to fight on a full stomach, which resulted in him vomiting during the fight. After being unable to find work doing odd jobs, Porsche meets people and decides to take risks in order to earn money, taking part in a low-class prize fighting ring.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Oh BOY! For this chapter, I did so much searching on Google Maps, y'all. The park where Porsche dozed in the gazebo? Real place. Sammakon village is real, the corner shop where he got the bread and drinks is real, Hana Cafe, etc. etc.... basically I just scooted myself all the way up and down the street Porsche walked along. It was like a self-guided tour. 😂
Sooo, it was really nice to run into Jom. I wonder what might happen when Porsche wakes up and starts a new day? 😁 I tell ya, I'm looking forward to next week...
Chapter 5: The Blue Room
Summary:
Porsche finally has an opportunity to begin his search for Chay, and later he makes his first appearance at the Blue Room, a high-end illegal fighting operation in the heart of Bangkok.
Notes:
Because my good buddy nuwildcat will not be posting the next chapter of Silvered Perceptions today, I thought I'd move Bad Bet up a day. (No, this doesn't mean Thursday will become my regular posting day. Back to Friday next week!)
Also, love love love to enbymoomin for beta review! 💖 You're amazing at catching those final oopsies, bringing the story to a glossy polish!
REMINDER: I have posted a brief spoiler description of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need. (But there really is almost nothing for this chapter.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Porsche wakes with a sudden start when a hand lands on his shoulder. The hand pulls away immediately, and Porsche turns his head to find Jom there next to the couch, both hands raised.
“Sorry, bro, didn’t mean to startle you,” Jom says. “Wanted to let you sleep as long as you could, but I need to leave for work in about an hour. My day job awaits.”
Porsche lets himself relax and rubs some sleep out of his eyes. “Okay. Can I use your —”
“Yeah, you know where the bathroom is.” Jom walks away, toward the kitchen.
Porsche uncurls from where he was pressed face-first into the back of Jom’s incredibly comfortable couch. He sits up and stretches slowly, testing his fresh aches and bruises. Jaw hurts, knuckles hurt, right ribs and right calf hurt. A pink scar on his left side pulls with the stretch. No serious injuries. Overall he’s in good shape. He climbs to his feet and yawns his way over to the bathroom.
When he gets out of the bathroom, he smells food. Slowly, he wanders to the kitchen area. He finds Jom washing a pan, and on the small kitchen table, a place is set with rice, scrambled eggs, and mango juice.
“I made too much,” Jom says, nodding at the setting. “Go ahead, that’s yours. I already ate, and I hate leftovers.”
Did Jom really make breakfast and eat without waking Porsche? He’s a light sleeper; that shouldn’t have been possible.
“You don’t have to…” Porsche starts, but his stomach rumbles.
Jom pauses in his scrubbing to give Porsche a dry, unamused look. “Bro, it’s just eggs and rice. My ma would pinch me so hard if I ever let a guest leave hungry.” He rinses off the pan and starts toweling it dry, apparently uninterested in any further argument.
Porsche mumbles a small “thanks” and sits down to tuck in. It’s a completely plain, unadorned meal, not quite warm anymore, and it hits the spot so perfectly that Porsche wants to sing its praises. When he looks up to compliment the cook, Jom is already gone, and sounds of movement come from the bedroom. As much as Porsche would like to savor it, he eats quickly; Jom has to go, which means Porsche needs to be ready.
He’s finished eating and has cleaned his dishes by the time Jom comes back out, now wearing slacks and a nice button-down.
“Thanks,” Porsche says, and Jom seems startled. “For breakfast, I mean. It was really good.”
Jom winces and waves off the compliment. “Don’t worry about it. Um, hey, you wanna give me your number so I can call you later, pick you up for the Blue Room tonight?”
Oh, shit. Porsche hadn’t even thought of that.
“No,” he says too quickly, getting a raised brow from Jom. “I mean, can’t I just meet you back here?” He doesn’t want to turn on his phone while he’s in Jom’s apartment, beaming that location information to whoever might be paying attention back at the Theerapanyakul enterprise.
“I suppose, but it’d be really helpful to have a way to get in touch,” Jom says, hand on the back of his neck.
“Maybe you could write your number down for me? I’ll text you my number later.”
Jom gives him a questioning look, but he nods. “Sure, that works too.” He pulls paper and a pen from a drawer, and a moment later he’s handing his number to Porsche. It also has his address written down. “Um, so, you got plans for today, Phoenix? Other than tonight.”
Porsche hesitates a moment before saying, “Yeah, I was hoping I could find a library. Do you, ah, do you know of one nearby?”
Jom frowns thoughtfully. “Not right in this area. But hey! There’s one on my way to work. I could drop you off, if you want? But we’d need to leave right now.”
Porsche can’t help the little bounce in place that he does. “Yeah, yeah, that’d be great. Thank you, really, thank you so much.”
“I swear man, if you say ‘thank you’ one more time today, I’ll hit you. I don’t care if you can kick my ass with just your pinky finger; I’ll still do it.”
That startles a rusty laugh out of Porsche. It surprises him.
Jom smiles back at him and jerks his chin. “C’mon, we gotta go.”
From there it’s a quick scramble. Porsche grabs his phone from where it’s sitting idle on the coffee table, stuffs his sweat-crusted clothes from last night into a corner of his bag, and rediscovers his new wad of cash. It takes him just a few moments to redistribute the money into various stashes.
Then he and Jom are rushing out the door and on their way. Jom drives fast, and it makes Porsche wonder whether the man lied about the library being on his way to work.
Eventually Jom pulls to the side of the road next to the stone entryway to a wide, sunny alley. It’s lush with trees, and on the right is the gold spire of a temple. Outside the artful stone wall, a couple of aunties are just starting to set up small table stalls for the day, large umbrellas raised to block the sun. They’re setting out fruits and flowers.
“Library’s on the left, that big building hiding behind all those trees,” Jom says. “Oh, and if you get hungry later, just keep heading straight down this road. You’ll go under the bypass, and on the other side there’s a huge market, a mall, and some fast food places.”
Porsche turns to Jom, makes his eyes wide, and very deliberately says, “Thank you.”
“Oi, jerk, what did I say about that? Get outta my car. Get out, go!” Jom shoos him with big sweeping gestures, and Porsche scrambles out. A small, involuntary smile tugs at his lips.
Porsche shuts the car door, but as soon as he does, the window starts to slide down, so he leans over to look inside.
“Hey, don’t forget to text me your number, yeah? I’ll come pick you up around five, but only if I know where you’ll be.”
“Yeah, I’ll text you.”
“Okay, later, man.”
Porsche waves as Jom drives away. Then he briskly walks over to the library. It’s a big building, four stories tall and modern-looking. It has a small courtyard in front, with an elevated statue of a woman, flowers decorating the altar at her feet. But Porsche bypasses that, making a bee-line for the door, only to discover that the library isn’t open yet. He has a little more than an hour to wait.
It’s fine. It’s fine, he tells himself. He can wait a bit longer. He’s waited this long.
He doesn’t see any benches around, so he sits down on the wide stairs that lead up to the door, surrounded by an assortment of potted plants.
Porsche pulls the paper with Jom’s phone number out of one pocket, and then he gets out the phone Kinn gave him. After fiddling with the phone, he finally turns it on.
It doesn’t bite him. No mean-looking men in suits pop out from behind the bushes to take him away. It just dings cheerfully and then loads the home screen. To his surprise, the text app shows notifications. Someone was texting him. After another moment of hesitation, he opens the app, only to find they’re from P’Chan.
Chan: Khun Kinn asked me to remind you about his standing offer, which expires 29 days from now. Following are further details.
The next two texts are snapshots of paper forms with detail after detail written up in legalese. Porsche can barely make sense of it. Thankfully, he doesn’t need to. It takes him a couple tries, but he figures out how to close the app and get back to the home screen. It takes him a few more minutes to figure out how and where to add Jom as a contact, but he gets it sorted out eventually.
He sends Jom a text.
Me: hi it’s me. Thank u again for the couch and breakfast
A minute later, he gets a reply message.
Jom: 🤬🖕 ass. See you later.
Porsche can’t help but snicker. When he realizes the sound escaped him, he looks up quickly to see whether anyone heard, but there’s no one else in the courtyard.
Task complete, he fiddles with the phone again, rotating it between his fingertips. It would be so easy to pull up a browser like Pete showed him, start typing things, start searching… but no. He has no idea what information someone — the someone who gave him this phone — might be able to get if he uses it. He’s so close. He can wait just a bit longer.
A press of a button turns the phone back off again, and he banishes it to the inner pocket of his duffle; best to reduce temptation. He gets up, works through some stretches and practices some light tai chi, and then goes for a stroll. As he walks, he allows himself to become distracted, deliberately losing track of time.
When he gets back, the doors are wide open, and a few patrons are wandering in just ahead of him. He grips the strap of his bag as he slowly walks in and wanders past the front desk, but no one stops him to ask that he remove the bag.
The library is large, spacious, with attractive interior design. Porsche cares little for that. He searches until he finds what he’s looking for: the computer lab. It’s on the second floor. The lab is in a room of its own, separated from the rest of the bookshelves, with large windows putting the lab on display. The computers are set up on two tables in neat rows, and a couple of patrons are already situated at them.
Porsche enters the room, and next to the entrance is a desk. The woman behind the desk greets him.
“Good morning,” she says cheerily. She’s neither young nor old and has a round, matronly face. “Can I help you with anything?” She looks him over, and he sees the moment when she belatedly reacts to his face, but it comes across as nothing more than a blink and a slight twitch. Her smile never falters.
Porsche uses his thumbs to scratch at the bag’s strap. “I wanted to use one of the computers? Can I?”
“Of course! Happy to help you with that. If you’ll just sign in here with your name and library card ID, you can have a two-hour time slot. But,” she leans over conspiratorially, “between you and me, not many people come at this time of day, so you can go ahead and take two time slots. I promise not to tell.”
Porsche looks between the woman, whose name tag reads Isra, and the computers. “I don’t… have a library card.”
“Well, that’s easy to fix. I can help you sign up.” Isra opens a drawer in her desk and pulls out a sheet of paper, sliding it toward Porsche. “Just fill this out and I can get you set up.”
Porsche swallows. He leans forward and quietly asks. “Is that necessary? I can’t just, you know, use a computer for a bit?”
Isra raises her brows. “We keep track of who uses our computers in case anything is damaged, so yes, it really is necessary.”
Fuck. If this doesn’t work out, he’s going to have to use the phone after all.
Porsche scratches the bag strap a little harder. He looks around at the three patrons in the room, but none of them are paying any attention to the conversation. “I don’t really have… an address. Or, um, ID.”
Isra blinks slowly and looks at Porsche again, as though she’s recalculating the sum total of him once more and coming up with a different output. Her smile still doesn’t falter, but she takes back the untouched form and puts it back in the desk.
“Do you have anything you can leave with me?” Isra asks. “Just for however long you need to use the computer.”
Porsche’s heart is in his throat. “My phone? Would that work? But you won’t touch it, will you?”
Isra closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Won’t lay a finger on it. And I can lock it in a drawer so no one else will either. Just don’t tell my boss I’m making exceptions, okay? Shh.” Isra winks and opens a drawer to a filing cabinet behind the desk, waving Porsche around to place the phone there himself.
Then she locks the drawer and asks him to pick a computer. He picks one as close as possible to the front desk; if she opens the drawer, he’ll see it.
Isra starts up the computer and types some generic user information and a password, and then gestures for Porsche to take a seat.
“If you need any help with anything, just let me know,” Isra says. She turns to go back to her desk.
Porsche jiggles his leg a couple times but quickly says, “How would you search for people? Ones you haven’t seen for a long time?”
Isra turns back and considers that. She leans against the wooden table. “I’d probably start just by opening Google and searching for their name, see what might happen. But that’s not often likely to come up with much. Then I’d probably try online phone indexes and social media.”
Porsche nods quickly. “Okay. Okay.”
Isra looks at him curiously. “Would you like a hand with that?”
Porsche shoots a gaze over at the front desk. A patron has just come in and is helping themself to the registry, signing in for a computer timeslot. “You don’t have to…”
“It’s fine,” Isra says. “I can keep an eye on the desk from here. Now, where are we starting?” She pulls over the chair from the computer next to Porsche, crowding into his space. He scooches away, making room. He yields the keyboard to her entirely.
“I’m looking for…” Chay, I’m looking for Chay, “Thee. Thee Kittisawat.”
Under the table, he clenches his left fist so hard that it almost stops the shaking.
“Okay, let’s do this.” Isra literally cracks her knuckles. “Any hints besides a name? Any idea of where he might live, maybe a place of work?”
“The last I knew, he was in Bangkok, but… that was a long time ago. And work… it was off and on. He did odd jobs, factory work sometimes. I don’t really remember any of the places.”
“Well, at least we have a name and a location,” Isra says with a wry grin. “I’ve started with less.”
And then Isra starts flying. She types incredibly fast, pulls up screen after screen on the monitor at lightning speed, with frequent pauses to direct Porsche’s attention. Sometimes she asks him additional questions, like how old is Thee, how long has it been since Porsche saw him, how likely is it that he’s still in Bangkok. Porsche answers as best as he can.
Isra fails and fails and keeps trying, meanwhile explaining what she’s doing each time almost as though she has a teaching habit that she just can’t quit. The longer it takes, the more determined Isra seems to get. Porsche picks up what he can from her about her searching methods as she zooms through the internet, but he also starts to wonder whether maybe Thee left Bangkok or even Thailand.
If Thee left, would he have taken Chay with him? Porsche’s leg starts jiggling, and he keeps stopping it every time it starts.
“Oh dear,” Isra says suddenly. “I’m sorry, but I think I’ve found it. Is this the right person?”
Porsche snaps his attention back to the computer. He’d been staring at… something. A bookshelf he could see through the interior windows to the lab.
Isra has pulled up the archive section of a newspaper’s web page. On the screen is a list of obituaries, and right there in the middle of the screen is a picture of Thee Kittisawat, next to nothing more than his name, birth date, death date, and an exceedingly short description.
The first thing Porsche hones in on is the description: “Thee Kittisawat is survived by his nephew, Porchay Pichaya Kittisawat.” Something inside Porsche’s chest tightens, loosens, and then tightens again in rapid succession.
The next thing Porsche notices is the death date: Thee died less than two months after he sold Porsche into slavery.
His palm hurts. His nails are digging into the flesh of his hands so hard he might start bleeding. He forces himself to let go.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” Isra says. “Were you close to him?”
“No,” Porsche chokes out. “No, it’s fine.”
It’s good that he’s dead, Porsche thinks. I don’t have to kill him.
At the same time he thinks, But I wanted to. I wanted to, and now I can’t.
“Can you… can you do one more?” Porsche asks quietly around the roaring in his head.
“I can certainly try. You said you were searching for more than one, didn’t you? Have another name for me, honey?” She cranes her neck to look around at the other patrons, but everyone else seems to be self-sufficient. “I still have a little time.”
Porsche nods. He doesn’t trust his voice right now, so instead he points to where Porchay Kittisawat is typed in Thee’s miniscule obituary.
Isra frowns as she reads. “Porchay. Hmm. Hm.” She taps a finger on the tabletop a couple times.
“What is it?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing, nothing. I just feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before. Probably my mistake. Let’s see what we’ve got, huh?”
She starts searching. Porsche shuffles in his seat, telling himself not to get his hopes up. Porchay was only ten… he was only fucking ten. And completely alone. Where would that even put him? Straight into foster care? The chances of finding a clear trail are probably incredibly slim. It might take Porsche a long time to —
“Got it!” Isra cheers quietly, with a little bounce in her seat. “I was right; I did know that name. Some of my teenage patrons have been talking about this one recently, gushing. Is this who you’re looking for? This is him, isn’t it?”
On the screen, instead of another phone number search tool or online newspaper or social media site, Isra has pulled up a web page… no, an entire website.
The web address is porchaykittisawat.com.
The description on the left starts with “Porchay Kittisawat, singer and musician.”
The photo on the right is of a handsome young man. He’s sitting down on a metal chair and staring straight into the camera, as though daring the photographer to take the shot. His left hand is curled around the fret board of a guitar, cradling it close to his cheek as he leans forward over the body of a guitar like some sort of bird of prey.
The cheeks are lean and narrow rather than round and soft. The hair is styled perfectly instead of wavy and unkempt. The expression is surly without any hint of sweetness or smile. The eyes are lined with black.
And yet Porsche would recognize his brother anywhere.
“Honey?”
Porsche startles badly, jumping in his seat. “Yes?”
“So sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, hon,” Isra says, making a placating gesture with her hand. “Is this who you were looking for?”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s him.” Porsche swallows hard. “Can I…?” He points at the keyboard and mouse.
“Of course, of course, don’t mind me. It’s all yours!” Isra gets up and puts the chair she used back in its place. She makes a gesture like she wants to reach out to pat Porsche’s shoulder, but she stops herself. “Take all the time you need, okay? I should get back to my station.”
Porsche hardly pays attention as she walks away.
His brother is okay. Porchay is okay. Porchay is more than okay. He’s an idol, a talent!
Thee never sold him. He never went through any of what Porsche did. He didn’t… he didn’t. He’s okay. Porsche won’t be spending the next however many years searching for him, because he’s right there.
Porsche loses time just staring, trying to get his thoughts in order. He alternates between quietly laughing and choking back tears. At some point, he realizes a box of tissues has appeared next to him. Isra must have put it there when he wasn’t paying attention.
It’s been nine years since Porsche last saw his brother’s face, but there it is, staring back at him. Suddenly desperate for more pictures, Porsche uses the mouse to click the Gallery tab on the website, and then it’s picture after picture of him. Bright and smiling on a stage, looking comfortable and confident at a photoshoot, standing tall and straight to face the hanging mic. Photo after photo, some candid and some staged, Porsche soaks them all in, one by one. He takes in every minor and major change in his brother’s appearance, from the length of his hair to the way he stands. A couple of times he has to stop and just stare down at the keyboard, too overwhelmed.
Porsche had imagined at least a hundred ways Chay could have been hurt or worse. It hardly crossed his mind that Chay could be thriving.
Staring down at the keyboard, he clutches his fist and stifles a laugh of pure hysteria. Of course he’s fine. Chay deserves nothing less. Only the best for his little brother, only the best. A droplet of water suddenly falls and makes a dark blue spot on his jeans.
Porsche lifts his head and scrubs his face with one hand, then grabs a tissue and uses that instead. Then he clicks the tab labeled My Music.
Frantic, he rushes over to Isra to ask whether he can listen on the computer. She asks whether he has headphones or earbuds, and he remembers that he still has the buds that came in the box with his phone. Isra helps him get set up, and then suddenly he can hear Chay’s voice.
He sings like an angel. He answers interview questions like a seasoned professional even though he’s only nineteen. He’s amazing. He’s perfect.
Next, Porsche starts reading. He reads the front page details, where he finds confirmation that Porchay is based in Bangkok. Apparently Chay started learning music when he was thirteen, and he stumbled into stardom when one of his home videos went viral a couple years ago. Porsche devours everything there is to learn, although the website doesn’t have nearly as much as he could wish for.
After he finishes reading the bio for the fifth time, Porsche slowly points the cursor to the Contact page.
He finds a form. It requires a name and an email address along with a message. Porsche isn’t looking for a form, though; he needs a goddamn phone number to call. He looks around on the contact page for anything else, any other way to contact, but all he can find is the address for a post office box.
There’s another tab on the website, this one for upcoming live events. Chay has a regular stream twice a week, but his next in-person event is an entire month away.
He goes back to the contact form. Stares at it. Jiggles his leg. After a couple minutes of internal debate, he gets up and walks to Isra’s desk.
She looks up at him, and her smile is indulgent, warm. “Something you need, hon?”
“How do I set up an email address?” Porsche whispers.
“Oh, that’ll be easy. This won’t take long at all. Leave it to me.” She pantomimes making a muscle, despite the fact that her arm is hidden in a loose sleeve.
In just a matter of minutes, Isra has him set up with an email account. Then she pulls his phone out of the drawer to show him how to access the email account there as well.
When he has a handle on it, Porsche makes a wai. “Thank you, really, thank you. I need just a bit longer on the computer, so, here.” He tries to hand the phone back to her, his good faith collateral.
Isra pushes his hand back toward him. “Don’t worry about it. Just don’t forget to include your email in the message, okay?”
“Okay,” Porsche says, and he manages to dig up a little smile.
Isra beams back at him. “Good, good. You’ve got this.” She gives him a thumbs up before going back to the desk.
Then it takes Porsche almost an hour to write what should be the easiest message in the world. He writes it, deletes it, and rewrites it so many times he loses count. In the end, what he comes up with is short and straightforward.
Email:*
[email protected]
Subject:*
To Chay, from Porsche
Message:*
hi Chay,
I don’t mean to shock you after it’s been so long but this is Porsche. I’m back in Bangkok. I’ve missed you so much and I’m so proud of you!! you’re a real star just like you deserve.
I want more than anything to see you. where are you? Can we meet? whenever and wherever I’ll be there. my email is [email protected] and my phone number is 66XXX42061
love
Porsche
It takes him another ten minutes of staring before he finally clicks the Send button. Then, exhausted, he slumps back in his chair. He hasn’t been doing much, but he feels like he just ran a marathon. His palms have been sweating, so he wipes them on his jeans. When he looks around, he realizes the lab has become completely full around him. The clock on the wall reads almost one o’clock.
Porsche’s stomach rumbles.
Reluctantly, he closes out of the websites that Isra pulled up for him. Then he picks up his bag and walks to the desk, but there’s a man sitting there now.
Disappointed, Porsche asks, “Is Isra…?”
The man looks up at him. “She’s on her lunch break. She’ll be back in half an hour. Did you need her specifically, or is there something I can help you with?”
Porsche shakes his head. “I just wanted to thank her.”
“Well, that’s nice of you.” The man slides a small pad of paper to him. “Will this do?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He writes a simple message.
Thank you for all your help. You’re a real hero. ~PK
After an urgent pitstop at the bathroom on the first floor, Porsche steps out of the library and takes a deep breath of fresh air.
A short walk two blocks south brings Porsche to a busy shopping district. A stop at the Gugu Chicken makes quick work of filling his empty stomach, and then he picks up some bottled water at the convenience store next door.
The rest of the afternoon he spends wandering the market and the Plearnary Mall next to it. Every now and then he checks his phone for any new email or text, but his phone remains quiet.
Porsche makes one purchase at the mall: a button-down shirt. It’s baby blue and long-sleeved, and it’s hanging on a clearance rack. The sleeves will cover more of the scars.
It’s an indulgence, and probably not the wisest use of his limited cash, but he needs something nice to wear to meet Chay.
Around four o’clock, he sits himself on the stone wall at the mall’s entryway. He’s already sent Jom his location, so all he needs to do now is wait. That’s when a sudden ding from his phone startles him.
He has an email. He has an email already. Porsche nearly drops his phone, fumbling in his haste to open it.
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Re: To Chay, from Porsche
Message:
Hi,
You aren’t the first person to claim to be Porsche, so I’m sorry about this, but can you answer a couple questions to prove your identity?
Who broke Auntie Chuenchob’s window?
What was the cat’s name?
What did Porsche often bring home after school?
Thanks.
Porsche is taken aback, but when he thinks about it, it makes sense. Chay is famous now. If people know Chay has a missing brother, they could use that to try to take advantage of him. It’s good that Chay is being cautious, really good; life lessons learned.
The questions throw him for just a minute, but then he realizes it’s a test. An amused little smile tickles at the corners of his mouth.
Subject:
Re: Re: To Chay, from Porsche
Message:
Hi,
good thinking! You always were the smart one.
It was Auntie Phongsupan and her own dog broke her window screen. anyone who says different is LYING
we didn’t have a real cat even though you begged for one. We couldn’t afford it. But you had this stuffed orange cat and you gave it a million names. the name I remember the most was noodle, but you also called it peanut and miss kitty and daisy and one time you lost it at the park and it got muddy and you wouldn’t stop crying. I spent a whole night washing it
I brought home sweet rolls but I didn’t bring them home from school. I came home, checked on you then went out again to get them. I have some right now!!! I went by the old house and then went to sammakorn village and got some.
Is that enough? I want you to feel safe. but I also want to see you soon
love
Porsche
Typing on the little screen is slow going, and he has to stop several times to make corrections, but it’s time well spent.
This time he clicks the Send button without any hesitation.
He smiles and kicks his heels against the concrete as he waits for Jom.
Getting to the Blue Room involves a trek through downtown Bangkok and a turn down a dingy alleyway. Porsche and Jom come to a door with a bright neon sign above it that reads Pink Spice Club. A bouncer leans against the wall next to the door, smoking a joint. He gives them a bored look.
Bouncer Guy pulls the joint out of his mouth. “Club’s not open yet,” he says. “Come back in an hour.”
Jom gives the man a nod. “Hey, bro. This guy here is Phoenix.” Jom jerks a thumb in Porsche’s direction. “He’s here to fight. Happy sent a recommendation to Mark last night.”
Bouncer eyes Porsche up and down and nods slowly. “Okay. And who’re you?” he asks Jom.
“I’m here with him,” Jom says.
Bouncer shrugs. “You’re cleanup crew, no problem. Go on in.” He waves at the door.
Porsche heads inside while Jom gaps behind him at the bouncer.
“Cleanup crew, what?” Jom asks.
“Come on,” Porsche says through the open door. Jom scrambles to follow, and the door slams behind them with a solid thunk. They’re in a narrow hallway lit up with pink and gold lights. Pointy geometric designs are painted on the walls in bright pink and blue.
“Hey, what did he mean by ‘cleanup crew’?” Jom asks.
“He means if I get knocked out, you carry me out,” Porsche explains.
“Oh, shit, really? Hey, don’t get knocked out, bro.”
Porsche snorts. “I haven’t been knocked out in years.”
The hallway spills into a large, open room. Small tables are set up around a huge dance floor, and large booths are tucked into corners and crevices along the walls. The ceiling is raised, allowing for a second floor, a couple of stairways leading up to balcony space that overlooks the dance floor. At one end of the room is a stage with a raised DJ’s booth at the back of it. A low thrum of music fills the empty space, but no one is at the table. At the opposite end of the room from the stage is a bar that takes up the entire wall.
A few barflies with apparent early access are sitting at the bar. Some girls dressed in gogo outfits are relaxing in one of the booths. Another dancing girl emerges from behind the stage, and she rushes to the others, who greet her warmly.
Porsche cranes his neck, looking around, and Jom does the same next to him.
A bartender calls out to them. “Hey, fresh meat! You want the blue door behind the stage. Take the stairwell down, not up.”
“Thanks,” Porsche calls back. He heads for the side of the stage.
Jom again scrambles to keep up. “They sure don’t seem too worried about security here.”
Porsche shrugs. “It’s probably an open secret. Cops take their cut and leave the place alone. Might get raided a couple times each year just for show.”
“Huh,” Jom replies. “Beats getting raided every month.”
Porsche huffs in reply.
They find the blue door in question and head down the stairs, only to find another blue door, and through this door they find another club.
It definitely deserves the name Blue Room. Nearly everything is blue. The space is huge and empty, with scattered thick support columns and a couple of small bars. Industrial pipes run all along the basement walls. A large, raised fighting ring is positioned centrally, but it isn’t the only one. Another smaller ring, this one with a cage around it, stands at the far end of the room. A pair of open doors give a peek into another room, where Porsche can see the edge of at least one more caged ring. In the main room, a couple stations are set up with dry erase boards behind them, lined with tape to form tables.
As with the club above, some workers are milling about. At a bookie station, someone is using a squeaky marker to fill in information on a whiteboard. A man carries a large crate full of jingling bottles to one of the bars.
“Anybody know where to find Mark?” Jom asks.
The man with the crate looks at them and continues to the bar, where he puts down the alcohol and brushes off his hands. “He’s in the bullpen. Through there.” He points at a closed door next to a bookie station.
“Thanks,” Jom says with a small wai. The man shakes his head and mutters something about newbies.
On the other side of the door is a narrow hall filled with more pipes, pressure gauges, machinery, and faded warning labels. The hall leads to yet another large room, which looks like it may once have been used for storage, but now it’s full of fighters. They’re milling about, talking, stretching, some of them practicing moves on rubber mats. It smells of sweat, stale beer, and machine oil, mixed with someone’s half-hearted attempt to spray air freshener.
A tall man with a goatee, a blue-and-white shirt, and small round glasses walks around the room, barking orders and making notes on a clipboard. He quickly spots Porsche and Jom.
“You!” He points at Porsche, ignoring Jom. “Are you the new guy Happy sent me? You’re five minutes late.”
Porsche makes a wai, and Jom follows quickly. “I’m sorry,” Porsche says. “Are you Mark?”
The man raises his bushy eyebrows. “That’s me. And this is my operation. I run a strict show, and my Blue Room entertains the cream of the crop in Bangkok, got it? This isn’t amateur hour.” He looks Porsche up and down, makes note of all the little details. “So. You know me. Now tell me about you. Name and all the styles you’re trained in, go.”
“Phoenix,” Porsche responds automatically. “I’ve trained in Taekwondo, Krav Maga, Muay Thai, European and American boxing, Kendo, and Capoeira.”
Next to him, Jom whistles. “Shit, bro, really? That’s intense.”
Mark sucks his teeth and narrows his eyes. “Is that right? And can you stick to one style, or are you gonna switch if you’re backed into a corner?”
Porsche meets Mark’s eyes. “If you say stick to one, I won’t switch.”
Mark grins and snaps his fingers. “Ford!” he yells to the room.
“Yeah, boss!” a shirtless man calls back from across several other people.
“Warm up Capoeira,” Mark says without looking away from Porsche. “I got you a style expo partner.”
Ford groans dramatically, and several other men start laughing and ribbing him. “Fuck you, new guy!” Ford shouts, both hands up with middle fingers on display.
Porsche looks back and forth between Ford and Mark in confusion.
Mark takes a deep breath and checks his watch. “Okay, look, I have five minutes, so listen up. I’m not going to repeat this. This isn’t some low-class fight. There’s no tournament here; this isn’t your time to come out like some shining star. This is my show, got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Porsche responds. He knows Mark’s type; he’s extremely easy to deal with. All Porsche has to do is follow orders.
“Good. You’re partnering with Ford for a demo of Capoeira versus Karate. The audience will be betting on the style, not you. Got it, hot shot? First, you and Ford will fight each other both using Capoeira; just show the nice civilians what the style looks like, got it? Then your two opponents do the same with Karate. Then my adoring audience members will place their bets, and you and Ford team up to fight together against the Karate team. Losers get ฿5,000 to split. Winners get ฿10,000 each.”
That explains why one of the rings is so much larger than the others. And ฿10,000 is good, especially for a single real fight.
“Question, sir,” Porsche says.
Mark’s bushy eyebrows shoot up again. “Ask.”
“Is there a way to earn more than that?”
Mark shakes his head. “Not in the demos; that’s basic stuff, a pretty show for people who want just a little light danger. The one-on-one MMA fights are where the real money is, but first you gotta earn yourself a place. I don’t know you, kid. I know them.” Mark points at the other fighters. “Show me you deserve a shot and that I can trust you. Do a few demo nights for me, keep showing back up, on time, and then we’ll talk bigger bucks.” He finally seems to notice Jom. “Who’re you?”
Jom’s eyes widen, and he points at himself. “I’m his cleanup crew.” He points at Porsche.
Mark rolls his eyes. “Fine. But get out of my bullpen; go hang out in the Blue Room. Phoenix, go make friends with Ford. Ford! Get the new guy a uniform.” Mark walks away to go talk with another pair of fighters. At Mark’s mention of uniform, Porsche realizes most of the guys are wearing the same style of loose black pants and skin-tight T-shirts. The shirts are either light blue or dark gray.
“Guess I’m gonna go hang out. You good, bro?” Jom asks.
“Yeah, can you take my phone?”
“Sure, I got it,” Jom says. Porsche gets his phone out of his pocket and hands it over. He left his bag in the trunk of Jom’s car. His nerves buzz and tingle against leaving himself cut off from his meager possessions, but he has few other options.
“See you out there, man!”
And then Jom is gone, and Porsche goes to meet his new short-term partner, Ford.
Ford turns out to be a pretty relaxed guy. He’s in his early thirties, a very average and plain-looking man aside from the stacked muscles, and he usually fights Muay Thai and boxing. He has another one-on-one fight tonight, he explains, so even if he and Porsche lose at the Capoeira versus Karate round, he still has a chance to make up his losses. Of course, that’ll be easier if he doesn’t get injured in the demo, which explains the rude greeting earlier.
After they make their introductions, Ford pulls a uniform out of a metal cabinet and tosses it to Porsche. “Here, wear this.” It’s a set of pants and a blue top.
Porsche changes quickly in a corner to avoid attention to his scars. Ford still sees them, but he doesn’t ask questions. Porsche puts his own clothes in a locker, although there’s no lock.
They stretch and do calisthenics together, all the while Ford giving Porsche instructions on how he wants the demo to run. Porsche nods along with everything; Ford is his senior here, both in age and familiarity with the ring, and it’s best not to cause waves. They wait awhile for one of the practice mats to open up, but as soon as one is free, they claim it.
And then Porsche just… lets himself move. It’s freeing to spar with a competent partner, not to harm but just to focus on the art of the movement. And Capoeira is particularly excellent for that, with its cooperative spirit and dance-like movements. Ford corrects him a couple of times, reminding him to keep his style clean and weed out other influences, but other than that, he can just let himself drift and be.
Eventually their mat time is up, and they have to yield it to the next pair waiting.
“Not bad, man,” Ford says. He holds out a fist.
Something pleasant bubbles up inside Porsche’s chest. He nods at Ford and bumps the man’s fist with his own.
Ring runners start appearing, calling names and escorting fighters to and from the Blue Room. Mark has disappeared somewhere, likely out among the throng of guests, ensuring everything runs smoothly from the front.
Eventually a ring runner calls out, “Karate-Capoeira, Jak, Narong, Ford, Phoenix. On deck. Come with me.”
Ford grins at Porsche. It’s a little manic, which Porsche takes as a good sign.
“We’re up,” Ford says. “Let’s go.”
When they enter the Blue Room, it’s like a completely different place from what Porsche saw before. The room is packed with people wearing designer clothes and jewelry, and the buzz of activity and sparkling lights hide all the industrial grittiness of the basement atmosphere. The bars and bookie stations are lit with blue uplights, and the fighting rings, both large and small, are beacons of brightness in the otherwise dim space. A low thrum of music fills the space, pumped in through speakers.
The ring runner drops the four of them off in a small-roped off pen to the side of the main stage and then leaves.
Two fighters are battling it out in the big ring, Muay Thai against Taekwondo. Some of the people around the main ring are cheering, but many others are socializing and only half paying attention. Around the smaller ring, spectators scream like mad as two men fight like demons inside the cage.
Porsche scans the throng and eventually spots Jom chatting it up with a couple socialites. A knot of tension unwinds itself from Porsche’s spine.
The fight in the main ring ends, and after cheering and proclamations, an emcee-slash-referee calls up Jak and Narong, who hoist themselves up over the edge of the stage.
As their demonstration commences, Ford leans over to Porsche.
“Jak busted his right wrist about a month ago,” Ford points out, “and Narong may be crazy fast, but he also gets hung up at odd moments, has these weird blips because he’s so dependent on Krav Maga. He struggles to stick to another style.”
Porsche wants to ask questions. And, he reminds himself, he should ask questions. His prize money, both of their prizes, are on the line.
“Who’s better out of the two of them?”
Ford looks at him with a lopsided grin. “Now you’re catching on.”
They talk strategy for the remainder of the Karate demo.
Porsche starts to bounce in place, electric energy surging through his body and reaching a fever pitch from listening to the crowd and watching the action without participating. He wants to fight; he wants to fight so badly.
The Karate demo ends, Jak and Narong leave the stage, and the emcee starts talking.
“Let’s go, asshole,” Ford says to Porsche. He hauls himself up onto the stage, and Porsche hurries to follow. Porsche bounces a couple more times, testing the surface. It’s appropriately springy. The center is double-marked with both a square and a circle.
The emcee watches them scrambling up and then comes over to them, his mic turned off. He asks Porsche his name, and Porsche says, “Phoenix.” Then the emcee turns back to the crowd with the microphone back on.
“Friends, my good friends, may I have your attention for a moment? Is this thing on?” He taps the microphone a couple times, and people around the room who are chatting perk up and look to the stage. “Is anyone here tonight in the mood for a little fresh meat?” The emcee draws out the word “meat” dramatically, and the onlookers eat it up, cheering and clapping. “Excellent, because we have a fresh new fighter, and we’re throwing him in with the rest of ‘em. Friends, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to the Phoenix,” here he gestures at Porsche, and he raises one fist in the air without question, “but the real question is, will this firebird crash or soar?” The audience eats out of the palm of the emcee’s hand, coming to life with a raucous mix of cheering and jeering.
The emcee turns the mic off again and walks over to Porsche. “Hey bro. Keep it clean, don’t get cocky, and follow Ford’s lead. When you’re on this stage, you’re here for light entertainment. Make it pretty. If you can’t do that, you’re out. Capice?”
Porsche nods. “Got it.”
The emcee claps him on the shoulder and walks away to stash his mic somewhere. Porsche glances at Ford and sees him slip a plastic dental protector into his mouth.
Then the emcee is back to act as referee, and he has Porsche and Ford face in the center, with just his arm thrust held out in a straight line between them as a divider.
“Stay in the roda,” he says to them both.
Porsche looks at Ford, who grins and nods at him. Then the referee blows the whistle, scrambling back away from them, and they’re off.
He’s always loved Capoeira. There’s something joyful about it, something playful. After long, hard days of training, when he and the others were so worn out they could barely move, that’s when the trainer got out the drums and made them do Capoeira. They danced and stayed light on their toes. One of his fellows had leaned over to him one night and whispered that Capoeira was a Brazilian art, developed by enslaved Africans, people stolen from their homelands and shipped to South America. Porsche never had any way of knowing whether that was true, but it resonated with him nonetheless.
They start out cautiously, getting a better feel for each other with more space and the energy of the room to lift their movements. Ford is quick on his feet and has thick build, and Porsche has a height, so soon they use that to their advantage, Ford dipping down low to touch the mat with his high kicks, while Porsche does flashy jumping spin kicks. They weave and duck in a fight that’s just as much dance as it is battle. Ford goes into a handstand, and Porsche feints as though to headbutt him, and he barely dodges a kick to the head in time. Porsche bobs away, and Ford comes back up smoothly. Ford grins in challenge and makes a “bring it on” motion. Porsche grins and lets out a wordless shout of acceptance.
Then they really play, and together they’re a blur of motion, fast kicks and dodges, strikes coming closer and closer until they’re within a fighter’s width of contact. Ford sweeps low, and Porsche jumps over it into a somersault. Porsche goes for a hands-free au, leaping high, and Ford uses a macaco to spring away low.
The referee has to blow the whistle five times to get them to stop. Porsche feels dazed. Ford grins and gets in the referee’s face, saying they weren’t done yet. They get into a comedic mockery of a fight that has the onlookers laughing. Porsche slinks off stage and back into the tiny pit, but Ford doesn’t follow until the referee literally pushes him away. Ford hops down into the pit and gives the referee the middle finger.
“Friends, I hope you enjoyed the show,” the emcee announces. “Now it’s time to place your bets. What will it be tonight, Karate or Capoeira? Your friendly bookie can help you, but you only have ten minutes to place your bet.”
While Porsche and Ford are still trying to catch their breath, Ford leans over to him. “Nice job out there, bro. Thought you’d be some hot headed little punk with something to prove.”
Porsche has nothing left to prove in any ring. “Only thing I have proof of is that I’m broke.”
Ford laughs. “Yeah, I hear that. Hey, couple more things. Keep in mind they can use karate grappling movements, Shotokan style, so watch out for that. Also, they’re familiar with Capoeira, so you can’t rely on them being confused by it.”
Porsche scratches his chin. “What’s the scoring system?”
“Get them out of the ring three times, and they’re out. If you get pushed out, get back in immediately or they double-team me. And, last thing: Don’t break style. You break it twice, you get DQ’d, and we’re both fucked. Got it?”
“Yeah, got it.”
A few minutes later, they’re all called back onto the stage and into the ring. Porsche squares off against Narong, and Ford against Jak. The ref gives them some last-minute orders, and then, a moment of quiet tension, a drop in the music and a lull in the crowd, or maybe it’s just some sort of anxious frenzy that comes over Porsche’s head.
The whistle blows, the music changes to drum beats, and then the fight is utter chaos.
Narong comes after Porsche with a fury, all speed and agility and aggressive as fuck. Before he knows it, he’s taken a kick to the arm and the head and is nearly backed into a corner against Jak. But then Narong comes in for another head kick with a jump, and Porsche ducks low, grabbing Narong’s jumping leg just enough to dump him on his back so Porsche can get clear and get space.
Narong fights like a demon. Porsche can respect that.
Barely a split second later, the man is on him again, and this time it’s with a flurry of kicks, again backing him to the edge of the ring, but this time he adds in an unexpected palm strike that catches Porsche off balance and sends him to the mat on his back, just outside the ring.
Then Narong makes the mistake of taking his attention off Porsche, thinking he can go after Ford.
Porsche flips back to his feet and carries the momentum into a set of forward flips that get him right back into Narong’s space, and Narong, well, he isn’t ready. He does exactly the thing Ford told Porsche about; he blips. He shows a moment of hesitation, and then Porsche is on him, carrying his momentum the rest of the way through into an armada kick, spinning around to strike at his head, followed by a lucky chapa, lashing upward with a heel strike that catches Narong on the chin and sends him out of the ring.
Porsche doesn’t turn his back on Narong. He knows better. But he does check on Ford and Jak out of the corner of his eye, and Ford seems to be doing fine.
The ref blows a short trill on his whistle at Porsche and gestures for him to step away from the edge of the ring and let Narong back in. Porsche grins at Narong and lightly dances out of his way, just barely far enough to give him respectable space.
The music has changed, but Porsche can still hear the drums.
Another exchange of blows, and Porsche takes a kick to an arm but drives Narong out again.
This time Narong comes back angrier than a wet cat, exactly Porsche’s favorite kind of opponent. Porsche almost gets him out of the ring three times, but Narong refuses to be controlled that easily. It comes down to a fakeout, where Porsche mimics Narong’s earlier blip, drawing him with what he thinks will be a clean front kick, but then Porsche rolls with it, getting a lock on his leg and his waist to spin him around, hopping on one leg only to be tossed out of the ring.
And then it’s Ford, Jak, and Porsche, and that doesn’t end well for Jak. Porsche barely has to lift a finger at that point, only makes sure he’s in the way so Jak has nowhere to escape.
Ford lets out a snarl, and explodes in a burst of movement, overwhelming Jak and pushing him to the brink. When Jak tries to duck to the side, Porsche is right there with one more spinning armada to knock him out of the ring.
Porsche pants, exhilarated, and Ford comes over to slap a hand on his sweaty shoulder. The referee-turned-emcee declares them the winners. Porsche grins as he and Ford raise their fists.
Out in the audience, Jom’s cheering voice is the loudest of them all.
The first taste of fresh air is sweet when Porsche and Jom step out into the alleyway. The bouncer pays them no mind. A few people are lingering in the alley, smoking and talking. Porsche and Jom start the trek back to Jom’s car. Porsche is back in his own clothes and shoes, the uniform left behind in a huge laundry hamper.
“You should have seen it, Phoenix, really,” Jom gushes. “The back room fights are something else. One of the guys got kicked so hard he literally went ass over head. And you totally missed the Krav Maga versus Jiu Jitsu demo. Man, I can’t wait to tell the guys back poolside about it.”
Jom is revved up on the adrenaline of the night, and he continues chattering away enthusiastically. The sound of it is a good backdrop for Porsche, who feels drained to the point where his brain is empty. All his fingers and toes are tingling, and even though he knows he’s walking, he can barely feel it. Fortunately, the only thing he really has to do is follow along with Jom’s voice, just keep moving.
“Hey, bro, what did that Mark guy tell you when you talked?”
After the demo, Ford had shuffled Porsche off to one of the bookie stations and told him to wait for Mark there. Mark had shown up about a half hour later, making rounds.
“He said I did fine, better than he expected,” Porsche says. He’d gotten that a lot tonight. He wonders what they’ll think when he’s allowed to use mixed skills. “Told me to come back tomorrow for another demo.” Mark had also explained that Porsche could collect his pay from the bookies, and then he’d been pulled away to talk with a patron.
They walk out of the alley and back onto a main street.
“Bro, about that,” Jom says, giving him a side-eye. “I can come one more night, but then I’m back on the rotation at my night job.”
Porsche winces. Jom’s been going out of his way for him. “I can get myself back here tomorrow. Actually, let me get my bag and I’ll—”
Jom gives him a raised eyebrow. “Look, I saw you take a kick to the head, so I’ll let this slide as momentary confusion, but give it up. Couch is yours. It’s the least I owe you. I made so much money tonight, bro.”
Porsche halts in his tracks. “How much did you gamble?” If Jom is playing it risky because of Porsche…
Jom stops too and looks back at him. “Aww, c’mon, don’t look at me like that. You wanna know what I did? You paid me for watching your bag, right? Well I used that and won some spending money betting on you. Then I used that to bet on you tonight, and bam, big win. And that’s it; I’m cashing out. I’m gonna buy my ma a spa trip for her birthday. So you earned my couch and a couple rides. Come on, stop looking like a kicked puppy.” Jom starts walking again.
Porsche hesitates another moment, but then he rushes to catch up. A quiet sort of camaraderie descends between them as they walk the streets, Bangkok nightlife buzzing around them in neon lights and small groups of laughing thrill-seekers.
Eventually they reach the parking garage and Jom’s car. They go around to the sides of the car, but that’s when Jom pauses. He stops, shakes his head, and seems to come to some kind of decision.
“Do you really not have anyone, man?” Jom finally asks, folding his arms on the hood of the car and looking across it at Porsche. “No friends, no family you can call?”
The miasma of exhaustion suddenly rushes away like a gust of wind blew through Porsche, clearing him from the inside out. How the fuck could he have forgotten?
“There’s someone,” Porsche says. “I’m trying to find him. Hey, actually, um, the phone? Can I?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s your phone, man.” Jom unlocks the car, and he hands over the phone as they slide into their seats.
“Thanks.” Porsche takes the phone and quickly unlocks it. A reply message is waiting in his email.
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Re: Re: Re: To Chay, from Porsche
Message:
Hi,
We’d better meet up as soon as possible. Can you meet me at this cafe at 10am tomorrow?
Hydrate Café
716 Sukhumvit 103 Rd, Bang Na, Bangkok 10260
Tomorrow. Tomorrow at ten in the morning. Finally. Finally. Porsche lets out a single laugh and leans his head back against the seat’s headrest.
Jom starts the car and puts it in motion, but he spares Porsche a questioning look. “You good, man?”
Porsche breathes deeply. In through his nose, out through his mouth.
“Yeah. I’m good. Really good.”
It’s the easiest thing in the world to send his reply.
Subject:
Re: Re: Re: To Chay, from Porsche
Message:
I’ll be there! I can’t wait to see you!
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Not much in terms of special warnings in this chapter. Library? Is that a trigger for anyone? Some mild dissociation. Canon-typical violence for illegal prize fighting.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Okay, friends, time for a quick check - have y'all caught on to the fuckery I've done in terms of the timeline in comparison with canon? 😁
In terms of research, yep, library is real and taken from Google maps. And to the south of it is a Gugu Chicken that’s right next to a 7 Eleven, which is close to an open market and a mall. I think at some point I might have to do a Tumblr post with pictures and whatnot to show all of this
Blue Room is made up, but when I was doing research for Bangkok clubs I stumbled across this list, in which I saw a very familiar pair of staircases from KinnPorsche episode 7. 😁
I also needed to do a visual study for Capoeira as well. I knew of the art but had never studied the movements before. Here’s one of the videos I watched. Please skip ahead to 05:10, where there is a tall, buff, bald man in a crop top whose pink underwear shows over the top of his pants. Seriously. I love him so much.
Chapter 6: Welcome Home
Summary:
Porsche wakes up nervous — he's going to meet Chay for the first time in nine years.
Notes:
Special thank you to my early reading crew (hi doc, cat, and mort!), and also to enbymoomin for doing the grammar beta. I also want to say an extra thank you to Enby for reading and then sending me a 1,100-word mountain of text exploring the themes and characters in this chapter. Y’all, I am SPOILT.
REMINDER: I have posted a brief spoiler description of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After they return to Jom’s apartment that night, Porsche almost tells him who he’s going to meet in the morning. The excitement of it is buzzing under his skin, leaving him twitchy and squirmy.
“What’s gotten into you?” Jom asks, looking away from the video game he’s playing. His character dies. Again. Meanwhile, Jom points at Porsche’s jittery leg.
Porsche stops his leg. “I’m meeting someone. Tomorrow morning.” It’s on the tip of his tongue to say, I’m going to see my brother, but he holds it back. “That’s what the email was about.”
Jom beams at him. “Oh yeah? That’s great. Hey, do you need a ride?”
Porsche frowns. “Tomorrow is Saturday. I thought you’d want to sleep in. I can get a taxi.”
Jom makes a face like he just bit a lemon. “A taxi? Those assholes overcharge just for looking at their cars.” Porsche tries to protest, but Jom continues, “No, shut up. I’m taking you. And since I’ll be up, I’ll surprise my ma with some patongo. See? You’re a good influence. You’re turning me into a good son.”
Porsche is pretty sure Jom would be a good son without him. “Thanks. Um…”
“Just spit it out,” Jom says with a lazy eye roll.
“Is there anywhere I can…” Why are the words so hard? Porsche feels as frustrated as Jom looks. “Is there a laundry room?” He has the new shirt, but his two pairs of pants are far from clean.
“Now was that so hard? C’mon, I’ll show you.”
Jom gives him a pair of sweats to borrow and shows him to the laundry room on the floor below. Porsche opts to wait in the cramped little service space to watch over his things. There’s a small plastic seat in the room that he can use. Jom gives him a look that lets him know he’s doing something odd again. That’s fine, though. He wants to be alone with his thoughts.
Porsche quietly zones out during the wash, the rushing sound of water clearing his mind. When the machine stops, the silence startles him into reality again.
He shuffles his clothes into the dryer and starts it, using a few loose coins. He sits again, intending to put serious thought into how he wants this first meeting to go tomorrow. He knows he’s going to have to give some sort of explanation. Chay will expect that; Chay deserves that. But how to explain without going too far… how to deal with questions… Porsche needs a plan.
Suddenly the dryer cycle beeps to signal that it’s done. How has it been an hour already? he wonders. That doesn’t seem possible. The time flew by, and he still doesn’t have any idea what he’s going to say to Chay. In fact, he isn’t sure what he thought about during the past hour.
Yawning, Porsche collects his clean, dry clothes and heads back to Jom’s apartment. Jom lets him in when he knocks, and they exchange mutual yawns.
A short while later, as Porsche curls up to sleep on the couch, he decides that now, now he can figure out what he’ll tell Chay. But instead he drifts right off to sleep.
In the morning, Porsche tells Jom he needs to be at the café at 9:30, and Jom drops him off at 9:35 on the dot. Porsche rushes out of the car, throwing his bag over his shoulder and waving goodbye.
It’s a cute café on the corner of a shopping strip. The side wall and storefront are entirely made up of square window panels from floor to ceiling, giving a clear view into the bright interior. Dinette sets are arranged both inside and out, each with a different style — this one in wood, that one in stone, another in metal. There’s no sign of Chay yet, but that’s fine. Porsche is early.
He goes inside and buys himself the cheapest drink on the menu, a plain decaf iced tea. He’s tempted to also buy a package of donuts, just so he can have something to share with Chay, but he decides against it. When Chay arrives, Porsche can ask him what he wants instead.
After getting his drink, he claims the two-person table directly in front of the shop, setting his bag by his feet. Holding onto the icy cup helps keep his palms from sweating. Nervous flutterings roil in his stomach, and he has to take several slow, deep breaths to calm his heart.
Porsche still doesn’t know what he’s going to say. At this point, he’ll just have to go with the flow; he can figure it out in real time.
People come and go from the café, and Porsche has a perfect view from the front. After a little while, he fumbles with his phone, turning it on to check the time. It’s 9:54. He cranes his neck around. A couple is strolling down the sidewalk away from the café, hand in hand. Across the lane, a woman wearing dark sunglasses and a yellow dress talks on her phone. Two teenage girls turn down the lane and enter the café. Chay is nowhere in sight.
Porsche fiddles with his phone, turning it on and reopening his email. There’s no new message, and the time in the email still says 10:00 a.m.
He hears footsteps and looks up, but it’s only the woman in yellow. She crosses the lane, her dress shoes tapping out a steady beat, and then she enters the café.
Porsche sighs and continues to crane his neck this way and that, checking all the directions from which Chay could approach. Then he realizes he hasn’t even tasted his tea, so he takes a sip.
The teens come out of the café, giggling. His phone reads 10:03.
Should I email again? Porsche wonders. Or I could look for him? He should be nearby. But Porsche decides against it; he needs to stay put. All he has to do now is wait, and Chay will find him.
He’s startled out of his internal debate when someone slides into the seat across from him. It’s the woman in the yellow dress, but she’s taken off her sunglasses. She sets down a tall cup of coffee on the table.
Porsche looks around at the other tables and chairs, both inside and outside the café. They’re all empty, save for the couch inside the shop.
“Sorry, I—” Porsche hardly knows how to react. “I’m waiting for someone, so—” She doesn’t twitch an inch, simply looks at him with an inscrutable expression. Something about her oozes a calm air of confidence. “I’ll get another table,” he finishes.
Porsche picks up his tea and reaches for his bag, but the woman holds up her hand to stop him.
“Actually, I’m here to meet with you,” she says. “My name is Santichai Lertchuchot. I’m Porchay’s mother. His foster mother.”
Porsche drops his bag and straightens back up so fast he almost spills his tea.
“You’re— is he here? Is he coming?” Porsche hardly recognizes his own voice. It sounds so eager and breathy.
The woman tilts her head in a considering sort of gesture. “That depends.”
Porsche looks her over more carefully now that he knows who she is. Santichai is a handsome sort of woman with a face that’s long and bold rather than conventionally pretty. The stress lines around her eyes and mouth make Porsche think she’s somewhere in her mid- to late forties. Her hair is jet black, but a few hints of gray at her temples give away that she dyes it. She wears it tied up in a smooth, tight knot, and her dress and jewelry look like they might be some sort of designer label.
His brain belatedly catches up with the question. “That depends on… what?”
She gazes at him steadily. “It depends on you.”
“On me?” Porsche shifts in his seat, trying to understand. “Oh, do you mean like with the questions? I can answer more if you need. Any question you have from back then, I know it all.”
She shakes her head. “No. I know you are who you say you are. I knew that from your answers. I hope you can answer a few more questions for me, though.”
“Yeah.” He swallows. “Sure, um… what do you want to know?”
“Where have you been?”
She asks it with a world of expectation in her eyes, intensely focused on him. Porsche wraps his hands around his cup of tea. The ice has mostly melted, but it’s still frosty cold. The sensation helps ground him.
“I’ve been… away. Out of the country.”
She waits a few heartbeats and moves her head slightly as though expecting him to continue. When he doesn’t, she raises her eyebrows. “You’ve been away. And what have you been doing while you’ve been abroad, if I may ask?”
Porsche jerks back. “I don’t—”
The man’s leg and arm were broken, and he was trying to crawl away, clinging to the black chain link fence surrounding the ring. Porsche limped after him and dripped blood on the mat with every step.
The crowd screamed. “Shāle tā, shāle tā, Shāle tā!” Porsche didn’t know Chinese, but he recognized these words, had heard them often enough. The people were calling out for the kill.
Porsche kicked the man off of the fence, and he went down. He looked up at Porsche, fear in his eyes, and said something in another language Porsche didn’t recognize.
Porsche inhales sharply and shakes his head. “—I don’t see how that matters? I just— want to be sure Chay is okay.”
Santichai smiles. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you do. As do I. You and I have that in common. Porchay is an amazing young man, and as far as I’m concerned, he deserves only the very best.”
Porsche feels himself half-smile back, and it’s easy to nod. This is someone who really understands. “Yeah, he really does. He’s the best kid in the world.” His heartbeat kicks up again.
“After everything he’s been through, when he’s come so far…” She shakes her head slowly. “I can tell you have the same look in your eyes as I do, that all either of us wants is for him to be happy. So I hope you’ll understand if I’m a little protective of that happiness, just as you would be. You can answer a few more questions, can’t you?”
She’s right. Porsche would be just as protective as she is, if not moreso. He nods; he can answer questions all day if that’s what it takes. “Yeah, sorry. Go on.”
Santichai takes a sip of her coffee and sets it down again. “Can I ask where you’re staying? What are your current living conditions?” She looks pointedly down at the bag resting by Porsche’s feet.
“I’m—”
I’m homeless. I’m staying with a complete stranger, sleeping on his couch. Porsche knows that neither answer is anywhere near adequate.
“I’m staying with a, ah, a friend right now.”
Santichai gives him a look as though she’s deeply pained. She taps a fingernail against the tabletop a couple of times, looking away for a moment before looking at him again. “Then can you tell me, why now? Why did you choose now to come back into his life?”
Porsche’s heart sinks again. “I didn’t exactly — choose…”
She waits through a moment of silence before she continues, “Because the timing is concerning to me. His career is taking off, and this is the moment that you show up from out of nowhere? I hope you can understand why your sudden appearance is raising some worries for me.”
Unbidden, a memory surfaces, one of his uncle. Even if Uncle Thee was away on a bender, somehow he always showed up right on time when the monthly trust fund check appeared.
“If I could have come any sooner, I would have,” Porsche says, and his voice sounds good to his own ears; firm and confident. “I wanted to.” It’s nothing but the truth.
Her eyebrows draw together in a wince. “Are you certain it isn’t because you need something from him? Because it looks to me like you might need a lot. And if anyone tries to use that boy, or take advantage of him, even if they are his own flesh and blood, I will be right there to prevent that from happening.”
I don’t want that either. I want him to be happy. Porsche wants to say the words, but can he back them up?
“What about safe?” she asks. “Can you assure me Porchay would be safe with you? That he won’t get caught up in anything dangerous because of you?”
“Of course I wouldn’t—”
“Your knuckles are bruised. Very badly. Can you tell me why?”
Porsche jerks his hands away from the cup and looks down at them. The knuckles are indeed red and purple. He covers one hand, but that still leaves the other exposed.
“It’s not— I’m not getting in random brawls,” he says, the words directed down at his hands, the table, his tea.
“Is it prize fighting?”
Porsche jerks his gaze up, surprised.
Santichai nods in understanding. “I see. That’s it, isn’t it? I understand. Porchay told me a little about it, that it was something you used to do even when he was young. You must be very good to be doing it for so long.”
You don’t see. It isn’t like that, Porsche wants to say. But isn’t it? Isn’t it like that? He had a chance to stop, and he went right back to it. The past years hadn’t prepared him for a normal, average, everyday life with a regular job; just the opposite, in fact.
Santichai leans back in her seat, the blousy sleeves of her yellow dress ruffling with the air. “I’m not saying this to be cruel. I’m trying to approach this as practically and realistically as possible.” She takes a long, deep breath with closed eyes, releasing the air just as slowly. “You haven’t seen how Chay has struggled, all the things he’s overcome. I have. Did you know that after his uncle died, he stopped speaking for an entire year? He was held back a grade in school because of it. But not only did he catch back up, he’s now in university and at the top of his class, and he’s putting everything he has into a career he loves.”
Porsche’s hands feel numb, so he reaches for his cup again. His tea has gone tepid. Birds twitter in the tree above them. He wants to say something, but the words just won’t come.
“He’s had setbacks, though,” Santichai continues softly, looking up at the birds. “The first time someone lied about finding his brother, he stopped speaking for almost a month. He just went about his life, not saying a word. The second time someone claimed to be you, he went to such a dark place inside himself that I almost lost him. He came back again, though, like he always has. But I can’t help but worry that if the real thing shows up, and he gets hurt, will he ever recover?”
They’re both quiet for a long time. Porsche feels sick to his stomach, and also cold despite the sun rising higher in the sky.
Cars drive by on the main drag. One honks, and it almost makes Porsche startle, but he forces his muscles to go lax, go loose. Don’t react. Don’t show anything at all. Static buzzes in the back of his brain.
“One more question. Are you going to rely on Porchay, have him provide for you the same way your uncle did with you?”
His heart clenches. “No. I won’t do that.”
He says the words. He means them.
Santichai nods. “I believe you.” She opens her purse, which rests beside her on the table, and with one perfectly manicured hand she pulls out her phone and sets it face up on the table. “If you can tell me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it’s going to be a good thing for you to come back into Porchay’s life, just say the word. If you can say that to me with complete honesty, I’ll call him right now.”
Porsche would do anything for Chay. He’s killed for Chay, survived for Chay, just so that he could get back to Thailand alive and make sure he was alright, that he didn’t have to suffer. And hasn’t Porsche accomplished that? He knows now, knows that Chay is thriving. In fact, he’s living so much better than he would have otherwise.
“I can’t.” His voice sounds far away, as though he listens to himself say it from underwater.
Santichai doesn’t smile at him, doesn’t show pity, and he’s grateful for that. Instead she gives him an understanding nod and puts away her phone. “I know that wasn’t an easy decision for you, but I think you’ll see in the long run—”
“I want to go to his graduation,” Porsche says flatly. Her eyes widen, and he adds, “I just need to see him graduate.”
She pauses long enough that he thinks she’s going to disagree, but in the end she nods again. “I understand completely, and I respect that. He’s still just a first year, but I’ll email you when there’s a date. If you don’t hear from me, you can send me an email here.” She takes out a pen and piece of paper and writes down an email address. Then she slides it across the table to him. Porsche pockets it.
Santichai rises and smooths down her yellow dress before picking up her coffee and purse. “I do wish you luck, and I hope you get back on your feet. And thank you. For putting Porchay first.”
Then she walks away, disappearing from Porsche’s sight. Porchay’s second mother. She’s as beautiful and strong as the first, and Porsche thinks maybe he hates her for that, too.
Porsche sits at the café, lost in his thoughts.
“Phoenix! Oh man, I can’t believe you’re still here.”
It seems as though between one blink and the next, someone slides into the seat across from him again. Porsche looks up, almost expecting it to be Santichai, but it’s Jom.
“Hey, bro, are you okay?” Jom asks.
Porsche blinks and shakes his head. “Yeah. I’m fine. Why?”
“I’ve been texting and calling you, no answer.”
That’s what the buzzing next to his feet had been. “Ah, sorry? The phone, it was in the bag. I guess I didn’t hear it.”
Jom’s brows pinch together, creating little divots in his forehead. He slides into the seat opposite Porsche. “I take it the meeting didn’t go so good? Looks like you’ve been on a bender.”
Porsche looks down at the table and finds two more cups of tea, empty, as well as a decimated bag of donuts — there’d been six, but now there’s only one. Slowly, he registers that his stomach isn’t happy with him. He vaguely remembers buying the donuts. He also vaguely remembers eating them; they tasted like nothing, but they filled his empty stomach.
“It wasn’t… the meeting didn’t go how I expected,” Porsche admits. “But it’s fine. It’ll be fine, better this way. What time is it?”
Jom’s brows somehow pinch even tighter. “It’s three. You sure you’re okay, bro?”
“Yeah. No.” Porsche swallows and runs a hand through his hair. “I need to… I gotta get back on my feet. That’s what I have to do.”
Jom nods slowly. “Yeah, you do. You gonna start letting me actually help you with that?”
Porsche hesitates. What does Jom mean? He’s helped so much already. Porsche needs to be careful not to ask too much.
Jom heaves a sigh. “Okay, too fast. How about we start by finding you some real food? Can’t fight on just donuts and tea.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t…” Porsche fiddles with one of the empty cups.
“Shouldn’t what? Eat?”
“Fight.”
“Well, yeah, not forever.” Jom says it so easily, like it’s something obvious. Like he assumed Porsche would want something more from the very start. “You can’t get knocked around like that endlessly, and there’s always the chance of getting hurt. But hey, you start there and work on everything else, right? One step at a time. Now let’s go, bro. You aren’t the only one who’s hungry.”
Jom gets up from the table and jerks his head in a direction, indicating which way to walk.
“One step at a time,” Porsche says, hating how it comes out sounding childish, like a question.
“Yep. Next step is lunch. Or early dinner? Whatever.”
“Right.”
Porsche gets up. He always does.
Jom guides him through the rest of the afternoon, first taking him to what he claims to be the best noodle stand in the city. From there it’s a short trip back to Jom’s apartment, where the other man practically shoves Porsche onto the couch.
“You look like shit,” Jom says. He almost sounds authoritative but doesn’t quite manage it. “Sleep, or you’re gonna get your ass handed to you. You don’t want me to have to carry you out of the Blue Room; that’ll be embarrassing for both of us when I fall on my ass and you crush me.”
The idea of it paints an amusing picture, them falling all over the Blue Room. Porsche snorts.
Jom gives him a big grin. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a funny guy, right? Everyone tells me I’m funny. Now listen to Old Jom and take a rest.”
Porsche rests, or at least he tries. He ends up staring out the window and listening to the noises Jom makes as he moves about the close quarters. It’s good to lie down and be still, though, and it centers him somehow. The part of his brain that wants to scream and rail and demand things… he makes it go silent. Whenever it tries to steer him back toward the conversation from this morning, he lets it go.
Chay is loved, successful, and safe. He repeats that in his head over and over, uses it as a mantra. In just a few years, Porsche will be able to see him graduate, in person.
But for now, he’ll do what Jom said: He’ll take everything else one step at a time. Fate or karma or coincidence, whatever it may have been — something gave him a shot, and he’s going to take it. He’s survived so much worse.
“Hey, buddy? Phoenix? Wake up. We should get going in about ten.”
Porsche blinks awake suddenly to find Jom leaning over him. Oh, he must have fallen asleep after all. He brings up a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes.
“Time to go?” he asks.
“Yeah, if you’re feeling up to it. You look a little better, less pale I think. You ready to fight?”
Porsche takes inventory of himself, of his bruises from last night, of eating too many donuts. And everything else. “Punching someone sounds really good about now,” he grumbles, clenching a fist.
“Woah, hey, okay! As long as it’s not me,” Jom says with his hands up as he backs away. Porsche makes a swipe with one arm at Jom’s leg, but he dances out of reach, laughing.
Porsche pulls himself up into a sitting position.
Even if you go down, don’t stay down, he reminds himself.
He gets to his feet, starts to pick up his bag and then stops, considering it.
“You know you can leave that here, right?” Jom says. “You’re coming back, and then we’re gonna have a lazy ass Sunday and play video games all morning.”
Porsche puts the bag back down. He takes his phone out of his bag and pockets it, and then he follows Jom out the door.
They arrive on time tonight, but Jom lingers behind at Pink Spice, chatting with the gaggle of dancers. Apparently he made some friends last night while Porsche was still warming up. Good for him. Porsche gives Jom his phone to hold onto — best not to leave that in an unsecured locker.
Porsche makes his way down to the Blue Room on his own. The venue is almost identical to the night before, with bartenders stocking their stations and bookies writing on whiteboards. It’s eerie, giving Porsche a sense of déjà vu. He stops in his tracks, looking at the scene before him and the empty ring. He wishes briefly that it were still yesterday.
A heavy hand claps his shoulder, making him jump and turn defensively.
“Hey, hey, sorry,” Ford says, hands in the air as he takes a step back. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. You okay?”
Porsche sniffs and nods, playing it cool. “Yeah, ’m fine.”
“Good. Hey, let’s go, yeah? Don’t want to be late two days in a row, do you?”
He doesn’t, in fact.
They make their way to the bullpen, and Ford is greeted with a round of mixed hellos and insults. To Porsche’s surprise, he gets a little of the same welcome from guys who are now somewhat recognizable.
“I want a rematch, ya fuckin’ newbie!” Narong calls out from across the room.
“Yeah, and it’ll go the same way as the first, dipshit!” Ford shoots back at him. “Right, Phoenix?”
This is easy. Porsche knows how to do this in his sleep. “Any style you want, name it. I’ll still take you down.”
The guys listening in take up a chorus of “oooo” like they’re a bunch of snot-nosed kids. Then the cursing and shit talking starts up again in earnest.
“Hey! All of you! Save it for the ring, knuckleheads,” Mark says as he makes his way through the crowded space. He’s carrying his signature clipboard.
“Hey, boss.” Ford makes a wai, and Porsche follows his lead and does the same.
Mark gives a jerk of his head. “Ford, you’re one-on-one with Bank tonight. Go on.”
Ford says a quick goodbye to Porsche and then saunters toward the lockers.
Mark turns his assessing gaze back to Porsche. For a moment, Mark merely looks, thinking, weighing. It makes Porsche alert; there’s something too knowing in his gaze.
“Blue Room is only open on Fridays and Saturdays,” Mark says evenly. “If you can fight two style demos tonight, and your team wins both cleanly, I’ll give you a one-on-one mixed fight next Friday.”
Porsche’s eyes widen. In his periphery, he can see several curious heads turning their way, mostly with surprise, but some mixed with disgruntlement.
“Yeah. Yes, sir. I can do it.” He’s going to make his way up to the top and then out of the fighting rings as fast as he can.
Mark looks him straight in the eye and gives a sharp nod. “Good. You’re fighting Muay Thai with Kuma, and Taekwondo with Narong.” Around them, the gathered fighters are staring unashamedly. The bullpen has gone almost quiet. Mark swings his gaze around. “What the hell are you all looking at? Get your heads in the ring! Buncha muscle-bound gossiping aunties.”
All around them, the men mutter apologies and return to their business. The regular hustle and bustle of the bullpen resumes.
Mark takes another step closer to Porsche and leans in. When he speaks this time, it’s low and only for Porsche’s ears. “I’d get you a cage fight tonight, but it wouldn’t be fair to the others, you get me? And just so you know, if you happen to be in need of any, say, documentation, Jak has a cousin who can set you up. You should ask him about her.”
Without waiting for a reply, and before Porsche has fully processed what he said, Mark starts to turn away.
“Sir, what do you…?” Porsche starts. What do you know?
Mark looks at him again with fluffy eyebrows raised. “Did I say anything?” The shrug he gives is big and expressive, the very picture of bafflement.
Porsche opens his mouth, closes it. “No, sir,” he finally replies.
Mark makes an amused little frown, winks, shrugs again, and moves on.
Porsche remains frozen in place, staring after Mark as he blatantly ignores Porsche’s gaze and goes about his business.
Get in. Climb up. Get out.
He straightens his shoulders and goes to talk to some guys.
A couple hours later, he’s suited up in his Blue Room gear, once again wearing the blue top. He’s become well acquainted with his fighting partners for the night, and he even has an estimate from Jak on the cost of a driver’s license and birth certificate. Porsche and Kuma help each other stretch as they wait to be called up — they should be fighting soon.
However, it isn’t the ring runner who comes in next, but Jom. He bursts into the bullpen, frantic.
“Phoenix! Hey, hey, where is he? Where’s Phoenix?”
“Woah, yo yo yo, my dude, you can’t be in here. Where do you think you’re going?” someone says. A couple of guys block Jom’s way.
“The hell is wrong with you, man?” Narong asks, getting in Jom’s face.
Porsche scrambles up to his feet and rushes over. “Back off, back off! He’s with me!” he barks, shoving guys out of his way. They move without protest for him. Jom grasps Porsche’s arm as soon as he’s close enough.
“You gotta go, man,” Jom says, eyes wide. “Some guys here tonight, they started asking around, asking about a guy with a scar. They’re talking to Mark. He’s holding them off. He steered them right over behind me and made sure I overheard. They were— shit, man, just trust me; they’re not good guys. They were saying something about a tsunami? I really don’t fucking know, bro, but you gotta go.”
With every word out of Jom’s mouth, a chilling numbness sweeps through Porsche from head to toe. He wants to throw up.
Stupid. Stupid. So fucking stupid. Davies has connections; he has people everywhere. It might not even be Davies — plenty of others could have become aware of the situation and decided to play a sick game of “finders keepers” with the infamous Tsunami as the toy in question. A few might even want revenge, to permanently silence him after he gave away secrets to the Theerapanyakuls.
And Porsche practically raised a flashing red sign saying, “Here I am,” when he stepped into the ring.
Jom shakes his arm. “Snap out of it!”
“Is there another way out of here?” he asks weakly.
Somehow Ford appears right next to him. He’s bloody, red streaked sharply across his jaw from a split lip. He must have just gotten back from a match.
“There’s a door out of the other end of the bullpen,” Ford says, “but it just leads to the far back of the Blue Room. The only way out is through.”
Well, that’s a fire hazard, Porsche thinks stupidly. Now is not the time, though.
“I have to go,” he says, reality sinking in. If they catch him, he’s as good as dead.
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Jom wails.
Someone, Porsche has no idea who, shoves his shoes at him. He can’t even register a face, only a pair of tan hands thrusting the tennis shoes at his chest.
Porsche doesn’t let himself think, just leans on Jom and starts tugging on his shoe, tying it securely. At this point, all the fighters in the bullpen have gathered close, watching the unfolding drama.
“How many guys are there with Mark?” Ford asks Jom.
“Two. Mark was talking with two guys,” Jom says as he helps steady Porsche. Porsche switches to the other foot, stumbling as he shoves on the second shoe.
“There are more than those two. There would have to be,” Porsche says with certainty. They’d need more than that to take him down securely.
“Pink Spice has two exits,” Ford says. “They could be blocking both.”
“Phone?” Porsche directs this at Jom.
“Yeah, yeah, here, I got it.” Jom fumbles the phone out of his pocket and gives it to Porsche. The black uniform pants Porsche is wearing have no pocket, so he just clutches the phone tight in his left hand.
“What’s the plan? Is there a plan?” Jom asks.
“I fight my way out and I run,” Porsche says, and he yanks open the door to the hallway, rushing through it the same way adrenaline is rushing through his veins.
He isn’t the only one, though. Ford, Narong, Kuma, Jom, and a couple others follow right behind him as he makes his way to the other end of the hall. Ford passes him and looks through the small window in the door. The thrum of music filters through the door.
“What are you doing?” Porsche demands.
“Checking their positions, dumbass,” Ford replies without looking at him. “Mark is with them at one of the tables near the demo ring. Their backs are to us for now, but they have a clear sightline to the exit.”
“We’re gonna get him out, right?” Jom asks, bouncing on his feet with nervous energy.
“I’m going to get me out,” Porsche snaps.
“We’re going to get him out,” Ford replies with a glare at Jom. “Not you, Cleanup Crew. You stay the fuck in the pen and don’t come out until they’re gone.”
Jom points at himself and mouths, “Cleanup Crew?”
“He’s right. Stay out of it, Jom,” Porsche says with all the conviction he has in his body. “Don’t let them see your face. They don’t know you, and you need to keep it that way. And that goes for the rest of you, too. I’ve got this.”
Porsche reaches past Ford for the door handle, but Ford slaps a palm on the door and plants a hand firmly in the middle of Porsche’s chest to shove him back.
“That’s not how the Blue Team operates, and you’re a part of the Blue Room now,” Ford says firmly. He turns to the rest of the assembled fighters. “Narong, Kuma, you go first. Get up to Pink Spice. If anyone is standing by the Blue Room door, pass them by. When you get up to the club, split up and scope out the exits. If there’s a blockage, you stand by, and if Phoenix comes your way, you clear a fucking path. Assume any hostile is armed. Got it?”
They chorus back agreements.
“Good,” Ford says. “Go. Don’t run. We’ll give you a couple minutes.”
Then Ford is shoving Porsche out of the way, making room for Narong and Kuma to pass get out. Ford quickly shuts the door behind them and goes back to looking out the window.
“God damn,” Jom says quietly, followed by a soft whistle.
“Ford is ex-military,” another fighter says to Jom. Porsche doesn’t even know the man’s name.
Porsche clutches his phone so hard that the edges bite painfully into his palm.
“You shouldn’t help me,” he says, feeling… something. Anger. Frustration. Helplessness. All of it at once.
Ford rolls his eyes at him. “Shut up, newbie.”
A minute ticks by, slow and agonizing. Then another.
“What’s happening?” Jom asks Ford.
“Som, take Cleanup Crew to the pen,” Ford orders. “Make sure he stays there. Sit on him if you have to.”
“What? Oh, wait, hey, hold on!” Jom struggles as one of the guys starts to drag him away. “Phoenix! What about your bag, bro? It’s at my place.”
“Keep it for me,” Porsche says, unmoving. It’s almost a promise, almost a goodbye.
Then Porsche watches, silent, as Jom gets pulled out of his sight. Porsche has so much more he wishes he could have said. If nothing else, a “thank you.”
He’s left with Ford and one other guy.
A minute goes by in tense silence. Porsche makes himself breathe slowly and carefully, tells his heart to calm down. He can’t burn up all the adrenaline before he really needs to run.
“Demo’s almost done,” Ford finally says in a rush. “Now, we need to go now. Type, you’re on point. Take the lead. If there’s anyone at the Blue Room entrance, you clear it.”
“Right,” Type says, and he switches position with Ford to open the door.
“We’re going,” Ford says. “Stay on my left. I’m the only thing that’s going to be between you and them, so stay on my left.”
“Yes, sir,” Porsche responds in English, and then winces and repeats it in Thai.
And then they’re out the door, walking, walking, steady. In the ring, someone goes down, the audience lets out a cheer, and then the emcee takes center stage.
A few more steps. They’re getting close to the door. It’s when they have to turn that he’s finally spotted.
“There he is! That’s him!”
He hears it over the crowd and music.
Ford slaps Porsche on the shoulder. “ Run! Type, go!” And then Ford turns and heads the other way, toward the oncoming danger.
Porsche is torn only for a moment, bouncing in place as he watches Ford go. Then he follows after Type, who has already bolted ahead.
Behind him, he hears the sounds of fighting, soon followed by screams and shouts of alarm from patrons. The action just got more real than the audience was prepared for.
Porsche can’t look back, though, because ahead of him Type is engaging not one but two men by the door. He’s holding his own, but one of the guys draws a knife. Porsche barely makes it in time, but fortunately he’s able to use the momentum from his run to dead-on tackle the man from the side, slamming him sideways straight into the wall. The man is jarred from the sudden blow, but he doesn’t drop the knife, so Porsche uses the split second when the man is stunned to pin him to the wall and get a pinching grip on his wrist. The man starts to struggle, but Porsche roars in fury and slams his wrist repeatedly against the wall until the knife drops. The knife skitters away into black and blue shadows.
The man gives Porsche an elbow to his solar plexus, knocking him back and winding him. Porsche snarls, ready to settle in and fight, but suddenly Type barrels into the man from the side.
“Go, go! I’ve got this!” Type screams at him. He takes a punch to the face for his distraction, but he returns it with a vicious blow of his own just as swiftly.
To the side, the other man Type was fighting is on the floor, writhing in pain. Porsche looks between the downed man and Type twice rapidly and then dashes through the door.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck, is the only thing running through Porsche’s head. There’s no room for anything else, no room for thought, no room for regret. He leaps up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Behind him, he hears more shouting, more fighting. When he reaches the door to Pink Spice, he throws it open and bursts through into darkness and techno music, ready to fight. However, the only people behind the stage are a couple of startled dancers and a stagehand.
Porsche’s feet automatically start carrying him to the main door to the club. As he dives into the crowd, he realizes he doesn’t even know where the other exit is located. It’s too late to ask anyone as he bumps and shoves his way through dancers, getting cursed at as he tries to flee.
Behind him, just over the music, he hears a door bang open behind the stage. Several party goers turn their heads toward the noise, and Porsche uses their distraction to shove through. He gets off the dance floor, nearly crashes over a table where people are chatting, and then rights himself and keeps running.
“Davies wants a word with you! You can’t run forever, Tsunami!” a man hollers from the opposite side of the crowd, loud enough to carry over the music.
The fuck I can’t, Porsche thinks. He spares a quick glance over his shoulder to see two men coming after him, wading onto the dance floor and making their way through using elbows and blows to clear a path.
Porsche reaches the hallway and finds it empty, so he barrels through it at a dead sprint.
When he slams through the door and out into the alley, he finds Narong and the bouncer there, and no waiting line. A man lies sprawled on the cement, out cold, one of the bouncer’s feet casually resting on his chest.
Porsche looks at Narong, who shrugs. “Didn’t feel like waiting for you,” Narong says. “Anyone following?”
Porsche nods, panting. “Two behind.”
Noise and shouting comes from the hallway, and Narong throws himself at the door to pin it closed. The bouncer follows his lead.
“Run!” Narong shouts. Behind him, the door almost opens, but together he and the bouncer shove it closed again.
Porsche runs. He runs as fast as he can, out of the alley. Around the corner, down another alley, across a street. People casually strolling along the sidewalk gasp and mutter when he passes them, but he ignores them. He runs and doesn’t stop, until he has no idea where he is other than “downtown Bangkok,” but he just keeps going. His lungs are on fire. Blood pumps through his legs like knives, his muscles sparking with pain that gradually grows into full on flames.
Eventually he slows because he can barely breathe, and he dares to look over his shoulder again. No one in sight is pursuing, but he keeps going, walking slower and slower, until he finds a random, narrow alley and turns down it. It’s cramped, lined with a row of parked motorbikes, fragrant with oil and trash and some sort of fishy smell — there must be a market or restaurant nearby. He finds a crevice where he can tuck himself between a dumpster and a stack of crates.
For a moment, all he can do is bend over, hidden from view of the street, leaning one hand against the wall and hanging his head as he pants. As he gets oxygen into his lungs and his heart rate starts to slow down, he turns to put his back against the wall and slowly slides down it until he’s sitting on concrete. He brings his knees up so he can rest his forehead on them.
What a waste. What a stupid fucking waste, he thinks.
He isn’t even sure what he means by it. Maybe it’s about his own stupidity, thinking he could enter a fighting ring again, thinking no one cared enough to look for him. Maybe it’s about how much effort Davies is spending to track him down, or about the money he’d won the past two nights, already left behind. Hell, maybe it’s about his whole life.
The honk of a motorbike startles him, and he waits, listening. Somewhere out on the street, people are chatting, laughing. No one comes.
Porsche uncurls his legs slightly and props his phone against them with one hand. He turns it on and pulls up his web browser — it opens to Chay’s home page.
To think, just a few hours ago, he’d felt flayed from inside out when Chay’s foster mother had painstakingly pointed out reason after reason why he was unfit to see Chay. It had seemed cruel, heartless, like his world had been taken from him all over again. Now Porsche wishes he could thank her on his knees for putting Chay’s safety above his own short-sighted desires.
Porsche lets himself laugh silently at the irony of it. One beautiful, perfect piece of luck.
I still want to see him graduate.
The thought starts to echo in his head, over and over, getting louder.
He closes the browser and pulls up his contacts. Only two names appear in the list: P’Chan and Jom.
A new thought takes shape: What do I need to do to see Chay graduate?
He needs to survive. But that’s not something he can accomplish on his own right now.
Porsche taps the call button and holds the phone up to his ear. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. Finally, he gets an answer.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Run into trouble already?” P’Chan asks.
Porsche lets his head fall back against the wall. “A bit, yeah,” he says quietly. “Is that job offer still open?”
“Khun Kinn has not withdrawn the job offer,” P’Chan says. “You still have twenty-seven days to respond.”
“Um, yeah. I’d like to come in. To talk about it. Tonight. Now.”
There’s a moment’s pause. After two weeks being interrogated by this man, Porsche knows, intimately, how he thinks and the way he carefully calculates all the angles.
“You’re being pursued,” P’Chan states, his tone as even as ever.
Pursued by a pack of devils, hunted like a dog. “Not… right this second.”
“I see.” Another long, pregnant pause. “In that case, good luck returning to the tower. It’ll be a good test of your capabilities. I’ll make sure the guards at the door are notified to let you in.”
Fuck shit dammit! Porsche’s hopes of getting a lift go up in flames.
“Wait, wait, don’t hang up! The address? Can you give me the address?”
“It’s in the files I sent in my previous message. Goodnight, Tsunami.” With that, P’Chan hangs up.
Porsche has no idea what crawled up the man’s ass and died, but he suspects it was something intensely unpleasant.
What do I need to do to see Chay graduate?
He pulls up the files P’Chan sent and carefully keys in the address into his map. The map app shows him where to go, even tells him that it’s less than two hours’ walk away if he takes the most direct route. But the most direct route puts him in easy visibility along main drags. He needs to stay out of sight as much as possible.
Porsche takes a deep breath. Then another. And he gets to his feet.
It’s a long, slow trek to the tower, interrupted by pauses and breaks to duck out of sight when he thinks someone might have looked at him for a second too long, when a car or motorbike seems to be driving just a little too slowly down the street. And then, later, he stops a couple of times to simply exist in some dark, hidden corner of the city. That’s when he lets himself sip and savor these last minutes of being his own man before he voluntarily puts his neck back in chains and throws away the key.
More than three hours later, he walks up to the doors of the Theerapanyakul tower. He’s parched, his feet are throbbing, and his head is pounding in time with his heartbeat.
He doesn’t recognize the guards at the door, but one asks, “Who are you?”
“Tsunami,” he replies.
The guard nods. “P’Chan said you might show up.” The guard gestures for Porsche to step forward so he can check for weapons. The quick pat-down is hardly necessary given the tightness of the Blue Room fighting uniform.
When the guard is satisfied, he has more to say. “P’Chan said you’re welcome to wait in the main lobby on the first floor.” He points into the tower. “First door on the left, turn right, and follow the hallway.”
The message is already abundantly clear: “You’re on your own.” Besides, it’s getting close to midnight; no one is going to deal with him at this hour. So he drags himself into the lobby, where a few night-shift staffers are quietly going about their business. He finds a bathroom and avails himself of it, cleaning up his hands and face and runs a wet hand through his hair.
Then he shuffles back out to the lobby, claims a couch, and sprawls out on it. The night staffers look at him funny. He ignores them.
He spends an hour watching muted videos of Chay — interviews, concert videos, music videos, anything he can find. The phone battery slowly drains bit by bit; somewhere across the city, a power cord is tucked away in the bag he left behind at Jom’s apartment.
That night, he sleeps fitfully, oftentimes merely dozing. Even when he manages to sleep, he’s soon woken by people talking in low voices. It’s a long, rough night.
But he’s had longer nights, and rougher nights. This is nothing.
Morning comes, and the lobby grows busy with more staff and more guards milling about. Porsche stays put. Hours trickle by, and he gets up briefly only to use the restroom again. He pulls out his phone again and watches more videos, some of them on repeat, until the battery finally gives up.
Eventually, someone comes to stand in front of him. Porsche looks up to find Pete shaking his head.
“I hoped I wouldn’t see you again,” he says. “I had a feeling I might, but it’s too bad.”
Porsche lets that soak in for a second. “Thanks,” he says.
The guard shrugs. “Khun Kinn wants to see you.”
Porsche follows as Pete leads him back to the same office where he last spoke to Kinn just a handful of days ago. When they enter, Kinn is sitting at his desk, leaning back in his leather chair. His eyebrows rise at the sight of Porsche. Pete takes up a position next to the desk
“The Blue Room? Really?” Kinn asks, eyeing Porsche’s uniform. “You move very fast.”
Porsche isn’t sure how to respond to that, so he doesn’t say anything except, “Sir.”
Kinn sighs. "I’m going to be straightforward with you. Some of the details around the bodyguard role I originally offered you are going to need… modification.”
Porsche swallows. His throat feels dry. “What kind of modification, sir?”
Kinn shrugs lightly, splaying his hands. “Davies has been breathing down my neck, calling me and emailing me to ask where you are. And from what I hear, it sounds like you’ve already had your own run-in.”
“Yes, sir.” His voice cracks, and it makes him flinch.
“You’re too high profile to be a common bodyguard,” Kinn says bluntly. “If I made you a bodyguard, suddenly I wouldn’t be the only target. There’d be a second target right next to me: you. You’re useless to me like that.”
Porsche feels his stomach drop.
I’m dead, he thinks. I’m as good as dead. If he can’t do this, there really is no way out for him. The room starts to spin, and he feels himself sway.
“Pete,” Kinn barks.
And then Pete is there with steady hands, guiding Porsche into a seat, somehow holding a glass of water that materializes out of thin air. He pushes the glass into Porsche’s hands, and Porsche drinks, but it tastes like ash. Then his hand starts shaking so badly the water sloshes out, and Pete has to take the glass from him.
All he can think is, There’s no way out. He’s exhausted. He’s been exhausted for nine years. Maybe longer.
A small stack of papers falls on the coffee table in front of him. He looks up to see Kinn.
“What’s this?” Porsche asks.
“Your new offer.” Kinn crosses his arms over his broad chest. He steps away to lean against the armrest of the chair across from Porsche.
Porsche picks up the top paper. It reads that he’s being offered the position of “companion guard.” Line after line of terms and conditions follow after that.
“‘Companion guard’? What’s that?” Porsche asks.
“It’s just a little trick to play on the rest of the world,” Kinn explains. “As far as the underworld will be concerned, you’re my slave.” He twitches in apparent distaste at the word; whether feigned or genuine, Porsche isn’t certain. “In public, you’ll stay by my side, looking like a favorite pet. Considering the incident with Benny is going around the rumor mill, you’ll be a living reminder to the crime syndicate of exactly why I deserve my reputation. Meanwhile, you’ll still have the same job as the rest of the guards: Keep me alive, keep me safe, and protect my family and interests.”
Porsche looks at the papers, trying to read but not really seeing any of the words.
“If it looks like you own me,” Porsche says as he puts it together, “Davies can’t do shit. And others can’t try to…” Recapture me. Sell me. He can’t finish the sentence.
Kinn understands, though, and he nods. “Mhmm.” He straightens up and starts to walk back to his desk. “I can let you look over the details while I—”
“I’ll sign.”
Kinn looks back at him in surprise. “Just like that?”
Porsche starts looking for a pen, but there isn’t one.
“Tsunami, you really should—” Pete starts.
“Pete,” Kinn says sharply.
“Yes, Khun Kinn?”
“Out.” Kinn jerks his chin at the door.
“Sir?” Pete hesitates, but Kinn doesn’t waver. After considering, Pete say, “Yes, sir. I’ll be right outside.” He treads softly away, and the door shuts behind him with a quick snick.
Shaking his head, Kinn walks slowly to stand next to Porsche’s chair and holds out his hand. Confused, Porsche takes his hand, but Kinn only rolls his eyes and lets go.
“Give me the papers.”
Oh. He could have just said that. Or picked them up since they’re right there. But Porsche hands over the papers. Then Kinn goes to the chair opposite him and takes a seat.
Kinn proceeds to read through the offer aloud, line by line, ensuring that Porsche agrees with everything. Porsche’s brain is swimming by the time it’s over. But as he listens to Kinn’s voice, and he hears about everything he can expect from his role, he feels settled. He’s calmer.
At the end of it, Kinn takes a pen out of the inner lining of his suit pocket and hands it over. It feels warm in Porsche’s hand.
He leans over the papers to sign them, but then he realizes he doesn’t know how to sign.
“My name…” he starts.
Kinn’s eyes widen slowly in comprehension. “That’s a good point. We’ll want to use a pseudonym for you out in public. For the contract, it hardly matters what you use. My people will have to mock up some identification for you one way or another.”
Porsche realizes even the job contract hardly matters. He barely exists in Thailand, likely nothing more than a faint trail of grade school and high school paperwork. He’d have little recourse for any breach of terms.
He signs the papers, and Kinn watches.
“Phoenix, huh? That seems appropriate.”
Porsche puts down the pen and slides it and the papers across to Kinn.
“I’d like to be called Phoenix, but… my name is Porsche.”
Kinn smiles, and it softens everything about him.
“In that case, welcome home, Porsche.”
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Porsche has a flashback to a fighting ring where the audience calls for him to make a kill. He confronts someone unexpected and has to make a difficult decision, which causes him some extreme dissociation. Later when Porsche returns to the Blue Room, men show up to capture him, and he’s forced to run for his life and make another difficult decision. Overall, there’s some intense stress, depression, and anxiety for Porsche in this chapter.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Hydrate Café is real, and I described it exactly as I saw it in the pictures. It’s cute as heck, and I’d love to go there.
I’m checking my notes, but no one guessed “a foster parent” would show up to meet Porsche, so I’m giving myself a point for that. 😅
Also, before anyone considers grabbing pitchforks and torches to go after Santichai, please take a deep breath. In and out, in and out. Life is complicated and messy, and I’m trying to write characters as close to real people as possible, warts and all. Plus, trust and risk are huge themes in this story, and at different points the various characters have to decide who they’re going to trust and what risks they’re willing to take. Just as importantly, they have to decide what risks they believe aren’t worth taking.
Trust, risk, reward. Our life experiences teach us how to approach these, and we all develop our own tactics. Past lessons shape us and guide us to make present decisions.
Speaking of risks… I think I’d better skedaddle after that chapter. BYE! 🏃♀️
(End of arc II, “Boomerang”)
Chapter 7: Interlude: Ford
Summary:
After Porsche makes his daring escape from Davies’s men, Mark holds a short meeting with the Blue Room fighters, and some facts come to light.
Notes:
As usual, big shout out to enbymoomin for beta review! Thank you, you angel, you defeater of typos. 🙏
NOTE: For this chapter, I have no special warnings/spoilers in the end notes. I feel any issues are covered in the tags.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ford makes it his business to hobble the guys who are after Phoenix. When Mark eventually calls for him to stop and let them go, they each leave with a limp, and Ford has new bruises of his own.
In the end, only a few of the Blue Room customers even leave after the disturbance; the incident is treated as just a random bar fight, a few people keyed up on too much adrenaline from watching the matches.
Mark looks stricken, shaken. He goes and leans against one of the bars, and the bartender passes Mark a shot without having to be told. Mark downs it quickly.
“Hey, boss?” Ford asks. “Any intel on what all that was about?” Ford glances over his shoulder and sees Type wandering toward them.
Mark winces, and he looks uncertain of himself for a moment, which is an expression Ford rarely sees on him.
“Get Narong and Kuma,” Mark says. “Bring them back down to the pen and wait for me. We’re closing up early tonight. Every fighter who’s still here, I want a word before they leave.”
It takes Ford and Type a few minutes to round up the others, and then it’s several more before Mark is able to join them. A few fighters are still out in the club, putting on the nightly show, but Mark asks everyone in the bullpen to gather around him. Guys are shouting questions right and left.
“Do you want me to talk or not?” Mark finally hollers over everyone. “Shit, buncha grade school kids.”
The guys quiet down. Ford notices Cleanup Crew lingering at the edge of the group.
“Okay, first of all, I want to say I’m proud of you,” Mark says. “You did good tonight. Especially you, Ford.”
Ford didn’t really do all that much, and he’s about to say exactly that, but Mark points at him.
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear anything polite out of you. Anyway.” Mark takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and mops his brow. “I’m proud of you all because even if Phoenix only fought with us for one night, that still means he’s one of our own, and you all treated him that way.”
“Who were those guys?” asks Cleanup Crew. “What did they want with Phoenix?”
It’s the same question on Ford’s mind. What was Phoenix mixed up in? Loan sharking? Espionage? Drug running? It could be anything.
Mark shakes his head. “Traffickers. Human traffickers, modern slavery, whatever you want to call it. Phoenix is a runaway ‘product.’”
Ford goes cold while all around him the guys break out in more questions, talking amongst themselves.
Many of the guys weren’t part of the Blue Room three years ago, but Ford was here, and he remembers what happened back then. He remembers Mark giving a kid, Jet, a chance. Jet was big for his age, and a real go-getter, but he was barely making it day to day. The kid was a poverty-stricken seventeen year old with fast feet, fast hands, and a good head. He’d gotten attention, people wanting to meet him, and Mark made introductions. And then Jet just… disappeared. No trace left behind, only a sick mother left to ask after him.
That was when Mark started getting picky about who he let in the door, restricting who could talk to the fighters, drawing a hard line about the age of the guys he would let fight. A year later, Mark told Ford late one drunken night that he suspected Jet had gotten taken by traffickers. Apparently they prefer their “products” to be young. Easier to control. Easier to break.
“Quiet down! Shut your mouths, lunkheads!” Mark shouts. The room slowly comes to order. “Long story short: I had some suspicions about Phoenix after last night, did a little careful digging, and everything I found pointed in the same direction. I thought I could help the guy out. I just didn’t expect a bunch of whack jobs to show up all of a sudden. And for that I’m sorry to all of you, for taking on that risk.”
Mark tries to lower his head in an apologetic bow, but Ford and three other guys stop him. The ones who remember Jet, like Ford does, are the ones who argue the loudest that Mark made the right choice.
Mark gradually starts to nod. “Okay, okay, I get it! You’re a bunch of goody goodies is what you are, perfect saints and heroes. But you’re not going to like this next bit: Blue Room is gonna go dark for a while.”
The boys all groan, but Ford had a feeling Mark would say that. It’s the right move.
“How long, boss?” Ford asks.
“I already talked to the owner, got my ass chewed, and we decided to shut down for the next three weeks. Let it blow over. I know that’s a long time, and you might pick up other work in the meantime, but we stirred shit with a bad group tonight, and I don’t want that falling on any of you. So just go home and lay low, and I’ll see you in a month. Now get out of my face.” Mark waves his hands, shooing at everyone. “You gossip mongers can pass on the word to the other guys as they come in.”
The fighters all start to disperse, but one person lingers, unmoving.
“What about Phoenix?” asks Cleanup Crew, looking around. “What about him? Did he get away? Do we even know?”
Narong speaks up then. “We gave him a good five minute head start, and he ran like the wind. They won’t be catching him tonight. He’ll go to ground, Cleanup Crew.”
The guy looks so lost, knobby shoulders sagging and curly hair falling in his face.
“Ford?” Mark says.
“Yeah?”
“Escort Cleanup Crew out,” Mark says. “I don’t think the assholes know about him, but do it for my peace of mind, would you?”
Ford nods. “Sure thing, boss.”
“Thanks. And stop calling me boss,” Mark says before storming out the door.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Ford says to Cleanup Crew, who nods distractedly back at him. Then Ford goes and changes into his street clothes.
A short while later, Ford is walking side by side with Cleanup Crew. A couple of times he gets prickles on the back of his neck, and he cranes his neck around, but no one is watching them. It’s just nerves.
Ford wants to ask questions. He also doesn’t. Sometimes it’s better to know less, and he thinks now is probably one of those times. So they walk in silence.
Eventually they get to a car parked on the street, and Cleanup Crew points to the vehicle and says, “This is me. And, uh. Thanks. For everything you did tonight. I mean it.”
Ford shrugs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”
Cleanup Crew meets his eyes for a minute before he looks away sadly. “Yeah. Me too.” The guy unlocks his car.
Ford can’t leave it like this. It’s useless to give false hope, but… “He’s a strong guy,” Ford says. “Phoenix is. Guys like that, you never know when they might turn up.”
Cleanup Crew nods and makes a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
Ford waves once and walks on, heading for the subway station, lost in his thoughts.
Notes:
No special warnings or spoilers for this chapter.
This week is just a little breather in the story, filling in some missing information and context.
I also want to take a moment to say that I've been blown away by the response. I am beyond delighted with the enthusiasm shown for the story so far! Bad Bet is dealing with heavy topics, so I wasn't sure readers would necessarily latch onto it, but you've proven otherwise. So, I'd like to a moment to say THANK YOU to you (yes, you) for reading. 🙏💖
Chapter 8: Lost Today, But Maybe Not Tomorrow
Summary:
Kim meets Chay.
Notes:
Surprise! Posting a day early. We all had a rough couple days on Mon and Tues with AO3 going down, and you deserve an early chapter. Plus, I'm eager to share this one in particular.
As always, big thank you to enbymoomin for grammar beta! You lovely person, you. 🥰
REMINDER: I have posted a brief spoiler description of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. There isn't all that terribly much for this chapter, but you can skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Kim gazes out the backseat window as his manager drives the car and drives him crazy.
“Let’s go over it one more time. If they ask anything about the latest internet rumors around you and that actress, you say ‘that sure is—’”
“...sure is an interesting theory. I wish I had time for something like that. But my manager keeps me so busy I have to ask when my next scheduled bathroom break is. He told me I have time for a date three years from now. Maybe.” Kim smiles his best Wik smile.
“Haha,” Yashiro says, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. “But actually that’s fine, too. What do I care if you throw me under the bus? Then we’ll deal with rumors of me abusing you instead. Again.”
“Don’t worry, Yashiro,” says Peach, Kim’s stylist-slash-PA. “If that happens, I’ll start the rumors that Wik abuses you.”
“Thank you,” Yashiro says calmly. He straightens his glasses. “The world deserves to know the truth. Now then, the other talents will be—”
“Other talents?” Kim says, surprised and mildly horrified. He keeps the horror out of his expression, though.
“Yes, indie musicians,” Yashiro says with a sigh as he pulls into the parking garage. “This is a group interview. As I briefed you on.”
Kim hates interviews; when Yashiro says Kim has to do one, he generally just drags himself through it from start to finish. Wik, though, Wik has no issue with interviews and can do them with ease. “Sorry. I must have zoned out on that call. I promise to play nicely with the other talents.” He always does, even when they’re annoying, entitled little shits.
“Of course,” Yashiro says. He parks the car, and the three of them climb out, but apparently Yashiro isn’t done lecturing. “Just remember not to let them steal the spotlight. You sometimes have a tendency to yield airtime too readily.”
“I just want to make sure everyone gets a chance to shine,” Kim answers, letting Wik’s maturity save the day. Kim is all too happy to yield questions to others or even deflect to them, simply so he can sit back and observe in peace.
“Well, stop that,” Peach says. “It’s making Yashiro’s forehead wrinkle. You might even give him gray hair.”
Kim laughs his Wik laugh.
The banter continues all the way to the radio station. When they arrive, they’re ushered to a waiting room that’s already crowded with the two other talents and their staff. Kim barely has time to glance at the others because Peach simply pushes him down to sit on the armrest of a couch and then sets about touching up his makeup. Kim wants to argue that it’s hardly necessary for a radio interview, but as Wik he simply closes his eyes and lets her work.
Soon the interviewer, Mew, comes to speak with them. She’s a woman in her mid-forties with boundless energy and a speaking voice that resonates like the clear tones of a bell. She gives a quick overview of how she plans to run the prerecorded interview and what she expects. As she’s talking, she drops mention that she’s interviewing them as the top three most popular singer-songwriters in an internet poll. Kim vaguely recalls that he placed first.
Kim takes a moment to check out the other artists he’ll be interviewing with. One of them is June Song, a woman he’s encountered a few times before at things like this. She’s a couple years older than Kim and has been in the industry since she was sixteen. Her slow love ballads and playful songs about rebellion appeal to roughly the same audience that Kim targets. The other talent is…
…Oh. It’s Porchay.
At the sight of Porchay’s wide brown eyes, Kim’s skin prickles on the back of his neck, and he’s suddenly struck with a sense memory so strong it makes him sway in place. He can hear the chorus of “Lost Today” resonating inside his head as though Porchay just started singing it live in front of him. In reality, it’s an echo of a memory from when Kim found the YouTube video a year ago and then proceeded to listen to it over and over and over again.
Kim had been certain it must be a fluke, a one-off lucky creation driven by the touch of a golden muse, but then he’d listened to another song. And then another. And more songs kept coming out at a monstrously fast pace, all of them soulful masterpieces in different ways.
Kim has fallen asleep listening to Porchay sing, and he’s been haunted by that voice in his dreams.
Next to him, Yashiro coughs discreetly, and Kim snaps his attention back to the interviewer. He locks an expression onto his face and hopes it’s an appropriately attentive look.
“Now, if the artists will all join me in the studio?” Mew says. “Managers, you’re welcome to observe from the sound booth, but I’m afraid any other personnel will need to wait here. Of course, help yourself to coffee and fruit in the break room next door.”
Kim lingers behind and lets the other artists go first.
Yashiro leans over to Kim and whispers, “Should I exchange business cards with Porchay’s manager? You look like you want a duet.”
“Remind me why I put up with you instead of firing you?” Kim asks with a threatening smile.
Yashiro pushes up his glasses. “Because I put up with you in equal measure, Khun Wik.”
If only he weren’t right.
Kim gets up off the couch armrest, straightens his face, and follows along after the others. As soon as he’s in his chair in front of a microphone, he can’t afford to let the Wik persona slip — a cameraman is lurking in the studio with them, and the camera’s red eye blinks to life moments after Kim sits down. Catching “behind the scenes” footage is common practice, as it feeds the fans’ voracious demands for content.
Yashiro will handle getting the footage from the station, and Peach will claim it for editing and distribution; that’s all Kim needs and wants to know.
When recording begins, Mew starts the interview with easy questions, such as their reactions to placing at the top of the poll, to which they all give appropriate, scripted responses. Kim finds out that Porchay placed third in the poll; it’s an impressive win for him given how new he is on the scene, but it’s feasible for someone so talented and popular.
“Wik,” Mew says, catching his attention, “I understand you only recently came back from touring all over southeast Asia. Are you eager to be back in the studio? Any teasers about current projects you can give us?”
“As much as I loved touring, I’m very excited to compose again,” Kim says, half lie and half truth. He goes on to tease that he plans to write songs incorporating his travel experiences. With Yashiro’s advance permission, he also drops in confirmation that he’s shooting a new music video soon.
The show host then moves on to talk to P’June, asking about a new drama series she’s appearing in that will start airing next month.
Then Mew turns to Porchay.
“Porchay, you’ve skyrocketed on the Bangkok music scene since going viral on YouTube, and you’re still only, what, eighteen?”
“Nineteen now, P’Mew,” he corrects with a sweet smile.
“Nineteen, yes, I’m sorry,” Mew says. Kim is ninety-nine percent certain the slip was intentional. “Wow, so young. You’re making me feel old just looking at you.”
Kim and the other artists take the cue to laugh along with the banter.
Mew continues. “Even at your age, you’re a true singer songwriter, credited with writing all of your songs, including composition and lyrics. And I understand one of the things your fans call out is how deeply meaningful your lyrics are to them, how touched they feel. Where does that insight come from at your age, in your opinion? Some of your fans claim you must have an old soul.”
Kim leans in, eyes riveted on Porchay.
Porchay blushes and ducks his head before answering. “I don’t know about that, Phi, but I’m really glad if the people listening to my music feel touched somehow. Because that’s what I’m aiming for, you know? I want my music to be true and honest, and I think people understand that when they hear it. I want to share songs that feel genuine, because I’m saying to the world, ‘I’m right here, and this is real.’”
“What about ‘Lost Today’? What was your inspiration for it?”
All eyes turn to Kim.
And Kim thinks, Fuck me, I asked that aloud.
“Oooh, what’s this?” Mew asks. She would be a fool to pass up the opportunity Kim just handed her on a silver platter. “Wik, did my ears deceive me, or does it sound like you’re a fan of Porchay’s work?”
Kim’s facial muscles hurt from keeping the pleasant smile in place. “Of course. Actually I try to stay familiar with what’s happening in the industry, and I’m a big fan of both P’June and Porchay. P’June’s recent single, ‘Fairy Tale Freak,’ is so good, such good comedy, which isn’t easy in music. It actually made me laugh out loud.” It didn’t actually make him laugh out loud, but he did quietly snort in amusement. Close enough.
“It is funny, isn’t it?” Mew says with a soft laugh. “So, Porchay, I’m sure others would like to hear as well — what can you tell us about ‘Lost Today’?”
“Yeah, sure, I can talk about that,” Porchay tells Mew. “Um, thanks for asking, P’Wik.”
Then he looks at Kim and addresses the answer straight to him, and Kim takes on the full intensity of those big, round eyes. It feels like being wrapped in a soft blanket.
“The idea behind ‘Lost Today’ is just me exploring the idea that there are two ways to lose,” Porchay says, still smiling gently but with a heavy cloud of solemnity hanging over his expression. “There’s losing something that’s real and physical, something tangible, and there are also times when you lose something intangible, like when you fail at a goal. Or maybe you lose your sense of self, because you can’t live up to other people’s expectations.”
Kim can hardly breathe. It feels like this kid, this young man, is looking right into his soul. Porchay blinks and shakes his head, letting go of that somber, thoughtful vibe like he’s shaking off dust.
Porchay turns to Mew to add, “When I first shared it, the ending was kind of vague and uncertain, but I wasn’t satisfied with it. So I went back and wrote a second ending, one that’s more, um, hopeful? I guess, ha ha. So now I can play whichever end I feel like playing.”
“Wow, that is quite the story behind the song!” Mew exclaims. “I didn’t know there was another version. Now you have me really curious. P’June, P’Wik, have either of you ever gone back to a song you’ve done and said, ‘I just have to try something new with this’?”
Thankfully, P’June jumps in then, and she takes over with a story about revisiting an old song and writing a new one as a companion piece. She engages Porchay in her discussion, and they banter back and forth like they’re old friends, instead of strangers who have only just met.
That’s good. That’s helpful. It gives Kim a moment to shake off the feeling that he’s just been punched in the gut.
His answers for the rest of the interview are professional but brief.
Yashiro is definitely going to scold him again.
Kim survives the interview, and Yashiro is waiting for him with a ferocious glare as soon as he steps out of the studio.
Fortunately, Kim has highly honed instincts for self-preservation, as well as a wide array of skills to diffuse situations like this.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Kim says, holding up a finger to indicate wait just a minute. Then he smoothly ducks out the door and beats a retreat to the men’s room.
Unfortunate, really, that violence can’t solve all his problems.
Kim checks his makeup in the mirror, wipes off a smudge of his eyeliner, and uses the urinal. As he’s washing his hands, the door opens, and in walks Porchay, chattering away with the sound board operator.
As soon as Porchay sees Kim, his hand darts to his face, covering a smile in a bashful sort of way. “Oh my gosh, P’Wik! It’s you! I could barely keep it together through the whole interview; I’m really a big fan. Oh, oh, wait, sorry, P’Bee, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You were saying?”
The sound op, Bee, laughs it off. “Hey, nong, don’t worry about it. I’m here for business.” He takes a stance by one of the urinals, followed by the sound of a zipper and the tinkling flow of liquid.
Porchay is entirely focused on Kim, or rather, Wik. “I’ve been listening to your stuff for years, and to think, now I get to meet you in person! I won’t even flatter myself to say we’re rivals, because I still have such a long way to go.”
Kim smiles, thinking about what might happen if Porchay continues to grow his talents in both singing and guitar. “Mm, I don’t know about that. I think you could give me a run for my money.”
Porchay squeaks — outright squeaks — in apparent delight. “Really? Oh my god, I can’t believe you said that! This is the best day ever.”
Bee finishes up and shuffles over to the sinks to wash his hands. Kim moves out of the way for him, and Porchay shifts as well.
“Hey, um, P’Wik? Do you think you could, um, maybe sign something for me? Like, oh, you could sign my shirt?”
His eyes are so big. How could Kim possibly say no to that?
“Sure. Do you have a pen?”
“I think? Hold on, lemme see.” Porchay starts searching his pockets.
“Later, guys,” Bee says with a wave. “Good session today, both of you.”
“Thanks, P’Bee!” Porchay says, and he and Kim both wave him off.
Then Porchay, still smiling and patting his pockets, watches as Bee walks out the door. The instant the door shuts, Porchay straightens up, and the smile and sweetness just… melt away. Like shadows walking into the light.
It’s stark, and it makes Kim tense.
“Hey, so, just one to one, I wanted to ask a question,” Porchay says. The perky, giddy tone is gone from his voice like it was never there. He sounds mature, focused. So focused, all of his attention on Kim.
Kim’s first instinct is curiosity. It overrides the alarm bells that follow. Something scratches in his brain, squirming, trying to get loose.
“What kind of question?” Kim asks.
Porchay presses his lips together, and something in his eyes blaze. “I heard you’re the kind of guy with connections. Any chance I can ask for a favor?”
Kim frowns, taking a moment to calculate that. Does Porchay mean he wants… drugs? And he thinks Wik has access to them? Well, Kim definitely has easy access to drugs, but Wik doesn’t and wouldn’t. Not to mention, he’d really like to know where the young artist heard such a rumor.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Kim says, pinching his eyebrows together in a way he knows makes him look innocent.
Porchay rolls those big eyes of his. “C’mon, don’t play dumb.”
Kim shakes his head. Of course the guy who wrote the song Kim loved would turn out to be an asshole. He looks Porchay in the eyes and feels an unexpected swell of pity.
“Look, bro, I can’t help you out,” Kim says. “Get your fix somewhere else. Whoever told you I deal was probably playing a prank on you.”
Kim turns to leave, but Porchay slides into his way, blocking the exit and edging into Kim’s personal space. That’s when Kim notices Porchay has more than an inch of height on him. The size difference doesn’t matter, though; Kim can still take him down effortlessly if he decides to get aggressive.
“You think I want drugs?” Porchay says, and he’s smiling again, only this time it isn’t a sweet smile. It’s sparking, electric, full of playful mischief. “Oh, that’s a good one. But I guess I can see how you’d think that. My bad. Doesn’t matter, though. When I mean connections, I mean actual connections. The kinds of connections that can get you into places.”
Kim feels his heart ice over; inside his head, a monster prowls, growling, clawing at the edges of his mind.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kim says firmly, Wik still in place by the barest of threads. “You must be confused.”
Porchay laughs, a scoffing sort of sound. He grins and looks more than a little feral.
“You’re lying,” Porchay declares with eyebrows raised, “but you can’t lie to someone who knows the truth.” He leans in close and whispers, “Right, Kimhan?”
The beast breaks free, and Wik shatters.
Porchay leans back, still smiling. “Ooh, that’s a good look. Very scary. I approve.” He applauds lightly.
“Where did you get that name?” Kim demands.
Porchay giggles, and it’s just the same as his earlier, sweet laugh. He spins away and leans back against a sink, confident now that he has Kim’s full attention.
“A boy mustn’t reveal his sources! Especially if that boy is me. But it’s no big deal, okay? Really, you’re looking so scary for no good reason. All I want is a little help getting in a set of doors, and I’ll take care of myself after that.”
Kim leans against the tiles of the bathroom wall, crossing his arms over his chest and mimicking Porchay’s laid back posture.
“You know who I am,” Kim says, eyeing Porchay up and down. He has something in his right pocket, likely a knife. “If you’re smart, you’ll realize I don’t like being blackmailed.”
“Geez, you’re so fucking stuffy,” Porchay complains. He pops his lips. “I can sweeten this deal, really, really easily, though.” His eyes go heavy lidded.
Really, this asshole thinks that’s going to work on Kim? “No thanks.”
“Ugh, c’mon, you didn’t even hear what I was going to offer!” He bats those big brown eyes playfully.
Curiosity. It will always be Kim’s undoing, and he knows it.
“So, make me an offer,” Kim says, dares.
Porchay rolls his neck once and then meets Kim’s eyes again. “Okay, fine, I will. Get me into where I wanna go, and I’ll tell you a little secret that could cause a scandal big enough to tank my budding music career. Then we’ll both have similar leverage over each other, and we cancel each other out. Or you can even go ahead and use my secret to fuck me over if you’re feeling petty. See? No big deal. It’s really just a teeny, tiny favor. Pretty please, Phi?”
Then the crazy bastard puts his hands together and gives a little bow, all so that he can look up at Kim imploringly.
And the growling, prowling thing inside Kim’s head is… amused. It’s a new feeling, being threatened and amused at the same time.
“And where, exactly, do you want to go?” Kim asks, his voice still flat and hard.
Porchay claps and giggles manically, and it shouldn’t be adorable in the slightest.
“Yay! Okay, so, you know your family’s casino, Lucky Garden? I wanna go there.”
Of all the places Kim could have imagined he’d say, Lucky Garden was not anywhere on the list.
“You want to gamble?” he asks, baffled.
Porchay sneers, giving an ugly twist to his lips. “Please, are you kidding me? Gambling is for bottom feeders, people who don’t know what they want.”
Kim leans forward, trying to find the guy’s angle. “Then what is it you want there?”
The feral flame in his eyes calms just slightly, steadies to a cold blaze. “Truth. I want to find some truth.”
A day and a half later, Kim sits in the corner booth of a mostly empty restaurant — one that he owns. His current babysitter, Jay, occupies the table next to the booth, fiddling with an empty coffee cup and looking painfully obvious even though he’s wearing regular clothing. The guy might as well have “bodyguard” tattooed on his forehead.
Kim is waiting, playing a mindless game on his phone as he thinks through other matters at hand. Namely, he’s thinking about the rough picture he’s pieced together for Porchay Pichaya Kittisawat.
Kim thought his own childhood was messed up, but this guy could give him a run for his money.
Parents dead in a car crash. Uncle killed during a shake down gone wrong. Older brother registered as a missing person, a likely runaway who’s been out of the picture since around the time the uncle died.
When Kim was ten, he’d been learning how to kill a man without weapons. When Porchay was ten, he’d been left alone in the world.
The door to the restaurant chimes, and Porchay comes strolling through, grinning from ear to ear. He’s wearing nondescript street clothes and sunglasses, a backpack hanging off one shoulder. He spots them right away and peels off his sunglasses, striding over as Jay gets to his feet. The backpack makes a soft thump as Porchay dumps it on the table in front of Jay.
“Feel free to have a look through,” Porchay says with a wink at the bodyguard. Jay somehow keeps his expression neutral as he checks with Kim, but Kim nods at him, so Jay starts rifling through the backpack.
While Jay searches, Porchay grins at Kim. “I’m ready for our first date, honey.”
Kim tilts his head and smiles in bemusement. “You’re early.”
Porchay nods. “So are you. I had you pegged for the meticulous type; nice to know I’m right.”
“Khun Kim,” Jay says, “it’s just clothes…”
“Really? You must have missed something,” Porchay says, craning his neck to look in the bag.
“... clothes, and these.”
Jay puts a pair of balisongs on the table next to the bag.
“Yep, those too,” Porchay says proudly.
“Sir?” Jay asks.
Kim nods. “Search him.”
Porchay doesn’t even argue, just takes a stance with his legs slightly apart and his arms out wide. Jay starts giving him a quick pat down, and when he gets to Porchay’s legs, the musician gives an artful shiver.
“A little higher, won’t you?” Porchay says breathlessly at Jay.
The other two restaurant patrons decide to leave, and then the place is empty aside from the two staff.
The pat down comes up with nothing, and Kim waves Jay off. Jay remains standing, and Porchay slides into the booth across from Kim.
“What’s with the knives?” Kim asks.
The young man shrugs. “Thought you might want to know I was carrying them,” Porchay says. “Nice to have a little defense, and offense, when I’m on a fact-finding expedition. Besides, I’m sure this is nothing compared to whatever arsenal you’re carrying.”
Kim currently carries a glock, three throwing knives, two karambits, and a set of his favorite lock picks. He’s traveling light. But that’s none of Porchay’s business.
He stares at his fellow musician, trying to make sense of him.
Porchay responds to the silence by leaning forward on the table and propping his chin up on one hand. “So? Did you look into me? Find anything juicy?”
Kim shrugs. “You’ve had an interesting nineteen years.”
Porchay raises his brows, expectant, but Kim leaves it at that.
“Wow, you’re cagey,” the other artist says. “Look, I’m not trying to hoodwink you or anything, okay? And I’m not messing with your business or your family’s business. I may be reckless, but I’m not suicidal. I just need in.”
“You need in… to do what, exactly?” Kim asks, eyes narrowed.
Porchay smiles. “I need to talk with a guy. Apparently he works there.”
For once, the answer lines up with Kim’s expectations.
“Ground rules,” Kim says, “no sneaking off, and when you’re done, we leave.”
Porchay’s eyes go especially wide. “It wouldn’t be much of a date if we left separately, P’Wik.” He leans against the backrest of the booth and shrugs. “I’m fine with all that, but can I have my knives, or is Mister Tall, Dark, and Frowny over there going to keep them?” Porchay nods at Jay.
Kim is more certain than ever that Porchay had a knife with him back at the radio station yesterday.
“They’re yours,” Kim says.
“Sir?!” Jay seems to have other opinions, but Kim’s glare silences him.
“Oh, so that’s what the scary look is for,” Porchay says with glee. “That’s handy. So? When do we leave?”
“Date starts now,” Kim says, getting up from the booth.
“Awesome,” Porchay says. He scrambles to get his knives and backpack and chases after Kim.
They all get into Kim’s car for the drive across town — Jay in the driver’s seat and Kim in the back with Porchay.
As soon as they’re on the road, Porchay opens his backpack and starts pulling out clothes. He takes a moment to pull out the two knives, making Kim tense, but Porchay only slaps the balisongs on the seat between them.
Porchay points to the knives and says firmly to Kim. “Don’t steal them.”
Kim finally lets his bafflement show on his face. “I have my own.”
“Heh, I thought so.” Porchay snickers.
Then he strips his T-shirt over his head, leaving himself bare chested. Kim catches a glimpse of ink on his back, the edge of a large tattoo peeking around the side of his left shoulder blade.
“What are you doing?” Kim asks, alarmed. He knows exactly what Porchay is doing, but that doesn’t stop him from asking.
“I’m changing,” Porchay says, and he pulls on a blood red, button-down, mesh top with opaque black flowers. The sleeves are long, and the whole thing clings to the young man’s musculature.
Pants come out of the backpack next, and Kim knows exactly what’s going to happen, but he can’t look away. He doesn’t trust this lunatic enough for that.
Porchay unbuckles his seat belt, pops off his shoes, and then goes for his belt buckle.
“You could have done this back at the restaurant,” Kim says, somehow managing to keep his tone mild as Porchay reveals gray boxer briefs and long, long legs. “You know, in the bathroom? Like a normal person?”
Porchay wiggles and squirms awkwardly in the seat, squeezing into tight black jeans that are ripped to shreds and shining with an excess of studs and grommets. He grins up at Kim from a bent angle as he draws the pants over his underwear.
“Yeah, but where would be the fun in that?” His tongue peeks out between his teeth.
Mostly decent again — for a given definition of the word decent — Porchay straightens up and digs a little jewelry-filled baggie out of the backpack. Earrings, ear cuffs, rings, pocket chain, they all slot into place, the added touches to complete the bad-boy look. Last, he pulls out a thin, plain chain necklace. This is treated differently than the rest, with almost reverent touches as it’s latched around his neck and smoothed into place. Then he pulls out a compact and eyeliner, and he somehow manages to avoid stabbing himself in the eye as Jay drives them through Bangkok.
When they step out of the car a short while later, Kim is wearing a black surgical mask, and Porchay looks like an altogether different person from the one who got into the car twenty minutes ago.
Getting into Lucky Garden is a simple matter of Kim flashing his ring and warning the people at the door that they’d best forget they saw him. Then he takes off his ring and slips it into his pocket.
As soon as they’re in, Porchay exclaims, “Best date ever!” and proceeds to drape his overgrown, childish self over Kim’s arm.
“Give us some space,” Kim tells Jay through his mask. “And keep an eye on him, not me.”
“Sir,” says Jay, and he stalks away, prowling the perimeter.
“Nice of you to think of my safety,” Porchay says with a flirty air kiss.
With his mouth hidden by the mask, Kim lets himself smile and doesn’t bother correcting him.
The Lucky Garden is bustling tonight, full of thrill seekers ready to take a risk. They crowd around the roulette table, the card tables, and the slot machines. The patrons are from all walks of life, from the broke single parent to the high society businessperson.
“The bar,” Porchay says, pointing. “I wanna go to the bar.” He starts to drag Kim in that direction.
“What happened to being fine on your own once we got inside?” Kim asks.
Porchay lets him go, hands up and open, and he walks backwards a few steps. “You’re free to go, honey.” He turns and walks away, looking over his shoulder coyly. “Or you’re free to join me.”
Kim sighs and looks around for a moment, but it isn’t like he has anything else to do while he’s here. So he reluctantly shoves his hands in his pockets and follows. When he reaches the bar, Porchay is already charming one of the bartenders.
“You could always have me do a row of shots to prove it to you,” Porchay is saying as he leans over the bar, smiling up at the man behind it.
The bartender laughs. “Okay, okay, I believe you. What’ll you have?”
“Oh, I’ll drink whatever you give me,” Porchay replies earnestly.
The bartender, a seasoned professional, blushes and turns away with a hand held up as though he can stop Porchay’s flirtations in midair.
Kim takes a seat next to Porchay and says nothing.
“Honey, there you are!” Porchay exclaims with a big, bright smile. “Oops, did you catch me flirting?”
“When are you not flirting?” Kim asks dryly.
Porchay nods and shrugs. “Fair point.” The smile turns off, and a serious and calculating look appears. He swivels on his stool to look out and around the casino. “So, what do you think, Mik? Anyone working here look like a ‘Kradum’ to you?”
“Who’s Mik?” Kim asks, incredulous.
Porchay gives him a sideways look. “You are for now. Given the whole…” he wiggles his fingers at the mask on Kim’s face, “... the whole that, I figure you probably don’t want me calling you by either of your other names right now.” His voice is pitched at just the right level to avoid being overheard.
Whatever else Kim might be able to say about Porchay — and there is certainly a lot he could say — he wouldn’t call the guy dimwitted.
“So, you came here with nothing more than a name?” Kim says offhandedly.
Porchay gives him a dry look and swivels back around to face the bar. “I’ve done more with less.”
I’m sure you have, Kim thinks.
“Here you are, nong,” says the bartender with a crooked smile and pointed emphasis on the nong. He places a fruity red-pink drink on the counter and slides it to Porchay. A cherry decorates the tip of the straw. “Sex on the Beach.”
“Oooh, one of my faves! How did you know? Wait, wait, hold on, I got this.” Porchay takes the cherry into his mouth, stem and all, and begins to work it around, his jaw and tongue moving this way and that behind his lips.
“Are you going to…?” the bartender asks, leaning forward.
Porchay holds up a single finger, indicating for him to wait, and meanwhile he keeps working. A couple seconds later, he reaches up and pulls out the stem, tied in a neat little knot. “Tada!” He holds it up for the bartender and Kim to inspect. Kim shakes his head, rolling his eyes, but the bartender is impressed, doing a slow clap. Porchay spits out the cherry pit into his hand and drops it on his drink napkin.
“Well done,” the bartender says, “I shouldn’t have doubted you. My most humble apologies.” He puts his hand on his chest in mock sincerity.
“Well, now you know better,” Porchay says magnanimously. “Hey, by the way, is Kradum working tonight? I can’t see him anywhere?” Porchay looks over his shoulder and makes a show of craning his neck around to search.
The bartender raises his brows. “You know Kradum? Yeah, he’s here, dealing over at table five.”
“Really?” Porchay sounds so genuinely surprised that even Kim almost falls for it. “Where’s table five?” He turns around again and is looking around at each of the tables in turn.
The bartender tuts. “I’m not surprised you can’t see him. Over there? All the way in the back by the emergency exit sign.”
“Oh, you're right, I see him!” Porchay says. “Wow, that is a bad-fitting suit. Like, really bad.” He turns and gives the bartender a smile. “Thanks, bro, you’re a big help.”
“You’re welcome, but you gotta do one thing for me in return,” the bartender says.
“Oh yeah?” Porchay leans in.
“Yeah, tell me whether the drink’s okay,” the bartender snarks.
“Ha ha, oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” Porchay rushes to take a long pull from the straw. “Mmm, just right. Hey, Mik, do you want anything? I’m buying, honey.”
The unbridled audacity of this guy is something else. “No thanks, darling.”
“I’ll leave you two to it, then. Let me know if you need anything,” the bartender says before moving on to another patron.
Porchay picks up his drink, the ice cubes tinkling in a musical way. He angles himself somehow just perfectly so that he has a view of table five while also seeming to be attentive toward Kim.
“You seem right at home here,” Kim says casually.
“If you’re asking whether I come here often, the answer is no, not here. Lots of dirtier places like it, though, sure.”
“More of your fact-finding missions?”
Kim really should shut up. In no way, shape, or form does he need to know about this strange boy’s business. He has plenty of his own problems and mysteries to worry about; he doesn’t need one more. The beast, though, the beast in his head is off the leash, and it wants to poke and prod, bat at this mystery like a cat playing with a half-dead mouse. And it’s enjoyable, even relaxing, to be on the outside looking in for once.
Porchay sighs. “I’m always on a mission.” One of his hands comes up to fiddle with the simple chain around his neck.
“Porchay? I thought that was you!”
A woman in a shiny, tight blue dress approaches Porchay. She’s pretty and petite, and Kim would guess she’s somewhere around thirty years old. Diamonds drip from her ears and throat. She slides her hand up the sheer fabric on Porchay’s arm until it rests on his shoulder.
“Oh, no way, Diana!” Porchay says, rushing to deposit his drink on the bar. He hops off his stool and hugs her, engulfing her tiny body against his frame.
Porchay’s back is to Kim, so he has a clear view when the woman slides her hand dangerously low down the small of his back.
When they part, Porchay is all sweet smiles. “It’s so good to see you! I thought you were still in Phuket, though?”
“Oh, you know me,” Diana says with a shake of her head. “I couldn’t stay away forever. So, surprise, I’m back!”
Porchay tuts. “Mean of you not to tell me,” he gives a fierce pout.
She swats his chest. “Don’t even try that on me. You know it won’t work. And besides, I think your companion isn’t all that happy to see me. Hi, I’m Diana.”
Kim gives a little nod.
“Ah, sorry, I forgot my manners,” Porchay says. “Diana, this is Mik. Mik, Diana.” He leans over and stage-whispers to the woman. “It’s our first date.”
Kim only notices because he’s looking for it, but Porchay’s eyes dart lightning fast back to table five before bouncing back to Diana.
“Goodness, then I really am intruding, aren’t I?” Diana says. “I’ll get back to my own date, but I just had to say hello, you sweet thing.” To Kim, she adds, “Good luck. He’s a real handful.”
“Oh, hey now, no bad-mouthing me in front of Mik!” Porchay whines.
Diana only laughs and pats his arm before sashaying away to the roulette table.
Porchay takes another second to double-check on table five before he reclaims his seat. Kim just stares.
Porchay winces. “I guess I didn’t need your help getting in after all? Oops. In my defense, she did move to Phuket and swore she’d never set foot in Bangkok again.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Kim says with a small shrug.
Porchay snickers. “You don’t say much, but you think so loudly I’m about to go deaf.”
Kim continues staring, tilting his head and studying his fellow musician like a bug.
“See?” Porchay says. “You’re doing it again. What is it? You might as well say whatever you’re thinking. I’ve got time to kill anyway.”
“How are you doing it?” The question slips out there, the one Kim is dying to ask.
“Doing what? Am I doing something?”
“The switching,” Kim says. “So much of it, with every different person. With me, with the bartender, Diana. You’re different for each of them.”
Porchay frowns, and he gives a little twitch of his head as he processes that. “I’m not… switching? Is that what you do, you think of it as a switch? Huh. Gimme a sec, I don’t know how to put this.” He picks up his drink and sips on it, staring across the room at table five. Then, suddenly, he puts his drink down and snaps his fingers. “Okay, think of it like this. We all contain multitudes, right? We aren’t just one thing. I can be an asshole and I can be nice, and they’re both valid. So, I just… focus on one thing at a time. It’s easy, actually, for me to focus like that. Just be all flirt, all professional, all baby boy, be whatever I need in the moment to get by. Like, hm, like your song, ‘Wanderer.’”
Kim has to blink, not following the jump. “What about ‘Wanderer’?”
Porchay shrugs. “You sing in both tenor and falsetto. You may have to switch between them, but they’re both yours. They’re both still you singing. Then again, what do I know? I’m giving my therapist most of her gray hairs.”
That’s a really, really interesting thought. And Kim has a feeling he’s going to be chewing on it for a long time. “So when Diana came up, you just focused on… being young? Being ‘baby boy’ for her?”
“She eats it up every time.” Porchay shrugs.
“Yeah, that was hard to miss.” Kim thinks of the way her hands were roaming.
Porchay smiles, and it’s more than a little wicked. “You know, it’s cute that you’re the jealous type. I didn’t expect that. Meticulous, yes. Jealous? No.”
Kim frowns behind his face mask. Where does this punk get off thinking he’s jealous? Just when Kim is starting to think he isn’t so bad, he goes and says something like that.
“Tsk, don’t pout. I said it was cute,” Porchay says with a little moue. He takes a wallet out of his pocket and drops some baht on the bar. “If you’re gonna be like that, I’ll just go play on my own. Catch you in a bit!”
He then gets up from his stool, plucks his drink off the bartop, and strolls away. Kim turns to watch him, leaning back against the bar to observe as Porchay casually strolls through the room. The young man stops only briefly at each table to observe the game at hand. When he reaches table five, he doesn’t linger any longer than he did at the others. After he completes the circuit, he wanders up the stairs to the loft. Unsurprisingly, he picks a vantage point with a perfect view of table five, and once he’s there, he leans over the railing, watching over the floor like a bird of prey.
Jay seems to be following orders properly. He also trundles up the stairs and takes up a position parallel to Porchay but at a small distance from the musician. Porchay pauses in his observations to give Jay a friendly little wave. Jay just glares at him.
Then it’s a waiting game. Time trickles by slowly to the sounds of revelry and the cheers and groans of the assembled risk takers. Growing bored, Kim eventually surrenders his spot at the bar to stretch his legs, taking a stroll around the room just as Porchay had. That’s how he’s in the perfect position to see when another dealer approaches table five, relieving Kradum to take a break.
Kim glances up at the loft space, and Porchay is already on the move. Jay follows behind.
Kradum, rather than going to the back hall that leads to the employee lounge, slips right out the exit. Kim knows that the door leads to a small, cramped alleyway, the perfect place for a smoke break.
Porchay doesn’t know that, though, and as he approaches he appears to be rushing, worry written starkly on his face. It’s the first time Kim’s seen him ruffled.
Kim sidles over to stand right next to the exit, and he’s leaning against the wall next to it when Porchay arrives.
“Chill. He isn’t gone,” Kim says calmly.
“You don’t know that,” Porchay fires back as he reaches for the door.
Jay is approaching, but Kim signals for him to stand guard inside the door. Then Kim follows Porchay through the exit.
When the door thunks heavily shut behind him, it closes out the noise of the casino, dulling it to a muffled murmur of life.
The alleyway is cramped with haphazardly stacked crates and trash bins. A broken bicycle leans against the opposite building, and a couple of pots with half-dead plants are sitting on stacks of cement blocks. Yellow light spills down over all of it from a flood light positioned overhead, dispelling some of the nighttime gloom and casting deep shadows into the crevices.
“If you two are looking for a place for a quick fuck, try again in ten minutes.”
Kradum is there, perched on a lone crate with his knees splayed, a cigarette dangling from one hand. He appears average in just about every way, from looks to build. His hair is tidy, but somehow something about him screams of sloppiness. Perhaps it’s the ill-fitting suit, or maybe it’s the slouch.
The tension bleeds smoothly out of Porchay’s shoulders. Kim slinks over to a shadow where there’s a wooden table that’s seen better days. He hops up to sit on the edge of it; he wants a good seat for whatever show is about to start.
“While I agree that a little bump and grind with my honey over there would be a ton of fun,” Porchay says lightly, “I’m actually here to talk with you. Your name’s Kradum, right?”
Kratom pauses with his cigarette halfway to his mouth. If he isn’t careful, he’s going to get ash on his black pants.
“Who wants to know?”
“You don’t know me, but you might know my last name. Remember the name Kittisawat?” Porchay asks. He’s moving around the space casually, but in a smart way. He keeps himself between Kradum and the door.
The guy shakes his head and then takes a drag off his cig. Then he shrugs. “Can’t say I know it. I’ve met a lot of people, kid.”
“Ah, you might have to think back to remember this one,” Porchay says. Somehow he’s making his tall form look smaller, arms tucked in at his sides and head down. “Think nine or ten years back? You worked at a little fight ring on the docks, didn’t you?”
That’s when Kradum freezes, and Kim thinks, Ah, yes, now we’re getting somewhere. Which is a ridiculous thought because this isn’t his shakedown. And yet something hungry curls up in his mind, eager and anticipating. What little twittering notes will this bird sing?
Kim has a passing familiarity with the underground fight rings around the city, although it’s an ever-changing landscape. One ring gets shut down, another pops up. But one thing he does know is that some are dodgier than others, with higher stakes. A new angle opens in his mind, an avenue of this investigation that he hadn’t considered before, but he waits to see how this plays out.
“Look, buddy, you’ve got the wrong guy,” Kradum says, rising to his feet. He drops his half-smoked cigarette on the ground, smashes it under his foot, and gives Porchay a look that says, Don’t fuck with me. Kradum attempts to go around him.
Light on his feet, Porchay positions himself in Kradum’s way. “Hey, hey, no rush, okay? I just wanna talk. I’m looking for some info, anything you can tell me. No worries, alright, and I’ll be out of your hair.” He smiles, and it’s a half-hearted attempt at sweetness. There’s a hunger leaking through that smile, a sharp edge in the corners of his tense mouth like a hidden blade. “Look, hey, please, Kradum, I really need your help. I’m looking for my brother, and you might be my last hope. Please, c’mon, I’m begging you, Phi.” Porchay puts his hands up in wai, throwing those puppy eyes at the poor bastard.
It makes Kradum hesitate at least, but on the inside, Kim scoffs. There’s no way Porchay’s ploy is going to work.
But Kim is proven wrong.
Kradum makes a wince, his face pinched and pained. “Look, kid, I only took the bets, just a mindless bookie. I’m not sure what you expect from me, alright?”
“Please?” Porchay draws out the word long and high like a note in a song.
Kradum rolls his head on his shoulders and then looks up again. “What was your brother’s name, kid?”
“Porsche. Porsche Pachara Kittisawat.”
Kradum rubs a finger along his jaw thoughtfully for a moment, but then he nods. “Yeah, I remember him. Tall for his age, did Taekwondo?”
“Yeah! Yeah, that’s him,” Porchay says eagerly. “Can you tell me anything from back then? Anything from the night he went missing?”
Kradum shrugs and shakes his head. “Can’t help you, kid. Besides, I heard he ran away from home. Probably got fed up with that uncle of his.”
It turns out to be the wrong thing to say. Kim watches as Porchay snaps in real time, face going from pleading to white-hot rage. And Kim wonders, Is that what it looks like when I let Kimhan loose?
Porchay doesn’t waste any more time. He grabs Kradum by his vest and slams him against the wall, pinning him to it and knocking the wind out of the older man at the same time. Kradum may be of average build, but Porchay is most definitely not; Kim got an eyeful in the back of the car, and a body like that comes only through hard work and dedication.
“That’s a goddamn lie, you asshole! And I. Hate. Liars.” Porchay says, pulling Kradum back off the wall for the sole purpose of slamming him against it again. Kradum is dazed, but he reaches up to grasp Porchay’s wrists, struggling. “So let’s try this again. Where did your asswipe of a boss take my brother?”
“I don’t know, man, I don’t know! I only took the bets! Let me go, you fucking psycho! Someone, help me!”
Porchay moves quickly, and Kim hears the shlick shlick of a balisong coming out practically before he can see it. Porchay holds the knife against the man’s side, digging it into the fabric of his suit so he can feel it.
“Ah ah ah, shhh,” Porchay says, soothing Kradum, whose eyes have gone wide and panicky. ”If I stab you right here, you might not die, but you’ll bleed a whole fucking lot and wish you had. So quiet down and answer some questions, okay? I don’t want to stab you, but I really, really want some truth. Okay?”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Kradum swallows hard, his throat clicking dryly. He’s stopped struggling, wary of the knife. “W-what was the question again?”
Kim tilts his head. Porchay must be truly desperate. This guy is clearly nothing more than a grunt, low on the totem pole. Of course, any source can be useful, but the chances of getting anything good here are slim.
“Where did Manop take my brother?”
“I really don’t know, you gotta believe me,” Kradum starts, but Porchay leans in harder, “but I know they took the kids to a warehouse! A warehouse not far from the ring! They took them all there.”
“Good, good,” Porchay says, laser focused on Kradum’s face. “That was more honest of you. Now what can you tell me about shipment? Where did they sell Porsche?”
And there it is, the last missing piece, the one Kim had begun to suspect a while back. With that, Kim has a more complete view of Porchay.
It’s about family, Kim thinks, and it echoes repeatedly in his head. The animal inside of him is quiet, satiated for once with the answer he found.
“I don’t know, kid, I really don’t know,” Kradum babbles, and Porchay growls, pulling on his vest and slamming him back hard enough to make him wheeze. “All I know is the shipments went all over the place! Sometimes Russia, sometimes Japan, America, Peru, anywhere. Where shipments went was need-to-know only, and I didn’t need to know.”
Porchay hangs his head for a moment, clenching his teeth and shaking. Then he whips his head up. “You ever have buyers or their lackeys come through and visit the ring? Ever hear about any of the buyers?”
Kradum shakes his head fast. “Nuh-uh. Buyers stayed far, far away, and their people, the ones for the shipment, they only ever went to the storage facility. I never even set foot in there, I swear. I just showed up, took bets, and got the fuck out.”
“You’re pretty fucking useless, Phi,” Porchay grinds out. “Isn’t there anything you can tell me?” He presses the knife harder, and Kim is pretty sure it’s tearing the fabric now, maybe starting to prick skin.
“Ow, ow, oh my god, stop, I don’t know anything! If you wanna know, you gotta talk to Manop, or, or, or, Tang!”
“That’s fucking hard to do since they got killed in a gang war three years ago,” Porchay snaps.
“Who was Manop’s boss?” Kim asks.
Porchay and Kradum both turn to look his way. They seem to have forgotten he was there.
“I don’t…” Kradum starts.
Kim slides the surgical mask off his face and pulls his ring out of his pocket, slipping it on his finger.
“Fuck… me,” Kradum whimpers. “K-k-khun Kim.”
Kim raises his eyebrows. “Manop’s boss?”
Porchay is looking back and forth between the two of them comically.
“Big Red,” Kradum ekes out, breathy. “His boss was Big Red.”
“Thank you. If you tell anyone I was here tonight, I’ll know about it, and I won’t be pleased,” Kim says. Then to Porchay, he adds, “Done playing yet? I’m getting bored.”
Porchay’s lip curls, clearly wanting to snap in reply, but he physically shakes it off and then, shlick shlick, the knife is tucked away again. He pulls Kradum off the wall and brusquely dusts down his vest.
“Thank you for your contribution of truth. Good night and fuck off,” Porchay says with a jaunty salute.
Kradum hesitates, looking at Kim. Kradum may be a mere grunt, but clearly he’s knowledgeable enough to recognize who’s the bigger threat here. Kim jerks his head at the door, and Kradum rushes to return to the casino. He crashes into Jay on the way in, and there’s a moment of ridiculous fumbling as Kradum scrambles to get by.
After Kradum leaves, Jay takes a moment to peek out the door at them.
“Everything okay, sir?” the bodyguard asks.
“I’m fine,” Kim replies. A glance at Porchay tells him the other musician is not fine. “Give us a few more minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door closes with a soft thunk. Porchay turns to lean against the wall where he’d had Kradum pinned just seconds ago. His eyelids droop, and his mouth hangs open a little as he inhales and exhales slowly, shakily.
Kim watches him, giving him the chance to just exist.
“Lost today,” Porchay sings quietly.
Unbidden, the notes of the alternative ending to the song pop into Kim’s mind. But maybe not tomorrow…
Tears silently fall down Porchay’s cheeks. He isn’t sobbing, is in fact extremely quiet about it, but still he cries. Kim thinks of how jealous he is that this young man can be so ruthless and still express his feelings so openly.
“I rigged the poll,” Porchay suddenly says. He reaches up slowly and smears the tear tracks over his cheeks. “That was the little secret I promised you. I rigged it so I could do the interview and meet you. Would have placed fifth, but I know my way around a bot.”
Kim had completely forgotten about that part of the bargain. Somewhere along the line it had ceased to matter.
“I don’t need something like that to burn your career down,” Kim says.
Porchay shrugs. He looks exhausted. “Well, yeah. But it would make it easy for you.”
Kim debates carefully about his next words.
“The odds your brother is still alive aren’t good,” he says, and it’s gentle. Maybe there’s still something of his mother in him after all.
Porchay laughs, and it’s a sharp, crackling sound. “I’m not stupid. I’ve known that for a long time. But if he is, I want to know that truth, too. Not guess or wonder, know.”
“You’ve gone as far as you can,” Kim says bluntly. “If you pull this particular thread, no one’s going to think twice about silencing you.”
Porchay sighs. “Long game, Kimhan, think long game. ‘Slow and steady wins the race.’” He says the last bit in English with a near-perfect accent.
Kim shrugs and gets up from his perch on the table. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A bit of that flirtatious look comes back into Porchay’s eyes. “To say that, we’d have to see each other again. Don’t tell me, are you thinking of asking me on another date?” He bats his eyelashes outrageously. Even in the bad lighting, Kim can see how long his lashes are.
“Why would I? You kept flirting with other people.”
“Awww, c’mon, don’t be mad. Didn’t you at least have a little fun, Kimhan? P’Kim? P’Wik?
“It’s Mik to you, asshole,” Kim says.
For a second, Porchay looks completely stunned. “You…” he says. Then his lips start twitching hard, and he begins to laugh and laugh and laugh. He laughs like a wild animal, or like he has a beast inside his own head driving him to do it.
He laughs until he cries again, but he keeps laughing through it.
Kim smiles, his surgical mask still dangling from his hand.
The aftereffects of a mission are always the same for Porchay — utter exhaustion. The emotions that get dredged up are chaotic, churning, and they fill him up and stretch him like a balloon until he feels like he’s about to pop. Then when it’s over, he feels a yawning emptiness.
After he goes back with Kim to that run-down little business front (who do you think you’re fooling with that, Kimhan?), Porchay somehow manages to drag himself back to his motorcycle. He doesn’t even crash on the way back to his campus apartment despite how tired he is, so maybe miracles are possible.
Then again, maybe not.
The night was mostly a bust. He got some information, but as usual, it’s going to lead to even more footwork, more investigation, more time.
Porchay drags himself up the stars of the apartment complex, drags himself through the door, and drags himself to the bathroom. Staring into the mirror, he asks himself, not for the first time, whether all this is even worth it. Kim is right; Porchay knows the statistics. The likelihood that Porsche is still alive is next to zero.
Around his neck, the silver chain glints. Yeah, he thinks, yeah, it’s worth it.
A few minutes later, after he’s at least somewhat straightened up, he drags himself into bed, where he sleeps for twelve hours straight.
When he opens his eyes long enough to read the digital clock beside his bed, it takes him a couple minutes to piece together that it’s reading two o’clock in the afternoon.
“Shit!”
Exhaustion suddenly long gone in the wake of panic, Porchay rushes through a shower. He picks out some of his plain-ish clothing, grabs his phone, and throws his laptop and a stack of school books in a bag. Then he’s off again.
He wanted time in the gym this morning. He’ll just have to catch up tomorrow.
Half an hour later, he’s pulling up in front of home base. Hefting his backpack, he tries to sneak in quietly through the front door, but there’s Santichai with hands on hips. She must have heard his bike.
“I was just about to give you a call to make sure you were still breathing,” she says.
“Sorry I’m late?” he says as meekly as he can.
“You can’t fool me like that, mister. You missed lunch. I made your favorite.” She wanders into the kitchen, and Porchay follows. She opens the fridge and pulls out a container of shrimp rolls and veggies and puts them on a plate.
“You mean you ordered my favorite,” he says.
“Same thing, darling, same thing,” she says dismissively.
“Why the treat?” Porchay asks as she puts the plate in the microwave.
“You’ve been so busy lately. I worry you’re working too hard.”
Porchay snorts. “Says the CEO of two companies.”
“Oh, hush, you.” She taps her nails on the island in the center of the kitchen. “You don’t have to push yourself like I do. You have school, the music, Muay Thai, all your little computing projects. It’s a lot. If you ever want to take a break…”
“I don’t,” Porchay insists, not for the first time. “Dr. Jantra says we all have to chase our own contentment, and that’s what I’m doing.” He gives a decisive nod, one he uses with her a lot to signal that he knows his own mind, that he needs her to believe him.
“I do wish you’d stop using your therapist, the one that I pay for, mind you, against me.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” Porchay responds gravely. “So, um, is Pu not here?” Pu is her husband. Mostly.
Santichai shakes her head. “He’s on a fishing trip right now.”
Pu has never been around much, so that’s perfectly normal.
The microwave dings cheerfully.
After lunch, Santichai convinces him that his school work can wait a couple hours, and she drags him to the couch to watch a drama.
He cuddles up to her, resting his head on his shoulder. The fabric of her dress under his cheek is silky.
“This is a nice dress,” Porchay says. “Is it new?”
“This? Oh, I’ve had it for a while.”
It’s a pretty shade of yellow.
Notes:
SPOILERS/WARNINGS
In the course of Kim and Porchay's interactions, they discuss the ways they manage their variable personalities. Porchay threatens a man’s life, and through the chapter he exhibits various symptoms of PTSD at times, including but not limited to emotional instability, survivor’s guilt, and uncontrolled anger.
END SPOILERS/WARNINGS
I may have borrowed Yashiro from a completely different fandom, an anime/manga. If you recognize him, let me know in the comments! 😄
Note: Balisong is the more formal name for a butterfly knife, and a karambit is a short, wickedly curved knife.
Sooo, what do you think of Chay now that you've met him? 🤔 (Also, I promise next week we'll return to Porsche and Kinn!)
Chapter 9: Disquiet, Disruption, and Diamonds
Summary:
After accepting the position of a “companion bodyguard” for Kinn, Porsche settles into his new life at the Theerapanyakul tower. However, his past continues to haunt him, sometimes in unexpected ways.
Notes:
Hey, psst, not-so-secret message for enbymoomin: You're an amazing beta, and I think you're neat.
REMINDER: I have posted a brief spoiler description of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The only thing Porsche regrets about signing the “companion bodyguard” contract is that he has to hand over his phone. He would have liked to use it to listen to Chay’s songs.
Pete gives him a sympathetic wince as he collects it. They’re standing in the reception area outside of Kinn’s office.
“Sorry, man,” Pete says. “You can get it back for vacations.”
Porsche shakes his head. “I lost the charger anyway.” Technically, he knows exactly where the charger is; it’s in Jom’s apartment, in Porsche’s bag.
“That’s no problem,” Pete assures him. “Arm has a million of them. So, ready for a proper tour, trainee?”
Porsche is hungry, exhausted, and aching. Still better than the alternative. “Sure,” he says.
Pete grins. “Follow me,” he says. He leads Porsche out into the hallway. “We’re closest to the gun range, so I figure we can start there and work our way down the floors.”
“Gun range?” Porsche asks, halting in his tracks.
Pete raises his eyebrows. “Of course. We are bodyguards, after all.”
“I’ll learn to shoot?”
Pete nods and gives him a bemused smile. He waves, indicating for Porsche to follow, and they continue to the elevator. “Yeah, it’ll be part of your training course. Is that a problem?”
Porsche shakes his head. It isn’t. It really isn’t. The more weapons he knows how to use, the better. Especially guns. Guns were always around Porsche practically every minute that he had been in the trade… but they’d also always been out of reach. Even if he could get his hands on one, he would hardly know how to use it.
The gun range is a spacious facility, and Porsche can’t wait to learn. Men in track uniforms are lined up, shoulders squared and hands braced as they fire off shot after shot. They’re wearing protective gear over their ears.
After visiting the range, Pete and Porsche descend to a dedicated lounge just for the bodyguards. There are facilities available, too, for tailoring and medical attention. Pete takes a moment to stop and speak with the tailor, setting up a fitting appointment in the afternoon for Porsche.
They’re about to pass through the cafeteria, and something in Porsche’s expression must give him away, because Pete stops long enough for them to get sandwiches and drinks.
When they go to the pool, there’s a training session of some kind in progress. P’Chan is barking orders at men in wetsuits. Porsche pauses to watch. The bodyguards are being tied up, their hands being bound together behind their backs with black cords, but no one seems alarmed. Their feet are getting tied up, too.
“They’re doing some timed testing,” Pete explains. “We all have to do it regularly, make sure we’re keeping ourselves in good form.”
Porsche flicks his eyes between Pete and the scene that’s currently unfolding.
“Do you wanna watch?” Pete offers. “We aren’t in a rush.”
Porsche is going to have to do this himself, so he nods.
“Okay then,” Pete says. He leads Porsche closer to the side of the pool. Pete calls out to one of the guys. “Hey, Pao, bet you can’t break my record this month.”
“You’re on!” the man shouts back. “If I do it, you’re buying me soju for the next week.”
“Uh huh, good luck with that,” Pete snarks, giving a thumbs up.
P’Chan calls everyone to order, and the men line up at the edge of the pool with the help of an unbound assistant. A few moments later, P’Chan blows a whistle, and the men go into the water. The assistant clicks a stopwatch he’s carrying. There’s nothing to see except wiggling bodies under the shivering, waving surface of the water.
“The objective is for them to get free as fast as they can,” Pete explains.
“You show how to undo the knots?” Porsche asks. “All kinds of knots? What about anything else? Handcuffs?”
Pete grins at him, and he gives his eyebrows a little bounce. “You like that? It’s the first time I’ve seen you so excited.”
Porsche feels the moment his facial muscles go loose, expression falling away as he freezes.
“Hey, no, that’s great,” Pete reassures him. “We’ll teach you as much as you can stand to learn, I promise.”
The first bodyguard’s head breaks the surface of the water. It’s Pao, and he whips his wet hair out of his face and waves his cord triumphantly. The assistant makes a note on a tablet. Then the assistant makes a drinking gesture at Pete.
Pete doesn’t seem displeased, even though he lost.
Next they make a stop in a locker room, where Pete leads Porsche to a large cabinet and pulls out a couple of familiar track uniforms and hands them to Porsche.
“This time you get to keep them,” Pete says with a cheeky grin.
Porsche isn’t sure how he feels about that — about the fact that he’s staying — so he simply nods and tucks the suits into the fold of his arm.
The fitness facilities are extensive, including an open gym and a huge room with exercise equipment of all kinds, some of which Porsche has never seen before.
They wander among the treadmills and barbells and weight machines. The room smells of sweat and musk.
“Gym is open from six in the morning until ten at night, so we can all train our little hearts out,” Pete jokes, slapping the padded arm of a bowflex machine.
He isn’t kidding about that. Porsche is already calculating how he wants to use the various machines in the room. It might take a little while to get back in top form — the past couple of weeks have been unusual, to say the least — but with all these options at his disposal, it’ll be easy.
Several men are currently using the facility, but one catches Porsche’s eye. He’s young, very young, and he isn’t wearing the track uniform. He’s off in a corner by himself, using a chest press.
A couple of bodyguards pass by the young man. They stop and bow to him on their way out of the gym, saying something Porsche can’t hear from across the room. The young man doesn’t pay them any attention.
He’s probably around Chay’s age, Porsche thinks.
Pete notices Porsche looking. “That’s Khun Macau,” Pete explains, and Porsche turns his attention to his guide. “He’s part of the minor family, but he spends most of his time here with the main family. You’ll see him around sometimes, but he keeps to himself.”
When Porsche looks back at Macau again, he’s toweling himself off, watching Pete and Porsche with little expression on his face.
“There’s more I could show you, but you look like you’re about ready to drop,” Pete tells Porsche bluntly. “How about I take you to the dorms? You can rest up until your fitting.”
Porsche expects to be crammed into a large, shared sleeping space, especially given that this operation seems to have an entire army of bodyguards. Instead, Pete leads him to a fully furnished apartment. It’s meticulously tidy, but there’s clearly at least one other inhabitant. A couple of framed video game posters decorate the walls, and little personal trinkets fill empty spots on a bookshelf.
“Get some rest, Tsunami,” Pete says. “Someone will be by later with a schedule for your full orientation, starting tomorrow. Remember how to get back to the tailor’s?”
Porsche nods. “It’s Phoenix now,” he corrects. “My name. Not Tsunami.”
“Phoenix? Like the firebird, phoenix?” Pete nods, looking impressed. “Very cool. Oh, one last thing, about your roommate…” He hesitates and winces. “Just try to get along with him, yeah? Okay then, bye!”
The door shuts behind Pete.
Typical. It’s the catch, the other shoe that finally dropped: a bad roommate. Porsche has had bad roommates aplenty. Whoever this is, he’ll handle it. For now, though, he needs however much sleep he can get. Feeling so drained that his hair itches (or maybe that’s just dried sweat), he kicks off his shoes and goes to find the bedroom. It’s small, with two twin beds. One of the bedside stands has personal items on it, and the other has nothing but a digital alarm clock; Porsche claims the apparently unoccupied bed. After setting the alarm, he closes his eyes, curls up on the bed, and lets himself drift off.
He isn’t certain how long he sleeps, but the next thing he’s aware of is that someone else is in the living room. Porsche wakes quickly at the sounds of life, which are undoubtedly being caused by his new roommate.
Best get this over with, he thinks.
Porsche gets up and quietly makes his way into the living room. He finds a familiar bodyguard sitting on the couch.
Big frowns up at him. “Hey.”
Porsche jerks his head in greeting and gives a small wave. He calls to mind what Pete told him, how Big started the pool of money to help send Porsche off.
“Ground rules,” Big says sternly. “There’s just two. Rule number one: We aren’t buddies, and we aren’t going to be buddies, so leave me alone. Rule number two: Don’t touch my stuff. You don’t mess with my stuff, and I won’t mess with yours.”
Fair enough. “I don’t have any,” Porsche says.
Big looks perplexed. “Don’t have any what?”
“Stuff,” Porsche explains. “I don’t have any stuff.”
“Nothing?” Big asks. “The hell did you do with the clothes and the, you know, all the rest? Pete gave you some shit when you left.”
Porsche waits a moment, expecting Big to claim that Porsche owes him for the favor. It doesn’t happen, so instead Porsche just shakes his head. “I had to run.”
Big makes a face. “Man, you really are an unlucky bastard.”
Porsche can’t argue with that.
Kinn often feels that he leads two lives. Some days are for threats, beatings, and firefights. Other days are for paperwork, banal meetings, and crunching numbers.
Today is a paperwork kind of day, with Kinn’s morning blocked out to give feedback on investment proposals and catch up on tedious administrative duties. HR has also sent over the results of the latest employee satisfaction survey from a key subsidiary, so he needs to take a look at that, as well. Maybe it will shed some light on that particular company’s shitty turnover rate.
Unfortunately, he’s out of coffee, and it’s too early for bourbon. But before he can reach for the intercom to request Wanna bring him a fresh cup, she beats him to it, buzzing for his attention.
Kinn presses the button. “Yes, Wanna?”
“There’s a call for you, Khun Kinn. A Mr. Reese Davies is on the line. He says he’s in Bangkok and would like to meet with you.”
Not this again. Kinn already sent the man a respectable gift in compensation for the disturbance. The matter should be settled. However, ever since Cape Town he’s gotten a continuous stream of emails and calls. There was even one unlucky messenger who showed up at the tower, only to be sent away with bruises and a dusty footprint on his ass.
“Tell him I’m unavailable,” Kinn says.
“Sir, he was very insistent,” Wanna adds without hesitation. He keeps her in this position precisely because she’s willing to say things he doesn’t want to hear.
Kinn pinches the bridge of his nose. He isn’t going to be able to fend off this headache. “Noted. I’m still unavailable. Also, I could use some fresh coffee.”
“Of course, Khun Kinn,” Wanna says, and then the red light on the intercom blinks off.
Somehow, no matter what he asks her for, Wanna manages to sound like an auntie indulging a child. That’s another reason he keeps her around.
A couple minutes later, his office door opens, and he looks up to find not Wanna but Chan. He enters carrying a folder as well as Kinn’s cup of coffee. Chan neatly sets both folder and coffee on Kinn’s desk and then stands at attention with a respectful, “Khun Kinn.”
Kinn checks the time; he’d forgotten he’d been expecting Chan. Glad for the excuse to look away from another disastrous proposal, Kinn dumps the current file on his desk and looks up.
“Chan. How is our newest trainee doing?” He wants to hear it from Chan first before he touches the folder.
“Sir. Phoenix’s scores in some areas are below minimum requirements.”
Chan is apparently still feeling petty about this whole thing. He always seems to find ways to show disapproval whenever Kinn demonstrates his autonomy… Chan is just going to have to get used to that, though.
“Of course they are,” Kinn says calmly. “He’s had only three days of training.” He picks up the folder and opens it. “Deficiencies in shooting, swimming, written testing, and reaction time. Clears in sprint time, rope tying, and… water escape test?” Kinn raises a brow. “Excels in hand to hand combat.” Obviously. “Risk assessment and other notes are marked ‘for discussion.’” Kinn drops the folder back on the desk. “Talk to me. Start with the water escape.”
“Sir. Phoenix is putting the vast majority of his time into learning escape techniques, even when he should be doing other things. He’s getting other guards to show him techniques that aren’t even on the testing material, when he could be improving at other requirements.” Chan’s tone and facial expressions give very little away, but he radiates disapproval the same way Kinn’s father does.
Kinn shakes his head. “Then let him. When he gets his fill of those, point him at the next goal.” After a heartbeat, he adds, “Just make sure the next goal is shooting accuracy.”
Chan bobs his head. “Sir.”
“What else? Talk to me about risks.”
“Phoenix exhibits symptoms of severe PTSD.”
Don’t we all? Kinn thinks. Again, the assessment isn’t a surprise. Kinn has already witnessed some of it for himself. “Is that all?” Kinn asks.
Chan’s mouth tightens into an even thinner line than usual. “He dissociates, sir. He goes blank, as though he isn’t even there. His reactions in the heat of the moment could be unpredictable or unreliable.”
It’s a fair assessment. Kinn nods. “Understood.” He’ll need to think on that further. Still, he wants to be able to start taking Porsche out in public sooner than later. It might be best to start small, test the waters gradually and see how the man handles various situations.
When Chan doesn’t walk away, Kinn looks up again. “Is there something else?”
“Sir. The head of the minor family is here for your lunch meeting. He’s with Macau at the moment.”
Kinn catches Chan’s slight hesitation on the word lunch, yet another one of the many things he disapproves of.
Kinn nods. “I’ll be there for lunch at the scheduled time. And my pa?”
“He isn’t well enough for it today,” Chan says.
He’s rarely well enough for the lunch meetings these days, even when he attends them. Kinn nods. “Dismissed.”
Chan leaves, and with his departure, Kinn takes a deep breath and relaxes into the luxurious leather seat. Then he picks up the folder and looks over the rest of Porsche’s, or Phoenix’s, tests.
When he’s ready, Kinn collects Pete from his office lobby and heads to lunch. He arrives at the family dining room five minutes late, but he’s still the first to arrive. Pete claims a position with the best visibility. Meanwhile, Kinn puts his tablet by his seat and helps himself to a plate of the warm, catered food piled high on the buffet table. Then he sits down at the head of the dining table and starts to eat, poring over documents on his tablet and the details for today’s meeting.
Tankhun comes in a few minutes later, huffing and bustling in a shiny blue trench coat with fluffy trim. The coat makes all sorts of noise as Tankhun moves about, squeaking and creaking. Pol and Fern trail in his wake.
“It had better be good food this time!” Tankhun declares. “I swear the only reason I even come to these meetings is because — oh good, it’s the Heightz.” He starts ladling himself a generous bowl of fish and tofu soup.
Kinn tries to hold back his smile. His big brother isn’t all that difficult to understand.
A few moments later, Tankhun plops himself down in the seat to Kinn’s left. He pouts at Kinn and juts out his chin. “ Nong, what’s the agenda?”
Kinn knows very well that Tankhun would never show up without having prepared. However, Khun doesn’t often pull out the nong for him, so Kinn indulgently lists off the objectives as Tankhun slurps.
A few minutes later, Chan enters the room and bows to Kinn. “I’ve brought the minor family, Khun Kinn.”
Behind him, Vegas comes in with Macau at his side. A handful of their bodyguards file into the room in their eye-searing floral print shirts.
“Sorry we’re late,” Vegas says, his voice as slick as oil. He leads Macau straight to the buffet, not standing on ceremony.
Tankhun rolls his eyes but keeps eating.
Kinn smiles, unruffled. “Everyone was late to varying degrees.” Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Chan take up a position opposite Pete. “I’m thinking of making it a rule that no one is allowed to show up to these on time.”
That little bit will definitely get back to his father. Korn never missed an opportunity to pick at minor issues like punctuality.
“If you think reverse psychology will work on me, you should think again,” Vegas says as he fills a plate.
“Hia,” Macau hisses, elbowing him in the side, spilling a giant shrimp on the floor.
Vegas grunts and pretends to ignore him. Kinn’s professional smile never falters; if anything it softens.
Thank fuck for Macau. The last person Kinn would ever have thought to rely on turned out to be the ultimate lynchpin.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kinn says. “I’d rather let you focus on the yakuza.”
Vegas gives him a seemingly casual glance out of the corner of his eye. “That’s a piece of cake with Nishigaki out of the picture.” Then he strolls over to the table and sits at Kinn’s right hand. Macau sits next to Vegas.
“Shall we begin?” Vegas says, looking not at Kinn but at Tankhun.
Tankhun sniffs and rises. “I’m getting more food."
“Khun,” Kinn scolds at the same moment Macau hisses, “ Hia Khun!”
Tankhun grumbles and gets back in his seat. Fern smoothly starts piling a plate with a little bit of everything for him. Kinn glances at Macau and gives him a nod, and Macau returns it with a little jerking nod of his own but otherwise buries his face in his noodles.
The day of the funeral, no one cried, not even Vegas. Gun’s firstborn appeared to be in a stupor much of the day. His arm was in a sling, and he was on pain meds, but he insisted on coming. Tankhun opted out of the funeral entirely. Korn, meanwhile, lay in a hospital bed, recovering from a bullet wound that damaged his right lung.
Macau didn’t frown or show signs of shock; no, instead he spent the day looking fierce and pleased.
It was Macau who came to Kinn that day and asked to meet with him one-on-one, with only Pete to hear their conversation.
“Things need to be different now,” Macau said, no, demanded in the way only a scared and desperate teenager could. “ You have to make things different. Otherwise there was no point in sparing hia and me.”
“And what exactly would you suggest?” Kinn scoffed. “You aren’t even involved, Macau. Just stay out of it. Go to school.”
Kinn couldn’t see the way forward. Macau didn’t share his blindness.
“Stop playing fucking chess!” Macau cried, his voice breaking. “What’s the point if only one person wins? If only one person survives, that means they’re fucking alone. ‘Competition will make us stronger’ — that’s bullshit, such stupid bullshit! There’s enough competition from the outside!”
That was the moment when Kinn actually started hearing the youngest member of the family.
The lunch meeting goes smoothly, despite differences of opinion here and there. The worst hiccup occurs when Tankhun discovers that Macau ate the last scallop. Macau cackles and gets a shrimp thrown in his face for it.
We could have had this all along, some corner of Kinn’s brain nags at him. But still, this tentative, rickety bridge that’s being built isn’t fool-proof. It’s been less than a year since Gun’s death; a few months of shaky truce don’t patch over the resentment of a lifetime.
When the discussion slows to a halt, Kinn closes his tablet, leaving it facedown on the table. “If there’s nothing else for today—”
“One more thing,” Vegas says, leaning back in his chair and exuding a false sense of casual ease. “I have a last-minute addition to the agenda.”
Vegas pauses, letting the statement hang in the room. He could just come out and say it, but that isn’t his style. Kinn, fortunately, has been slowly catching onto the way Vegas thrives on attention.
“I hope it’s something nice for once,” Kinn says. “If I recall, your previous last-minute agenda ended with a shootout in a Chinese restaurant.”
Vegas smirks. “That turned out nice in the end. We got the deal done and got rid of the old Russian fart.”
Which is what Vegas had been angling for from the start. And which Kinn would have liked to know from the start. Kinn keeps his sigh to himself; one step at a time.
Vegas continues with a wave of his hand. “It’s nothing like that. I got a couple visitors this morning. The owner of the Blue Room showed up on my doorstep, asking for protection. Seems to me like an opportunity is presenting itself.”
Kinn’s gaze narrows. Porsche had come from the Blue Room, turned up wearing the uniform of one of their fighters. There’s no way this is a coincidence.
“Oh!” Tankhun exclaims. “Does this have to do with your creepy new guy, Kinn?”
Tankhun, in his own style, is in cahoots with Macau to increase transparency. Vegas gives Kinn an expectant look, waiting for details.
Kinn jerks his chin. “If the Blue Room is having problems, there’s a good chance Reese Davies is behind it.”
Tankhun sneers. “Does Davies think he can walk into Bangkok and do whatever he wants? Huh. I think not.”
Vegas gestures at Kinn. “This is where you tell me what you know.” Kinn hears a thump from under the table, followed immediately by Vegas wincing in pain and glaring at Macau. “And then maybe I’ll tell you something in return.”
Macau noisily chews a shrimp. Kinn suspects it’s the same one that Tankhun threw earlier.
“While I was in Cape Town,” Kinn says, “I picked up an extra passenger, one of the men being auctioned off that night. He was our source that led to Nishigaki’s takedown, among other things. I let him go, but he came back just a few days later, on the run from Davies’s headhunters. He’d been to the Blue Room.”
“You let him go?” Vegas says, his face screwed up in distaste. “God damn, still so fucking soft.”
The knee-jerk, habitual words crash into the room and send it into a tense silence. Kinn can feel the synchronization of the thoughts of everyone present; they all know that if Kinn weren’t soft, Vegas wouldn’t be sitting here today. Judging by Vegas’s sour expression, even he doesn’t know where to go from here.
Macau, the soft spot in question, gets fed up with the silence first. “Was that the new guy I saw? The one with the fugly scars?”
“Yes, the scars and the dead eyes, ugh.” Tankhun gives an exaggerated shudder.
“So let me get this straight,” Vegas interjects, leaning over the table on his elbows, “because one of his human toys got away, Davies decided to be a petty bitch and harass you? Smack in the middle of Theerapanyakul home territory?” Vegas waits a heartbeat before adding, “Don’t tell me you’ve been ignoring him, Kinn.”
Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck shit dammit. The worst part about working with Vegas is when Vegas makes a valid point, especially when that valid point is that Kinn fucked up.
His headache is coming back, but he picks up his phone and dials Wanna.
“Khun Kinn,” she answers primly.
“Wanna, next time Davies calls, set up an appointment. Make sure it’s soon, too.”
“Of course, sir.”
Vegas smirks gleefully as Kinn hangs up. Kinn wishes he could smack the smugness off his face… but then he thinks of Gun, bleeding out on the floor, and the impulse withers.
“So?” Tankhun snaps imperiously at Vegas. “Blue Room. What happened this morning?”
Vegas’s smirk turns into a deadpan stare. “Owner came to me, shaken up. Said that even though the Blue Room had closed up temporarily, thugs tracked down some info and found a manager and a couple staff members. The goons said they were sending a message to the Blue Room owner and the Theerapanyakul family. Said we’d know what they were talking about.” Vegas shrugs. “Of course I didn’t have a fucking clue. So much for not keeping secrets.”
Kinn doesn’t rise to the bait. “I paid Davies off already. He’s being a leech, but given his line of work, that fits the profile.” Kinn taps a finger rapidly on the table, thinking, calculating. “How shaken was the owner?”
“He’s rattled good,” Vegas sys. “He’s worried the thugs might start kidnapping their fighters, and if that happens and word gets around, poof!” He makes a little exploding gesture with his hands. “No more fighters, no more Blue Room. Why, you thinking of doing something about it?”
Kinn hums thoughtfully, aiming for noncommittal. Tankhun rats him out.
“Kinn wanted to buy it years ago,” Khun says, “but the owner wouldn’t budge, and pa told Kinn to let it go.”
Backing off was the smart move at that time. It wouldn’t have been good for the food chain if the Theerapanyakuls ran roughshod over prosperous, popular businesses just because they could. But when opportunity comes knocking, Kinn will take every advantage.
“And what if I say I can secure the Blue Room? For the minor family, of course,” Vegas asks.
Kinn clenches his fist. Testing. Vegas is always testing. The headache throbs in the back of his skull.
Slowly, he counts to five and relaxes his fist.
“I’d say,” Kinn says slowly, “that I look forward to the grand reopening. With, I hope, open bar service for my table?”
The smarmy, challenging look falls off Vegas’s face. He doesn’t seem like he knows how to react. Finally, a point for Kinn.
“You little ones have fun with that,” Tankhun says, rising from the table with a loud scrape of his chair. “If there’s nothing left, I’m out. Pol, Fern, we’re watching Pacific Rim . C’mon.” He saunters off, his coat squeaking all the way, and Pol and Fern dutifully follow.
“Hia,” Macau wheedles, “I want to play a video game. Do you have to go?”
Vegas makes big, pleading eyes at Kinn. “Can I stay and play, boss?” He says “boss” in English just because that’s the way he is.
“I’m a fan of anything that keeps Macau out of trouble,” Kinn says. It’s a lame attempt at a joke — the most trouble Macau gets up to is heckling the bodyguards as they train.
His two cousins file out of the room. Then Chan excuses himself as well, no doubt to give Kinn’s father a full report of everything that happened.
It’s fine, though. Kinn has more pressing concerns.
He opens his tablet; he has a meeting to prepare for.
Unsurprisingly, Davies calls again the same day. Wanna schedules the meeting for the following afternoon.
Before the meeting with Davies, Kinn attends a bodyguard briefing so that everyone knows what to expect and what’s required of them.
Big and Porsche are last to arrive. When Porsche walks in the room dressed in a three-piece bodyguard suit, with the little gold pin prominently displayed, Kinn feels an unexpected and unwelcome little zing travel up his spine. Porsche looks different. He looks good. Straight and tall, fierce. The suit disguises how much muscle there is to him, making him appear svelte, delicate. However, his scars and the competence that drips from every movement make him seem dangerous, like a panther.
There’s also something off about his appearance, something not quite right, but Kinn can’t put his finger on what it is. It tugs at the back of his mind, itchy and irritating.
As Kinn’s head guard, Pete is running the briefing. He begins to run down the details, but Kinn pays it only part of his attention. He already knows the plan by heart; the meeting will be on the first floor, the guards are to treat this as a potentially hostile situation, the usual.
Throughout the meeting, Porsche stares off as though he can see a thousand miles away. Yet the instant Pete says, “Phoenix,” he snaps back to attention.
“Sir,” Porsche says, looking at Pete.
“Phoenix, because you’re likely to be central to the conversation, you’re floating,” Pete says. Noticing the lack of recognition in Porsche’s eyes, he adds, “You don’t have a fixed position, and you’re essentially a bonus guard. You can move as needed without leaving a position uncovered.”
Porsche nods slightly. “Sir.”
The conversation moves on to the remaining assignments, and Porsche once again goes unfocused, simply staring and waiting.
When Pete finishes, Kinn takes his turn.
“I want this meeting to run cleanly and without incident,” Kinn says, “but I have no guarantee they feel the same way. Davies agreed to meet here at the tower, which is an advantage for us, but don’t let down your guard just because of that. That’s all. Pete and Phoenix, I need a word. The rest of you, dismissed.”
Bodyguards file out of the room, muttering quietly to one another as they go. Soon it’s just Pete standing at Kinn’s side, while Kinn sits at the table, staring across it at Phoenix.
Kinn taps his thumb on the wooden tabletop, irritated.
“Khun Kinn?” Pete prompts. “We still have a little time before the meeting. Is there something else you need, sir?”
Kinn winces and checks his watch, using two fingers to pull back his sleeve…
… and that’s when it hits him. He knows what’s wrong.
Porsche is dressed to blend in, to look like any other bodyguard. But he isn’t just any bodyguard. He needs to look like he’s expensive, like Davies has no rights to him because Kinn is in complete control of all the rights.
He needs to look more like property.
Kinn rises and approaches Porsche, gestures for him to get up as well. “This look isn’t working,” Kinn says as Porsche hurries to his feet. “Take off the jacket. And the vest as well.”
A flicker of something like nerves appears in Porsche’s eyes, only to be quickly smothered. He efficiently strips his jacket and vest, placing them on the table. The gun holstered at his hip is now out in the open and blatantly displayed.
Not enough. “Roll up your sleeves. Undo the top two buttons.” Kinn gestures at Porsche’s throat, where his dress shirt is done up tight to his neck. Then Kinn unclasps his watch and sets it down on the table in front of Porsche. It’s Cartier; not his most expensive, but also not his cheapest. “Put this on.”
Porsche hesitates, his eyes flicking between the watch and Kinn. Kinn jerks his chin at him and raises his brows, a tiny dare. Slowly, Porsche puts on the watch. It stands out prominently on his now-bare forearm. Kinn looks him over from head to toe with a critical eye.
Still not enough.
“Pete,” Kinn says, “take Phoenix to borrow some jewelry from Tankhun. He needs a necklace at a minimum, maybe an ear cuff. Make sure they’re good quality.” As if Tankhun would ever have anything less than the best.
“Sir?” Pete says. “Are you sure that’s advisable? With Khun Nu’s sensitivity, I mean.”
Kinn catches himself. He’d forgotten that the last time Tankhun saw Porsche, it took him a full day and a half to come down from his panic attack, including a long rant session directly to Kinn. Well, it’s inconvenient, but this is why Kinn has staff. Kinn calls Arm and orders him to bring a selection of fine jewelry to the briefing room, on the double.
While they wait, Porsche appears to grow nervous… or perhaps he was already nervous, but now it’s simply too much for him to hide successfully.
Kinn leans his ass against the table and crosses his arms. “Relax, Phoenix. Davies is going to come in, try to throw his weight around, and then he’ll be gone. Nothing bad is going to happen. You aren’t going anywhere.”
Porsche nods. He doesn’t look convinced.
Given all that he’s been through, I wouldn’t trust me, either, Kinn thinks. What would it even take to earn the trust and loyalty of a man like this? Korn hadn’t taught Kinn how to win over such things from his people; Kinn is having to figure it out the hard way — with Vegas, with his board members, with business partners. It’s tedious and frustrating work, but he’s slowly discovering that there are rewards to be gained.
“I heard you’re learning how to be an escape artist,” Kinn says casually. “How do you like the training so far?”
Porsche doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He touches the watch a couple times.
“It’s good. The instructors are helpful,” Porsche says.
Not exactly loquacious of him, but Kinn will take it as a win. Maybe he can push just a little more.
“When you get your shooting scores up, I’ll have you start making appearances in public with me,” Kinn says. “Best to do that soon, if possible. I want word to get around that Tsunami is now Phoenix.”
“Sir,” Porsche says automatically.
Not exactly enthusiastic, not by a long shot. But before Kinn can try again, Arm comes barreling through the door, breathing hard and carrying what appears to be a… teddy bear decked in jewelry?
Kinn allows himself a slow, annoyed blink. Oh well. He can’t even say it’s the strangest thing to happen this week.
“Khun Kinn, sir,” Arm says breathlessly, holding out the bear across the table to him, “I hope this is sufficient.”
Kinn gives Arm a look as he reaches out for the bear. Arm blushes and squirms uncomfortably, which is enough to appease Kinn.
The bear is wearing a platinum, diamond-studded cuff on one ear — Kinn plucks it off and passes it to Porsche. On the bear’s ankle is a delicate silver bracelet with a single gun charm. The charm has a diamond in the gun handle, so Kinn passes that to Porsche as well. The bear is also draped in at least a dozen necklaces, so Kinn starts stripping them off and laying them out on the table.
Porsche is watching him closely. The attention is heavy on Kinn; he can feel it on his skin. Pete and Arm stand as silent observers.
Of the necklaces, one jumps out at Kinn — a wide silver choker with a vertical strip of diamonds in the center. He looks at Porsche, considering, but he also thinks about how determined Porsche is to learn to escape from any sort of bondage.
Kinn down-selects to three necklaces, including the choker. He lays them out in front of Porsche.
“Choose any one of these,” Kinn orders. “Arm will bring you to the meeting room. Pete?”
“Sir?”
Kinn jerks his chin for Pete to follow, and then he leaves the room.
As soon as they’re in the elevator and the doors close, Pete starts squirming and rustling next to Kinn. When Pete clears his throat, Kinn gives up.
“Whatever you want to say, say it,” Kinn orders.
Out of the corner of Kinn’s eye, he sees Pete bob his head.
“I don’t want to be presumptuous,” Pete says, “but I think you’re on the right track with Phoenix, sir. I believe you’re right, and that he has potential to be a strong addition to the team.”
Kinn feels his ears go warm, and he frowns. Porsche’s situation is unusual, but Kinn doesn’t think he’s giving the man any more attention than is necessary.
And if Kinn experienced a sudden desire to put the choker on Porsche himself, it hardly matters, and it isn’t something he’s going to allow himself to entertain.
“Don’t think so hard about it,” Kinn says. “He’s just another bodyguard.”
In the wavy, watery reflection of the elevator doors, Kinn watches Pete repress a smile. “Of course, sir.”
Kinn has tolerated so much disrespect lately. Maybe he needs to shoot someone to make a point. Too bad Davies is so high up on the ladder; shooting him would bring more trouble than it’s worth.
The elevator dings, and the doors open.
With semi-murderous thoughts on his mind, Kinn reaches the meeting room with Pete at his side. It’s a large room, but it’s made smaller with the number of people packed into it, bodyguards from both sides. Davies’s men are a mixed lot, some with a clean-cut, professional look and others with a mottled and rag-tag appearance. The trafficking mogul definitely hired some local reinforcements. In fact, Kinn recognizes one of them, a man with a mustache and a big mouth; he’s one of Vegas’s men. A year ago, that would have been cause for alarm, but now it feels more like a practical joke. Vegas is showing off how on top of it he is, how he’s ahead of Kinn’s game. Asshole.
Davies himself is wearing a cream colored suit and an atrocious, bright orange tie that likely cost a great deal and definitely deserves to be burned. He sits on one side of the table with an aide seated next to him. They’ve been served refreshments. Neither of them rise to greet Kinn, so Kinn doesn’t stand on courtesy either. He unbuttons his jacket and sits across from them.
“My apologies for being late,” Kinn says in English. “I had something to attend to.”
“Anakinn, Anakinn,” Davies says with a big smile. “I’ve gone so many years without seeing you, and now I have the privilege to see you twice in just two months. What a pleasure. Thank you for finally agreeing to meet me while I’m in beautiful Bangkok.”
Kinn would bet good money that Davies rehearsed that in front of a mirror.
“Of course,” Kinn says, returning the smile. “And I am sorry I had to leave so abruptly last time. I believe you should have received a little something from me to make up for it, though.”
Kinn had sent over a small selection of historical art pieces, black market goods, one of which he knows Davies had been coveting. The gift was more than fair compensation for the paltry matter of cleaning up two dead bodies.
Davies laughs in an affected manner. “Yes, indeed, and trust me, I appreciated it very much.” The smile grows tense, and something dangerous sparkles in Davies’s eyes. “But I was sad that Benny McLintock also seemed to leave the party early. You see, I was planning to start a new project with him soon. Not to mention that I have a few questions around some missing property that seems to have wandered off.”
That’s more like it, Kinn thinks. These things are easier to deal with when people stop beating around the bush. Before he can respond, though, there’s a knock at the door.
Kinn gestures at Mek, who’s closest to the door. Mek opens it, and Porsche walks in. He takes up a standing position next to Mek, hands clasped in front of him.
Porsche chose the collar. Diamonds sparkle on his throat. Kinn looks at him, assessing; he looks more like a pampered pet now, but only to the extent that’s possible with a last-minute makeover.
We can do better than that, Kinn thinks. Internally, he shakes himself. He needs to focus.
Davies’s eyes light up. “Or maybe not so wandered off after all. Good, good! Shall we—”
“There’s something I think you should know,” Kinn interrupts. “Something you weren’t aware of about our mutual friend Benny.”
Davies narrows his eyes, a frown creasing his jovial countenance. “Oh?”
Kinn waves to Som, who steps forward with a folder, which he hands to Kinn. Kinn opens the folder and passes a short stack of papers across to Davies. Davies gives him a dubious stare before looking at the papers. Meanwhile, Kinn tries to keep his smile from growing too wide with self-satisfaction.
“What is this?” Davies asks in alarm. The showman facade is cracking into pieces. “What the fuck is this?”
“There’s a very good reason Benny needed to leave early,” Kinn explains. “You see, he left in a rush because he wasn’t being very fair to me, or to you, or to a dozen other business partners we both know. It was simply my privilege to be the one to see him out the door.”
Davies riffles through the pages in a flurry.
“Of course, this isn’t enough proof,” Kinn says, “so my people have sent further evidence to you. And to other parties who have been affected by Benny’s greed.”
Davies looks up at Kinn, and his right eye twitches.
Gotcha, Kinn thinks.
But Davies isn’t one to stay down for long. He’s an old hand at this game, and a good one. Kinn watches as he wrestles his mask back under control, piecing himself back together into the showman he longs to be. He laughs, and at first it’s forced and fake, but slowly it eases into something more natural. Davies claps his hands loudly and slowly.
“Amazing! That’s amazing, my boy,” Davies says. “It seems like I should be thanking you after all. My oh my, this is embarrassing, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
He gestures to his aide and his men, who shift uncomfortably and give awkward little laughs.
“This does make things somewhat more equitable, I think,” Davies says, “but I hope you’ll help me address one more little matter, the bit about the missing property I spoke of.” Davies’s voice changes, becoming hard, and he points at Porsche. “Namely, him. Tsunami.”
Kinn folds his hands together neatly in front of himself. “I believe you’ll find that happens to be my property, and you can call him Phoenix. I took possession upon Benny’s untimely departure. So, may I ask what seems to be the problem, Mr. Davies?”
“Ah, but I think you’ll find that in the event of Benny’s departure, the rights were to revert directly to… me.” He gestures with both hands, a little “tada” motion. The aide next to him pulls a form out of a padded leather folder, giving it to Davies, and Davies passes it across to Kinn.
Kinn picks it up and starts reading. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Davies rises. Kinn’s bodyguards tense, wary and alert, but Davies isn’t pulling a stunt; he’s merely walking over to Porsche to get a closer look at him. When Kinn glances up, he finds Davies glaring at the side of Porsche’s head hard enough to bore holes in it.
Porsche looks relaxed, so completely relaxed. And Kinn understands now that his apparent calm, cool expression is a lie, and he’s at his most uncomfortable right now.
Davies puts a hand on Porsche’s shoulder, fingers sinking into the meat of it the way a hawk sinks talons into prey. Porsche doesn’t so much as flinch.
Kinn puts down the digitally signed contract with Benny. He swivels his chair to look at Davies and Porsche.
“Phoenix,” Kinn says.
Porsche takes a moment to answer, but then he says, “Sir.”
“Don’t let him touch you,” Kinn orders.
Porsche’s eyes go wide, he blinks, and then he moves so fast Kinn can’t even follow it. One second they’re both standing, and then next Davies is on his back on the ground, his wrist pinched deftly in Porsche’s hand and a knee pinning him.
Every bodyguard in the room draws their guns, but no one shoots.
“Oh my god, don’t shoot, don’t shoot, anyone! Let me go, let me go!” Davies says miserably.
Porsche correctly looks to Kinn first for approval, and Kinn nods. Internally, he scoffs at Chan’s assessment. “Unreliable” Kinn’s ass.
Davies and Porsche get back to their feet. Davies brushes himself off, and one of his men hurries to help straighten his suit. Porsche takes the chance to inch away from Davies.
“Good god. Stop it, stop it, just get off of me,” Davies says, smacking at his bodyguard. He snaps his lapels into place. “Anakinn, you’re pushing me past my patience. And you,” he glares at Porsche, “I’ll deal with you later.”
He walks back to his seat, trying to hide a limp. Bodyguards all around slowly holster their weapons.
“There’s no need to threaten my man, Mr. Davies,” Kinn says calmly.
“That contract says he’s mine to do with as I please,” Davies says, sitting gingerly. He gestures at the contract in front of Kinn.
“I’m afraid this contract is for the sale of a ruby bracelet,” Kinn says. He signals to Som again. Som brings forward a little box. “Which I happen to have found for you.” Kinn puts the box on top of the contract and slides both across the table to Davies.
Davies looks angry again. Sullenly, he takes the box and opens it, finding the ruby bracelet inside, the one that Porsche had worn for the auction. Davies picks up the jewelry and stares at it for a long moment before throwing it across the room, hitting one of Kinn’s bodyguards in the shoulder. The guard barely flinches.
Kinn keeps his cool; it’s easy to do when he’s holding all the cards.
Kinn says, “I have a contract here, signed in Phoenix’s own hand. He is willingly indentured to me, and seeing as he is not a ruby bracelet, my claim stands. I consider him compensation from Benny for previous wrongdoings. Would you like to see the contract?” Kinn offers, taking out the paper.
“Fuck your contract, Anakinn!” Davies says, slamming both hands on the table. Bodyguards reach for their guns but restrain themselves from drawing. “Whatever bullshit you’ve concocted, I don’t give a shit. That was one of my slaves before he ran away. That is a liability. That is a loss of reputation and an information leak. That is an embarrassment that cannot be tolerated.” With each “that,” he jabs a finger violently in Porsche’s direction.
“And furthermore,” Davies continues, worked up into a fine lather, “you’d let him, a trash fighter I picked up out of the gutter, lay a hand on me? Me? I want him punished. Punished, Anakinn, do you hear me? You won’t kill him, fine. I understand, I do. An investment is an investment. But serve me justice and make sure he’s punished so that he never, ever forgets his place.”
Kinn raises his brows. “And if I do that, you’d be satisfied?”
Davies takes a deep breath and seems to settle himself. He straightens his heinous tie. “Hardly, but at least I could sleep at night.”
Kinn gives it a moment before he says, “Big?”
“Sir,” Big responds sharply.
“Escort Phoenix down to the lower level. Take him to Didi and tell Didi to give him the usual treatment I expect.”
“Sir?” Big asks, thoroughly confused.
“Now, Big,” Kinn clarifies.
Big blinks a few times but goes to escort Porsche. Kinn tries to catch Porsche’s eyes, but they’ve gone blank and unseeing again.
Kinn turns his attention back to Davies as the two men leave the room. “I’d like to ask you to wait patiently for just a while. Can I offer you some coffee, or something stronger, in the meantime?”
Seemingly mollified, Davies requests fresh tea for himself and his aide. Som serves them from a side buffet with a full refreshment setup.
The room is quiet. It’s a discomforting sort of quiet, a stillness of anticipation.
When Kinn deems that enough time has passed, he rises. “If you’ll follow me.”
It’s a slightly sticky situation to have to take elevators by groups, but eventually they’re all assembled on the lower level.
Kinn leads them to the spa. That’s when Davies starts to catch on that something isn’t right — or at least, not going the way he expected.
“What is this, Anakinn?” Davies demands. “What the fuck are you pulling?”
“Making sure Phoenix has been softened up appropriately,” Kinn assures him.
He leads Davies, his aides, and several key bodyguards into the massage room, which quickly makes for a crowded space. There on the far table, Porsche lies sprawled out on his stomach, his marred, golden skin stretched across a pure-white towel. Another towel is wrapped securely around his hips. Black and white warming stones have been laid across his back at strategic points. His face is turned away from the crowd. Meanwhile, Didi, a massive European man with massive hands, is busy massaging one of Porsche’s feet.
“I don’t like being played with, Anakinn,” Davies says, seething where he stands. “I don’t like it at all. What the fuck is this bullshit? He should be bleeding, bleeding.”
Kinn meets Davies glare for glare. “And I don’t like outsiders throwing their weight around my fucking city. As for him,” he gestures at Porsche, “I punish my men for failing me, not for obeying me.”
“So help me, if you don’t—”
“If I don’t, what? Cater to your every whim? You think you can order me to do as you please?” Kinn bears his teeth, sneering.
Kinn’s cell phone buzzes with a text. He checks it.
Vegas: Sealed the deal.
That was amazingly fast. And perfect timing.
“Ah, and I think you’ll find that the Blue Room is under new management,” Kinn says smugly.
Davies’s eyes blaze. “Yours, I presume?”
“No, actually, my cousin’s,” he says. “And if you think I’m difficult to deal with, you really shouldn’t underestimate Vegas. I’m not sure whether you’re aware of his reputation, but of the two of us, he’s much less forgiving. He also has some, shall we say, questionable hobbies.”
Davies makes a wordless roar of rage, scaring Didi, and at last he storms off. A swarm of men sweep out with him. Four members of Kinn’s detail also peel off to escort the unwelcome guests out the door.
Big is looking at Porsche and shaking his head slightly, his brows furrowed. He seems annoyed.
Ah, one more small detail Kinn should see to. Better to be a little generous than let resentment and jealousy fester.
“Big,” Kinn says, catching his attention, “make sure everyone who was on this detail gets a half hour visit to the spa. Spread it out over a couple weeks so the staff doesn’t get flooded.”
The remaining bodyguards all cheer. Big nods, a pleased and surprised sparkle in his eye. “Yes, Khun Kinn.”
Didi smiles at Kinn. “You nice to them is mean to me. Tell them no come after training, must shower first. Stinky bodyguards, no good.” He pinches his nose and makes a face.
Kinn chuckles. “This wasn’t my usual, by the way, Didi. What happened to the full body massage?”
Didi shakes his head. “The little one here, not so good with that. We change plan. Good like this.”
Ah, possibly a touch thing. Perhaps Porsche didn’t want that much contact with his scars.
Kinn walks around to the other side of the table and crouches down so that he can look Porsche in the eyes. They’re glassy, in a good way, his face blissful. Kinn smiles.
“How do you like your punishment?” he asks.
“Goo-ood,” Porsche respondes, his breath catching on a moan as Didi hits a particularly good spot. “Best punishment. Ten stars.”
Kinn feels his own breath catch, and that electric zing rushes up his spine again. He stands abruptly as though he can escape it.
“Good,” he says. “Carry on. Back to training when Didi is done with you. I have to—”
He has to go, and he doesn’t have to explain why or what he’s doing. He coughs and leaves, trusting Big and Pete to follow.
That night, Kinn wears out two escorts.
It doesn’t even take the edge off.
That night, after training, Porsche sits on the couch in the apartment. He should be reading the gun manual in his hands, but his mind keeps straying back to the day. The terrifying, shocking, confusing, amazing day.
He could have been dead. If it weren’t for Kinn, he would have been. Any buyer he’d ever known would simply have handed him over rather than deal with the mess. Porsche understands, based on everything that happened, that it wasn’t just about him, but still, Kinn chose to stand up to Davies rather than take the easy route and placate him with Porsche’s life, or even just with strips taken out of his hide.
Instead, Porsche got a foot massage for the first time in his life. And the hot stones were weird but kind of nice. He’d like to do that again.
The words on the page are a blur. He tries to focus and start reading again, but his mind drifts off.
At the desk, Big is tapping furiously on the keyboard, shouting obscenities into the microphone on his headset as he plays his game.
In the back of his mind, Porsche can picture Kinn’s self-satisfied smirk at each little victory he achieved. Porsche shakes himself and goes back to reading about guns.
Ten minutes later, Big lets out a frustrated holler that makes Porsche jump.
“I cannot deal with these idiots right now,” he says, yanking off his headset and dumping it on the desk. He slams a couple of keys on the laptop and gets up. He gestures at the device and starts to walk away. “It’s yours if you want it.”
Porsche blinks, looking between the laptop and Big. Porsche gets up and follows Big into the closet-sized kitchen.
“I can use it?” he asks. “You said not to touch your stuff.”
Big glares at Porsche as he pulls a bottle of juice out of the fridge. “It’s not my laptop, dipshit. It’s a company laptop. All you have to do is log in. Didn’t you… for fuck’s sake, HR can’t do a damn thing right.”
A few minutes later, after Big helps Porsche dig through his gigantic mountain of papers from the Human Resources department, they find Porsche’s user ID and password. Then it’s just a little typing, and he’s logged in.
“That is monitored to hell and back by security,” Big warns, glaring, “so don’t think of trying anything funny. And don’t use it for porn unless you want the whole IT team knowing what you’re into.”
Makes sense. Porsche nods. “Thank you.”
Big shudders. “Don’t thank me. You’ll give me hives.” Big takes his now-empty juice bottle and goes to flop on the couch. He closes his eyes and throws an arm over his face.
Porsche recalls what Isra showed him. He checks his email — nothing. Then he pulls up YouTube and Chay’s music video for his song “Hunter.” The haunting opening notes fill the room, and Porsche watches as the little Chay on the screen wanders around an empty carnival.
“Shit, man, don’t you have a headset or earbuds or something?” Big complains, arm coming off his face.
“I don’t have any stuff, Big,” Porsche reminds him in a droning, mocking voice. Big is so easy to handle; all bark, no bite.
“Dammit,” Big mutters. “What even is this? This is the kind of music you’re into? Freak.”
“It’s Porchay,” Porsche explains, closing his eyes to focus on listening. “He’s a star. It’s good music.”
Big groans. “I think I would have preferred if you watched porn.”
Notes:
SPOILERS/WARNINGS
During a strategy meeting, Porsche dissociates, and then when Kinn meets with one of Porsche’s former owners, Porsche shows signs of dissociation as well as extreme stress.
END SPOILERS/WARNINGS
The thing about the Blue Room is that when I first envisioned it as part of this story, it really was just going to be a one-and-done thing. Porsche would go there and then end up with Kinn, and no more Blue room. But when I got into actually writing the Blue Room into the story, and started adding OCs for it, I just couldn’t let it go. It’s so enjoyable for me. So, I wove it back into the story. And I have a feeling at least a few readers will be delighted to revisit it. 😄
Also, I’m giving 10 points (they’re useless, but they’re still points) to anyone who can spot the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reference to one of nuwildcat’s fics in this chapter.
Chapter 10: A Way of Working Out
Summary:
Kim does some investigating into Porchay's background, and meanwhile Porsche continues to try to get the hang of life working for the Theerapanyakul family... which, as it turns out, includes going shopping with Khun Kinn.
Notes:
enbymoomin continues to be a blessing in my life, finding all sorts of final issues. Lovely, lovely beta, c'mere and let me hug you! 🫂 I also want to say a special thank you to mortimerlatrice this chapter for educating me and for character development assistance. 💜
REMINDER: I have posted a brief spoiler description of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The music notes won’t come. Kim can hear them faintly in the far corner of his mind, but they won’t come out, or they get jumbled as he tries to force them onto the paper. He sits in his apartment, surrounded by wadded up sheet music with trash ideas scribbled on them.
Kim is a cliche, and he hates it.
His head has been a mess for days now, ever since Porchay Kittisawat cornered him in that bathroom at the radio station. His instincts are yelling at him to dig deeper, learn more, but the whole incident should be behind him now.
It isn’t the first time this has happened. The clawing, itching need to search for answers happened back then, too, over a year ago. When evidence first started appearing that Kinn had a mole in his ranks, Kim had attempted to let it be, let Kinn and Khun handle it. But the more he tried to ignore the matter, the quieter the music became, until he couldn’t hear it at all.
As soon as he started investigating, it was like the floodgates opened. He wrote song after song, one after the other, between research and foraging for clues. The hunt brought him into contact with his old life, putting him on edge, but it had also made him feel alive.
Sure, in the end Kim put all the credit on Arm for uncovering Ken (may he rot in peace). Kim and Arm had worked together. Arm knew it, Kim knew it, and even Big knew it. No one else needed to know. That was enough for Kim.
His brothers are alive. A new world order for the family is being built, one that’s slightly better than what came before it. Kim has more freedom and independence than he did before… and less connection with Khun and Kinn than ever. They’re doing fine. They don’t need Kim.
I’ve been restless, Kim finally admits to himself.
It’s been building within him, so perhaps it’s no wonder that his interest got caught when a mystery wrapped in determination and sass crashed into his life.
As much as he loves music, he craves a challenge, a hunt. He isn’t especially picky about whether he’s hunting for information or people.
Porchay is hunting. Kim got a little taste of it, and now he wants more.
Kim sets aside his papers and his guitar, and he exchanges them for a large cup of black tea and his laptop.
After their first meeting at the radio station, Kim had of course looked into Porchay — everything from his school transcripts to his tragic background. The next step is to dig deeper, explore his connections.
Kim starts with the brother, Porsche Pachara. Kim already knows the basics: reported missing nine years ago at the age of sixteen. Porchay was ten at the time. Kim discovers Porsche was a noteworthy name on the competitive Taekwondo circuit back then. His paperwork all checks out; birth certificate, medical history, school transcripts, everything looks normal.
When Kim starts on Porchay’s living connections, particularly his foster mother, Kim has no choice but to uncover his neglected, dusty investigation board and attempt to piece the puzzle together.
After three days, an inordinate amount of caffeine, and multiple favors from Arm, Kim has an outline of a bigger picture, and he doesn’t like it one bit.
Roughly ten years ago, prior to fostering Porchay, Santichai Lertchuchot stepped up from the Senior VP position at an accounting firm to take over as CEO. The previous CEO had “committed suicide” on paper, but that’s almost definitely bullshit, because two years later Santichai successfully sold the business to Leading Finance, a not-so-well-known subsidiary of the Theerapanyakul Group. Kim recognizes Santichai’s old accounting firm by name — it’s extremely important to the family’s cash flow situation. But the family has also had dealings with the firm going back years and years before Santichai took leadership.
Kim’s working theory is that the previous CEO got on Korn’s bad side somehow. It wouldn’t be a difficult thing to do. Santichai, on the other hand, proved smart enough to get out. She took her earnings and launched two new businesses, one after the other, and both of them appear to be squeaky clean, as far as Kim can tell.
That leaves the question of Porchay. The timing of when he came into Santichai’s life is too questionable, too noticeable, to be a coincidence.
Santichai had never been a foster mother before. Instead she’d been on the waiting list to adopt an infant for two years prior to Porchay coming into her life. And then her approval to foster Porchay was… rushed.
It all points back to Korn, which only drives Kim to look deeper, and deeper, until he’s fallen deep into the rabbit hole.
So much for trying to stay away from Porchay.
The university gym isn’t terribly crowded at seven in the morning, but a few early rising athletes are busy doing reps and strengthening their muscles.
Porchay is also there. Kim’s fellow musician is wailing on a suspended punching bag, using fists and feet and knees. He’s shirtless and wearing sweatpants, standing with his back to Kim and the rest of the gym.
The stance gives Kim a clear view of the tattoo on Porchay’s back: It’s a single wing to the left of his spine, folded down like it’s at rest. It isn’t the feathery sort of wing, but the kind with skin and sinew and bones, like the wing of a dragon or even a demon. As Kim approaches, he notices there are numbers inscribed, following sideways along the inner line of the folded wing.
It’s a date. If Kim recalls correctly, the date is approximately a month prior to the day Thee filed a missing persons report for Porsche.
Kim walks to the other side of Porchay, behind the punching bag, and turns to lean against the wall.
Porchay clocks him, eyes widening, but he doesn’t stop his all-out assault on the bag right away. He winds down slowly, distracted by Kim’s presence, his punches and kicks gradually losing steam and power. He’s panting and sweaty. When he stops, he doesn’t say anything right away, merely picks up a towel waiting next to him on the floor, using it to mop up his face and neck. Then he picks up his water bottle and approaches. Porchay doesn’t stand, though — he plops down on his butt in front of Kim. Kim slowly slides down the wall to join him, sitting with his legs crossed as they face each other.
“How did you know I’d be here?” Porchay follows the question by taking a big drink from his bottle. His eyes stay on Kim’s face as he drinks.
Kim allows himself a small smile and a shrug. “You have a routine, and a university badge you have to scan to get in here.” Getting access to the university’s scans isn’t hard — he doesn’t even need Arm’s help for that.
Porchay rolls his eyes. “Okay, smartass. But you don’t go here, so how did you get in without a badge?”
“Easy. The girl at the front desk is a Wik fan.”
Porchay laughs, and it’s a startled thing that sounds genuine. “Wow, you’re so smug. God, you’re lucky it’s cute when you think you’re clever.”
Kim glares. Porchay puts his hands up defensively and giggles.
“Fine, fine, you aren’t cute! My bad, my bad.” Porchay takes another little swig from the bottle. “Why haven’t you gotten back at me yet? It’d be easy enough with the info I gave you.”
It isn’t the question Kim expects. In fact, he’d already mostly forgotten about that detail, that Porchay had rigged the poll; it hardly matters anymore. Besides, all popularity polls are rigged.
“No need to,” he says, and maybe that’s giving too much away. Maybe it’s too weak, too soft, but there’s a bigger game at stake now. “Why did you choose to do music?”
That wasn’t what Kim meant to ask. But he doesn’t regret it.
Porchay stares at him long and hard, a crease between his brows. His face twitches with discomfort a couple times.
“For visibility,” he says at last. “So if Porsche ever had the chance to find me, all it would take is a quick internet search.” Reluctantly, he adds, “And I like it.”
“So why would you let someone else ruin that?”
Nosy, nosy, nosy, Kim can hear Tankhun shouting in the back of his mind.
Porchay shakes his head. “A scandal won’t hurt my search ranking. Could even help it. But I guess if you aren’t going to do anything, I’ll just have to keep making music.” Porchay gives Kim a look from under his sweaty bangs. It’s flirty, but there’s something different about it. More relaxed. “So, I’m guessing there’s something you want from me?”
That was the question Kim had been expecting earlier.
“I think we should collaborate on a duet,” Kim says slowly, eyes boring straight into Porchay’s. “And, I think it’d be great to work on it at your foster parents’ place. When they aren’t home.”
Porchay makes a grimace and tilts his head to the side. “It is a damn shame that I know you aren’t angling to get me alone for sexy reasons. Play with a boy’s heartstrings, why don’t you?” Then he considers Kim for another long moment before asking. “There’s something in this for you. Something you’re after. Isn’t there?”
Kim shrugs lightly in agreement. “Probably. We’ll see.”
Porchay taps his thumb on his water bottle a few times. “And what’s in it for me?”
This is exactly what Kim likes about Porchay: He knows where he stands with him.
“If we’re lucky, we can find a little truth,” Kim says, entices, tempts.
It’s the perfect bait.
Porchay points at Kim. “You are sus as hell, P’Wik. And that’s really doing it for me. You sure we can’t make out a little while we’re supposed to be writing a beautiful duet?”
Kim glares.
“Fine, shit, don’t stab me about it,” Porchay says. “You free right now?”
He’s here, isn’t he? “Yes.”
“Good.” Porchay gets to his feet and offers Kim a hand. “Because Mom is speaking at a conference today, and Freeloader Pu is with the mistress he thinks we don’t know about.”
Kim takes Porchay’s hand, and he’s hauled so quickly to his feet he almost bounces. They stand close for a moment, hands still clasped, and Porchay’s gaze drops to Kim’s mouth. Kim freezes, fight or flight trying to kick in, but he only ends up freezing.
Porchay lets go first, stepping back with a grin.
“Give me just a few to get cleaned up,” he says, “and then we can start our second date.”
The house is big and beautiful, with an ultra-modern design and tasteful decoration. Large-panel windows let in a lot of natural light.
Porchay now wears a tight-fitting T-shirt and loose, ripped jeans, plus that familiar silver chain around his neck. He dumps his gym bag in the entryway and heads straight for the kitchen, where he pulls some sort of vitamin drink out of the fridge and starts chugging.
“Ahh!” he exclaims after he drinks his fill. Then he nods to Kim, who followed him to the kitchen. “You want one? Or are you hungry? I could cook something either before or after you stop being cagey and tell me whatever you have to say.”
The corner of Kim’s lips twitch, but he gets it under control. He is not amused by Porchay’s bluntness. He is not.
Kim props a hand on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. He gives Porchay a sideways look that always makes photographers start snapping like mad. “It’s a nice house. Maybe I could get a tour first? I’d be especially interested in seeing any office your foster mom has here.”
Porchay snorts. “Cagey it is.” He reseals his drink and puts it back. “If you think I haven’t snooped in there before, you’re out of your mind.”
Kim shrugs. Porchay shouldn’t underestimate the value of a fresh set of eyes.
Porchay leads Kim to a spacious, comfortable home office on the second floor. Bookshelves stand to either side of the door, and a collage of photos featuring Santichai and Porchay decorate the largest wall space. The back of the office is made up of two huge windows overlooking the pool in the backyard.
There’s also a large desk and a tall filing cabinet. Kim approaches the cabinet — it’s calling his name. Porchay heads to the desk.
“Filing cabinet is locked,” Porchay explains just as Kim reaches for a handle. Porchay starts rummaging through a desk drawer.
Oh. Well, that’s easy enough. Kim pulls a lock pick out of his pocket and has it open in seconds. He turns around to find Porchay standing there, holding up a little key and giving him a look.
“You are so extra,” Porchay says with mocking laughter in his voice.
Kim snorts and turns back to the filing cabinet, pulling open a drawer. “How long do we have?”
“As long as we need,” Porchay says as he also starts to rifle through the desk. “If anyone comes home unexpectedly, we can dash into my room and pretend we’ve been making out the whole time.”
Kim whips his head around to level a glare at Porchay.
Porchay shrugs. “What? It’s a solid plan.”
Kim turns back to the cabinet with a little “tsk.” His face feels hot; the room must be stuffy.
They work in silence for a while, but eventually Kim comes across a folder that contains records for Porchay. It’s stuffed with miscellaneous history, such as school records, therapy bills, and paperwork from the foster care agency. Kim slows down and looks over everything more closely. Then, in the very back of the folder, he finds an opened letter envelope, still stuffed full with a letter. He pulls it out, envelope and all, and holds it up for Porchay to see.
“What’s this?” Kim asks.
“Hmm?” Porchay looks up from the paper he’s reading. “Oh, that? It’s nothing. Just a letter from my case worker to Mom.”
Unlikely, Kim thinks. The envelope is high-quality paper stock, not the kind of stuff a social worker would use. Kim pulls it out and reads the handwritten note.
Santichai,
I appreciate your cooperation through this process. It’s fortunate that we could reach a favorable situation for everyone involved. I’ll be leaving the remaining follow-up to others, so we aren’t likely to meet again. I’ll remember your help.
I expect you’ll take good care of young Porchay.
The signature at the bottom is a deliberately messy squiggle but could reasonably be read as Khom.
“It isn’t nothing,” Kim says quietly, still staring at the paper.
“What?” Porchay asks, perking up.
Kim goes to the desk and sits on the edge of it. He places the letter in front of Porchay.
“That isn’t from the case worker,” Kim explains. “That’s my dad’s handwriting.”
Porchay looks up at him, eyes wide. “Bullshit. Bullshit!”
Kim sighs. He goes to the window, where he presses the paper flat against the glass. The sun shines through the paper, illuminating it. In the bottom-right corner, the sun highlights an invisible watermark: the Theerapanyakul family crest.
Porchay approaches slowly, his eyes wide.
“What the fuck is this? What the absolute fuck?” He sounds like he’s choking. “What does this mean?”
Kim takes down the letter and puts it on the desk. He doesn’t think he should hand it to Porchay right now — he looks like he might crumple it accidentally.
Porchay answers his own question. “It means my mom is connected to the mafia.” His eyes are flitting all around the room, as though reassessing every object he sees.
“Only tangentially, from what I can tell,” Kim says. “It’s your connections that matter here.”
The young man’s face twists. “Stop fucking with me! I’m not in the mood for your ‘mysterious fortune teller’ act with all the riddles.”
Kim is too much like his father sometimes, and he knows it, but right now, that burns badly.
I can do this, he tells himself. He’s just not used to playing nicely with others; sharing information isn’t what he was taught. Kim nods and goes back to sitting on the edge of the desk. Porchay, interestingly, chooses to plop himself in the chair, where he can look up at Kim.
“I’ll tell you my working theory,” Kim says. Porchay makes a little “go on” gesture. “Your foster mom got caught up in a mess started by her old boss, and that put her on my family’s radar. But Santichai is smart, and she played her cards well to get back out before she got in too deep. And it looks like, one way or another, she took you in, and my dad sees it as a personal favor. This note,” he gestures at the letter on the desk. “It’s a guarantee and a threat. She’s free, she has protection, but she also is expected to take responsibility for you. And there would be consequences if she failed. Just like there were consequences for Thee.”
Porchay’s jaw clenches, and his eyes blaze. It doesn’t take him long to follow where Kim is leading. “Your dad had my uncle killed?” His hands rhythmically clutch at the fabric of his jeans.
“I don’t have proof yet,” he says, “but that’s the way this is pointing.”
Porchay laughs without humor. “If it’s true, I’m the one who owes your father a favor.” He scrubs a hand roughly over his face, then through his hair, leaving it rumpled. “So why would the biggest mafia kingpin in Bangkok give a shit about me?”
Kim shakes his head. “It would most likely be a family thing, your parents, grandparents. After I made some connections, I tried to look at your birth family, but there wasn’t much.” In fact, there was so little info to find that it only looked more suspicious the longer Kim searched.
Porchay laughs again, looking like he wants to cry as he does it. “I’ve been working blind this whole time. God, I feel stupid.” He gets out his phone, unlocks it, and takes a picture of the letter. Then he spends a little time fiddling around with his phone.
“What are you doing?” Kim asks.
“Adding this to my research board and making some notes,” he says, eyes intent on his phone. Then he pauses and looks up. “Why? What’s your usual process?”
Kim frowns down at the paper.
The younger man gasps. “Oh my god, don’t tell me you have an actual conspiracy board? A physical one, like in the TV shows?” Porchay exclaims at absolutely unnecessary volume. Kim is right here — he can hear him easily. “You do, you do, oh my god, I can see it on your face!” Porchay, the immature brat, actually points and laughs at him.
“There’s nothing wrong with a physical board,” Kim says. And why the hell is he defending his life choices to this little shit? However, his defense only sets Porchay off laughing even harder.
Kim ignores him and goes about straightening up the filing cabinet. He has what he needs.
Eventually the madman stops cackling. “Ahh,” he sighs as he wipes a tear from one eye. “I needed that. I really needed that. Sorry to laugh at you, but I just had the funniest picture in my head and couldn’t stop. But you really, really helped me out. This is… this is a lot. It’s a whole lot. I’m going to have to think about it. I might even have to have a talk with Mom at some point. Not… just yet, though.”
“You aren’t upset? With your foster mom?” Kim ventures back to the desk, where Porchay starts to clean up his own mess.
“For what?” Porchay asks, not meeting Kim’s eyes. “For fostering me under dubious circumstances? Hell if I care why she did it. S’not like Korn was holding a gun to her head to make her read me bedtime stories, or hold my hand. He didn’t make her buy me my first guitar.”
Kim thinks that is a shockingly mature outlook for someone Porchay’s age. “But she was keeping things from you. Things that might be relevant to your search.”
Porchay’s face twitches.
“She wants me to give up,” Chay says quietly. “She thinks I have an ‘unhealthy obsession.’ But I can’t give up. I won’t.” Shaking his head rapidly like a dog, he gets to his feet. “I’m starving. You need lunch? I’ll cook.”
Together they walk out of the office and toward the kitchen. “I could eat,” Kim says. He follows Porchay to the kitchen counter, leaning against the wall so he can observe him. Kim expected him to be much more shaken, more rattled.
“Do you care what I fix?” the younger man asks. “You look like a picky eater. Are you?”
Like hell Kim is going to admit that now. “Anything is fine.”
Porchay smiles like he has Kim all figured out, and he goes about his cooking.
“And now you look like you wanna say something,” Porchay says as he washes some rice.
“Do you remember much of what happened back then?” Kim asks.
Porchay freezes for just a beat before he continues washing. He says, “I remember everything.”
Memories are like that sometimes, as Kim knows intimately. He has a lot of memories like that. When they brought Khun home. When his mom died. When he killed a man for the first time.
“Will you tell me about it?”
Porchay sniffs and begins to speak, never pausing in his cooking as he does so.
“Thee was having Porsche compete in a prize fighting ring to bring in some extra cash. We never had enough, and that was Thee’s fault, too. Then one night, only Thee came home. I was asleep; didn’t find out until the next day.” He starts violently chopping vegetables.
“And what happened after that?” Kim prompts when there’s silence.
Porchay frowns down at the cutting board as he works. “Then the lies started. He said Porsche was fine, just staying with some friends for a few days. Then Porsche was supposedly away for a Taekwondo competition. I knew something was wrong. I knew it. After five days, I threw a full-on temper tantrum. I broke about ten dishes before Thee sat me down and told me Porsche had run away from home. Said they’d had a fight, and Porsche was angry with him. Told me he was looking for Porsche and wanted him back as much as I did. So I waited. I waited for Porsche to come home.”
Porchay starts working on the stovetop, with one pan for vegetables and sauce and one pan for fried eggs.
“I still thought something stank about Thee’s story, you know?” Porchay says. “I asked my teacher what to do if someone went missing, and when I told her what Thee told me, she told me to trust him and believe him. But I kept asking about it, and she gave me these looks. She called Thee in and had a meeting with him. I don’t know what he told her, but she wouldn’t listen to me after that. And while all this was happening, Thee left the house most nights.”
“How long was that going on?” Kim asks.
“About three weeks,” Porchay says.
The timeline is a big part of the tragedy. The longer someone’s held, the more likely they are to be moved far, far away, out of reach of anyone who cares about them.
“And then?” Kim prompts.
“Then I got on my bicycle and went to Porsche’s high school. Couple of kids helped me find Porsche’s homeroom teacher, and I told him the same thing I’d told my teacher, that Porsche was missing. Apparently Thee had been telling them Porsche was sick. So they called Thee in. And he told them he was so distressed that Porsche had run away, so embarrassed that he couldn’t tell them. He started crying in front of them. Sobbing. And you know what happened? You’ll never guess what happened.”
“What happened?” Kim asks gently. Now that the floodgates are open, all he can do is take in the story while Porchay lets it all out.
“They believed him. I told them he was lying, that he’d done something to Porsche, maybe hurt him, and Thee cried harder, and they fucking believed him.” Porchay jabs at the vegetables with a spatula. “They made him file a missing person’s report, though, so there’s that.”
A missing person’s report with the police, filed by a person of interest to the Theerapanyakul family. With the police in Korn’s pocket, Kim can see how Thee would have wanted to avoid doing that for as long as possible.
Porchay piles plates with food, arranging them neatly.
“After a few days, some men came to the house. I thought they were the usual debt collectors. There was shouting, threats. A week later, Thee was dead. Got stabbed in a back alley. Police asked me questions, but I didn’t answer. I couldn’t get words out anymore.” He takes a long, deep breath and then rolls his shoulders and looks up from the plates. “Food’s ready. Have a seat?”
Kim quietly goes around to the side of the island with the barstools. Porchay follows and puts a plate in front of him, with vegetables on the side and a pile of rice topped with a fried egg. There’s a ketchup face on the egg, with one eye winking and a tongue sticking out.
They start eating. The food is really, really good, and Kim is hungrier than he thought.
“So?” Porchay asks around a mouthful of rice.
Kim looks at him. “So what?”
Porchay waves his fork. “Any stunning revelations from my sob story? Any light bulbs go on? Don’t tell me I shared all of that for nothing.”
Kim takes a long, deep breath. “I’d bet my limited edition white Gibson that my dad had Thee killed. And I’ll take another look at the missing person’s report, along with any officials who touched the case.”
Porchay nods slowly. “Let me know if you find anything?”
Kim hesitates a moment before nodding. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Porchay tucks into his food, and Kim follows his lead.
When they finish, Kim lingers as Porchay cleans up the kitchen. He has no more reason to stay, but he can’t seem to bring himself to leave. He feels like he can hear something, loud, noisy, in his mind.
After the kitchen is clean, Porchay turns to him again and looks him up and down.
“You look like how I feel,” he says. “Your hands are twitching.”
Kim needs a guitar in his hands thirty minutes ago. He needs to catch the melody.
“I know you were joking about the duet,” Porchay says, “but… you wanna try it?”
“Yes.” It escapes Kim like a hiss.
The music comes easily.
The training is too easy.
Porsche has been showing up at the gym every morning and afternoon, six days a week, for two weeks now. He lines up with a dozen other guys and goes through workout routines that barely make him break a sweat.
He thought he’d be able to get back in top form in his freetime, but he has no freetime to speak of. When he isn’t training, he’s at the gun range. When he isn’t at the gun range, he’s running emergency drills. When he isn’t drilling, he’s studying protocols and tactics, and so on, and so on.
But bodyguard boot camp isn’t the only thing eating up his time. Mundane things keep taking chunks out of his day as well. One minute HR needs him to open a bank account with his new fake ID, and the next minute he’s getting a full physical with a doctor, who shoves ointment at him for his scars. Then the doctor, upon learning about Porsche’s situation, sends him to the dentist, who apparently wants multiple visits to clean up after years of neglect.
As Porsche drags himself to the gym at eight in the morning yet again, all he can think is that he doesn’t have time to waste.
This morning, P’Chan is the instructor. The instructor rotates frequently; sometimes it’s Pete or Big or even Arm. P’Chan workouts are the hardest of the lot, and Porsche would still consider them a mere warmup.
P’Chan blows his whistle for the assembled men to line up.
“Today we’re going to start with paired stretching and then dead sprints,” P’Chan calls out, his voice resounding in the cavernous space. “Get to it.” He blows his whistle again.
That’s when Porsche’s mask finally slips, and P’Chan catches it.
“Phoenix,” P’Chan barks, “did you just roll your eyes at me?”
The rest of the bodyguards, who had been about to pair off, all freeze and look at both of them, alarm written on their faces.
Porsche lets his face go slack. He doesn’t deny it; there’s no point in that now.
P’Chan approaches, getting into Porsche’s personal space. The man’s eyes are like flint.
“Do you really think you have the right to be doing that? With your performance in these training sessions?” Porsche stays silent, and P’Chan continues, “You’re getting slower, and you need to be faster if you want to stay alive and, more importantly, to keep your charge alive. There’s no room for being slow, or for mistakes, or for that attitude. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Porsche says.
P’Chan continues to stare for a long, tense moment. Then he says, “Stretch, then do three hundred situps. After that, you catch up with everything the rest of the group did.”
That’s… it? That’s the punishment?
“Yes, sir,” Porsche says.
Maybe he can work with this.
Porsche goes through the stretches with Som as his reluctant partner. Few people want to get paired with a troublemaker, and Porsche can’t blame Som for that.
When everyone is limbered up, the rest of the bodyguards line up for sprints. A couple of them cast nervous glances at Porsche, but they roll off his back.
Porsche goes over to the chin-up bar. Behind him, P’Chan blows a whistle, and the sound of thundering feet fills the gym. Porsche puts two hands on the bar, takes a deep breath, and sets about getting himself into position. A moment later, he has his knees up over the bar and he’s hanging upside down. His legs burn and he can feel that little extra strain all over.
That’s more like it, he thinks, and he starts doing his reps.
And if he catches P’Chan staring at him at one point, well, he can’t pause to think about that. He still has to catch up.
However, he realizes catching up isn’t in his best interest. On each exercise, he’s solo, behind the group. So for each exercise, he adds a little something extra. Instead of fifty sprints, he does sixty-five. Instead of forty pushups, he does sixty; thirty with one arm, and thirty with the other. For the squats, he picks up some dumbbells.
Eventually he does catch up with the group, though, when it comes time for sparring. Three pairs can fight at a time, leaving some men to observe. When Porsche joins them, they start inching away; he’s already developed a reputation in the rings.
Porsche sits down alone. P’Chan will force someone to pair up with him when needed.
Across the room, P’Chan divides his attention among the rings, but he spares an occasional stare at Porsche.
The next morning, Porsche sneers as they’re given their initial instruction.
Again, P’Chan barks out his name. But this time, he doesn’t bother with the theatrics of dressing Porsche down. Instead, he gives Porsche his “punishment” and sends him on his way. This time Porsche is ordered to do lunges, so he adds weights — not just dumbbells to carry in his hands, but also weighted wraps around his ankles. Every time he has to rise and drag his back leg forward into the next lunge, the weights feel a little heavier than the last. He’s sweating properly by the time he’s ready to move to the next exercise.
On the third morning, Porsche doesn’t get the chance to make a face. P’Chan calls him over before assembling the bodyguards.
“Yes, sir,” Porsche says, standing straight. He keeps his eye on a smudge on the window behind the head bodyguard.
P’Chan stares silently for a moment. “I know what you’re doing. I want you to submit a complete and detailed report of your past training regimens to me by tomorrow morning. I will then give you a list of what practices are and are not acceptable for you to continue, and you’ll follow a custom regimen.”
Porsche’s eyes snap over to meet P’Chan’s.
“Got your attention?” P’Chan asks with a mean little smirk. “I’m not unreasonable, Phoenix. I’m not some low-class slave trainer. But the health and condition of your body are crucial to the survival of your charges, which means you are not allowed to stress or strain it through carelessness or harmful techniques. Are we clear?”
Still stunned by this turn of events, Porsche says, “Yes, sir!”
P’Chan nods. “Good. Stay with the others today.” Porsche’s eyebrow twitches, and P’Chan catches it. The older guard rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Add ankle and wrist wraps if you want.”
“Yes, sir!”
P’Chan blows the whistle for everyone to fall into line. Porsche follows suit, trying to figure out what, exactly, just happened.
Porsche has had a lot of trainers over the years, some better than others. Never once was he warned off of working too hard. P’Chan’s statement is more than a little novel to him.
Training proceeds like usual after that, until they’re sparring. Big comes in while Porsche stretches and awaits his turn, idly wondering whether P’Chan might let him take on two or three opponents at once.
Big heads straight for P’Chan, and they talk off to the side. Big casts a few glances at Porsche, which captures his attention. P’Chan nods and dismisses Big. Porsche catches Big’s eye as he’s leaving and tries to convey his questions telepathically. Big notices the look and just rolls his eyes.
Ah, Big is acting normal. Then whatever it is he talked with P’Chan about, it isn’t anything bad. Probably.
Twenty minutes later, after everyone has sparred at least twice, P’Chan dismisses the group to the showers.
“Phoenix, stay a minute,” P’Chan says.
The other bodyguards dance around Porsche as he walks in the opposite direction from them. Several give him side-eye glances. I really am standing out too much, he thinks, but also it’s unavoidable.
“Your afternoon’s been cleared,” P’Chan explains. “Khun Kinn has an in-person business meeting with a Chinese business partner in two days, and you’ll be joining him, on duty. He wants you fitted for appropriate clothing for your…” P’Chan tilts his head, trying to decide how to word it, “unique position. Be at the carport at twelve fifteen.”
“Yes, sir,” Porsche says, but P’Chan is already walking away.
They’re giving him clothes. Different ones from the nice suit that’s already been tailored for him. Porsche thinks back to the day of the meeting with Davies and how Kinn had ordered a surprise outfit adjustment at the last second. It probably has to do with that.
The rest of his morning is a blur. He showers up and changes into a clean tracksuit. Then he somehow muddles through yet another written test on weapons, followed immediately by a practical exam. Although he can’t be sure how the written test went, the arms instructor seems pleased with his speed on the practical.
That leaves Porsche only a few minutes for lunch. He scarfs down his food so fast that he isn’t even sure what he ate — all he knows is that he gave himself heartburn.
At exactly twelve fourteen, he rushes through the marbled, golden entrance to the tower, only to come up short as he finds a caravan parked, engines running, in the port.
“That’s what you’re wearing out of the tower?” Kinn asks. He’s standing by the middle car, his face twisted in a distasteful grimace.
Porsche looks down at his Theerapanyakul tracksuit. “Sir.” He doesn’t exactly have an easy means to get new clothes. It’s this, his dress suit, or the “borrowed” Blue Room uniform he still hasn’t figured out how to return.
Kinn sighs as though he’s been personally insulted. “I’d order you to change, but we don’t have time. For the record, don’t wear the workout suit offsite. Get in, you’re with Mek up front.” Kinn gestures to Mek, who’s standing by the driver’s side door of the middle car. Mek gives a little wave.
Porsche hesitates. “Khun Kinn, sir?”
Kinn pauses with his hand on the car door. “You were told about the clothes, yes?” He’s growing impatient, and it makes the hairs rise on the back of Porsche’s neck. Impatient is never a good sign.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then let’s go.” Kinn waves at the front of the car and doesn’t wait any longer; he climbs into the back seat.
Apparently this little shopping trip includes Kinn, and no one saw fit to mention that. Typical.
Porsche makes himself unwind his muscles so he can hurry to the passenger side door.
The caravan sets out. Porsche’s left leg starts bouncing, a symptom of nervous energy. He casts a couple of side-glances at Mek, who seems perfectly comfortable. Mek is one of the more mature bodyguards, in his early forties, and he’s seemed genial enough whenever Porsche noticed him around.
Porsche dares one quick look over his shoulder. In the back seat, Kinn is reading something on his tablet.
After they pass the second stoplight, Porsche leans over to Mek and whispers, “P’Mek, do you know where we’re going?”
“Of course,” Mek replies at full volume. Then he rattles off the name of a building and department store that Porsche doesn’t recognize, still at full volume. From the backseat, there’s a slight rustling noise from Kinn.
Porsche blushes and looks out the window, leg bouncing even faster. He rubs his thumb against his chin.
Eventually he can’t take it anymore, so he leans over to Mek and asks, extremely softly, “Just between us this time?”
Mek gives Porsche a raised eyebrow but says nothing, so Porsche takes that as compliance.
“How long will this take?”
“There’s no set schedule,” Mek says in a normal speaking voice that Kinn can easily overhear. Porsche frantically tries to shush him, but Mek just keeps talking. “Khun Kinn blocked out the next four hours, though it may not take that long. You’ll learn to be flexible about these kinds of things in this job, Nong Phoenix.”
“Four hours?” Porsche hisses just a little too loudly.
Behind him, Porsche hears a muffled snort followed by a cough.
Did Kinn just laugh?
If he did, that’s much better than the alternative. But still, Porsche shuts up and goes back to staring out the window. Maybe an assassin will come along and distract him out of his misery.
Mek chuckles softly. “Relax, nong. Khun Kinn doesn’t like whispers. They’re more distracting than normal chatter.”
“Mek,” Kinn says from the back. It’s sharp but not quite scathing.
The guard's pleasant, neutral smile doesn’t falter. “Yes, Khun Kinn,” he says and then focuses solely on driving.
Porsche doesn’t ask any more questions. He has enough new information to think about.
Who goes shopping for four fucking hours?
Apparently rich mafia bosses do.
A short while later, Kinn leads Porsche and the rest of his detail into the strangest clothing store he’s ever seen. He doesn’t see any clothes anywhere. There’s a reception desk. Mek takes up a position by a tall potted plant and looks like he’s trying to become a plant himself.
An impeccably groomed woman in an off-white dress leads Kinn, Porsche, Som, and Jak to a comfortable, sparkling clean room. A full wall is lined with mirrors from top to bottom, with a little alcove indented in the center and a small raised platform in the center of it. Facing that alcove are comfortable couches and loveseats, with fancy marble side tables and coffee tables. Som and Jak do a quick sweep, and Som pokes his nose into what looks like a closet, but there’s hardly anything for them to check in the sparse room.
“Alix will be with you in just a few minutes, Khun Kinn,” the receptionist says. “While you wait, can I get you anything?”
Kinn takes a seat in the center of the couch. “Yes, please,” he says. “I’d like an Americano with Thai beans, no imports. And I missed lunch, so if you could order something from La Tavola, I’d appreciate it. Their house specialty pizza, I think.”
“Of course, sir.” The receptionist inclines her head and leaves.
Porsche doesn’t know quite what to do with himself, so he simply stands there. Kinn, predictably, pulls out his tablet. However, instead of ignoring Porsche, he glances up at him and then jerks his chin toward the loveseat.
“Sit down, relax,” Kinn says. “You aren’t here for protection detail right now.”
Porsche glances at Som and Jak, who’ve taken up strategic positions and are standing still and at the ready. Neither of them react to his gaze, so Porsche makes his way to the loveseat and sinks down onto it.
Next to him, Kinn sighs as though he’s disappointed. Fuck.
The room goes quiet, nothing but the sound of Kinn tapping on his tablet. After a few minutes, the receptionist comes in with Kinn’s coffee, and he thanks her.
Then, with all the presence of a brass band playing at full volume, a new individual enters the room, door swinging wide and arms out wide.
“Kinn, darling, it’s been too long!” the person exclaims.
They are lean and tall like a reed, with artfully wavy brown hair. They’re wearing the brightest yellow suit Porsche has ever seen, with a leathery black bumblebee stripe around the jacket’s waist, and a long black scarf, and no shirt beneath. They wear a perfectly trimmed goatee, lipstick, eye makeup to do a drag queen proud, and long dangling gold earrings. They’re also wearing stilettos, which add to their already impressive height.
Kinn looks up and breaks out into a shockingly wide, pleased grin, teeth and all. He puts his tablet aside and rises as the individual, presumably Alix, approaches him, and the two of them exchange air kisses to either cheek.
Then Alix raises one finger, with a sharp orange nail, straight in the air and shakes it.
“Wait, no no no, this isn’t right,” Alix says. “I still haven’t forgiven you for not buying the powder blue suit the last time. That was a crime, Kinn, a crime against fashion. It looked so good on you, darling!”
Kinn, somehow, manages to pout. Porsche isn’t quite sure how he does it with that chiseled face of his.
“I had nowhere to wear it, and you forced me to buy two other suits that day. Forgive me?”
Alix makes a show of waffling before caving. “Oh, fine. I can’t stay mad at you. Hardly any of my other clients appreciate fashion quite the way you do, darling. So, tell me, what are we after today? Special occasion? Something seasonal? Whatever it is, tell me I get to have fun with it.”
“It isn’t for me this time, Alix. It’s for Phoenix,” Kinn says, and he gestures to Porsche.
Alix turns, sees Porsche sitting with his right side facing them, and lets out a shriek and jumps almost a foot in the air. Som and Jak reach for their guns, and even Porsche does, although he isn’t armed — apparently the instincts from training are starting to kick in.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! That was so unprofessional of me. Boys, I’m so sorry,” Alix says and then rushes to Som and Jak one after the other to pat them on the arm. They relax their stances. Then Alix comes back to Kinn and Porsche, and they make all sorts of big, apologetic gestures. “I’m so embarrassed, really. Sweetie, that was rude of me,” they say directly to Porsche.
Porsche shakes his head. He knows the scars are shocking. “It’s fine.”
Alix makes a pitying look at Porsche. Their eyes are made even bigger with a white outline around them before the thick mascara and sparkling yellow shadow begin.
“Oh honey, it really isn’t,” Alix says, approaching Porsche and crouching down in front of him. “No one should ever, ever have done this to you. This, this… suit … this godawful material! Goodness, even Buddha himself would go blind to see it. Tell me who did this to you. Tell me right now! Was it the bad man over there?” Alix asks, looking pointedly at Kinn.
Porsche blinks a couple times. They mean the clothes?
Kinn shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. “Alix, it’s a workout suit. It’s made to be sweated on.”
Alix sniffs. “Barbaric.” They rise to their towering height and then return to Kinn to thread one of their arms through one of his. “Now, darling, tell me what we need, and I’ll give you a discount if you let me burn the travesty he’s wearing right now.”
“No burning,” Kinn scolds, making Alix pout. “I want a full wardrobe for formal and business casual occasions.”
Alix lets out a sound that cannot be defined in human terms, but Porsche thinks it’s probably one of excitement. They wiggle in place, somehow dangling on Kinn’s arm despite being at least three inches taller than Kinn.
“Theme, theme, darling, you have to give me a theme,” Alix says, a hand waving in excitement.
Kinn looks at Porsche where he’s still sitting on the edge of the loveseat. “Dangerous. Unavailable.” Alix very, very slowly turns their head to look at Kinn, who asks, “What?”
Alix shakes their head and makes a face. “What exactly is… nope, you know what? I don’t want to know. I love not knowing a damn thing except your measurements and every inch of your closet, and we’re keeping it that way. Speaking of measurements, you.” Alix snaps their fingers at Porsche. “Up you get. Onto the hot plate.” Alix gestures at the alcove with its little raised platform, and then they pull a pink measuring tape out of their breast pocket.
Porsche rises.
“Please do me a favor and ditch the jacket at least,” Alix wheedles.
He does so, removing the jacket so that he’s left with the plain white tee and track pants, and then he goes to stand on the little platform. Alix approaches him swiftly with the measuring tape, and without conscious decision, Porsche reacts with a little flinch just before he lets himself go loose and relaxed.
Alix pulls back the tape smoothly.
“Honey, have you never had your measurements taken before?” Alix asks, not unkindly.
“No,” Porsche says. He has to fight not to tack on a “sir.” He’s pretty sure Alix wouldn’t like it.
“Okay then, I’ll just walk you through it nice and easy, how about that, hon? Arms out to the side so I can go around your chest, please. We absolutely must show you off properly.”
Then Alix proceeds to keep up a steady stream of chatter through every step of the process, with no need for input from Porsche. All he has to do is go along and let Alix do their work. It helps that Alix seems so intent and focused on their own aesthetic scheming, murmuring about colors and combinations and “magic moments” for some reason.
Alix makes things simple, puts Porsche at ease. It’s over in no time at all.
“Honey, darling, I’m going to need at least twenty minutes before I can really get this show started, and that’s pushing it. This isn’t some simple quickie you’ve sprung on me, Mr. Kinn. Is there anything you need while you wait?”
“Waters, for me and Phoenix,” Kinn says with a quick look up from his tablet and a nod.
While they’re waiting, the receptionist arrives with Kinn’s lunch. With it, she brings chilled glasses and unopened bottled waters for both Kinn and Porsche. Kinn absentmindedly eats his fancy pizza as he taps out messages on his tablet with a stylus. Porsche lets his eyes go half-mast as he meditates.
When Alix returns, they wheel in an entire rolling rack of clothes, but it isn’t only one. No, two assistants follow them in with two more racks. Kinn sets his tablet aside and goes to the racks, looking over the clothes. He fiddles through the hangers, and metallic sliding noises fill the room.
Porsche rises and waits.
“What do you think, darling?” Alix asks eagerly.
“Hmm,” is all Kinn replies. He starts pulling out a few items here and there, tossing them on one of the spare chairs. Eventually he seems satisfied and nods. “Well done as always, Alix. Let’s see how they look.” He returns to his comfortable seat.
Porsche moves to pick up the selections from the chair so he can try them on.
“Oh, no no no, honey,” Alix says. “Those are the discards. Here, just trust Alix, and I’ll take good care of you. We’ll start with my ‘afternoon poolside party’ selections.”
While Porsche’s eyes widen with alarm, Alix starts pulling clothes off the first rack and piling them in their arms. “That should do to start. Fitting room is in the corner.” Alix waves at what Porsche had assumed was a large closet. “Off you go, honey. Shed your heinous gray cocoon and come back to me like a fabulous butterfly.”
This is necessary, Porsche reminds himself as he goes to the fitting room. This is how Kinn demonstrates his reputation. That’s all. His mind echoes with the way Kinn had said, “Unavailable.” It sounded good, like no one could touch him. Like if they touched him the way Davies grabbed his shoulder, he could do something about it.
Without putting too much thought into it, Porsche picks a pair of white pants. He throws on a black button-down shirt with a gigantic stencil of a white flower sprawling over the left side of it. The shirt feels amazing against his skin, probably the finest fabric he’s ever worn in his life.
When he steps out of the changing room, Alix is sitting on the couch next to Kinn, and they look up and let out a little squeal of joy. Kinn looks up as well, but his reaction is more subdued, slow to build.
“Honey, honey, come give us a spin on the magic stand!” Alix says, gesturing to the platform.
Porsche does so, feeling more than a little stupid.
Art by Lady-Guts
“My, my, he does clean up nicely, don’t you think, Kinn?” Alix asks. “That jawline, those proportions. I always love my work, but sometimes I love it more than others, and this is definitely one of those times.”
Porsche looks at Kinn, but his eyes are dark, his mouth slack. He looks stunned.
He looks hungry, and that’s a look Porsche is familiar with.
But as Porsche watches closely, intent on following every microexpression, he sees Kinn do something he isn’t familiar with; Kinn gives his head a little shake, clearing the lustful greed that had arisen, and then he’s all business once again.
“It’s good. Keep going.”
Uncertain what just happened, Porsche swallows and goes to change into the next outfit. And the next after that, and the next. He becomes a one-man fashion show. After the third outfit, he mostly zones out; he’s barely needed for this. It’s a little easier for him to think of it like putting on a costume, a uniform. His uniform is simply more elaborate — and oftentimes much more sultry — than that of the other bodyguards. It isn’t just clothes, either; Alix also makes him try on belts and scarves and shoes.
At some point, Alix makes an excuse to leave for a short while, rushing out of the room in a flurry of yellow. They’re back the next time Porsche has changed.
By the time Porsche gets through everything on the racks, he’s exhausted, but he does his best not to let it show. He comes back out once again wearing the tracksuit, only to have Alix immediately scold him.
“No! No no no! After that demonstration of masculine beauty, you cannot do this to me,” Alix exclaims. Then they shove another outfit in Porsche’s hands, something soft.
So off he toddles again, but this time… this time the outfit isn’t for going out. It’s for staying in. The black pants are loose and flow like water around his legs, and there’s a thin, super-soft T-shirt. On top of it all is a fluffy, bright blue hoodie that feels like getting a hug.
When he steps out, Alix says, “Aww, look at the sweet little honey buns. Aren’t you adorable?” They come up and pinch the fabric of the hoodie’s arm, drawing Porsche over to what they call the magic stand. “Give us a twirl, honey, yes, just like that. Everything else was for his majesty over there, but then he told me to pick out something you might like.”
“Alix,” Kinn snaps. He looks thoroughly displeased.
Alix rolls their eyes and stays focused on Porsche. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
Porsche freezes. What he likes doesn’t matter. Best not to get attached.
“Honey?” Alix asks, voice filled with concern.
Porsche isn’t sure what his face must be doing, but it must not be normal. He’s too tired to keep his face straight at this point.
“Give us the room for just a minute,” Kinn says, raising a hand and waving it.
Alix gives one more concerned look at Porsche before sashaying out, and Som and Jak leave as well. Porsche fiddles with the sleeves of the hoodie. It feels so good, and it keeps his hands occupied. If he’s being honest, he never wants to take it off.
Kinn gets up from the couch and approaches, shoving his hands in his pockets. He comes over and leans with his back to one of the mirrors, next to the alcove, so he’s facing the opposite wall from the magic stand. It gives Porsche a good look at his profile, the strong lines of it, the chiseled jaw.
“Porsche?”
Porsche inhales sharply. He forgets sometimes that Kinn knows his real name.
“I think,” Kinn continues, “that I’ve underestimated how difficult this is for you. All of it. Adjusting to this new life. And I think, probably, the biggest problem is that you still don’t feel like you’re free. Because in a lot of ways, you aren’t.”
Porsche swallows hard. He tries not to think about where this might be going. He should acknowledge what Kinn said with a “sir,” but he can’t get the word out.
“I’m not making promises of safety. I don’t even have that for myself,” Kinn says with a wry little grin and a split-second glance at Porsche. “But I want you to succeed. Actually, I’m confident that you will, in time. I bet against you once, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so wrong in my life. That’s why I’m betting on you again.”
“You said I was a bad bet,” Porsche mutters, and fuck him, he has no idea how that sneaked out.
Instead of looking displeased, though, Kinn’s eyebrows rise, and his smile kicks up again.
“Well, yeah, you looked like a shitty bet,” he says casually. “You looked like you’d already given up. But then you got in the ring, and you were on fire. Like a phoenix.”
That startles a little snort of a half laugh out of Porsche, and it surprises him.
“You can be yourself, Porsche. You can be a person. I’m not going to punish you for that.” Kinn straightens up from the mirrors and raises his eyebrows at Porsche. “You good?”
Porsche nods. “Yeah.”
“Do you like the hoodie?”
Heart in his throat, Porsche nods. “It’s great. I like it.”
Kinn makes a silly little smile and nods. “I already knew that.” He strolls to the door and opens it, inviting Alix, Som, and Jak back in.
“Are we good? We’re good, right?” Alix asks.
“Everything’s fine, Alix,” Kinn assures them. “We’re getting the cozy outfit.”
“Of course you are, darling, don’t be silly. Now, shall we go over the final purchase list?”
“No need,” Kinn says. “Have it all packaged and sent over.”
He strolls out, Jak and Som behind. Porsche scrambles to get his suit and runs after them.
He has to take off the hoodie because of the heat, but he strokes the fabric between his fingers all the way back to the tower.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Porchay tells Kim about the time that Uncle Thee sold Porsche from his perspective, and how Thee lied to him and to other adults, and other adults believed Thee over Porchay. Porsche gets taken on a shopping trip with Kinn, and in the course of the experience he starts to dissociate. Porsche experiences difficulty expressing that he likes/wants something for himself because of his trust issues.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Yes, La Tavola is a real restaurant in Bangkok. I love hunting for real places to throw into this fic.
I hope you like Alix! 🤩
Chapter 11: Interlude: Big
Summary:
In general, Big thinks he needs a raise for all the shit he has to put up with on a daily basis. Not the least among his troubles is his roommate, who suddenly seems to want to ask Big for advice.
Notes:
Thank you to enbymoomin, my illustrious beta! 🙏
NOTE: There are no special warnings at the bottom of the chapter this time.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Big can feel eyes on him as he crosses the cafeteria and sits down at an empty table. He takes a bite of salad and rakes a glare across the room as he chews. The eyes fall away, easily cowed.
It’s been like this for a year. Idiots.
Are they afraid of him because he shot Ken, his best friend, his biggest betrayer? Or are there lingering doubts about whether Big’s hands were truly clean of the whole ordeal? Maybe Big helped with the Tawan situation and then double-crossed Ken to save his own ass?
Big repeats to himself in his own head: idiots. No one wanted Tawan dead — or re-dead — more than Big. Piece of shit zombie. And as for Ken, well. He isn’t sure how he feels about that. He might never be sure.
He’s startled from his reverie by another idiot sitting down next to him at the table.
“I thought I told you we weren’t buddies,” Big says. The last word twists on his tongue.
“Yeah? You did,” Phoenix says around a mouthful of brown rice, the heathen. “I need to eat somewhere.”
Big looks pointedly over Phoenix’s shoulder, where there’s a completely empty table. Phoenix either doesn’t notice Big making a point, or he just doesn’t care.
“Whatever,” Big says, and he keeps eating.
“Hey, so,” Phoenix pauses to swallow, “I have a question. Where do you get your clothes?”
Big stares at him and finishes chewing before he speaks. “You used to be quiet. I liked you better when you were quiet.”
And then something new happens: a sparkle of mischief, just a little one, appears in the corner of Phoenix’s eye. And Big thinks, Fuck me, he’s coming out of his shell.
“Yeah?” Phoenix asks. “That means you liked me. It’s okay — you don’t have to be shy. So, clothes?”
Big rolls his eyes and makes Phoenix wait while he takes another couple bites. But the guy just keeps watching Big, patient, determined.
Finally, Big says, “Didn’t Khun Kinn just buy you a shit ton of clothes? I saw them being delivered. And where the hell did they even go?” It’s a really good thing the clothes didn’t end up in their shared apartment; they don’t have room for all that.
Phoenix shrugs. “They’re work clothes, not mine. I think Khun Kinn has them in some closet somewhere. I want to know where to get my own stuff.”
Big looks at him, showing something like life and eagerness, and Big just can’t find it in himself to tell the guy to fuck off. It finally clicks for Big that their monthly paycheck recently dropped, and it would be Phoenix’s first.
“I go to a store or I buy stuff online,” Big says. “It isn’t that complicated, man.”
“What store? Is it nearby?”
“Just look it up online!” Big snaps. “Use the laptop in our room! Shit, don’t ask me stupid questions.”
“Okay, shit, so sensitive.”
Phoenix goes back to eating. But then he keeps looking at Big, and it starts making his skin crawl.
“What? Just spit it out already.”
Phoenix leans forward. “I heard that next to P’Chan, you’ve been working for the Theerapanyakuls the longest out of all the bodyguards. Is that true?”
This question could be leading a lot of different ways, and Big isn’t sure he likes any of them.
“Yeah.” Maybe if Big is brusque enough with him, he’ll get the hint and shut up. Not likely, but it’s worth a shot.
“You started pretty young, then?” Phoenix asks.
Big rolls his eyes and keeps eating. He doesn’t even have to answer that one; obviously it’s a yes.
“Would you say Khun Kinn is a good boss?”
Big drops his fork and leans back in his chair. “What the hell are you asking me for? You work for him, too. Make your own opinions.”
Phoenix shrugs. “I just want to know what he’s like. I figure you wouldn’t follow a guy for so long if he’s a complete asshole, you know?”
Something cold and heavy falls across Big’s shoulders and then slinks down his spine. Ken’s face flashes across his mind.
“Just follow me, come with me,” Ken pleaded, eyebrows pinched together and hands raised. He stood just in front of Tawan, who also had his hands raised. “We don’t have to live like prisoners anymore. That bastard Kinn isn’t worth living like this, Big. And there’s money in it, too.”
Big kept his gun trained on Ken’s head as he raised his free hand to activate the comm in his ear. “This is Big. I need backup on the east lawn.”
Ken made a move to pull his weapon, and Big made a choice.
“Did someone put you up to saying that?” Big asks, voice just as hard as it was back then. “Tell me who it was.”
“Huh?” Phoenix’s big dumb gaze looks genuinely confused. “No, no one tells me shit around here.”
It’s the truth. Phoenix stands out from the other bodyguards for a lot of reasons — he isn’t precisely disliked, but he also isn’t necessarily fitting in. He kicks everyone’s asses at sparring, he has a habit of spacing out, and he has just a little too much attention from Khun Kinn. Big thinks Phoenix could possibly have found a niche with Tankhun’s team, some of the friendliest of the lot, but that bunch seems to be avoiding him out of deference to their master.
Big really, really wishes he could get angry at the guy and just stay that way. Get him to beg for a room transfer like his last three roommates. He would do it, too, if only it weren’t for those days he spent listening to Phoenix spill his guts about the shit he’s witnessed and experienced. Knowing what he knows, it’s hard to stay mad.
“Forget it,” Big says. “Shut up and eat.”
Phoenix gives him a curious look but shrugs and lets it drop.
Fortunately they’re interrupted before the guy can come up with any more questions.
“Big, there you are,” Arm says as he approaches the table. He’s carrying a sealed manilla envelope. “I’ve been running some info for Khun Kim, but I can’t get away to deliver them. Can you do the drop off? Jay is busy, and King is on vacation. But if not, I can go later…?”
Big isn’t needed anywhere for a few hours, and this is a perfect excuse to get out of the tower. However, it’ll also be the first time he’s seen Kim since everything went to shit. Big assumed he’d been removed from Kim’s short list of acceptable guards, but apparently not.
“I’ll do it,” he says, reaching out for the envelope.
“Thank you, Big,” Arm says with a quick wai. “I have to go, but thank you!”
Arm hurries away. Big really doesn’t envy the guy, having to keep up with both the tech job and being one of Khun Nu’s little pets.
Big shovels down the last few bites he has left and gets up. Phoenix says a placid, “Later,” to which Big accidentally responds with a head nod. Dammit, he shouldn’t have even acknowledged that he said anything; now he’ll think Big is being friendly. Shit.
He borrows a company car, and a short while later he’s walking into Khun Kim’s luxurious high-rise apartment. It hasn’t really changed since the last time Big was here.
Kim is at his big table leaning over it and staring down. The table top is covered from edge to edge with papers, half of it a mix of police reports, printed web articles, and sticky notes, while the other half is all sheet music, some of it pinned down by an open laptop. A guitar leans against the side of the desk.
Kim straightens up and looks at him. The young master wiggles a pencil, tapping it against one hand.
“Big. I thought Arm was coming.”
Succinct as always.
“He asked me to bring you this, Khun Kim,” Big says, handing over the envelope.
Kim takes the envelope and opens it. He tugs the paper up from it to scan the contents before shoving it back in and dropping the envelope on the table. Must not be anything urgent, then.
Big waits a moment while Kim just stares at him, and then he says, “If that’s all, sir, I’ll be going.”
“You used to be chattier than that,” Kim says, halting Big before he can even move.
This kid and his mind games. If Big were less disciplined, he’d roll his eyes.
“Sir?” he says instead.
“I got your best friend caught. By you.”
Big blinks slowly. Okay, so what does the kid expect him to do with that? He knows that already, and he knows the little shit set it up that way, so Big would either do the catching or get caught himself.
Meeting Kim’s eyes, Big says, “If I had to choose between shooting him before or after he got Khun Kinn killed, I’m glad I got to choose before.”
Kim nods slowly. Then his eyes spark with sudden life, an idea. “Closure,” he says mysteriously. Then he grabs his guitar and sits down with it, settling it into his lap, plucking quickly at the strings. He stops to write something on a blank page of sheet music.
“If that’s all, sir?” Big checks.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Kim says, mostly distracted. He leans over to the laptop and starts tapping at the keys.
Just as Big is halfway across the room, familiar music fills the air from the laptop, but it isn’t Kim’s music. No, it’s something that’s been haunting Big every single evening.
“Is that Porchay?” Big blurts out, even though he already knows the answer.
Kim looks up, surprised. “You’re familiar? Wouldn’t have expected that.”
Big shakes his head. “It’s my roommate, not me. He’s a big fan, obsessive. Why are you—” Big cuts himself off. He shouldn’t ask; it isn’t his business. Kim will only shut him down anyway.
Instead, Kim says, “I’m doing a collab with him.”
Big isn’t sure what the bigger miracle is: that Kim is willing to bend enough to collaborate with another musician, or that he said so, aloud, to Big. Voluntarily.
“He’s pretty good,” Big says in return, “but I’m not telling my roommate that.”
And Kim smiles, just a little, down at his guitar. Then he waves Big off.
Big leaves, and if he gives himself an extra half hour to stop at his favorite coffee shop, no one has to know.
Notes:
There are no special warnings/spoilers for this chapter.
Nuwildcat's reaction when she reached the last line of this chapter was, and I quote: "ARGHHH NEMI GET BACK HERE YOU OVERGROWN WORM." I'm quite proud of that. 😁
Chapter 12: Business Casual
Summary:
Porsche has enough training under his belt now, and he starts officially working for Kinn. His first task is to accompany Kinn on a business lunch. Kinn also discovers he needs to have a talk with Tankhun.
Notes:
Thank you to enbymoomin for betaing! Without you, I'd spell "movie" as move" and all sorts of other embarrassing things.
NOTE: There are no special warnings at the bottom of the chapter this time.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Porsche is going to work. Well, technically, he’s always at work. In fact, he never leaves work. But today he’s going to actually start doing his job.
He doesn’t count the fiasco with Reese Davies. He’d gone into it uncertain he’d even survive, but by the end of it, he’d gotten a free massage, so that goes to show what he knows. Kinn keeps throwing Porsche off balance, only to follow up by carefully tipping him back into place. It’s disorienting, and Porsche would prefer for everything about his new boss to make sense.
Chances of that don’t seem high, though.
One thing at a time. First, he needs to get dressed, or rather, changed from one bodyguard uniform to the other. Pete told him where to go, so he heads to the seventh floor. He gets lost for a minute but eventually stumbles on the right room — it seems like a hastily converted hotel room, not entirely unlike the one that Porsche stayed in when Kinn first brought him to the tower. However, most of the furnishings have been removed, including the bed, bedside tables, TV stand, and TV. All that’s left are a coffee table and a couple of chairs. Large mirrors have been hung along one wall, and a huge rack of familiar-looking clothes hangs along another — Porsche’s work clothes, selected by Alix and Kinn. Shoes are lined up on the floor, and the top of a dresser is lined with accessories.
There’s no one else here, but anything should be fine, shouldn’t it?
Porsche picks out some clothes and gets changed. Then he checks himself over in the mirror; he looks pretty good, intimidating even, like a high-end fighting “pet” ought to look.
As soon as he steps out of the room, he sees Kinn approaching, walking down the hall with Pete and Big flanking him. Kinn’s face goes through a whole journey that Porsche isn’t sure how to describe, but ultimately it ends on a grimace.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Kinn asks, coming to a stop in front of Porsche.
Kinn looks like he’s about to cry. He looks like someone told him his dog died, the stock market crashed, and every birthday for the rest of his life has been canceled. He raises one hand, and Porsche doesn’t even have a chance to flinch before Kinn orders, “Get back in there.” He’s pointing at the room-turned-closet.
Behind Kinn, Pete is trying really, really hard to cover a laugh. Big looks like he’s in physical pain.
“Sir?” Porsche asks.
Kinn closes his eyes slowly and then opens them again. “Black skinny jeans with ripped knees and studs, with a leather jacket? This is a business casual lunch. Do you have any fashion sense at all?”
“Yes, sir?” Porsche hadn’t meant that to come out as a question. In fact, if he’d been thinking straight, he should have just said, “no, sir.”
“Oh yeah?” Kinn asks. “Go on then. Explain your fashion sense to me.” He makes a little gesture for Porsche to speak.
Porsche has no idea, actually. How does one explain a fashion sense at all? Is that a thing rich people do? “Wear clothes… in public?”
That’s when Pete loses it. He starts coughing to cover his laughter. Big, meanwhile, scans the hallways as though wishing for an assassin to show up.
“Get in there,” Kinn orders again. “Pete, Big, give us just a few minutes. We’ll leave after I fix this.”
Porsche ducks back into the room, and Kinn follows, shutting the door behind himself. Kinn goes straight for the rack of clothes and starts rifling through it. He picks out a pair of gray slacks and a button-down top with silver, white, and gold designs.
Porsche realizes that it complements Kinn’s attire — gray slacks, silver shirt, and a cream blazer.
Kinn’s selection is pretty different from what Porsche picked. It won’t be very effective for intimidation, though. He takes the clothes from Kinn and drapes them on the little table and starts to strip his shirt. Behind Porsche, there’s a sudden shuffling, and he looks over his shoulder to find Kinn turning away. The fair skin on the back of his neck is turning red.
Porsche hesitates, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt. His brain stutters on a thought. Cute. And that is the first and probably the last time he will ever think that about a mafia boss.
He rushes to finish changing his clothes. As he’s pulling up his pants, he catches Kinn’s gaze in the mirror. Kinn immediately stiffens at being caught out, and he straightens up and takes two steps away, looking at the row of shoes on the floor.
Porsche does the mental stuttery thing again, thinks cute again. It’ll definitely be the last time, though. Everyone can have a cute day at least once, even Kinn Theerapanyakul.
“I’m dressed, sir. Is this what you wanted?” Porsche asks, looking down at himself. The style seems more suited for a fashion magazine than a bodyguard in his opinion, but no one asked him.
Kinn turns around and looks him over quickly, then nods once sharply and looks away. His eyes rove around the room for a minute before falling on the shoes lined up on the floor. He taps a pair of dress shoes with his own fancy loafers. “These, too.”
Porsche picks up the shoes in question and looks them over. He remembers trying them on; they were comfortable, but…
“What is it?” Kinn asks, looking at Porsche’s face with a pinched expression.
Porsche hesitates.
Kinn doesn’t waver. He simply raises his brows expectantly.
“They’re bad for running, sir,” Porsche finally says.
Kinn looks at him and then at the shoes before giving a jerk of his chin. “Just pick whichever black shoes you want then. And a necklace and a watch. But be quick about it.” He gestures to the top of the dresser and then checks the time on his own watch.
Realizing Kinn is in a hurry, Porsche picks a pair of shoes; they’re black sporty shoes with white laces. After quickly slipping them on and tying them, he grabs the first watch he sees and takes just a moment to look through the necklaces. There’s a short necklace with black leather and what looks like a silver shark’s tooth in the center, so he picks that.
When he reaches up to put on the necklace, though, he fumbles with the clasp. It doesn’t want to cooperate. This should be easy — he used to do it all the time — but it’s unfamiliar to his fingers, and he can’t see what he’s doing.
After the catch slips loose for the third time, he curses quietly, “Shit.”
Kinn makes a little “tsk” sound and holds out a hand. “Give it to me. Turn around.”
Porsche turns his back to Kinn, and then there are hands in the air around his neck, wrapping the leather cord into place and letting it settle on his collarbones. Fingertips touch lightly against his skin, causing his hairs to rise. And Porsche thinks, This is it, he’ll do something, say something, as his body automatically relaxes. And maybe it won’t be so bad, but that’s hard to say for sure.
Art by DrLemurr
But the necklace falls into place, and the fingertips fall away. Kinn turns and walks to the door. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”
And all Porsche can do is scramble to keep up.
He didn’t read the signs wrong. He knows he didn’t. Kinn isn’t behaving at all how Porsche has come to expect of someone of his position.
When they get to the cars, this time Porsche sits in the back of the car that Kinn is occupying. With Kinn. Instead of in the front. And yet Kinn studiously ignores Porsche in favor of his ever-present tablet. Porsche listens to the comms talk of the drivers as they modify the route to avoid construction.
They arrive at a high-end restaurant about half an hour later. Porsche doesn’t catch the name of the place, but it’s definitely the nicest place he’s ever been.
Big, Pete, Som, and Mek take up strategic positions, covering entrances and the emergency exit. And as for Porsche…
“Phoenix, stay with Khun Kinn,” Pete orders as the hostess starts to guide Kinn to his table.
“Huh?” Porsche asks.
“You have a different role,” Pete explains. “Stay with Khun Kinn.” He jerks his chin after Kinn, who’s already getting away.
Again, all Porsche can do is scramble after.
Kinn is led to a large corner booth where a middle-aged woman is already sitting. A bodyguard stands at the corner of the edge of the booth, directly next to her. The woman and her bodyguard are both Chinese, and the woman’s name is Bai Jingjing according to the briefing Pete gave Porsche.
“Kinn, thank you for inviting me to meet with you,” she says in English.
Kinn gives her a professional smile and a little nod of his head. “It’s my honor to welcome you on your visit to Bangkok.” He slides into the booth across from her.
Porsche takes up a position opposite Bai Jingjing’s bodyguard. It doesn’t take long for Porsche to size up the other man. He’s tall, taller than Porsche by an inch or two, and he has the sort of muscle packed onto him that speaks of serious weight lifting, with a padding of fat for reinforcement. So, not an opponent to take down through brute force but through strategic maneuvering and strikes. He’s armed — Porsche sees the outlines that P’Chan trained him to look for, two guns and some other shadows that are probably knives.
He doesn’t think he can outshoot the man, not at his current level. First Porsche would need to cover Kinn, throw water from the table into the man’s face to make aiming impossible, then take a clean shot. If for any reason they’re in a hand-to-hand situation, Porsche is confident he can handle that, too.
The nameless bodyguard is looking at Porsche in a similar manner, assessing. The guard smirks. He’s obviously come to a similar conclusion, that he knows how he would take Porsche down.
Porsche sneers. Unlikely.
Kinn and Bai Jingjing are still exchanging pleasantries. They seem to be old acquaintances. Porsche tunes out their words and keeps his attention on Bai Jingjing and the guard, as well as the waiter who comes and goes.
His job is to keep Kinn alive. And that’s good for Porsche, because as long as Kinn stays alive, so can he.
The meeting continues and is exceptionally dull until partway through the meal. That’s when Bai Jingjing decides to make Porsche a topic of conversation.
“Your new bodyguard,” she says, still in English, nodding to Porsche. “He is quite the acquisition for you. Outside of your usual, isn’t he? And under such, hmm, interesting circumstances as well. I had heard of Benny’s work, of course. You raised quite a few eyebrows, young dragon.”
Porsche isn’t looking at Kinn, but he can practically feel the self-confident smile in his next words.
“Did I? Ah, I hope I didn’t ruffle too many feathers.” Kinn’s English accent is thick, but his words are all carefully chosen and clear. “You’re familiar with Benny’s work, you say. But did you know how his work has impacted you on a personal level? If not, please let me shed some light on the situation.” That said, Kinn opens his jacket to clearly show that he isn’t reaching for a weapon, and he pulls a small thumb drive out of the inner pocket. He slides it halfway across the circular table.
Bai Jingjing considers it for a moment before picking it up. She plays with the drive between her two hands for a moment before passing it to her guard, who pockets it.
“I will take a look later,” she says. “If what you’re saying is true, you will of course have my gratitude. This is why I enjoy doing business with you, young dragon. You so often bring me useful gifts, unlike some others in the business.”
Porsche notices she doesn’t specify who she means by that. He wonders whether she’s referring to Kinn’s father or other mafia leaders in general.
“But I am still curious about your new guard,” she continues with careful emphasis. “I’m familiar with him. He spent a memorable few months in Hong Kong, dominating the ring at the Heavenly Gate arena.”
Porsche lets his face go blank. He fucking hates Hong Kong. Bai Jingjing, an elite in the Chinese mafia, could easily have been in the roaring crowd for one or more of his biggest fights.
“Ah, yes,” Kinn says. “I’d heard a little about that. It seems I have quite the talent with me now. Benny’s loss is my gain, I believe.”
Bai Jingjing stares at Kinn for a long time before her red lips slowly part into a large grin. She throws her head back and laughs. The way she moves and acts, she reminds Porsche of the dragon she accuses Kinn of being.
“How about we get down to real business?” she suggests.
They do, and it’s dull as hell.
Porsche looks again at Bai Jingjing’s guard. The man appears to be re-assessing Porsche with a more intense gaze. And he isn’t smirking anymore.
For the rest of the afternoon following his meeting with Bai Jingjing, Kinn is in a fantastic mood. She agreed to allow him to take part in her shipping and distribution of luxury cars. He’s been courting her to win those rights for more than a year now.
Kinn is able to ride the high of victory until just before dinner, when he has his regularly scheduled meeting with Pete. They’ll be going over the security rotations for the next two weeks.
The moment Pete walks into Kinn’s office, he knows something is off. Pete looks chagrined for some reason. His posture is slightly stooped, and his face is twitching like he wants to break out in his trademark “harmless me” smile. If the man had a tail, it would be tucked between his legs right now.
Kinn gives him a look, and Pete’s smile stretches from ear to ear.
“I have the rotation for you, Khun Kinn,” he approaches Kinn’s desk and respectfully hands over the stapled stack of papers in his hands.
Kinn accepts it and leans back to start looking through. He turns the first page, then another. The problem isn’t immediately apparent, but as soon as he spots it, it’s glaring. Kinn drops the papers on his desk.
“Pete,” he says.
Pete jumps and straightens his posture. “Yes, sir!” If Kinn didn’t already know Pete was incredibly deadly, it would be easy to mistake him for a coward. He shakes like a chihuahua until there’s actual danger, at which point he turns into a wolf that’s caught the scent of blood.
“Explain to me why Phoenix is on perimeter duty and not in any of the family meetings.” He taps the papers to emphasize his point.
Pete’s eyes widen, and he takes a deep breath. “Sir, this was Khun Nu’s express order.”
And just like that, Kinn’s satisfaction over his earlier success gets wiped out with the reminder that he has a loose end that needs tying up. Tankhun had one early run-in with Porsche that left him shaken and panicky for two days solid, and he’s refused to go anywhere near the new bodyguard since then. The prickly situation was mostly a non-issue while Porsche was in basic training — Khun didn’t tend to venture near the training areas anyway — but now that Porsche is starting his proper work, there are bound to be run-ins. And apparently Khun saw the inevitable coming and decided to intervene and keep Porsche as far away from himself as possible.
Kinn had hoped Tankhun would let it go with a little time, but that had been wishful thinking on his part. He can’t put this off any longer.
“Sir, if I could make a suggestion?”
Kinn looks up at Pete. “Let me hear it.” Pete has, in all practicality, spent more time with Khun than Kinn has, given his years on Khun’s personal team. Even now that Pete is Kinn’s head of security, he still joins Khun and his bodyguards for occasional movie marathons.
Pete nods sharply. “Sometimes when Khun Nu, er, gets into a particular mindset, the best strategy is to redirect negative energy into something positive. Arm keeps a book of riddles around, and we have that whole room full of games and puzzles.”
Kinn frowns down at the rotation plan, thinking. Redirecting Tankhun’s attention doesn’t get at the root of the problem — aversion. If Tankhun is set on avoiding Porsche, he’ll do everything in his power to avoid him. And if their father catches wind that Porsche is being pushed to the side, especially after Kinn made special investments in him, Kinn is sure to get an earful about his own carelessness. Korn has already made insinuations over dinner the other night that he isn’t convinced that Kinn’s “experiment” will be worthwhile.
Kinn knows the deal today with Bai Jingjing was influenced not just by Kinn’s “favor” of killing Benny, but also by Bai Jingjing’s impression of Porsche, standing at Kinn’s side, glowering at Bai Jingjing’s bodyguard and radiating threat. Bai Jingjing is cunning, and she judges leaders not just on their own merit, but on the people around them. However, that isn’t an explanation Kinn’s father will accept, not if it doesn’t suit his purpose.
Kinn shakes his head. I’m getting lost in thought. This isn’t getting me anywhere.
Kinn considers Pete. “What’s your assessment of Phoenix so far?”
Pete takes a moment to consider that, swaying slightly in place where he stands. “He’s a diligent team member. When he doesn’t understand something, he keeps trying until he gets it right, and he’s improved a great deal in a short time.”
Kinn can practically feel that there’s more coming. “But?”
“But he isn’t integrating very well, sir,” Pete adds. “He keeps his distance from others, except for Big. They’re roommates.”
“And he and Big are getting along?” Kinn feels his brows pinched together in surprise. Big hasn’t exactly been friendly with others lately, though that’s hardly a change. But he used to have someone he could turn to, at least.
“Big… tolerates him better than he did the other roommates,” Pete offers. “I think, for Phoenix, it’s simply a matter of not knowing how to adjust to ordinary life.” He bobbles his head from side to side and winces. “Kind of ordinary, at least.”
Pete is only echoing thoughts that Kinn has already had.
That’s when inspiration hits Kinn — if Tankhun needs a puzzle, Kinn can give him one.
“Pete!” he says.
Pete straightens up tall and sharp, looking nervous. “Yes, sir!”
“Good job,” Kinn says. He hands the papers back to Pete, who accepts them with a baffled expression. “Fix this so that Po- Phoenix is on my main detail where he’s supposed to be. I’ll handle Khun.”
The bodyguard beams and gives a nod that makes his hair flop. “Of course. Good luck, sir.”
Pete leaves Kinn to brood in silence — he has a brother to wrangle.
There’s an art to interacting with Tankhun, but the art in question is much like a child’s finger painting — wild and passionate. What could work one day can backfire horribly the next. However, even in what appears to be chaos, methods and patterns emerge under careful scrutiny.
And Kinn knows his older brother very, very well.
Later that same evening, Som reports to Kinn that Tankhun and his guards have occupied the poolside living room and are playing board games. So Kinn finds the nearest book — something dull on politics — and heads for the living room with Som at his heels. When Kinn arrives, the games are apparently already in full swing. Tankhun is leading Fern, Pol, and Arm in a rousing round of what he calls “Chess Squash.” Kinn hasn’t been able to pick up on the nuances of the game, likely because the rules change every time they play.
Kinn starts by visiting the bar and pouring himself a generous glass of aged bourbon. Then he settles himself on the couch that faces the game table. No one pays him any mind, other than respectful “Khun Kinns” from the guards.
“Why can’t I move the queen?” Pol asks, disconsolate.
“That’s the goal, not the queen,” Fern says. “See the blue dot on the top? Get your pawns to the queen.”
“But I could move the queen last week,” Pol says.
“That was last week,” Tankhun chastises with a clap of his hands. “Keep up, Pol. Arm, it’s your turn. Roll three dice.”
Kinn is pretty sure that Chess Squash includes appropriated pieces from about ten different games.
He gives it about five minutes before he lets out his first big sigh. It gets a glance from Arm, but that’s it. Meanwhile, he keeps turning pages in his dusty political book, learning about unrest and the impact of the global economy on this policy or that.
After about another five minutes, he sighs again. It’s only half-faked. The book is dreadfully boring. He should have picked up something else.
On Kinn’s third sigh, Tankhun finally snaps.
Tankhun lets out a shout of frustration, rising from his seat, his sleeves billowing wildly. He’s wearing a lacy mauve buccaneer’s shirt today, with a cinched brown corset about his slender waist. It’s one of his more moderate looks, but the sleeves are very dramatic as he sweeps them.
“Kinn!” Tankhun yells across the room. The guards wince at the volume. “What is wrong with you? You are bringing down the mood of game night!”
Kinn widens his eyes. “I’m sorry? I’m just reading. Go on, play. Don’t mind me.”
Tankhun slams down the card in his hand on the table. “You are sighing all over the place. It’s back luck. Are you trying to make me lose?”
“Ah, I didn’t mean to. I can go.” He closes his book and starts to rise.
“Ugh,” Tankhun says. “The three of you, keep going. Arm, play for me and make sure I win, please.” He wrestles with his chair and stomps away from the table and over to the bar, where he pops open a bottle of red wine and pours for himself. Then he comes and joins Kinn on the couch, drink held elegantly in his hand.
“You obviously need your big brother for something,” Tankhun says, pitching his voice low. “So? That was very cute and all, as I’d expect of you, but I’m here now, so just tell me.”
Kinn hedges just a little, luring his brother in further. “I’m not sure it’s something you can help with.”
“Nonsense! Of course I can help, but not if you don’t tell me. C’mon, who raised you? Trust big brother.”
It isn’t even a joke. Even when there’s no one else to turn to, Tankhun is there, at least when he can manage it.
“I have a friend who has a problem,” Kinn starts. Tankhun gives him a look, but he doesn’t let it deter him. “This friend has an employee who isn’t fitting in very well. But it’s very important, for a lot of reasons, that he fit in so that he can do his job well. I want to help my friend, but I don’t have any suggestions.”
Tankhun sniffs imperiously. “What’s wrong with this employee? Is he nasty? Bad breath? Stupid, lazy?”
Hmm, how to put this? Kinn considers Porsche and his situation, the way he reacts to others. “No, none of that. I think he’s shy, you could say. Nervous.”
Tankhun’s eyes narrow. He takes a sip from his wine glass, and then he takes another larger drink, before putting it down.
“You want me to play nice with that new guy, Phoenix,” Tankhun says flatly.
Goddammit, Kinn thinks. His face flushes at being caught out so quickly.
“Oh stop it,” Tankhun chastises with a huge eye roll. “I’m only two years older than you, but those two years gave me ten times the advantage when it comes to these things. You’re not a schemer, Kinn.”
Kinn presses his mouth together hard. Tankhun might as well have said you aren’t our father, stop trying. And Kinn can see in Tankhun’s eyes that he meant it that way.
“Oh, don’t pout at me,” Khun says with a smack to his shoulder. Then he heaves a sigh and shakes his head at Kinn. “Okay. I tell you what. I’ll try to play nice and even help you with your problem employee, but only if you give me two new fancy carp. Elizabeth and Sebastian are getting lazy. They need a new generation to help keep them young and fit so they can live longer.” Tankhun lifts his chin in defiance. “I’m not saying I can work miracles, of course.”
Tankhun can have a dozen carp if it’ll make him happy.
“You have a deal,” Kinn says.
Tankhun nods sharply and takes another sip of his wine, savoring it for an extra long time just to try to rile Kinn up. Kinn just smiles at him patiently. Frankly, he’s satisfied if Tankhun is willing to ignore Porsche; if Khun can actually help smooth things over between Porsche and the rest of the team, that’s icing on the cake.
Tankhun swallows and lets out an obnoxious, “Aahhhh!” Then he nods sharply. “I’ve decided. We’ll have a team night at that place. Your special hidey hole. I’ll have Fern make all the arrangements. Fern!”
Fern straightens up in her seat. “Yes, boss?”
Tankhun declares, “We’re going to Kinn’s lair tomorrow night. Make it happen. Team party, and–” he gives Kinn a quick side eye, “my darling little brother decides who gets to come play.” He shrugs heavily, like he’s being put upon.
All of the guards perk up at that, and not just Tankhun’s crew. Kinn can see that the men posted just outside the numerous doors are also craning their heads to hear what’s going on now. Fern gets out her work phone and immediately makes a phone call, and meanwhile Arm and Pol are bickering.
This has gone a different direction from what Kinn expected, but he thinks Khun is onto something. It could be helpful. Plus he hasn’t made time for his “hidey hole” as Khun calls it since before Cape Town. It’d be good to check in on…
Tankhun chooses that moment, when Kinn is deep in thought, to let out a hearty shriek.
“Oh my god!” he exclaims, looking outside toward the pool. “Speaking of little brothers, who is this shadowy figure in the night? Nong! Is that how you treat your elders, walking right past them?”
At first Kinn can’t tell exactly where Tankhun is looking, but then none other than Kim himself appears, walking backwards slowly from behind a partition until he’s framed in a doorway.
“Hi, Khun. Bye, Khun,” Kim says with a little wave.
Kinn can’t help but perk up a bit. It’s been, what, almost a year now? Almost a year since he’s seen Kim in person. Kim was in and out of the tower a few times after Uncle Gun died, participating in meetings where it was unavoidable. Kinn wonders sometimes whether he might know Wik better than he knows Kim at this point.
Before Kim can escape, Tankhun is off like a shot, barreling through the doorway to catch Kim before he disappears. Kinn rises and follows along at a more sedate pace, tucking his hands in his pockets.
“What are you doing here, and why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Tankhun demands, hands on his hips.
Kim shrugs, a deceptively lazy look in his eyes. “I bought another guitar, needed a place to keep one of my old ones. So I stashed it in my rooms.”
Kinn is close enough to see Khun twitch minutely at that. Khun doesn’t believe it, and if Khun thinks Kim is lying, he most likely is. Kinn knows to always trust Khun’s instincts.
“Is that so?” Khun asks.
Curiosity is rolling off Tankhun in palpable waves, like the wavering surface of the pool, glowing blue in the evening darkness. Khun likely wants to question Kim further, but there are simply too many people around. And Kim knows it. For some reason, he chose this path on purpose. He wanted to be seen — he didn’t have to be.
“Well, I’m sure you had an interesting and valuable visit,” Tankhun says pointedly. “You know, we’re going out tomorrow. You’d be welcome to come by.”
Kim shakes his head quickly. “Thanks, but I have plans.”
And that probably is not a lie. Kim is incredibly busy these days, making a name for himself. Making a clean name for himself, a real life as best he can.
“Kim?” Kinn finally says.
Kim turns wary eyes on Kinn, his chin down and defensive, like a dog guarding a bone. “Yeah?”
“Congratulations,” Kinn says, “on first place in the indie songwriter poll.”
Kim sways side to side, as though Kinn has stunned him. Or maybe he’s trying to dodge the praise. It’s hard to tell.
“Thanks,” he says simply. “See you.” He drags a hand up to wave backwards as he walks away.
Kinn turns and watches the pool while Tankhun stares at Kim’s departing form.
“It’s best this way,” Tankhun says quietly. He nods a couple times. “It’s good.”
Kinn silently agrees. And if the thought of it aches or sometimes leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, well, no one is going to hear about it from him. Kim is the only one with a narrow chance to get out of the business, and Kinn is glad he’s taking it.
Fern approaches and stands in the doorway. “Khun Nu? We’re all set for tomorrow, starting any time seven o’clock or later. I said to expect a party of twenty-five, plus the on-duty guards.”
The distraction easily snaps Tankhun out of his reverie.
“What did I ever do without you, Fern?”
Fern shrugs and grins. “You stayed inside all day and grew mushrooms like an anime character.”
“I am not Tamaki-kun, you take that back!”
“Of course you’re not, sir!” Fern’s salute is as sharp as her eyebrows.
“Tsk,” Tankhun sneers. “I should never have introduced you to anime. Worst idea ever. Who’s winning at Chess Squash?”
“You are, sir,” Fern reports, “but Pol is gaining on you.”
“I guess I’d better get back in the game. Are we done here, Kinn?”
Kinn is exhausted from all kinds of emotional whiplash, so he certainly hopes they’re done. “We’re done. Good luck, and don’t cheat.”
“If I don’t cheat, I’ll definitely lose,” Tankhun explains. “Chess Squash is all about cheating.”
Kinn follows him back into the room and goes to collect his book and his bourbon. Before he can leave, though, Tankhun calls after him.
“Kinn, don’t forget to dress down tomorrow! If you wear a full suit again, I’m going to pretend I don’t know you.”
Kinn tosses back his bourbon and raises the empty glass in a mock cheers.
Whatever tomorrow brings, it won’t be boring. Plus, it’s been too long since he last visited Hum Bar.
Notes:
There are no special warnings/spoilers for this chapter.
😁 Hum Bar next week. Who's excited?
Chapter 13: Call the Shots
Summary:
Kinn takes his brother, guards, and friends out for a night on the town at Hum Bar. It’s a night for revelry and revelations.
Notes:
Thank you to enbymoomin for that valuable final sweep for typos! Beta hero. 💖
REMINDER: I have posted a brief spoiler description of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As the Mercedes pulls up in front of the humble dive bar, Kinn feels some of the tension roll off his shoulders. Korn hadn’t understood the appeal, has in fact said more than once that Hum Bar is too far beneath their notice, but that’s exactly what Kinn loves about the place.
Hum Bar is Kinn’s home away from home, a refuge. A little slice of mundanity for him to savor.
He and Pete get out of the car just as Time and Tay pull up alongside them in Time’s latest Lexus. More cars pull up, overflowing with Kinn’s people. Tankhun pops out of the open sunroof of one of them, with Fern next to him lifting a glass of champagne up high. Ah, they’ve already gotten the party started.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kinn checks the doors. Ashing is already there, on duty and dressed in his suit.
Big appears from one of the cars, wearing baggy camo pants and a white button-down with green embroidery on the pockets. The look startles Kinn at first — he so rarely sees Big in regular clothes, and they make him look younger. Big approaches Pete and leans over, saying something in his ear as everyone else chatters excitedly on the street.
Pete nods and says, “Khun Kinn, sir, please wait a few minutes while Big and I do a sweep.”
Kinn frowns. “The detail team should already have done that. And you’re off duty right now.”
“Yes, sir, they have, but it won’t take long.”
And then, because he knows Kinn far too well, Pete turns on the puppy eyes. Beside him, Big just looks angry and stubborn, which is his default.
“Fine,” Kinn says, “but be quick. If you aren’t done in five minutes, I’m coming in anyway.”
Big and Pete chime their agreement and enter the bar together.
The street is filled with the hubbub of people greeting each other. Tay comes up on Kinn’s left and slings a casual arm over his shoulder, and Time joins them on Kinn’s right.
“I hope you know you’re the only person we’d ever come here for,” Time says with a smirk.
“Don’t listen to him,” Tay says to Kinn, leaning in conspiratorially. “He calls these little get-togethers ‘eye candy night,’ and he loves every minute of it. Now tell me, where’s this new guy of yours you were telling me about?”
Porsche should be somewhere around here, but Kinn hasn’t seen him yet. It takes a moment of craning his neck and scanning, but Kinn finally spots him, lurking outside the edges of the group, as far from Tankhun as possible. Porsche is keeping his head down, the scarred side of his face turned away from the people, but his wary eyes are taking everything in. He’s dressed simply, wearing a plain blue T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, all of them pristine like they’re brand-new.
Porsche looks like he’d be happier in a fighting ring than here.
Kinn jerks his head in Porsche’s direction. “Over in front of the bushes, right of the door.”
“Ooh, he’s cute. I thought you said he had scars,” Tay says quietly.
Time whistles and turns his back to Porsche to give Kinn a lazy, suggestive gaze. “That’s a helluva souvenir for a business trip, Kinn. Bring me back one like that next time, huh? I’ll trade in my current love slave for a newer model.” Time reaches across Kinn to pinch at Tay’s side, which is partly exposed by white laces criss-crossing his shirt.
Tay lets out a pathetic “eep” and flinches away, hiding behind Kinn. “I don’t think so, Time. Who’s the love slave in this relationship?”
Time smiles and bats his eyelashes. “I am, sweetie.”
Tay jerks his chin at Time. “And don’t forget it.” He chooses that moment to abandon Kinn’s shoulder and tuck himself neatly under Time’s arm. Kinn is half convinced that Tay is a magician who can control space and perception, making himself seem smaller or larger at will.
Kinn follows up their banter with small talk, asking after their parents and businesses. It kills a few minutes until Big comes back and gives the all-clear. Then Kinn cups his hands around his mouth and shouts.
“What are you all doing on the street? The party is inside!”
The milling people turn their attention to him and then whoop with excitement, especially Tankhun and his team. It makes Kinn grin with pride — two years ago he could never have imagined a scene like this, with Tankhun out and about in public, but here they are now, and it’s all thanks to Fern. The bodyguards are relaxed and socializing in Kinn’s presence, and his closest friends are slumming it to keep him company. It makes him feel young, like there’s something more to life than business and profit.
Kinn gets swept inside by the eager throng of revelers.
As soon as he steps through the cheap beaded curtain, Yok is right there waiting for him, craning her neck to see around everyone. The moment she spies him, her expression changes, lighting up with a big smile.
“There you are, my favorite dashing boy!” she says, throwing her arms out, sequined top sparkling in the pink and gold lights. She gestures with manicured hands repeatedly in a “come here” gesture, and Kinn goes to her obediently. He offers her his arm, which she takes gladly, and he ducks his head down for her to bus with a quick kiss.
“Are they going to break a barstool and spill beer everywhere again?” Yok asks quickly out of the side of her mouth.
“I’ll cover the cleanup,” he promises.
“Good, good, thank you. Your harem is destructive sometimes.” She pats his arm affectionately.
“It’s not a– you know what? Sure, it’s my harem.”
Yok wrinkles her nose playfully at him and then calls out, “First round of herbal spirits is on the house tonight!”
That gets hollers of approval, and almost everyone starts vying for the best seat at the bar, which seems dangerous for Yok’s surviving barstools. They have the place to themselves tonight, though, so even if there’s a mishap — and there definitely will be at some point — any embarrassment will be kept to a minimum.
Yok starts assembling shots at a rapid pace, with her staff assisting. Kinn glances around.
“Where’s my favorite guy tonight, Yok?” Kinn asks.
“Ooh, that boy!” she says. “He told me he had to be late tonight because he couldn’t get away from a family thing. But I promise he’ll be here soon. For now I’ll just have to make sure you don’t miss him. How about that?”
As if Kinn would ever give Yok trouble.
“You don’t mind if I give him a hard time later, do you?” Kinn asks, grinning.
“Kinn, be nice,” Tay scolds. “We’re here to have fun tonight. And get hammered!”
Kinn shrugs. “It’s fun for me,” he replies with a wicked grin.
Shots start appearing on the bartop, lined up neatly in front of everyone. Not everyone can fit along the bar, and one of the people left out happens to be Porsche. Those at the bar are passing drinks back to the people behind them who don’t have seats, but Porsche still doesn’t have one and is lingering in the back. Kinn notices when Tankhun clocks the situation. Khun takes the shot that’s placed in front of him and hops off his stool. He approaches Porsche and offers the full glass.
“New guy! Take this,” Tankhun says stiffly. “It’s very bracing, just the thing to start the party.” He looks over his shoulder at Kinn with an expression that says, See how nice I’m being?
Porsche, however, looks at the shot glass like it’s a poisonous snake. His eyes dart around the room, catching Kinn’s briefly before skittering away.
Tankhun’s face falls. “Well? Go on! This one’s yours.” He takes Porsche’s hand and puts the drink in it.
Porsche holds the glass stiffly and stares at it for a moment, and Kinn can sense in his gut that something is terribly wrong. What’s going through the man’s mind? Porsche looks terrified and disgusted at the same time, and Tankhun is starting to bristle like an offended alleycat. This could scuffle the evening before it even gets started, making the situation worse instead of better.
Kinn tenses, is just about to get up and take the drink from Porsche’s hand to down it himself, but Porsche breaks the stalemate first.
“What happens if I say no?” he asks Tankhun, his head lowered in deference.
Tankhun’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He frowns, working his jaw.
“What happens,” Yok says from behind the bar, “Is you give the drink to the cute darling behind you — yes, hello Fern dear, I see you — and then I make you a spicy mocktail that will knock your socks off. Is that okay with you?”
Porsche looks at Yok with wide, hopeful eyes and nods. “Spicy is good. Thank you.”
Kinn watches with some regret as Fern snatches Porsche’s drink before he gets the chance. Then he shakes his head at himself. Crisis is averted, he thinks. It doesn’t matter who takes the shot for him.
Tankhun, meanwhile, is left wrongfooted. It isn’t a common occurrence for him. He coughs to cover it as best he can and swishes back onto his stool in a flurry of sparkling fuschia jacket. “Right! Good thinking, Yok. Second round should be hot ‘n’ spicy drinks for everyone.” He thrusts out an arm, pointing sharply and sweeping his sharp finger in an arc to aim at everyone. A few people groan in agony at that, most notably Tay and Arm.
Kinn turns back to watch Yok at work. Her staff members generally handle most of the drinks, but she’s a force in her own right when it comes to mixing.
Kinn props his chin in his one hand, hovering over his untouched shot as he observes the process. “You haven’t made a drink for me in ages, Yok. I’m feeling a little jealous.”
Yok wrinkles her nose at him. “Then maybe you should order something other than an old fashioned, hm? Give me something challenging to do?”
A chorus of people call out mocking “ooo’s” and laugh at Yok’s statement, and she shushes them all. She pours an orange drink into a tumblr with a sugar-crusted rim. Then she twists a wedge of lime into it and adds slivers of what look like a pepper.
“Yok, how about later on you fix me the most difficult and expensive drink on your menu?” Tay asks sweetly.
“Tay, you get to be my favorite tonight,” Yok declares.
On cue, several other people start vying for Yok’s attention and favor, promising to order drinks that are unique to Hum Bar.
“I’ll have a cherry berry smasher!” Fern shouts.
“Get me a, what was it, the golden sunshine?” Arm says, looking at the menu. “I’ll have that one.”
“I’ll order a heart breaker and leave a review online,” Som declares proudly, and when Yok blows him a kiss, everyone shouts at him for cheating.
Yok takes a quick moment to wink at Kinn, and he can barely keep himself from laughing at how obvious she is. It’s fun to watch her work — she loves what she does, and Kinn gets to enjoy a little of that vicariously through her. That, to him, is worth the investment he’s made in Hum Bar all by itself.
Mocktail finished, Yok makes her way out from behind the bar and picks her way through the people to approach Porsche, who’s standing behind Kinn. She presents it to Porsche with both hands, a smile on her face, and he accepts it.
Kinn is looking over his shoulder at the exchange. They aren’t far away from him, but he still has to strain to catch what Yok says next.
“This is my house, and no one has to drink if they don’t want to. You still might regret this, though. This is a mango-habañero paloma mocktail. It has plenty of kick.”
Porsche accepts the drink with wide eyes and a polite, “Thank you.” He gives a little half- wai with his drink in hand.
“I’ll keep an eye out for you, don’t worry,” Yok says even more softly before leaving him to return to the bar.
Kinn chooses that moment to rise and lift his glass. “Everybody have their drinks?” he calls loudly. The party-goers give a rousing round of confirmations in return. “Then let’s start the party right now!” He braces himself and then tosses back the slithery, herby, horrible alcohol, letting it burn its way down his throat. Even as it goes down, he can feel it searing behind his eyeballs, until he can’t help but shake his head. Around the room, people cough and choke and laugh at each other’s reactions.
Kinn sneaks a glance over at Porsche, who is downing his mocktail gulp by gulp. Tears are forming in the corners of his eyes, and Big notices this and starts chanting, “Drink, drink, drink!”
“That’s not meant to be guzzled!” Yok shouts, offended, and as a result more eyes turn toward Porsche, and more voices take up the cheer.
Porsche doesn’t stop until he’s downed the whole thing. His face flushes, and he has to wipe at his eyes, but Pete applauds for him, and Big gives him a reluctant nod of approval and a slow clap. More people cheer. Yok hurriedly pours a glass of water and puts it on the bar, and Tay passes it to Porsche, who gratefully accepts. Tankhun watches all of this take place with narrowed eyes.
Just when Tay looks like he’s going to try to strike up a conversation with Porsche, trouble walks in the door.
“Is it in here? Ah, yes, I see. This must be the place to be,” Vegas drawls as he comes through the beaded curtain, swaggering with every step. Macau is right on his heels, looking comfortable and nonchalant. Three of Vegas’s guards, all of them in bright tropical shirts, follow behind them.
“Holy shit,” Time mutters under his breath. “Who invited them?”
“I did,” Kinn says softly but firmly. “Vegas, welcome to Hum Bar. Can I introduce you to the owner, Yok?” He gestures to her across the bar.
“Welcome to the best kept secret in Bangkok, Khun Vegas! Kinn, why didn’t you tell me your cousin was so handsome? And the adorable nong must be Macau, hello, hello!”
Vegas inclines his head, not in a bow, but in acknowledgement. “A charming hostess for a charming venue,” Vegas says smoothly.
“Late comers!” Tankhun declares. “Double shots for all the late comers! Not you, Macau, you’re still a baby. Yok, don’t let him drink anything even if he tries to sneak it."
“Hey! I don’t care about your dumb drinks,” Macau snaps, and that sets off a round of bickering, with Arm trying to intercede and distract Tankhun, and Macau determined to keep Khun’s attention no matter what.
Vegas approaches Kinn and tilts his head to the side. “When you said you’d invested in a night club, this wasn’t what I pictured. It’s… quaint. Somehow less than I expected of you.”
Kinn sees the bait, feels the urge to bite at it and sink his teeth in, but forces himself to let it go. “More doesn’t always mean better.”
A miniscule twitch is the only tell Vegas gives away to indicate that Kinn’s words landed at all. “Huh. I suppose I’ll have to see whether it grows on me.” He passes by Kinn, wedging himself between Pol and Pete to lean over and order a drink. His people, meanwhile, fan out and start to mingle.
Kinn deliberately relaxes his shoulders and reclaims his seat.
Tay leans over and hisses in his ear. “Are you sure this was a good idea?”
“Not in the slightest,” Kinn replies. One of the regular bartenders, Ball, puts an old fashioned in front of him, and he gives a quiet “thank you” and takes a sip. Then he gives the young man a nod of approval, which gets a comically relieved sigh.
“Vegas is still a wildcard,” Kinn continues to Tay, “but the way we used to do things was complete shit. Adapt or die, right?”
“If only those two things were mutually exclusive,” Tay snarks. “Be careful, Kinn.”
Kinn wishes he could say I know what I’m doing, but he really can’t. “I’ll be careful.” He sighs and takes another drink.
He doesn’t have long to drink in peace, though. Someone behind a curtain fiddles with the sound system, and suddenly the place is filled with music. Everyone wants to show off their new dance moves from the latest kpop video or TikTok or wherever. However, that only lasts until an argument breaks out about which bodyguard has the highest alcohol tolerance. The consensus seems to swing in Arm’s direction.
Arm disagrees, though. He pushes his glasses up his nose and says to Pol and Som, “Actually, from my observation, Big has the highest tolerance.”
“Hey, man, don’t bring me into this,” Big says with a scowl.
One of the bulky guys who came with Vegas sneers at Big. “Too skinny. I could drink you under the table.” Kinn thinks his name might be Max.
Big takes that personally, and in a matter of minutes there are rows of shots lined up, and Max and Big try their best to cause self-inflicted liver damage.
Throughout all of it, even as Kinn dances and drinks and talks, he keeps watch over Porsche out of the corner of his eye. The man is gradually fading further and further into the background, occupying a bubble of his own and quietly taking everything in. He has a small table to himself in the corner of the room. Pete makes an attempt to lure him into the throng at one point, only to be gently rebuffed.
About an hour into it, Tankhun comes up and plasters himself to Kinn’s side.
“You know, I don’t know why I thought that boy of yours was scary,” he says loudly in Kinn’s ear. “He isn’t scary. He’s just gloomy. Oops, they’re playing my song, gotta go!”
“Khun,” Kinn starts, but he’s too slow. Khun is already gone, leaping up to ride on Pol’s back like the man is a horse. Kinn sighs in exasperation and sits down at the bar again.
Tay chooses that moment to exit the dance floor, and he comes to stand next to Kinn. Tay doesn’t say anything — he simply stares at Kinn for a long moment.
“What?” Kinn finally snaps.
“That’s what I want to ask you. What’s up? You aren’t usually so indecisive.”
Kinn’s face twists. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Oh yeah, something is definitely up,” Tay nods knowingly. “You’re so grumpy. Well, if you’re too shy to talk to him, I’ll do it. Oh, huh. Someone beat me to it.”
Kinn’s head whips over to Porsche’s table, where Yok has taken a seat next to him and is chattering up a storm. Porsche’s eyes are riveted on her; he’s hanging on her every word. Kinn can’t look away, even as the milling partiers weave and shift and periodically block his view. Yok grows more and more animated as she talks, and Porsche gradually leans in toward her.
Then it happens. Yok makes a broad flapping gesture with both hands, clearly the climax of whatever story she’s telling, and Porsche breaks into a smile and laughs. Yok laughs along with him, just the two of them in that quiet little bubble.
“Wow. That’s quite the smile,” Tay says.
Kinn looks at his friend and realizes Tay means him. He wipes the smile off his face to glare at Tay.
“Huh. Huh,” is all Tay says. He sips from a cocktail that seems to have appeared out of thin air.
“And what, exactly, do you mean by that?” Kinn asks waspishly.
Tay is saved from having to answer when the missing bartender finally makes his appearance. Jom comes rushing in from the back, tying a black apron around his waist as he hurries. Ball and the other staff greet him with good-natured ribbing, while Jom apologizes repeatedly.
“Khun Kinn!” Jom says. “So sorry, so so sorry, but I had an emergency come up.”
“Mhm. It was your mom again, wasn’t it?”
Jom closes his eyes as though in pain. “It was my mom again. Her car broke down, and I had to drive her home from her mahjong night.”
“You know, the last time someone kept me waiting, I shot him in the foot,” Kinn says with a wolfish grin.
Jom’s face falls comically, and Kinn can only barely hold back his laughter.
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Jom looks around desperately for someone to deny it. “He’s kidding, right? P’Tay, help a bro out.”
Tay shrugs and winks at Jom. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He walks away, sipping his drink.
Jom turns woebegone eyes on Kinn, which only makes him grin harder. “Why do you always say these things?”
Kinn jerks his chin at him. “Because you’re my favorite funny guy and the second best bartender in the place, after Yok.”
“Haha, right.” He makes a deadpan face. “I’m just the funniest. But you forgot I’m the handsomest, too.” He strikes a ridiculous kpop pose before dropping it. “Speaking of Yok, where is she?”
Kinn nods over to the corner where she’s still holding court with Porsche. “There’s your boss.”
Jom sways a little, trying to see around people. “Right.” Then he stops and goes pale, so pale, like he’s seen a ghost. “It can’t be…” Jom puts both hands on the countertop and his mouth drops open wide. “Or is… holy fucking shit,” he breathes out.
Then he’s off like a shot, Kinn instantly forgotten and abandoned. Jom nearly knocks Ball over in his haste to scramble out from behind the bar.
“Phoenix!” Jom shouts, jumping with a hand in the air.
It takes Kinn a second to catch up. Jom is calling for Porsche. Jom knows Porsche somehow, and is in fact frantic to see him.
Kinn can’t help but follow Jom as he makes his way over to the corner where Yok is telling tales with Porsche as her only audience. Numerous eyes are following the drama as it unfolds.
“Jom?” Porsche asks in astonishment as Jom reaches the table and slams both hands on top of it.
“Holy shit, man, it really is you! I couldn’t believe it! You shithead, I’ve been worried about you. Why didn’t you let me know you were alright?”
Kinn comes to stand near the table, watching over the exchange.
Porsche winces. “I’m really sorry. I should have let you know. But one thing led to another, and…” He trails off, looking up at Jom with remorse in his eyes.
“Wait,” Yok says, pointing between Jom and Porsche. “Is this the friend you told me about, Jom? The one at the Blue Room?”
Tankhun comes to join the throng, standing next to Kinn and sipping a drink. For once, he’s quiet, simply watching the drama unfold. He takes it in, absorbing it the same way he does his shows.
“Yeah, yeah, this is him.” Jom gestures excitedly at Porsche. “Man, am I glad you aren’t dead. Or caught. Those guys were mean. I heard on the grapevine that Mark got roughed up after that night.”
Porsche’s face drops further. “Shit, are you serious?”
“Yeah, man, but he’s okay! At least that’s what people said. Mark said… Mark said they were, you know, traffickers. The guys that were after you.”
Porsche’s face twitches. “You know about that?”
Jom bobs his head a little. “Yeah, Mark put the pieces together. Hey, so, what happened to you that night, bro? Oh, and hey, I still got your stuff. But it’s at my apartment. I can go get it—”
“Jom!” Yok snaps sharply. “You are not going anywhere!”
Jom winces. “Yes, boss.” Then he turns his attention back to Porsche. “I’ll get you your stuff sometime, I promise. So what happened? Are you okay?”
“He’s working for me now,” Kinn interjects.
Jom straightens up and looks at Kinn, and Kinn gets a front-row seat as the bartender’s face goes on an entire journey. It starts with confusion and then rotates among realization, alarm, concern, and even more confusion. He finally takes a deep breath, clearly screwing up his courage, and spits out a question.
“Do you mean he works for you, or he works for you?”
If that came from anyone else, Kinn might actually have shot them in the foot. Beside him, Tankhun bristles.
“He’s a bodyguard now,” Kinn says. “A paid bodyguard.”
“It’s really okay, Jom,” Porsche says. “It’s the best option I’ve got. And…” his eyes dart up to Kinn quickly before returning to Jom, “and Kinn’s the one who got me out in the first place.”
Jom’s eyebrows rise all the way up to disappear into his wavy bangs. “Really? Really now? That is so fucking cool!” He turns an admiring gaze on Kinn, grinning. “Khun Kinn, superhero! Hey, hey, where did you find Phoenix, anyway?”
Kinn rolls his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “I stole him off a dead man.”
Jom’s smile falls off his face. “Seriously? Are you serious? You’re not serious.”
“Aren’t I?” Kinn asks with an arched eyebrow.
“Ha ha ha,” Jom attempts at a shaky laugh. “No, really. Why do you always do this to me?”
“Because you make it too easy,” Tankhun says dryly.
Yok grabs at Jom’s arm and tugs him down into the empty seat next to Porsche. “Phoenix, nong, please do me a favor and answer Jom’s questions quickly, so he can get to work. He needs to make drinks without his head in the clouds.”
“Sure, I can. Sorry, Yok,” Porsche says. To Jom, says, “I ran. I ran and no one caught me. And then I went back to Kinn, Khun Kinn, because he offered me a job. There wasn’t… there wasn’t anywhere else. I didn’t want you to get caught up in anything, so I didn’t… but… I shoulda let you know, though. I’m sorry.”
Porsche was loose on the streets for three days, and of all the people for him to run into, he found Jom. Bumbling Jom with the soft touch, the big heart, and a talent for making drinks just the way Kinn likes them. Kinn thinks Porsche probably has the most muddled bag of luck in the world — it’s either utterly terrible or the very best.
Jom is bobbing his head slowly, taking in the story. His eyes look suspiciously misty, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
“Good. Don’t worry about it. That’s good,” Jom says. “Yeah. Okay, okay, I gotta get to work before Yok pinches me. But I’m glad. We’ll talk more tonight, right?”
Porsche gives Jom a tense smile and nods, and Jom reluctantly gets up. He taps the table a couple times. “Hey, before I go, how about I tell the story of how Kinn met Yok?”
“Go!” Yok barks.
“Right, right, going.” Jom waves and then scoots his skinny frame among the guests to get back to the bar.
“Actually, I want to know the story of how Kinn met Yok,” Tankhun declares.
Kinn gently elbows Tankhun in his ribs, and his brother lets out an exaggerated “ow!” Porsche is looking up at both of them with poorly disguised curiosity.
“You’ve heard this story before,” Kinn says to Tankhun, a sneer curling his lip.
“Not recently, and a story is always new when you hear it again,” Tankhun says. He takes a sip of some sort of green-looking martini. “So? Who’s going to tell it?” He claims the chair that Jom just vacated, looking expectantly at Yok.
“Fine, fine, fine,” Yok says, “I’ll tell the story.”
Kinn decides he’d better stick around to make sure she gets it right. The table is right by the edge of the long cushioned bench, so Kinn sits on the corner of it. And if the position gives him a good view of Porsche’s reactions, well, everybody’s lost to their own drunken revelry anyway. Kinn has put enough alcohol away already to feel buzzy and relaxed, the perfect mood for a familiar tale.
Yok starts the story. “We were having a busy night at Hum Bar one Saturday—”
“It was a Friday night,” Kinn corrects.
Yok cuts a glare at him and clicks her fingernails against the table. Kinn winks back and blows her a kiss.
“As I was saying,” she continues, “I was working on a Friday night, and we were as busy as can be. I needed a quick break, so I went into my office just for a minute of peace and quiet. Did I get my rest? No, no I did not.”
Porsche is riveted, his eyes shining as they take in Yok’s every sequinned sparkle and gesture. Seeing him so expressive, so open, is… Kinn doesn’t have words for it. But it’s good. He likes it.
“A minute after I go to my office, this one,” she gestures to Kinn, “comes in, wearing his fancy clothes, out of breath like he just ran a marathon, sweat dripping down his face like he just came in from the rain.”
Tankhun snickers.
“You can skip that part, Yok,” Kinn says.
“No I can’t. The sweat is important,” Yok snarks, making Kinn roll his eyes. “As I was saying, he barreled into my office and shut the door behind him. And I just looked at him, thinking I’m about to be robbed, but he shushed me before I could scream. He lifted his finger to his face like a librarian.” She lifts up her finger and makes a loud shushing noise to demonstrate. “Then outside my office, I heard a commotion in the bar. And this sweaty boy turned to me and said, ‘Hide me!’”
Yok looks at Kinn to see whether he has any corrections this time, raising her penciled eyebrows delicately. Kinn shakes his head just a little and smiles, waiting for her to continue.
“Right, so that’s when I realized this lost little boy was in trouble. But darlings, my office is small, and I mean small, and Khun Kinn is not small. So what did I do? The only thing I could do was shove him under my desk and get in the chair. But let me tell you, I could barely fit one of my legs in there with him, let alone two. And I was wearing a dress, mind you.”
“A really scratchy dress,” Kinn adds.
“Only on the outside, dear. It’s silk on the inside,” Yok says. “Anyway, the only way I could fit was by leaning back in my chair and getting both of my knees over his head. We struggled and wiggled, and Khun Kinn’s sweaty hand slipped, so he ended up with his head on the chair, under my thighs, but we didn’t have time to fix it, because that’s when seven men came rushing into my office.”
“It was only five.”
Yok turns on Kinn. “Am I telling this story or are you?”
Tankhun is trying so hard to contain his laughter at this point that he can barely hold still. He shifts in his seat every half second.
Kinn turns on his best “I’m innocent” smile at Yok. “I won’t interrupt again.”
Yok softens immediately. “You can’t help that you’re naughty, I know.”
Tankhun finally breaks, planting one arm on the table and laughing into his own elbow. Horrible brother.
Yok continues. “Anyway, the five men demanded to know where Khun Kinn was, and I told them I had no idea who that was. And I really didn’t, not then. I was terrified that they’d insist on searching the office, but they didn’t. I don’t think they believed I could fit all of him under my little desk.”
“And how did you get rid of them? You have to tell that part, Yok!” Tankhun demands.
“Oh, that? I told them the cover charge for Hum Bar was ฿1,000, plus a two drink minimum. These boys looked very confused. So I climbed off Kinn and started approaching them, insisting that they pay me double if they slipped by my staff. And they ran. They ran like the scared little boys they were. And that’s the story of how Khun Kinn almost accidentally suffocated under my glorious butt.”
Tankhun applauds and even puts two fingers in his mouth to whistle. “Real heroes walk among us! Perfection! Brilliant!”
Kinn has half a mind to swat Khun. The rest of his mind is occupied with watching Porsche snickering and trying to hide his laughter behind one hand. His fingers are long and surprisingly delicate.
“Don’t mind him, love,” Yok says, giving Kinn a friendly pat and rub on his arm.
“Since it’s you asking, I won’t,” Kinn says with another cheesy grin just for her.
“Well, if you aren’t going to mind me,” Tankhun says, “that means I can tell more Kinn stories. Who wants to hear about Kinn’s first date in high school?”
A flush instantly climbs up Kinn’s neck. He rears back and realizes that more people have gathered around the table, that they’ve probably been there for a while without him noticing.
“I don’t have to sit here and take this,” Kinn says sharply, and he gets up from the cushioned bench. That earns some nervous glances. “I can go over there so I don’t have to hear it.”
He makes a hasty retreat, and his comedic timing earns him a round of shaky, relieved laughter. As Kinn returns to the bar, Tay is sitting there on his stool, leaning backwards against the bartop. He’s sipping from a tumbler and staring at Kinn.
“Would you just shut up?” Kinn grouses at Tay.
“I didn’t say a thing.” Tay’s words slur just slightly.
“But I know what you’re thinking,” Kinn accuses. “Jom?”
“Yeah, Khun Kinn?” Jom asks, looking up from the drink he’s pouring.
“Fresh drink. You know how I like it.”
“On it.”
Kinn’s drink arrives, and he makes sure to circulate the party. For him, “circulating” means alternately sitting at the bar and occasionally dancing when the floor is crowded enough that no one can hold him responsible for jerky, awkward dance moves. The gathering grows increasingly rowdy as the evening wears on. Arm, for once, manages to keep most of his clothes on, but somehow Pol ends up on a tabletop for a dangerous minute before everyone insists he come back down. Through it all, Porsche sticks to his quiet corner, an oasis of conversation, where people come and go. Jom sneaks over there a couple of times, but only for a few minutes before Yok catches him. The third time it happens, she pinches his ear and drags him back to the bar.
When there’s a lull in the heavy dance music, Tay peels himself off Time and away from the dance floor to accuse Kinn, “You’re hopeless!”
Kinn hisses at him and waves him off.
“No, really, you are,” Tay insists. “Just go talk to him.”
“Talk to who?” Kinn says, as casually as he can manage.
It’s a really good thing Tay isn’t part of a rival family. He knows Kinn far too well. If Tay had a greedy or ruthless bone in his body, Kinn would have been in trouble long ago.
In response to Kinn’s question, Tay rolls his eyes and then cranes his neck to look toward Porsche’s corner. Kinn picks up his glass to attempt to show a lack of interest.
“Oops,” Tay says.
Kinn frowns and puts down his glass without taking a drink. “Oops? Oops what?”
Tay turns back and smiles at Kinn. “He isn’t there anymore.” Indeed, the table Porsche occupied has been abandoned. “Too bad. Guess you missed your chance.” Tay grins, and it’s more than a little evil.
I take it back. Tay isn’t just ruthless; he’s stone cold, Kinn thinks.
Kinn tries his best to hold out. It’s fine. He doesn’t need to know where Porsche went. Besides, he could have just gone to the bathroom.
Kinn lasts a whole five minutes, with Tay casting expectant looks at him every now and then.
“Goddammit,” he mutters under his breath, getting up from the bar. Tay laughs behind his back as he walks away, heading toward the back hallway. It’s dimly lit, with decoratively painted walls, and it’s always been a popular space to make out, or a little something more.
It’s also occupied, and for a horrible moment, Kinn thinks he found Porsche in the midst of a heated makeout session with none other than Vegas. Kinn recognizes the busy print of Vegas’s shirt, and his stomach churns, recoiling from what he’s seeing. However, a moment later the form against the wall throws his head back, pulling away from the kiss with a moan, revealing himself to be none other than…
“Pete?” Kinn exclaims in shock.
Pete opens his eyes comically wide. “Shit! Uhh, um—” he stammers as he tries to push Vegas away, and he scrambles at where his shirt is mostly open.
Vegas, for his part, pulls a wretched face on Kinn, twisting up all of his sharp angles until they go soft. But Vegas turns his ire not on Kinn, but at Pete.
“This is why I told you not in public!”
Did Vegas just whine? Kinn doesn’t think he’s heard Vegas sound quite so pathetic since he was a teen.
“You’re the one who dragged me back here,” Pete snaps back between lips that are bruised. Kinn can’t be sure given the lighting, but he thinks he sees blood at the corner of his mouth. But more importantly, Kinn has definitely never heard Pete use that tone of voice with any of the family before.
This night is full of surprises.
Vegas sneers in Pete’s face. “Keep telling yourself that. You followed me back here like a lost little puppy hoping for another handout. Didn’t you?”
Pete, drunk on alcohol and hormones, seems to forget Kinn at that moment. With an aggravated noise, he takes Vegas by the shoulders, spins him around to slam him against the wall, and returns to their frantic makeout session.
And that’s already much more than Kinn ever wants to see of Vegas’s sex life, not to mention Pete’s, so he beats a hasty retreat, heading for the back storage room. As soon as he’s there, he takes a moment to shake his head and blink a few times, trying to make sense of what he just saw.
Should he be worried? He thinks he should most likely be worried by this discovery — his head bodyguard in bed with his rival-but-not-quite-rival cousin. Judging by their familiarity, this probably isn’t the first time this has happened.
He knows what his father would say: Order Pete to stop the relationship, or use him against Vegas. And if anything goes wrong, simply kill Pete.
All of those options suck. Kinn shakes his head; he’s going to have to think about this, preferably in the light of day, when he hasn’t been consuming herbal spirits. Besides, he was looking for Porsche. Kinn could check the bathrooms, but something in his gut tells him his wayward fighter is out back.
Kinn exits through the long corridor. He has a moment’s hesitation when he steps outside, vulnerable and exposed, but a scan of the area tells him it’s clear.
From there, it’s a few short steps to the pier, where he spies Porsche and Big, sitting side by side near the edge of the metal platform. Kinn is just far enough away that he can hear them speaking quietly, but he can’t make out what they’re saying. The soft slapping of water against the pier covers their words.
Kinn wonders whether they get along. He hopes so. He can’t think of any two people more in need of a friend than these. Except maybe Kim, but that, too, is a thought for another day.
On the pier, Big shuffles and rises to his feet, wobbling slightly. Porsche remains seated, and the younger man snickers up at Big. Big sneers downward and gives Porsche the middle finger. Then he turns and notices Kinn.
“Khun Kinn?” Big says stiffly, his face clearing up of the rude expression. “Sir, should you be out here?”
“There’s no one around, and the perimeter is secured,” Kinn says. “Relax, Big. Or do a perimeter check if it makes you feel better. I need a breather.”
Big opens his mouth and closes it a few times. It’s hard to tell in the minimal light, but Kinn thinks Big’s cheeks are flushed with the astounding quantity of alcohol he’s consumed.
Kinn nods to the back door. “It’s fine, Big. Go on.”
Big pauses to look over his shoulder at Porsche, who’s watching them both curiously over his shoulder. He has his knees curled up to his chest, one arm wrapped around them, the other propped on the pier.
Big seems to come to some sort of decision, and he nods, passing Kinn by. With some amusement, Kinn watches as Big does indeed conduct a quick canvas of the area, checking around corners and into nooks and crannies before he finally, reluctantly, goes back inside.
Kinn shakes his head with a soft laugh, and then he walks the rest of the way down the pier to stand next to Porsche. Not quite sure what to do with himself, he tucks his hands in his pockets.
“You two have a good talk?” Kinn asks. He thinks he sounds properly casual.
Porsche lifts up a hand and wobbles it in the air. “I guess. Big just needed some fresh air. And a chance to barf.”
“Shit.” Kinn lifts a foot and checks around the pier for anything wet he may have stepped in.
Porsche snorts and sweeps a hand across the dry metal. “It’s fine, it’s fine, all clean. Big barfed straight into the water. He’s a classy guy like that.” Snickering quietly to himself, he settles back down, curled around his own legs as he stares out at the waves. The water ripples black in the night but sparkles with the city lights.
Kinn does one more check over his shoulder, but there’s no one else around, so he bends down to take a seat next to Porsche. That gets Porsche’s attention. He looks at Kinn a couple of times, and one of his hands twitches upward toward his cheek before it halts in its tracks. Porsche slowly places his hand back down to curl on his knee.
Oh. Kinn sat on Porsche’s right side, with the jagged scars fully on display to him. Big had been sitting on his left.
Kinn wants to ask whether they hurt. He doesn’t quite dare. Instead, he looks away at the waves for a long moment.
“What are you thinking about so hard?” Kinn asks eventually. “Were you not having a good time?” Not so casual this time. In the back of Kinn’s head, he can hear Tay laughing at him for being so obvious.
Porsche shakes his head. “No, it’s good. They’re good people.” He points over his shoulder at the back of the bar. “I’m just… thinking. About what it might have been like. What would it be like if I’d been here all along? That kind of thing.” He props his chin on one knee, looking at the water. “Maybe I’d have known Jom. We could even be long-time friends, and I could come here on the weekends, have him sneak me free drinks while he works.”
Kinn finds himself smiling softly, and suddenly Porsche darts a self-conscious glance his way.
“See? Just silly thoughts,” Porsche says, waving a hand at the water as though to scatter the thoughts on the waves. “And what about Khun Kinn? What are you thinking about?”
A million things. Everything. A busy mind comes with his position. It’s hard to settle on any one thought.
He eventually decides to ask a question, one that’s been lingering with him. “I wonder why you picked the collar for the meeting with Davies. I didn’t think you’d choose that.”
Porsche’s head gives a little twitch, and then he frowns, considering Kinn’s question. He finally asks, “Was that not the right one?”
Now it’s Kinn’s turn to hesitate. Porsche’s question throws him. “Any of the three would have been fine. I want to know why you picked that one.”
Porsche shrugs slowly. “It looked like you wanted to pick it. And it sent the right message.”
Technically, he answered the question. Only, now Kinn has a dozen more he wants to ask. How closely does Porsche observe the people around him to be able to pick up on things like that? What message does Porsche mean, and was it meant for Davies or Kinn? If it was for Kinn, what was the message? “I’ll do what you want, so please let me stay here”?
Kinn chews on that in silence.
“Can I ask what tonight was for?” Porsche eventually asks.
For you, Kinn almost wants to say. But it’s too much, and also not quite right.
“It was Tankhun’s idea,” Kinn says. A deflection, but an honest one. It makes Porsche’s eyebrows jump, and Kinn explains, “I have these sorts of nights out every now and then, and if I don’t, he makes it happen.”
“Huh.”
Porsche settles his chin on his knees again, gaze stretching far into the distance, but for once not in the worrisome way that he sometimes has.
The scars don’t really matter, Kinn thinks as he takes in Porsche’s profile. His hair has gotten longer, starting to flop against his smooth forehead. Strong brows lead down to the slope of his nose, with a small bump that gives away that it’s been broken. It’s charming, though, and his nose ends in the tiniest little hook at the tip. And then there are his lips.
Yes, the scars don’t matter at all.
Porsche turns to look at him again, and Kinn is caught staring, fair and square. He drags his eyes away, feeling heat creep up his neck.
“You want me,” Porsche says simply. It’s neither accusation nor invitation, merely a statement of fact.
Kinn was already starting to flush, but now his ears begin to burn as well. He swallows hard and winces. “I shouldn’t,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. I have plenty of options, willing partners. I don’t… not with my staff. Just because I’m attr— I can leave you be.”
He feels like a teenager, caught with a stiffy in the middle of gym class. This could hardly get any more awkward. A strategic retreat seems wisest right now; he’s certainly done plenty of retreating tonight already. He gathers himself to get up, but before he can rise, Porsche speaks again, halting him in place.
“You seem so sure of that.”
Kinn looks closely at Porsche’s face. It’s carefully neutral, like a mask, no longer the open expression he wore mere minutes ago.
“I won’t,” Kinn insists, “not if you say you don’t want it.” He brushes at a spot on his slacks that turns out to be a shadow. “I don’t even know whether you’re attracted to men. Are you?” The question slips right out there, landing with a heavy thud on the pier between them. I definitely had too much to drink, Kinn thinks. His filters are not working at all.
Porsche isn’t bothered, though. In fact, his lips start twitching, and then suddenly he’s giggling. He ducks his head down, pressing his forehead to his knees and rolling it back and forth a couple times as he laughs.
“What? What’s so funny?” Kinn demands sharply.
Porsche lifts his head again, and he’s smiling, grinning.
“It’s just nice to be asked, that’s all.” The laughing slowly winds down until he wears a crooked half-smile. He slides his legs down so they’re flat on the pier, and he leans back, bracing his upper body weight on his arms and hands. “Bodies are bodies. They can feel good or not so good. I’m not sure I even have a preference.” He gives Kinn a stern, sideways stare. “Do you really think you’re going to hold out? I think you’re used to getting what you want.”
Porsche seems almost feisty, pushy. Like he’s looking for a fight, or maybe he’s testing his boundaries. Kinn had hoped Porsche would relax and let loose tonight, that he’d be able to speak more comfortably; now it seems Kinn has gotten more than he expected.
Kinn scoffs. “Is that what you think? There are a lot of things I want that I can’t have,” Kinn admits. He looks at the limited edition designer watch on his wrist, and for the first time, he thinks it looks like a shackle. “I want to be able to walk down the street, without bodyguards, and not worry about being shot. I want my brothers to feel safe. I want my father to…” Kinn shakes head. He may be tipsy, but not so tipsy as to finish that dangerous thought. He offers up a different truth instead. “I actually did want to let you go. I would have let you stay out of the business if you could have.”
“But you knew I wouldn’t be able to.”
Kinn winces and shakes his head. “Yes. I knew. I’ve been in this my whole life. You say I get what I want. But if I could have anything I want, do you think I’d still be doing this? Would you, if you had another choice?”
Porsche blinks slowly. “No. I wouldn’t.” The words are soft now, the fight and challenge in him faded away. His eyes are gentler.
Kinn thinks he sees the right moment. He starts to lean toward Porsche.
“What happens if I say no?” Porsche asks quietly.
Kinn halts at the question. It sounds like a rejection, the same way Porsche carefully skirted around the drink that Tankhun offered him. But his eyes still look calm.
“Do you want to say no?” Kinn whispers.
Porsche blinks rapidly, and a crease appears between his brows. He doesn’t answer right away, and Kinn doesn’t rush him.
“I’m not sure.”
Something flutters in Kinn’s belly. Excitement. A smile is itching at the corners of his mouth, trying to get loose.
Kinn settles back into his own space, no longer encroaching on Porsche’s. That’s not how this is going to go. “Then… I won’t do anything you don’t want. But, since you aren’t sure, how about I seduce you?”
Now Porsche’s eyebrows jump up in surprise. “Seduce me?”
Kinn’s smile is starting to get loose. “I promise I won’t cross your line,” he says. And he realizes that this is how he wins Porsche’s trust: patience, respect, where no one showed any respect for his wishes until now. “You call the shots.”
“Really? You seem so sure about that.”
Kinn grins and gives a little nod, a quick jerk of his chin. “I’m very sure of that.”
Porsche tilts his head, staring at Kinn for a long moment, assessing. “Okay then. If I’m calling the shots, hold still.”
Kinn’s eyes widen, but before he can think to ask a question, Porsche is leaning toward him, slowly, approaching for a kiss, and all Kinn can do is hold his breath and wait. He’s close enough now that Kinn can catch his scent, a mix of fragrances lingering on him from the bar, but beneath that, vanilla. Kinn’s eyes droop to half mast, and he opens his mouth to take in more of that scent, even as Porsche’s lips hover just out of range.
Porsche doesn’t go in for the kiss immediately, teasing instead, running the tip of his nose against Kinn’s, maybe taking in the smell of Kinn in return.
When Porsche sighs, his breath is sweet like the fruity drinks he’s been consuming. The puff of air tickles at Kinn’s lips, a ghost of a kiss.
Will he? Won’t he? All Kinn can do is wait.
Then, with closed mouth, Porsche touches both of his lips to the bow of Kinn’s upper lip. It isn’t enough. It’s a fraction of what Kinn is longing for, a pittance, warm and soft and incomplete.
A soft, yearning noise escapes him as Porsche pulls back. Kinn’s body stutters, trying to chase after and take the kiss he wants, but he restrains himself.
Porsche has retreated into his own space and is watching him. Wary. Cautious. And curious.
“You still sure?” Porsche asks.
Head spinning, feeling giddy, Kinn breaks into a grin again. “Yeah.”
A bemused, confused smile spreads on Porsche’s face. He lets out a little laugh. “Strangest mafia boss I’ve ever met.”
Kinn inclines his head. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You would,” Porsche says, like it’s an insult, and that sets the fighter off giggling again. Kinn can’t help but laugh as well.
Tomorrow, Kinn will have to think about dozens of critical business matters, life-or-death situations, and family strife. For now, though, he can sit in peace for a moment longer and think about how he’s going to seduce the man who sits within arm’s reach.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Porsche is socially withdrawn at the party. He faces peer pressure to drink when he doesn’t want to, which gets resolved without him having to drink.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Notes:
- That is probably the most VegasPete I will ever end up writing, so I tip my hat to the VP lovers.🎩
- Everyone needs a harrowing story of a completely undignified escape/rescue, especially Khun Kinn.
- You should have heard the excited "oh! oh oh oh!" I let out when I thought of the title for this chapter. That, too, was undignified. 😂
Notable Nuwildcat quote for this chapter: "FUCK YES BOLD PORSCHE"
And special shout out to haylstorm for finding the clue I dropped about Jom having a night job. 😁
Chapter 14: Beneficial Arrangements
Summary:
In the light of day after a wild night at Hum Bar, some people question their sanity, some people have regrets, and one person begins an elaborate seduction attempt.
Notes:
I owe many thanks to enbymoomin for beta review! What would I do without you?!
NOTE: For this chapter, there are no special warnings/spoilers in the end notes. I feel any issues are covered in the tags.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Porsche wakes to the sound of a soft knock at the bedroom door. He opens his eyes in the dark room — which is distinctly not his own room. Ashing, one of the younger bodyguards, cracks open the door, letting in light as he enters. Porsche winces against the brightness.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Ashing whispers to Porsche. He looks across Porsche to the other occupant of the small bed, who’s snoring lightly. “He sure got you good, didn’t he?”
Pete is curled on his side facing Porsche, clinging to Porsche’s right wrist with both hands, the same way he was doing when he fell asleep a few hours ago. Without waking, Pete smacks his lips twice before wiggling and settling back down again.
Porsche tries to pull his wrist free. Pete pulls it back and tucks Porsche’s hand under his chin.
“He really did,” Porsche whispers back to Ashing.
Ashing snorts softly, shaking his head. “I just need some gym clothes,” the young bodyguard says quietly, and he goes to the closet. After he gets his things, he turns back to Porsche. “His alarm will go off in about fifteen.”
“Sorry about the whole…” Porsche gestures at Ashing’s tidy and unused bed.
“No, Phi, thank you for dealing with drunk Pete,” Ashing whispers. “Happy to take the couch. I’ll be out before you’re up.” Ashing leaves the room and shuts the door. Beyond the door, Porsche hears soft footsteps.
He cranes his neck to look at the digital clock, which reads a minute after seven. That’s fine — he isn’t due for a morning training session until eight thirty. A little more rest wouldn’t hurt. However, when he closes his eyes, he sees Kinn, blushing and smiling. Freshly kissed, but only by the barest margin of what can be called a kiss.
Nerves clutch at Porsche’s stomach, making his eyes snap back open and causing his breath to catch in his throat.
He kissed Kinn. He kissed Kinn. He kissed Kinn.
What madness possessed him last night? He can’t even blame it on alcohol, because he didn’t have any.
He talked to me, Porsche thinks, like I’m just a normal person. He looked at me like he wanted me and wasn’t sure he could have me. All it would have taken at any time was just one order. Porsche wouldn’t have put up a fuss, would even have kept quiet if Kinn demanded it.
Porsche knows, though, that the light of day can change things. Kinn could take a second look and change his mind, or, if not, he could grow impatient playing at “seduce the bodyguard-arm-candy-former-slave” and just have him anyway.
But… then there’s the way Kinn looked at him. And that sound he made after Porsche kissed him. Porsche is pretty sure that sound is going to haunt him for a long time.
Really, if the boss man wants a quick fling, maybe—
The alarm goes off.
Pete moans piteously, curling in on himself before starting to flail, all without letting go of Porsche’s wrist.
“Hey, hey, cut it out!” Porsche says when Pete starts pulling his arm the wrong way.
Pete’s eyes pop open. “Phoenix?” He finally releases Porsche and shuffles to shut off the alarm and turn on his bedside lamp. “It is you. What are you doing in my bed? And why was I holding your hand?”
“I was in your bed because you were holding my hand,” Porsche explains. “You wouldn’t let me go.”
“Oh.” He slowly crashes onto the bed again. “My head hurts.”
Porsche gets up and goes to the kitchen. He gets a glass of water and brings it back to Pete, who’s now sitting up on the bed. “Here, drink.”
“Thank you,” Pete says, taking a couple of sips. “Where’s Ashing?”
“Already gone to work out. He slept on the couch last night.”
“Oh. Crap. I owe him an apology. Uh, wait, did I—” Pete winces and turns a concerned expression on Porsche. “Did I say anything weird last night?”
Did he ever. If Porsche were feeling more generous, he could go easy on Pete, but the guy did keep him awake and then trapped him into sleeping together on a tiny twin bed.
So Porsche goes for the kill. “You were talking a lot about how much you like Vegas’s dick. Among other things.”
“Oh, fuck me.” Pete exclaims, but then he cringes and clutches at his temple. “Ow, my head.” He puts the glass down on the bedside table so he can hide his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes.
A few snickers escape Porsche; he wishes he could laugh properly, but Pete looks pretty miserable right now. Instead, he settles for a little extra jab. “But hey, congrats on getting laid last night.”
“Oh my god, kill me now.”
Pete deflates onto the bed, hiding his face in his pillow. Porsche sits on the edge of the bed next to him and pats him on the shoulder a couple times. Pete seems like a decent guy from their limited interactions; they haven’t had a lot of opportunities to talk outside of work since Porsche started training. Porsche isn’t one to forget someone’s kindness, though, and Pete has already supported him in many ways.
Real trust… that’s still hard. But someone willing to be an ally, like Pete or Big? That can make a difference in any new environment. Being an ally doesn’t have to be about trust — sometimes it’s just about cooperation.
He thinks maybe he can trust Jom. Almost definitely. And what a mind trip it was to suddenly run into him again last night.
Pete’s head suddenly pops up from the pillow.
“Oh shit, Khun Kinn knows.”
Porsche blinks a couple of times. “Huh?”
Pete runs a hand through his rumpled hair. “Khun Kinn, Khun Kinn! He saw me with Vegas last night. He saw us. Oh my god, he’s going to kill me.”
Ah. Pete must have been keeping his love affair under wraps then. “You’re still alive right now. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
“Well, it isn’t nothing,” Pete says. He gets up from the bed and rushes to the closet. “I need— I need to explain to Khun Kinn. But first I have to shower. I’m going to shower, take some ibuprofen, and get dressed, and then— no, wait, ibuprofen first.”
“Have you been with Vegas for a while?” Porsche asks, looking up at Pete from where he’s still sitting on the bed. “Is it serious?”
Pete pauses and looks at Porsche, his arms full of a clean uniform. Slowly, Pete straightens, giving Porsche his full attention and focus.
“Less than a year,” Pete says. “I didn’t think it was serious at first. It was off and on at the start. But it just kinda kept building up to something.”
Porsche digests that for a minute. Everything about it seems inadvisable, for one reason or another, or for every reason. “Vegas seems like he’s dangerous. Why would you…” Porsche fumbles for words, but they fight him every step of the way. “Why would you choose that?”
“Phoenix. I’m dangerous. Vegas is taking risks with me, too. As far as he knows, I could have ulterior motives, could be trying to use him. I’m not, but it’s impossible for him to know that for sure.” Pete takes a deep breath and shrugs. “Anyone, especially anyone in this business, can be dangerous in their own way. We all just have to choose what to risk.”
Porsche nods slowly. Pete may look and act like a goofball in his freetime, and drunkenly spout nonsense about what kind of leather feels nicest, but despite all that he has his own brand of wisdom.
Pete gives Porsche a lopsided grin. “You’re dangerous, too, you know. And getting more dangerous by the day. Most of your training may be with Chan, but I’m still getting reports on all of it. You’re making progress.”
Something warm and fuzzy settles in Porsche’s stomach. “Thanks. I still have more to learn, though.”
Pete grins. “There’s always more to learn. But, for now, I gotta ask you to get out of here. I need to go make sure Khun Kinn isn’t stewing in regret and trying to decide whether to fry me in oil or drown me with Khun Nu’s fishes. And, thanks for your help, too. I owe you.”
Porsche gets up and follows Pete out into the living room. “Forget about it. And good luck with Ki— Khun Kinn.” He thinks about how Kinn looked on the pier last night, his eyes dark and soft like the waves. “Maybe he’ll surprise you.”
The laugh he gets in response is shaky and nervous. “Heh. Ha. It’d be a miracle. Later, bro.”
“Don’t forget to drink more water.”
Porsche leaves and heads back to his own apartment. Maybe he can raid Big’s stash of protein bars before his training. He can always make it up to Big with pastries from the aunties in the kitchen.
Pete straightens his suit. Oh. Is that a bit of lint? He brushes that off as well.
He checks to make sure his pin is oriented correctly, not sideways or upside down.
When he tugs at his cuffs, Wanna finally snaps.
“Sit down and stop fidgeting. You’re making me nervous,” Wanna says from behind her desk. Behind her, a large Theerapanyakul logo dominates the wall.
Pete laughs. “Sorry, ma’am.” He gives a little bow and then perches himself on one of the stiff brown chairs. The reception area outside Kinn’s office is not designed for comfort. Two of his fellow bodyguards stand outside the office door.
Pete runs a thumb over his fingernails. His pack of cigarettes is burning a hole in his back pocket — he wishes he’d had time for a smoke before coming here. It would have helped with the nerves. His head is still pounding, too.
At last, the intercom on Wanna’s desk buzzes, and Kinn’s voice comes across it. “Wanna, please send in Pete.”
“Of course, Khun Kinn.”
Wanna looks at Pete and gestures toward the door. He laughs, thanks her, and lets himself into Kinn’s office.
It’s a really nice office. Pete hopes he gets to leave it alive and in one piece. He’s fairly certain he will, but one thing he knows is that there are never any guarantees in life. If this had been a year ago, two years ago, the odds would have been against him. Kinn was harder back then, colder, ever since Tawan’s betrayal. Kinn bore the censure and distanced himself from everyone — guards, staff, family. And although he projected the power of his position, he wielded it as though it didn’t belong to him.
But the Kinn of today lived through his father being hospitalized for months, has kept the families from falling to pieces in the wake of Gun’s death, and kept the wolves from the door during that time. This Kinn is a businessman who’s innovating old business practices and showing success.
This Kinn is also watching Pete with hard, unwavering eyes as he approaches. When Pete reaches the front of Kinn’s desk, he bows his head and keeps it down.
“Sir, I apologize both for my misconduct in front of you last night and for not disclosing my relationship with Khun Vegas.”
Kinn doesn’t react right away, nor does he give Pete any indication he should rise, so Pete maintains his bow.
“Did anyone else know?”
Pete hoped he wouldn’t ask that. But he can only answer honestly. “Yes. Khun Macau knew, sir.”
Another length of silence fills the room. Pete is starting to sweat now.
“And when did this start?”
Does Kinn mean the relationship or the sex? No, it doesn’t matter. He needs full disclosure.
“It first started ten months ago and became more, ah, romantic? Or, maybe better to say personal, six months ago.”
Kinn takes in a long, deep breath through his nose, and Pete dares to lift his head to look at him. He’s frowning, glaring at Pete like he’s supremely annoyed.
“That long?” Kinn asks. He shakes his head slowly, and Pete feels his stomach sink. “And just how long did you think to keep it from me?”
Pete winces. The sneaking around has been… okay, so sometimes it’s been thrilling, the excitement of it, but the feeling that he’s been betraying Kinn’s trust, well, that hasn’t felt so good. Plus it’s led to at least a couple of nightmares and lost sleep.
“With all due respect, sir, I realize I’ve made a serious mistake. And I accept full and sole responsibility for that. But given the improvement in your relationship with Vegas, excuse me, Khun Vegas, I didn’t want my personal relationship to interfere with that in any way. I hoped, if things continued to improve, I could let you know then.”
Kinn sighs deeply and rises from his chair, coming around the desk to approach Pete. Pete swallows and straightens up his stance even more, and he turns to face his boss. Then Kinn straightens the lapels of Pete’s jacket before gripping them tightly and looking Pete straight in the eye.
“Tell me. Have you ever, in any capacity, whether sober or drunk or during goddamn pillow talk, been indiscreet with sensitive or confidential information?”
Pete has been expecting this. The only question that matters, though, is will Kinn believe him?
“No, sir,” Pete says with all the conviction he can muster. “Never.” And truly, he hasn’t. He may not have been able to resist temptation, when Vegas was so clearly desperate and alone, but nothing in the world could make him conspire against Kinn.
Kinn’s eyes narrow, and he pulls Pete just slightly closer as he stares, waiting for Pete to crumble. It will never happen. His conscience is clean. Well, mostly clean. Aside from the extremely filthy sex he’s been having with Kinn’s cousin behind his back.
Kinn gives Pete a shake by his jacket. It’s hard enough to rattle Pete, but he doesn’t budge.
“And have you ever, in any way, encouraged Vegas to cooperate with the main family?”
Pete’s eyes go wide. “Sir?”
Kinn’s eyebrows jump. “I didn’t stutter.”
“I… sir, it wasn’t what you’re implying, exactly? I didn’t convince him of anything. I simply pointed out that there are certain benefits. Benefits to working together.”
Kinn doesn’t exactly let go of his irritation, but it eases by some critical fraction, his eyes returning to their more businesslike firmness. He releases Pete’s lapels and gives them a perfunctory pat to smooth them.
“I thought it was strange that Macau held so much sway, all on his own, to convince Vegas to be as cooperative as he’s been. It’s nice to know I haven’t completely missed everything. But I also can’t simply let you off for this.”
Pete blinks, takes a deep breath, and nods. “Yes, sir, I understand.” He knew to expect consequences; the question has only ever been how severe they’d be.
Kinn walks over to the large panel windows to look down on the city below, his stance wide and his hands on his hips. Pete waits without moving, without any thoughts in his mind. He clears it, evens out his breathing.
After agonizing moments of deliberation, Kinn returns to his seat and looks up placidly at Pete.
“Your punishment from me is to disclose your relationship with Vegas, in private, to Tankhun and let him determine your punishment.”
Pete gasps, mind reeling through all the past punishments Khun Nu has dished out like a vivid mental slideshow of horror, muscle aches, and humiliation. All of his past experiences will pale in comparison with what the first son of the Theerapanyakul family is likely to come up with for this particular offense.
“Sir, don’t you think that’s a little—”
Kinn tilts his head and smiles. It isn’t a particularly kind smile.
Pete swallows. “Yes, sir.”
Apparently Kinn thinks that simply shooting Pete would have been too easy on him.
Kinn steeples his hands together. “Then as far as I’m concerned, Khun and I both knew about this relationship starting from when it became romantic. However, for now I suggest you continue to be discreet, more discreet than you were last night. In the future…” He shakes his head. “You should talk with Vegas first. Then we’ll have a small, quiet family meeting and come up with goals and a plan.”
Pete’s heart is pounding so hard he can feel the throb of it in his brain. He bows deeply. “Yes, sir! I’ll do that, Khun Kinn. Thank you, sir!”
Kinn is finally giving him a small smile, one that seems genuine. “Don’t thank me yet. We still have to sort out your whole Romeo and Juliet complex without any poison or stabbings.”
Containing his beaming smile is starting to become difficult. “Please let me thank you at least for your support. I know this is not how things would have been handled in the past. But I also believe, deeply, that the changes you’re making are going to strengthen the family for years to come.”
“You should thank Macau, then. It all started with him.”
Pete knows very well that even though Macau is the one who opened Kinn’s eyes, Kinn himself is responsible for all the changes. And somehow Pete doesn’t think Macau was the sole reason behind whatever epiphany Kinn experienced.
“I will, sir.” Macau will crow when he hears about this turn of events. He’s been nagging Pete more and more lately, telling him to quit his job and just focus on being his brother-in-law. The kid is always rushing things.
Vegas, on the other hand, will probably be pissed that Pete is being punished at all. So first Pete is going to have to figure out how to smooth that over.
Maybe I can work this to my advantage, Pete thinks. Maybe starting with a bubble bath, progressing to some more enjoyable punishment, and ending with aftercare. Yes, that could turn out nicely.
Focus, Pete, focus.
“Is there anything else, sir?” he finally asks.
Kinn shakes his head. “If you’re that eager to see Tankhun, you’re dismissed. And send in Big. He should be waiting outside.”
Pete cringes and then drags his feet as he leaves. Time to face the music.
After a morning in the gym and at the shooting range, Porsche generally enjoys an afternoon of pool training and testing. The water test hasn’t started yet, and other guards around Porsche mill about the pool deck, some chatting about last night’s party and who drank or did what. Porsche steps up to the edge of the pool, wearing his fancy wetsuit pants, and dips his toes in the water. A little chilly, but not too bad. He jumps into the deep end feet first.
The slight chill is a shock to the system, a quick thrill that electrifies the brain, but it also delays reaction times. He’s found that getting it out of the way before timed trials gives him a slight edge. And he learned long ago to take any edge he can get.
Porsche stays under for as long as he can, treading water and weaving his arms back and forth to keep himself down. He’s surrounded by a world of blue.
When he comes up, he takes in a big gasp of air and wipes the water from his eyes. Wincing at the sting of the chlorine, he looks up and finds the other guards all snapping to attention, saying “Sir!” in voices that echo in the cavernous room.
“Relax, everyone. At ease.”
Porsche whips his gaze to the right, and there’s Kinn, bare feet slapping against tiles as he approaches the group and P’Chan. Kinn is wearing only a set of black wetsuit shorts, which reach down to the tops of his knees, with a bright red designer label on them.
Kinn is stacked. Muscles on muscles, with that little layer of extra thickness that means they aren’t just for show. He’s no mere pampered mafia mastermind. Of course, Porsche had known logically that Kinn was well built, just from seeing the man in his fancy suits and unbuttoned shirts, but seeing him bare is another thing entirely.
Porsche kissed Kinn. Porsche kissed Kinn.
Kinn spots Porsche in the water, sees that he’s looking. The corner of Kinn’s mouth quirks only slightly, only briefly, and only for Porsche. Porsche rolls his eyes and swims to the edge of the pool.
“Khun Kinn, sir,” P’Chan says, drawing Kinn’s attention.
“Chan,” Kinn acknowledges. “It’s been a while since I’ve done the escape test. I had a free block this afternoon and thought I’d join, make sure my edge is still sharp.”
As far as Porsche has seen, there isn’t a single damn thing about Kinn that’s dull; not his looks, not his mind, and likely not his skills, either. Porsche hefts himself out of the water so he can sit on the pool ledge.
“Of course, sir,” P’Chan says. “We’re just about to start, if that’s acceptable.”
“I’m ready to go,” Kinn replies. “Ah! But how about we make this interesting? Considering I haven’t done this in a while, anyone here should be able to beat me. If they can’t, they swim extra laps. What do you say, Chan?”
P’Chan gives him a pleased, vicious little smile, and some of the guards give muffled groans. Huh, interesting. Porsche hauls himself the rest of the way out of the water and gets to his feet.
P’Chan calls them to attention. “You heard Khun Kinn, men! Okay, group A, you’re up. Group B, get them tied up, and I’ll check the knots. Khun Kinn, I’ll help you with your ropes.”
“It’s alright, Chan.” Kinn looks over the assembled guards, but it’s only for show; as soon as his eyes land on Porsche, they stay there. “Phoenix will handle it.”
The smug, overpowered, entitled asshole thinks he’s clever. He’s playing games already, and it should not be endearing. Not at all.
“Yes, sir,” Porsche grits out, not quite looking at Kinn. He goes to the plastic box sitting off to one side and plucks out a couple of black ropes. Then he brings them back to Kinn, who is oh-so-casually watching him. Porsche is suddenly keenly aware that water is dripping down his own chest and arms. He can feel the droplets like fingertips on his skin.
Porsche stops in front of Kinn, carefully keeping his face blank, staring at a small mole on the man’s jaw.
“Will you turn around, sir?”
Kinn turns, taking his gaze away, which allows Porsche to relax, but not for long. Kinn puts his wrists together behind his back, making the muscles along the sides of his spine bulge, and putting his triceps and deltoids on display. It’s a lot.
Porsche swallows and focuses on tying the knots in a brisk and professional manner. He half-expects the man to sneak touches while Porsche is so close to his hands, but apparently Kinn has some self-control, at least with P’Chan wandering about. When Porsche finishes, he straightens up and takes a breath. He is not disappointed that Kinn didn’t sneak any touches.
Kinn turns about in place and looks at him again, his eyes firm, uncompromising as always. Porsche suddenly finds it a little hard to get air.
“Forgetting something?” Kinn asks, eyebrows rising.
“Huh?”
Kinn looks quickly down and back up, a smile lurking in the shadows of his eyes. “My ankles.”
Porsche tilts his head to the side, trying to physically burn his thought into Kinn’s brain. That’s the way you’re gonna play this? Really?
Kinn’s smile finally curls, but only one one side of his mouth. It’s taunting, challenging.
Porsche grins with false cheer. “Of course, sir.” And he gets down on his knees, and nope, he is not looking at Kinn’s calves and the fuzzy black hair there, or his surprisingly slender, muscular thighs, or anything else.
He ties Kinn’s ankles as quickly as he can. And he makes it tight enough that Kinn flinches, but the mafia leader doesn’t have the space to complain, not in front of his men.
“Oops, too tight. I’m sorry, Khun Kinn,” he says and quickly loosens it. Porsche glances up at just the right moment to catch an annoyed glare.
Porsche grins as he finishes his task. Then he straightens up and steps back for P’Chan to inspect his work.
A couple minutes later, the first group is lined up at the edge of the pool, and they’re sent in, while P’Chan’s assistant runs the timer and takes notes. Kinn doesn’t come up first, but he also doesn’t come up last. His time seems to be roughly the same as Porsche’s usual time. Kinn’s hair, sopping wet, is long enough to cover most of his face, and he has to push it back with both hands before he can swim to the edge. He lifts himself out, muscles bunching when he braces his arms.
When he’s seated, and while they wait for others to get out of the water, Porsche takes the moment of distraction as an opportunity.
If Kinn is going to play games, Porsche wants to know what the rules are. And what risks there are. Better to find out sooner than later.
He crouches down next to Kinn and says quietly. “Is this your idea of seduction, Ai’Kinn? Get wet and waggle your package at me?” Porsche scoffs. “You think I’m that easy?”
Kinn’s eyes widen in shock, whether at Porsche’s rude address or words, he can’t be sure. But he doesn’t stay shocked for long. A speculative gleam sparkles in his eyes.
“You aren’t,” Kinn says, equally quietly so as not to be overheard. “So I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a day off three days from now…”
Porsche arches a brow in doubt, waiting for the catch.
“...but only if you’ll spend it with me.” Kinn watches Porsche closely.
Porsche freezes. Kinn isn’t playing by the rules. Porsche isn’t even sure what the rules are now.
“Think quickly,” Kinn says. Everyone is out of the water, and people are starting to shuffle around for the next group to go.
“Deal, but only if it gets me out of the tower,” Porsche fires back.
Kinn jerks his head in a nod. “That was the plan. You’re up.” Kinn rises and walks away, striding to the long edge of the pool to watch over the test.
Som approaches Porsche to start tying his hands.
“Hey, did you hear?” Som asks. “Pete’s getting punished by Khun Nu. He’s running laps outside in a lobster suit. Wanna go see after this?”
Porsche makes a murmur of interest, but his eyes stray away toward Kinn numerous times.
Did he just agree to a date with Kinn? Is that what this is?
He’s so distracted that he fumbles his test, losing to Kinn’s time by ten seconds. Kinn, the unmitigated asshole, looks like he’s laughing at Porsche.
The frustration fuels him when he’s forced to swim his extra laps.
Chay hefts his backpack again, being mindful of the box inside it, and angles his guitar case out of the way as he reaches for the doorknob. It’s locked.
Not surprising. Kim is a paranoid guy. He would lock himself in his own studio when he’s alone.
Chay knocks, and a minute later Kim unlocks the door, opening it wide.
“Hey,” Kim says in that sharp-yet-lazy way of his, “come on in.”
“Thanks.”
And then he practically has to scrape his jaw off the floor. Not only is the studio huge, but it’s filled with goodies, instruments of all kinds. There’s a grand piano, numerous high-end guitars, a random cello tucked into a corner. The sound booth is mostly dark, but Chay assumes it’s fully loaded.
Okay, so maybe being paranoid with this musical oasis is a smart move on Kim’s part. It’s a treasure trove.
“Nice place,” Chay says. “And by ‘nice’ I mean out of this world. Is that a vintage Fender?” It’s white and gorgeous, and Chay wants to get his fingers on it. Kind of like he wants to get his fingers on its owner. “What year is it?”
“I think 1966? Maybe ‘65,” Kim says, making Chay suck his breath in through his teeth. This pretty thing is not cheap.
“Can I?” Chay asks, wiggling his itching fingers at it.
Kim nods. “Sure.” He goes over to the piano bench and perches on the edge of it. He’s like a hawk, leaning forward and ready to strike. As though emphasizing the point, he’s wearing a cream-colored shirt with the word “fly” in the center and a wing to either side of it.
Focus, Chay.
He sets his own guitar case on the floor and picks up the Fender. She’s gorgeous, a really respectable old lady, and he handles her carefully as he carries her to a chair next to Kim. Chay takes off his backpack, and when he sits, he cradles the old lady in his lap. With a little quick tuning, she starts to sing.
It’s nice, for once, to slow down and just breathe in the moment. He so rarely has time to sit and play. If he isn’t cramming his brain full of knowledge for his classes, he’s at the gym or training with his instructor. Or he’s doing research, hunting up leads, trying to make connections. Or holding a livestream. Or in his label’s rinky-dink studio, recording, or doing publicity.
He closes his eyes and lets it all out through his fingertips. The Old Lady is kind enough to fill the room with the music from his head.
When the last note fades, he opens his eyes, and Kim is there, staring at him intensely.
“You should play more on your streams,” Kim says.
Chay feels a smile leap onto his face. “You watch my streams?” he asks. He’s known Kim was a fan since the guy gave himself away back at the radio station, but it’s still a delicious thrill.
Kim makes that cute little sneer he does when he’s annoyed with himself, and Chay can’t help the giggle that escapes him.
“What’s your poison?” Kim asks, ignoring Chay’s question. “Are we talking search business first, or music business?”
He’s so serious. Sometimes Chay thinks that if he were to so much as poke Kim, the guy would shatter because he’s so rigid. That is, if he doesn’t break Chay’s arm first for daring to touch him.
Really, getting reactions out of Kim is some of the best fun Chay has had in a long time.
“Hmm,” Chay says, noncommittal. He gets up to put the Old Lady back on her stand, giving her one more loving caress before he goes back to Kim. Chay sits down again and picks up his backpack. “Actually, I was thinking I could introduce you to Porsche first.” He opens his bag and pulls out a wooden box with a latch on it.
Kim is watching him curiously, but he doesn’t say anything, which Chay has learned to take as a tacit “go ahead.” So Chay unlatches the box and opens it — there isn’t much inside, only a small pile of photos and a handful of trinkets. He wasn’t able to hold onto very much back then. The adults who shuffled him from place to place weren’t exactly focused on making sure one orphan had his vital family keepsakes.
And he ended up getting shuffled into Santichai’s hands all because of Kim’s dad, the mafia boss. That still blows Chay’s mind on a daily basis.
Chay pulls a few photos out of the box and hands them to Kim. Then Chay settles the box on his lap.
“The top one was the last photo taken of him,” Chay says. He doesn’t have to look to remember all the details. It’s a picture of Porsche, sitting in the little gazebo at the park near the old house. Porsche is grinning for the camera, holding up his fingers in a peace sign. The photo is crooked because Chay took it.
Kim starts to flip through the pictures slowly. “He looks young.”
“Yeah,” Chay says. “I’ve tried a couple of those aging programs, so I can try to see what he might look like now. But who knows whether they’re any good, you know?”
Kim passes back the photos and jerks his chin at the box. “Anything else?” He leans in toward Chay and peers inside the box for himself. Chay watches, curious about what Kim will do. He selects the little toy motorcycle and picks it up, and Chay smiles.
“He wanted one,” Chay explains. “Said he’d get one for himself, no matter how hard he had to work for it. That’s blue, but he wanted a red one.”
Kim nods and puts the toy back in the box. Then he looks right at Chay’s throat and asks, “What about that?”
That’s when Chay realizes he’s been playing with Porsche’s necklace, fiddling with it between his fingertips. Kim. Kimmy Kim Kim. So observant.
Chay smooths the necklace down again. “It was Porsche’s. He wore it every day, but not during sports. His Taekwondo coach yelled at him until he remembered to take it off. So I kept it.”
Kim gives a small smile.
“I bet you want to talk about the search now,” Kim guesses.
“Yeah. You know me so well, honey, and it’s only our third date,” Chay says, tilting his head down and his eyes up. “Speaking of the third date, you know what that means, don’t you?”
Despite the split-second flash of interest Chay catches in Kim’s eyes, it gets squelched almost instantaneously. Kim fixes him with a cold, bored look.
“I am not,” Kim says, enunciating every word slowly, “a mark.”
Ice cold. Chay feels a frosty shiver climb up his spine. Message received. He puts his hands up in the air and leans back a bit. “Sorry, Phi. In my defense, that part of my brain is hard to turn off.”
Kim gives him a wry look and a sardonic little smile. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Okay, good, Chay isn’t entirely in the dog house. “Did you find out any more missing details on your side?”
“I still haven’t locked it down, but apparently around the time when your mom’s parents died, a young woman fostered with my family for a few years. I also confirmed that your grandfather and mine were college classmates. They were friends for decades.”
Chay clenches his jaw and shakes his head. The oversight is embarrassing. In all his searching, he’d never once thought to dig into his own family tree — maybe in part because he feels so disconnected from it. He takes a deep breath.
“Goes to show what a fresh pair of eyes can do, huh?” He scrubs a hand over his own jaw, harshly, in frustration. He closes up the keepsake box and tucks it safely in his backpack. “I want to ask you something, but feel free to tell me to fuck off.”
Kim gets a curious little look in his eye. It isn’t much, and other people might not notice it, but Chay recognizes it now. Kim nods. “Go on.”
“Why are you helping me?” Chay says in a rush. “I mean, I kind of get it, with the fact that your family’s involved, but you probably don’t even need me. If you wanted sex in exchange, it’d make a hell of a lot more sense.” And it’d be a hell of a lot more fun, too, but oh well.
Kim, predictably, gives a little shake of his head, but then he goes quiet. Eventually he shrugs. “I don’t really know. Maybe because we’re similar in some ways.”
That’s an interesting take, and not what Chay expected. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask what he means by that. Before Chay can push the matter, though, Kim continues.
“What leads are you currently following?”
That’s the rub. Chay is running up against blockers and dead ends. Although he’s loath to admit it, the latest lead that he got from Kradum — about Big Red owning the trafficking operation — really is out of his league. And if Big Red is out of his league, then digging into the whole Theerapanyakul line of inquiry is in a whole galaxy out of reach, only accessible through Kim. Kim, who doesn’t seem to want anything, which is really putting a cramp in Chay’s usual methodology. Best not to owe anyone; no debts.
Chay shrugs. “I could spend time digging into whatever was going on with my mom and your family, but it seems like the wrong direction. Your dad had Thee killed because he fucked up? Great. But that doesn’t get me answers about Porsche. So I’ll start digging around at the edges of Big Red’s gang.”
Kim widens his eyes and tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling before he closes his eyes. When he opens them again and looks at Chay, he seems to be actually angry this time. “Do you have a death wish? Because you will end up dead.”
Chay doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t, not really. But he needs the truth as much as he needs his next breath.
What’s there to be afraid of, really? Chay’s done research, and not just on Bangkok street gangs. He knows way more than the average person about modern slavery. When he thinks about what Porsche must have gone through, all the ways he might have died…
When Porsche disappeared, Chay spent a year feeling terrified of everything, unable to talk. These days, he misses the fear. There’s an empty, frozen place where it should be.
Chay’s lips curl. He shows his teeth.
“Are you going to tell me to give up, too?” Chay taunts the mafia princeling. “Just like my mama does? Tsk. Boring.”
“Do you not—”
Whatever Kim is going to say next gets cut off by his phone ringing. With a frustrated noise, Kim pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the screen. A frown draws his brows together, tilting his pretty pink lips down in a pout.
“Give me a bit,” Kim says. “I have to take this.”
Chay nods and shrugs; the studio has plenty of goodies to keep him entertained. In response, Kim gets up and walks away, going into the sound booth and turning on the light there.
For a minute, Chay watches him through the glass. Kim paces slowly as he walks, speaking occasionally. Chay can’t hear a word. He wonders whether he should maybe try to learn lip reading. It could come in handy, like so many other random little skills he’s added to his collection. If only he had more hours in the day.
The Old Lady is calling for Chay’s attention. She deserves more time to sing, and Chay is just the guy for the job.
He gets all the way through his song “Because” and part of the way through “Hunter” before he sees Kim hang up the phone. Chay quickly switches to a Wik cover before Kim comes back out.
Kim snorts, a half smile tucked in the corner of his smooth, fair cheek. “You know, I could hear you from the booth. I know you weren’t playing my music before. You can drop the act, Porchay.”
Chay grins. Kim is so full of shit. He thinks it’s cute, cute, cute when Chay needles him and flirts shamelessly.
“So, should we go back to you warning me, or shall we start making beautiful music together?” Chay asks.
“Actually, slight change of plans.” Kim holds up his phone and wiggles it in the air. “I have an opportunity for you.”
Chay perks up in his seat and clutches at the Old Lady. “Yeah? Is it something nice? Tell me it’s something nice. I like surprises.”
Kim hedges and shakes his head. “It isn’t nice. More like ruthless and overdressed.” He tucks his phone back in his pocket and resumes his seat on the piano bench. “What would you say to a chance to meet my brother Kinn, the acting head of the Theerapanyakul family?”
Chay has to blink a couple times to make sure he heard right. Really?
“What?” It comes out as an embarrassing squeak. Shit, he thought he was past that. “How? Yes. Where? What’s going on? But yes, definitely yes.”
Kinn could be the key that cracks the doors wide open. It’s all Chay needs.
Kim smiles sadly and shakes his head. “You are so fucking nuts. He asked me to ask you for a favor, wants you to play a few songs, a private set a few days from now. Apparently he knows someone who’s a fan, and he wants to get on their good side.” Kim lets out a little huff and adds more quietly, “That bastard. I thought it was something serious.”
Chay wiggles on his seat. It’s plenty serious to him.
“Hey Kim?”
“Yeah?”
Chay leans forward over the Old Lady and plucks a couple strings, teasing. “How does your big brother feel about younger men?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
Kim sneers and points right in his face. “Do not even try it.”
Chay laughs, leaning back and stomping his foot a couple times. “I knew it! I knew you were the jealous type.”
“If you so much as bat your eyelashes at Kinn, I will shoot you myself,” Kim says, eyes narrowed and hard. Chay believes him.
Chay winks back. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” he promises. And he means it.
This meeting has to go perfectly.
Notes:
No special warnings or spoilers for this chapter.
~~~
Kinn, you are so embarrassing. 🫣
Chapter 15: Reclaim
Summary:
Kinn has his day with Porsche planned thoroughly: a lunch experience, an afternoon of personalized entertainment, and then dinner. It’s a perfect seduction.
But as usual in Kinn’s life, very little ever goes according to plan.
Notes:
I want to take a moment to give a special thanks to my early reading crew, DrLemurr, mortimerlatrice, and nuwildcat. These three help keep me sane and on track, and I've lost track of how many times I've turned to nuwildcat for help when sticky plot points or character details need de-tangling. Also, a warm and passionate thank you to enbymoomin for giving this chapter that final sparkling polish. 💖
REMINDER: I have posted spoiler descriptions of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Getting out of the tower without a protection detail is no easy feat for Kinn. It’s lucky for him, then, that his head guard is feeling especially contrite and accommodating. He’d prefer it if he could ditch Pete entirely, but it would be too much of a risk.
It’s eleven in the morning. He and Pete are standing outside the garage now, waiting for Porsche. Kinn may have arrived just a few minutes early. The keys in his hands rattle as he flips them around.
“Khun Kinn, sir,” Pete starts hesitantly, “are you sure you can’t give me any more details about… anything? The agenda, who you’re meeting?”
“Pete?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Shut up.”
“Yes, sir.” Pete lets out a dejected little sigh.
Kinn smirks. Okay, so maybe he hasn’t quite forgiven Pete for hiding his dirty little secret. Kinn said he’d leave the punishment to Tankhun, but he feels he’s still owed some restitution.
Finally, Porsche shows up. He’s wearing Converse shoes, a simple pair of dark jeans, and a dark blue T-shirt overlaid by a white button-down. The man’s only concession to fashion is a simple chord necklace with a silver disc in the center. All of his clothes together likely cost no more than ฿3,000, significantly less than just one of Kinn’s shoes. And still Kinn can’t help but stare at the way the slightly too-snug shirt clings to Porsche’s chest.
For Kinn’s part, he’s wearing a pair of designer slacks, a dress shirt with a light jacket, and his favorite watch. Suddenly he feels overdressed. He never feels overdressed, but apparently today is a day for new experiences, up to and including taking his bodyguard around town in an attempt to seduce him. For a split moment, Kinn imagines what his father would say, but he ruthlessly squashes that voice in the back of his head.
Kinn tosses the car keys in his hands to Porsche. “You’re driving. I’ll set the GPS. Pete’s driving separately.”
Porsche catches the keys effortlessly but freezes. He looks at Kinn, wide eyed.
“What’s wrong?” Kinn asks.
“I can’t… drive?”
At first, Porsche’s words sound nonsensical, but then it dawns on Kinn: Porsche was taken as a teenager. He never learned to drive. And what slave owner would bother teaching their property to drive? That would only make escape easier.
Kinn makes a gesture for Porsche to throw back the keys, which he does.
“Pete?” Kinn says.
“Sir?”
“Get driving lessons added to Phoenix’s schedule, starting tomorrow. Car first, then motorcycle.”
“Yes, sir!”
Porsche winces. Kinn imagines that if his skin weren’t such a lovely golden hue, he might be blushing with embarrassment. Kinn nods at the car and sneaks in a wink, trying to put him back at ease. “Looks like I’m driving.”
They climb in, and Kinn makes sure the comm link with Pete’s car is working. Pete pulls out ahead, and Kinn follows.
As they leave the tower grounds, Porsche looks at Kinn and says, “Thank you. For the lessons.”
Kinn raises his eyebrows. “It’s essential. Emergency situations come up. You might have to pursue, or flee, or drive someone to hiding or medical care.” Kinn side-eyes Porsche. “You don’t have to thank me for that. My life depends on your skills.”
Porsche makes a little hum, and Kinn dares another glance out of the corner of his eye. Porsche seems to be mulling that over like it hadn’t occurred to him. Kinn smiles and shakes his head a little — it’s cute, sometimes, how seriously Porsche takes things.
After a few minutes of driving in comfortable silence, Porsche asks, “What did you tell Pete? About today?”
“I told him to mind his own business. And usually,” he makes sure to emphasize the word, “he’s very good about being discrete.”
Porsche lets out a small laugh. “Is this about the Vegas thing?”
Kinn twitches. “You know about that?”
“Yeah, he was kind of going on about it when I helped him up to his room.”
Shit, the info is less contained than Kinn realized. But Korn hasn’t yet kicked up any dust over it, which means he hasn’t heard any rumors. “Best not to talk about that with anyone else.”
“Yeah, loose lips and all that,” Porsche says. “I get it. Ashing, too.”
Good to know some people have some common sense.
“How’s the rest of your training going?”
Porsche looks at him curiously. “I thought you got reports on that?”
Kinn smiles without taking his eyes off the road. Curiosity, questions, doubt. How strange it is that he enjoys getting these things from Porsche; they’re all much better than the careful, wary blankness that used to be the norm.
“Yeah, but not directly from you,” Kinn replies.
Porsche considers that before letting out a little, “Huh.” Then he proceeds to tell Kinn about his experiences, what he’s learned and how he learned it. He doesn’t go into a lot of depth, but Kinn coaxes out nuances and opinions with a few questions.
The conversation is, all in all, astonishingly normal. Mundane, even. It puts Kinn at ease.
After a circuitous route that Pete insisted on for safety precautions, they arrive at the skyscraper that is their destination. They park in VIP spots in the garage and head up, up, up, high up in the elevators.
“Sir, when we arrive, you should let me sweep—”
“Pete.”
“Sir?”
“Cool it.”
Kinn watches Pete visibly deflate through the reflective surface of the elevator doors. Pete’s frustrations reduce just a little more of Kinn’s lingering ire, and he grins to himself.
When the elevator dings, it isn’t far to their destination. A hostess greets them at the entrance to Akira Back.
“Khun Kinn, it’s our pleasure to welcome you,” she says with a wai. “Please follow me.”
She leads them through the quiet, empty restaurant, and Kinn can’t help but sneak a few looks at Porsche as he takes in the decor. It’s a stunning location, decorated in rich dark woods, shining tiles and marble, and countless bright lights.
They don’t stop in the restaurant proper, though. No, that isn’t what Kinn has planned. The hostess leads them to the kitchen door, at which point Kinn pauses.
“Pete, you stay here,” Kinn orders.
Pete pinches his lips together. He clearly wants to argue. Instead, he just says, “Yes, sir,” and takes up a position next to the door, standing with his back to the wall.
As soon as they’re in the kitchen, Kinn grins at Porsche and waggles his eyebrows, trying to say “see, I did it!” with every muscle in his face. Porsche gives him a tentative, encouraging smile in return, and Kinn can’t help himself. He steals Porsche’s hand from where it’s dangling by his side, clasps it in his own, and leads him the rest of the way like that.
“I’m glad you’ve been enjoying all the lessons,” Kinn says, “because we’re about to get another one.” The kitchen is mostly empty, but the hostess leads them to a station where a chef is busy chopping. The hostess bows and leaves them.
“Hello, and welcome! Khun Kinn, it is an honor again,” says the chef. He’s Japanese, but his Thai is excellent.
“Phoenix, this is Chef Taki,” Kinn says, and Porsche makes a small wai, which the chef returns. “Chef Taki is working on perfecting a new dish, and he’s going to show us how to cook it.”
Porsche’s eyes go wide. “We’re cooking lunch?” He seems hesitant but not opposed.
“Yes, yes, I will make it very easy for you,” the chef says. “Grilled salmon salad. First I give you a taste of the salmon, yes? Sit, please, and enjoy.”
There are two seats and a small table set up next to the station, already prepared for diners. Kinn and Porsche take their seats while Chef Taki fires up his grill.
“What were you thinking?” Porsche quickly hisses at him as soon as they sit down. “How much does this even cost? I’d be fine with street food.”
Kinn is already in a fantastic mood. “I’m thinking I’ve always wanted to try something like this but never had the chance. And Chef owed me a little favor. I’m having a day off, too, you know.”
That seems to pull Porsche up short, and he reconsiders his stance. “How long has it been since you took time off?”
A year? Longer? Definitely since before Uncle Gun died. “Too fucking long,” Kinn says.
Chef Taki provides a perfect distraction, though. He draws their attention by describing each step as he mixes ingredients for a sauce and slices a large slab of salmon into thin cuts. He moves with artful precision, not unlike a grandmaster in a martial art, practicing his forms.
After just a short while, he serves them two small plates, each with two delicate pieces of salmon, perfectly sauced and garnished. Kinn says a quick “itadakimasu” before picking up his chopsticks and tasting it. It melts in his mouth like a little bit of heaven.
Beside him, Porsche lets out a small, stifled moan that captures Kinn’s attention. Porsche’s eyes are closed in bliss, and Kinn’s mouth goes suddenly dry.
If that’s how he reacts just for a little bite of fine dining, how will he react if Kinn uses his tongue to—
Later. Definitely later.
Kinn leans over to murmur to Porsche. “You know, some people consider salmon an aphrodisiac. Good for stamina.”
Porsche lets out a little choked laugh. Then he looks Kinn straight in the eye as he eats his second piece and lets out a silly — and unarousing — moan.
Kinn tries to poke his cheek, but Porsche swats his hand away, a small laugh escaping him.
“Is it good?” Chef Taki asks with a large grin. “You are ready to try cooking now? Come, I have your stations ready. I will help you every step.”
“It’s very good,” Porsche says with a sincere little smile that Kinn wants for himself. “I don’t think I can do what you did though.”
“You do not have to be perfect,” Chef Taki assures him. “The most important thing in cooking is to love the food. I’ll show you.”
“How about we make this interesting?” Kinn suggests, looking right at Porsche. “A little competition, maybe? Whoever makes the better dish gets to ask for something from the other. Chef Taki will judge. Unless you aren’t up for the challenge?”
Kinn’s little phoenix is a fighter down to his very marrow. The challenge lights up his eyes, makes him tilt his chin stubbornly.
“You’re on.”
Chef Taki sets them up side by side at their own stations, with ingredients already set out for each of them. He does indeed guide them through every step, and the hostess brings them refreshing fruity drinks while they work. Chef Taki occasionally pauses to present them with little pre-prepped side dishes to snack on between stages. The cooking itself is going well until Kinn notices his bowl of greens has disappeared. That’s when he realizes that Porsche has started sabotaging him, stealing his ingredients. Kinn retaliates, waiting until Porsche is distracted so he can steal Porsche’s little bowl of slivered ginger.
He watches for the moment Porsche realizes the ginger is missing, and then he holds up the dish.
“This is also an aphrodisiac, you know,” Kinn says, and he takes a big pinch of it and shoves it in his mouth. It’s delicious, a gentle sort of spice that warms and cools his mouth at the same time.
“Hey, asshole, give that back!” Porsche says. But it’s already too late, and Kinn sticks his tongue out to show him.
Chef Taki scolds them mildly, getting them back on track and cooking again.
They both present their salads for Chef Taki’s judgment, each serving him a little piece of sauced salmon along with fresh greens. He tastes each and seems to be considering his choices. When he looks at Kinn, Kinn gives a subtle nod toward Porsche.
“My friends, you have both done well,” Chef Taki praises. “It is a gift to have good students, even if they are naughty sometimes. But today Phoenix is the winner.”
Porsche isn’t satisfied with that, though, looking suspiciously between the chef and Kinn. “I’m not so sure. I gotta see this for myself.” He collects his chopsticks and then helps himself to a small bite off the top of Kinn’s bowl.
“Fine, I will too.” Kinn does the same, first taking a bite of his own dish. It’s surprisingly tasty, though not quite as perfectly delicate as the chef’s.
Then he and Porsche each take a bite of Porsche’s salmon, which is more tender.
Porsche nods in satisfaction. “Yeah, I kicked your ass.”
And Kinn is too happy to even feel insulted. “You did.”
“The secret,” Chef Taki says, “is that Phoenix did not grill it so long. Khun Kinn, you were distracted.”
So maybe he was looking at Porsche a little too much and not minding his fish. He can concede defeat graciously.
“Come, yes, you can eat now,” Chef Taki says. “While you eat, I will make you dessert.”
While they’re eating, Kinn playfully tries to swipe pieces of Porsche’s salmon, but Porsche fends him off, protecting his bowl with fast-moving chopsticks.
After they’ve had a chance to eat a little, Kinn asks, “Any thoughts on your special request? You did win fair and square.”
“Yeah, despite you colluding with the judge,” Porsche says with a dubious look out of the corner of his eye. He drops the look a moment later though and seems to be contemplating his request seriously. “I was thinking about something, but I’m not sure it’s even an option.”
“Try me.”
Kinn is confident for good reason; there’s very little he can’t make happen in this city.
Porsche pokes restlessly at the leaves in his bowl. “I think it might be a good idea to finish high school.”
Kinn isn’t certain what he expected, but that wasn’t it. An unexpected pang zips through his chest. But before he can answer, Porsche goes on, still not looking up at Kinn.
“It’s not that I liked school or anything. But half the other guards have done at least some college, and all of them finished high school. And it’s just… normal, I guess.” He looks up at Kinn, stubbornness written in his face. “But I’m not going to sit in a class with a bunch of kids.”
“No. No, that’s fine,” Kinn agrees. “No classes. I’m sure there’s an online option. I can have human resources facilitate it for you. And you’re right; it is a good idea.”
A smile grows on Porsche’s face, and for Kinn it’s like stepping out into the sun after being in a dark theater. He isn’t prepared. He wants to reach out and touch, not out of lust or desire but simply because that smile looks so softly joyful, enthusiastic. Kinn hesitates, and the longer he stares, the more the smile starts to fade.
“Kinn?” Porsche asks.
Kinn shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”
He’s saved from having to explain when Chef Taki approaches with two elegantly prepared dessert plates for them.
“I have for you chili mango slices, along with coconut rice pudding with a chili-infused honey drizzle. Please enjoy.”
Kinn and Porsche thank him simultaneously, and Porsche doesn’t hesitate to take a big bite of mango.
“You know…” Kinn starts, teasing grin starting to kick up at the corners of his mouth.
“Wait, don’t tell me,” Porsche says, “mango is considered an aphrodisiac, too?”
“No.” Kinn nods at the plates and bounces his eyebrows playfully. “But chili is.”
That wins a snicker from Porsche, and Kinn grins stupidly as they eat. He spends most of dessert watching Porsche eat and only half-tastes his own dish.
When Chef Taki steps away for a few minutes, Kinn straightens up in his seat and looks Porsche over. He’s still savoring his last bite of rice pudding, and he isn’t paying any attention to Kinn right now. His tongue sneaks out to catch a little bit of remaining flavor off his spoon, and Kinn savors the steady burn that’s quietly growing in his lower belly.
“So?” Kinn asks. “How seduced are you feeling now?”
Porsche turns a teasing look Kinn’s way and makes a cute little moue. “Eh. Maybe thirty percent.” He makes a wobbling motion with one hand. “It was fun. Not exactly ‘jump in bed with my boss’ kind of fun, but I liked it.”
Porsche’s words are a sudden and undesired reminder to Kinn about their situation, but he brushes it to the side with little effort. Instead he grins. “Then it’s a good thing I have more plans. But I want to work on that percentage. Just a second…”
There’s a little bit of mango juice shining in the corner of Porsche’s mouth. Irresistible. Kinn leans in for it, licking it away and dipping his tongue between Porsche’s lips to chase after the flavor of the sticky rice. The taste is sweet, but also rich with something that’s uniquely Porsche. Porsche’s tongue darts forward, and Kinn lets him take his own quick taste before he pulls away.
“How’s that percentage now?” Kinn whispers playfully.
Porsche takes a moment to bite at his own lips and run his tongue over them. “Maybe thirty-three percent now. Could have been better, but you’re a tease, Ai’Kinn.”
A giggle sneaks out of Kinn at that. It’s wholly unbecoming of a mafia leader, and yet there it is. Porsche smiles back at him.
Chef Taki comes back with two little neatly wrapped boxes that he presents to them.
“Snacks for later, Japanese red bean cakes, daifuku. Please enjoy.”
After exchanging thank yous and goodbyes with Chef Taki, they start making their way out of the kitchen.
“So where are we going next?” Porsche asks.
Kinn smiles and has to bite his own lip to keep from blowing the surprise. “You’ll see when we get there. A little birdie gave me a tip about this one, and I think you’re going to like it a lot.”
Porsche gives him a confused little look and just shakes his head. “Fine, keep your secrets.”
They reach the door to the main area of the restaurant and have to wipe the smiles off their faces before they step out and collect Pete. Porsche carries both of the daifuku boxes.
When they reach the cars, Kinn gives Pete the address for their next destination, which happens to be Kim’s studio. Pete’s jaw just about hits the ground in shock. Kinn breezes past him and gets into his Maserati with Porsche at his side. Sure, Kinn planned the day for Porsche; confusing and tormenting Pete is just an extra bonus for him.
Kim’s studio is on the opposite side of town, but the drive is pleasant with good company. Porsche is quiet for most of the way, but Kinn notices when he starts fiddling with one of the gift boxes. He insists Porsche go ahead and try the treats, and he ends up sacrificing his own just to see Porsche enjoy it out of the corner of his eye.
God, that mouth of his. Kinn has a lot of plans for it, plans that are going to be very, very good for both of them. All he needs is one little “yes,” and then he’s going to multiply it into a thousand yeses, preferably desperate ones interspersed with Kinn’s own name.
At a stop light, Kinn takes a deep, calming breath. First things first.
They arrive at the studio and park outside on the street. When Kinn tells Pete to stay in his car, Pete looks like he’s ready to start crying, and only then is Kinn ready to forgive him for the shit he pulled. He’s actually quite satisfied. Maybe he should ask Tankhun for tips about more creative punishments like this; he’s had a sudden revelation that maybe he’s been missing out all this time.
Kinn leads Porsche into the building and down a long hallway. He’s never been here before, but Kim gave him clear instructions. Porsche is looking all around, trying to figure out what’s going on. Nothing about the plain, gray hallway with its fabric-padded walls really gives anything away.
They arrive at a bright red door, and Kinn reaches for the handle, finding it unlocked. Huh. Maybe he should take Kim aside and remind him to be a little more cautious.
Kinn is about to open the door when he gets a bit of inspiration at the last second. He turns back to Porsche.
“Close your eyes,” he says, smiling. It’ll be even more fun this way.
“What?” Porsche asks, balking. “Why?”
“C’mon, just do it.”
Porsche winkles his nose and closes his eyes. Kinn waves his hand in front of his face, and his eyes pop open instantly.
“Hey, no cheating,” Kinn accuses.
“Fine! Fine. Whatever. Here, are you happy?” He covers his eyes with both hands. “But you can’t let me trip over anything.”
“I won’t, I won’t,” Kinn says.
Porsche has his eyes covered, leaving his nose and the little cupid’s bow of his lip exposed. Of course Kinn can’t resist, so he sneaks a kiss, making Porsche laugh and smack him away.
“You’re peeking again.”
Porsche grumbles and re-covers his eyes.
Kinn grins. He opens the door and takes Porsche’s elbow to guide him through.
Kim is definitely going to be annoyed with him, but Kinn won’t let that stop him now.
Kinn is so annoying. He’s late. Of course he’s late. He was supposed to arrive at the studio half an hour ago. Kim, unable to help himself, has already started mentally running through possible scenarios. The longer it goes on without word, the more frequently he checks his phone.
Porchay, meanwhile, is extremely calm and collected for a college student who’s about to meet the top mafia boss in Bangkok. He sits next to the piano, his own guitar snug in his lap. He occasionally leans over to make notes on the sheet music spread out on the piano bench. He’s dressed more conservatively than Kim expected, with a pale green button-down shirt and loads of accessories — watch, familiar necklace, earrings, and two ear cuffs on the left ear. He’s definitely going for that “rising star” appeal today.
Eventually Porchay looks up, a little frown between his brows.
“Hear anything yet?”
Kim shakes his head. “Not yet.”
Porchay huffs. “I guess when you’re that powerful, you set your own schedule. I just hope he gets here soon.”
“You know, anyone else would be shaking in their boots right now,” Kim says idly. “The thought of meeting Kinn makes grown men cry.”
Porchay shrugs and grins up at Kim cheekily. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not anyone else.”
Little shit. “You’re going to leave the discussion of favors to me, yeah? Like we agreed?”
Porchay’s mouth flattens into a comical line of disgruntlement. “Are you going to get it right?”
“Yes.” Kinn may be a hardass for anyone else, but he’s putty for Kim when he asks for things. Child’s play.
Porchay’s frown disappears. “Then I’ll leave it to you. But I want to be there. I don’t want to be shut out like some dumb kid.”
That hits home for Kim, sudden and hard. No, getting shut out of important conversations is never pleasant. “You can be there.”
Porchay looks at him for a long moment before nodding. He goes back to scribbling notes.
A minute later, Porchay says, “You’re pacing again,” without even looking up.
Kim halts midstep and puts his foot down. He levels Porchay with a glare that most other people shy away from, but Porchay only snickers.
Not long after, there’s finally a noise at the door. Kim stares at it, but nothing happens right away, and in the meantime Porchay puts down his guitar and comes to stand next to Kim.
“I thought I heard something,” Porchay says.
Kim makes a small hum of agreement. The delay is making his fingers itch, and he starts to cautiously reach into the inside of his jacket where he has a gun tucked away. Before his nerves snap, though, the door opens, and Kinn comes through it first, followed by a casually dressed man who has his hands covering his face. Kinn is leading the other man with a hand around one of his elbows, and Kinn is… giggling?
“Holy shit,” Porchay whispers next to Kim, “are they on a date? That’s fucking adorable.”
Kim feels his whole face twitch. There’s no denying it; Kinn is looking at the guy like he wants to pounce on him at any second. They’re exchanging quiet, teasing comments that Kim can’t quite catch from across the room, and the man with his eyes covered is smiling. He doesn’t look like Kinn’s usual twinks, but that doesn’t mean much.
Kim’s brother used Kim’s connections to impress a fucking date. The primary reason Kim even picked up the phone at all was because he assumed there was a situation, or that it was something to do with dad’s health. Then Kinn made it sound like he needed to impress some sort of business partner, but thinking back, Kinn had been very selective with his wording.
Nevermind getting a favor just for Porchay. Kinn owes Kim for this.
Kinn giggles again.
“I thought you said this was the guy who was supposed to make me quake in my boots?” Porchay whispers to Kim out of the corner of his mouth. “Ooh, I’m so scared.”
“I’m gonna kill him,” Kim grits out between his teeth.
Porchay only laughs quietly at him. “Hey, look on the bright side. At least you don’t have to worry about me seducing him, at least not today.”
Kinn has halted his companion while they’re still some distance away from Kim and Porchay.
“Can I look now?” asks the man, who’s still covering his eyes. “C’mon, Kinn.”
Kinn arranges him so he’s generally facing the center of the studio. Meanwhile, Kinn is beaming, fucking beaming, and Kim wants to punch him just a little.
“Okay, go ahead. Open them!”
The man takes his hands off his eyes with a little flourish. He blinks a couple times rapidly at the light, and his eyes don’t seem to know where to land, bouncing from the instruments to the floor to Kinn. Then his gaze falls on Kim and Porchay and comes to an abrupt halt.
The first thing Kim thinks is that the man looks familiar somehow. Kim is excellent with faces, has been trained to remember them, so normally he doesn’t have any trouble with recognition. Then the man moves just a little, and Kim notices the two large scars next to his right eye — there’s no way in hell Kim wouldn’t recognize him with identifying marks like that.
The grin slowly fades off the man’s face. His mouth hangs open just a little as he stares at Porchay. Tension of a completely different sort is starting to fill the room, thickening the air so that Kim can almost taste it.
That’s when Kim realizes that next to him, Porchay has gone very, very still.
Kim looks sharply at Porchay’s face. There’s a sudden faint paleness to his skin, and his eyes are wide, unblinking. Kim isn’t sure he’s even breathing. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.
Something clicks together in Kim’s brain. He snaps his gaze back to the scarred man, and in his mind’s eye, he brings up the pictures Porchay showed him just a few days ago.
No. No way. It couldn’t possibly be.
“Hey, hey,” Kinn murmurs to the man. “What’s wrong?”
It makes the man startle and glance at Kinn with an unintelligible little sound in reply, but then his eyes gravitate back to Porchay.
“Hia? ” Porchay breaths out softly, and then as though suddenly realizing he needs air, he gasps to fill his lungs. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes hard.
Kim looks at the man again and knows that no amount of doubt or disbelief will dispel the truth.
When Porchay looks up again, he lets out a small, broken sound, and the tension snaps. Kim knows with certainty that Porchay is about to bolt forward, and he can’t let that happen, so he clamps a hand on Porchay’s upper arm in a steely grip.
Porchay looks at him with wild, fearless eyes, ready to strike at anyone or anything that would get in his way.
“You can’t,” Kim hisses. “Kinn is always carrying, and if you suddenly run at him, he will shoot you down.”
Something vaguely like reason and logic slowly appears in Porchay’s eyes, and only then does Kim loosen his grip. He almost certainly left a mark.
Porchay nods and shakes off Kim’s hand. Kim watches him like a hawk, but he steps forward slowly. Kim follows even more slowly, several paces behind. When he’s within arm’s reach of the man, who hasn’t yet moved, Porchay halts. Kim dares to look away from Porchay again to check on the other parties. Kinn seems to be beyond bewildered, and as for Porsche… he’s shaking. He looks like he’s caught between having a panic attack and going catatonic. His eyes are almost glassy, but he’s breathing fast like he’s just been running.
“Hia? ”
This time when Porchay says it, he’s close enough for Porsche and Kinn to hear, and Kim witnesses as the word hits them both like a physical shock. Kinn looks like he’s rapidly trying to catch up, and meanwhile Porsche has gone pale and is now looking straight at Porchay, similarly unblinking.
“Hia? It is you, isn’t it?” Porchay’s chin trembles. “Do you… recognize me?”
Porsche makes an aborted motion to reach out and touch Porchay, but he makes a helpless little sound and almost draws his hand back, like he isn’t allowed, like he can’t have this. Porchay doesn’t stand for that though — he captures Porsche’s wrist, and his knuckles go white from holding on tightly. Kim wishes he could just shove the two of them together, but he doesn’t even dare move.
“Hia? ” Porchay says a third time, and now his chin is wobbling dangerously. His voice breaks when he speaks again. “Porsche! I swear I… I never stopped searching for you. I didn’t, I never gave up, I swear!”
And that, apparently, is all it takes to break a man. Porsche’s face twists and then crumbles, and tears fill his eyes. He doesn’t move, but he lets out a sudden, wet, sobbing gasp. It spurs Porchay into motion, and he finally lunges forward the way he wanted to, the way Kim prevented him from doing at the start. He wraps himself around Porsche like he wants to crawl inside, burying his face in Porsche’s shoulder.
Porsche gasps and sobs again, and his arms clamp around Porchay like a vice, his fingers digging into Porchay’s shirt so tightly they look like they could rip it. As Porchay did with him, Porsche tucks his face down into Porchay’s neck, and it’s as though they’ve shut out the entire world. Kim and Kinn can only look on from the outside as the reunited brothers cry and clutch each other close, desperate and clinging. The embrace looks painful, like they can barely breathe. They don’t look like they care.
Kim casts a questioning look at Kinn. What the fuck?
Kinn shakes his head, widening his eyes with a shrug. You think I knew? He points at Porchay and frowns. What about you, huh?
Kim rolls his eyes and cringes. Long story.
As the hug goes on, Kim has time to think and start putting together questions, ones that Kinn isn’t going to be able to answer with simple gestures.
Eventually, Porsche pulls just his face back so he can look at Porchay, though it must be difficult to see because he’s still crying, and his lashes are clumping with the tears. Porchay lifts his head, and he’s in a similar state.
Porsche barks out a watery laugh. “You’re so tall.” He uses both hands to stroke Porchay’s hair, which is mussed.
Porchay returns the laugh between hiccuping breaths. “Maybe you got shorter.” They both laugh helplessly at that, and then for several heartbeats they’re just staring, each soaking in the other’s appearance, changes and all. Porchay lifts a hand, letting it hover over the right side of Porsche’s face without touching.
Porsche flinches and goes quiet, pleading with his eyes. But Porchay asks the question anyway.
“Who did this to you?” There’s something hard and jagged in Porchay’s words, like the edge of a serrated knife.
“It isn’t,” Porsche shakes his head, more tears welling even though he smiles through them. “It doesn’t matter, okay? Hey? It doesn’t matter. S’okay.”
“Tell me.” Porchay gives Porsche a little shake, which only ends up making them both wobble. “Tell me! I’ll kill them for you. I’ll do it.”
At that, Porsche lets out a broken cry, and then he starts frantically shushing Porchay in an attempt to calm him. “No, no, no, it’s okay. It was so long ago. I killed it, okay? It was a dog. I killed it already.”
Kim sucks in a quick breath at the implications, and Porchay must grasp them too. Porchay’s throat makes a harsh clicking sound as he swallows, and then he lets out an uncontrolled whimper. The whimper grows into a moan, which swells into a short, screaming cry. He buries his face in Porsche’s chest, and his legs seem to give out at the same moment. Porsche tries to hold him up, but they end up in a toppled pile on the ground, with Kim and Kinn both too late to catch them.
Kinn curses and runs a hand over his face, turning his back on the brothers and stepping a few paces away. Whether Kinn is giving them space or taking space for himself, Kim isn’t certain.
The sound of Porchay crying is buzzing in Kim’s brain unpleasantly, like its own unique sort of headache. He hates it.
Kim quietly steps over to Kinn’s side, staring a hole into the side of his brother’s head and trying to figure out what the hell he’s even thinking. Kim knew Kinn could be vicious, brutal even. Kim doesn’t want to believe Kinn would own a person, keep a pet slave like a toy, but the evidence before him is damning.
“What’s the price of his contract?” Kim asks softly, the words for Kinn’s ears alone. They can’t be heard over the sounds of two men crying and trying to come to grips with their unexpected reunion.
“What?” Kinn snaps back, just as quietly.
“Tell me the price,” Kim insists, getting really angry now.
“You think I—” Kinn darts a look over at the Kittisawat brothers and then back at Kim. “Dammit, Kim. It’s not like that. He’s a bodyguard.”
Something like hope tries to spark inside Kim, but he squashes it down. Hope is useless; what he needs are facts. “Then tell me what’s going on. And I’ll know if you’re bullshitting.”
Too late, Kim realizes that the crying has quieted down.
“Hey,” Porchay says, his voice wrecked, “hey, what are you talking about?”
Kim and Kinn both turn to face them. Porsche is sitting with his legs splayed and Porchay half on top of him, but Porchay is pushing himself upright and onto his knees. Porsche follows suit, crossing his legs together and clinging to Porchay’s arm with one hand. Porchay looks at him briefly and returns the gesture, so they’re sitting with arms attached firmly, each grasping the other’s wrist.
“Trying to sort out some business,” Kim says, looking at Kinn.
Porchay’s face is a mess. He hastily rubs the sleeve of his free hand over it, shakes himself a little, and then looks up at Kinn.
“I have questions,” Porchay says, jutting his chin forward.
“I imagine you do,” Kinn says. “Kim, is there a better place to talk?”
Kim looks around and realizes there isn’t exactly an abundance of comfortable chairs around. “Sound booth,” he says. It isn’t ideal, but at least there are three cushioned chairs in there. Porchay and Porsche help each other to their feet, and Kim snags a metal stool for himself as he leads everyone into the booth. Porsche and Porchay are quiet, lost in their thoughts and hardly looking away from each other.
The four of them get settled in, the reunited brothers sitting side by side, Porchay keeping a pinch of Porsche’s outer shirt between his fingers. Kinn sits facing them, and Kim perches to one side, looking down over all of them from his stool.
“I have a question first,” Porsche says, his voice unsteady but clear. Then he points at Kim. “You’re… a Theerapanyakul? I think? I saw you in a presentation.”
Kinn glances at Kim. “Yes, Kim is my younger brother.”
Porsche reacts like it’s a big light bulb going on, his eyebrows rising as he looks between Kim and Kinn to find the similarities. Porchay looks like he’s struggling to form questions, opening his mouth and looking at Porsche only to make a confused little face.
Dammit. Porchay’s constant flirting and bravado were annoying, but this? This lost look on his face? This is unbearable.
Kim turns to Kinn. “I’ll go next. What is your connection to Porsche Pachara Kittisawat?”
Kinn levels Kim with a look. “Is this an interrogation now? Really?”
To Kim’s surprise, Porsche laughs quietly. He covers his mouth with his free hand to stifle it. What’s even more surprising is that rather than getting annoyed, Kinn just huffs and shakes his head.
“This is funny to you?” Kinn asks Porsche, mildly amused.
Porsche nods, casually gesturing for Kinn to get on with it, and Porchay takes a big fistful of Porsche’s shirt. Porsche reaches up and clasps a hand around Porchay’s fist.
“He’s my employee, a bodyguard,” Kinn says firmly, directing the answer at Porchay. Then he turns back to Kim. “Would you like to know his salary and benefits?”
Kim narrows his eyes. If it’s a lie, it would be the dumbest one Kinn’s ever told. Kim could verify it in just minutes. Which means he’s telling the truth.
“Maybe later,” Kim says. “How about we go back to when and why you hired Porsche?”
Kinn pulls a face. “Maybe it would be easier if you let me start from the beginning?”
Kim puts his hands up and then gives a gesture for Kinn to go ahead.
Kinn gives him one more glare for good measure. “Thanks. Were you informed when I went to Cape Town?”
Kim nods. “The business trip from over a month ago? Yeah.” Then it clicks. Big had informed him of the mission details before going along with Kinn. “Oh.”
Kinn gives a little head bob of acknowledgement and then turns to Porchay. “I needed to meet with someone, and the only opportunity available was to find him at a particular event. The event was an auction for a high-end trafficking ring.”
Here Kinn has to pause because Porchay starts crying again, and he clutches at Porsche with both hands while Porsche tries to sooth him and calm him, telling him it’s okay. Grinding his teeth, Kim leaves and heads for the supply closet. There are no tissues, but he finds a roll of paper towels and brings them back. Porchay is calming down, but he takes the roll anyway and wipes his face, as does Porsche.
“I’m sorry,” Porchay says. He clears his throat and straightens up, finding his steel spine again and jutting his chin forward at Kinn. “I’m sorry. Go on. I want to know.”
Kim sees a little light of respect spark in Kinn’s eyes. Then, to Kim’s great shock, Kinn meets Porsche’s eyes first. After a moment of questioning stare between them Porsche winces and nods, breaking the stare to look away with a sad frown.
“A lot happened during the event. At one point, Porsche and I ended up in private conversation. He bargained with me, offering information in exchange for bringing him back to Bangkok. It was a good deal, so I took it.”
Porchay’s face twists up, a whole mess of emotions playing across it. “You bought him?”
Porsche answers that. “More like stole? Or kind of an escape.” Porsche reaches with his free hand to clasp the side of Porchay’s head. “He never paid money for me, doesn’t own me. Okay? He’s not the bad guy. He brought me back.”
Something tight and anxious that Kim was holding onto in his own chest eases up, surprising him at the sense of relief. He didn’t want to believe that Kinn would… well, it doesn’t matter what Kim thought because it isn’t true. Porchay searches Porsche’s face long and hard before nodding. Then he turns to Kinn again with the fire firmly back in his eyes.
“Thank you, P’Kinn, for bringing my hia back.”
Kinn tries to smile, but it falls flat, revealing his discomfort. “You don’t have to thank me. It was business. The information he had was extremely valuable to me. After we debriefed him, I offered him a job as my bodyguard. He turned me down, and I let him go.”
Porchay’s eyes go big at that. “You did? But, then, why?” He turns to Porsche, who’s looking down and to the side.
Porsche shrugs and looks at Porchay. “The seller, the one who was running the auction in Cape Town, he came after me, found me. I didn’t… Going back to Kinn and taking the job was the only way. At that point, if those people caught me, they weren’t going to let me live.”
Kim notes the use of Kinn’s first name, no Khun or Phi attached. It’s familiar. It’s overstepping. He thinks back to the way Kinn was guiding Porsche into the studio.
Porchay is taking it all in, and there’s quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment as he digests what he’s heard so far. Porsche looks like he wants to say something but is struggling to find words.
“P’Kim said,” Porchay swallows and looks at Kinn, “he said you were bringing someone today who was my fan. Porsche?” He looks at his brother again. “You acted like you didn’t even know you were coming to see me today, but you’re a fan? You knew I was a singer, but… you… didn’t…”
Porchay lets go of Porsche’s shirt, his hand falling away limp.
“No, no, hey, hey, Chay?” Porsche grabs Porchay’s head with both hands. “I’m your biggest fan, no bigger fan than me, okay? I’ve listened to every one of your songs a hundred times, watched every interview.”
Porchay grabs Porsche’s wrists with both hands. “Then why didn’t you come find me? All of that, every single bit of it, was in case you ever needed to find me. It was all for you, so why didn’t you— You didn’t try to contact me at all? Then what the fuck was it all for?”
Porsche makes a little cry of dismay and moves his hands to Porchay’s shoulders, clutching the fabric there. “I did, I did, you’re so smart. It was so easy to find you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He’s pleading, trying to draw Porchay closer, but Porchay isn’t having any of it, struggling to keep from being embraced.
“What do you mean you did?”
This is painful to watch, but Kim can’t look away, and he feels his heart in his throat. He feels like he needs the answer almost as much as Porchay does.
But Porsche hesitates. “I—”
“Tell me.” Porchay says quietly, but then he follows it up with a yell. “Tell me everything, and don’t you dare lie to me. Not you. I will find out.”
The rage gets through to Porsche, and reluctantly he answers. “Your— After Kinn let me go, I found your website, sent a message. Your, um, your foster mom, she said, well, we talked, and it— Chay, you have to understand, it wasn’t safe. Hours later, there were men chasing me down, wanting me dead. And now…” Porsche looks helplessly at Kinn and then Kim, as though either of them have any better answers.
There’s a dreadful stillness from Porchay then, electricity in the air. The hair on the back of Kim’s neck rises.
“You talked… to mom. She knew. She knew.”
“Chay—”
Kim sees it coming, but he’s too slow. Porchay explodes, shrugging Porsche off with a cry. Porchay rises and kicks his rolling chair away so hard that it falls over backwards with a clatter. Kim springs off his stool and gets a hold of Porchay before he can do anything else. He struggles in Kim’s arms, cursing and spitting. Porsche rises in alarm, but thankfully Kinn is helpful for once; he holds Porsche back as Kim wrestles Porchay out of the sound booth and back into the studio. The door swings shut behind them.
“Let me go!”
“Fine!” Kim does so, shoving Porchay away from him, pointing at him. “Chill the fuck out! Cool off, Porchay. Come back in when you have your fucking head on straight.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that? My brother was right fucking there, and she kept that from me!” His eyes are red from crying, fresh tears making their way down tan cheeks.
Kim snarls back. “You do not wanna compare notes with me about being lied to. We deal with it, we find the truth, and we move on. Now stop acting like a feral cat and fucking calm down. Throwing a tantrum like a brat isn’t getting you any answers.”
Porchay gives a wordless scream of outrage and turns away. Kim turns away as well, going back into the sound booth. There he finds Porsche hunched over, his face hidden in both hands and his shoulders shaking while Kinn crouches down next to him. When Kim enters, they both look up.
“Chay—” Porsche starts.
“He’s walking it off,” Kim says bluntly. “He’ll be back when he’s calmed down.”
“He reminds me of someone I know,” Kinn says with one brow raised right at Kim.
Kim looks him dead in the eye. Really? Now is not the time. He hasn’t acted like that since his early teens. But Kinn only shrugs and gets back to his feet.
“So what’s going on between you two?” Kim asks instead. He doesn’t really want to ask, but he figures it might be better to know what he’s dealing with before Porchay gets back.
He waits patiently while neither one seems to be able to answer him. However, instead of looking guiltily at Kim, they look questioningly at each other.
Ah. So they don’t even know. What a clusterfuck.
“Forget it,” Kim says. “Doesn’t matter.” He looks through the large glass window into the studio to see Porchay pacing with his hands on his hips. He doesn’t look great, but it’s progress at least.
“I could ask you the same question,” Porsche says, looking up at Kim.
It takes Kim a moment to catch on, and then he shrugs. “You’re not going to like it.”
Porsche sighs and makes a long, slow blink. “Better just tell me.”
“He’s using my connections to search for any information about you.”
“What? Kim!” Kinn is more shocked than Porsche, probably that Kim would let someone use him that way.
“Well, it worked out, didn’t it?” Kim says, and he did not mean that tone of defensiveness to slip into his voice.
At that, Porsche starts laughing quietly. He puts his head back on the chair, tilting back to look at the ceiling as he continues to giggle.
“What are the odds?” Porsche says breathlessly.
“If you even think about making a joke about bets, I will push your chair over,” Kinn threatens without any real heat.
For some reason that only makes Porsche laugh harder.
“Hey, Porsche?” Kinn says, and Kim is shocked at how gentle it sounds. His brother does not sound like that. He just doesn’t. “I didn’t mean to spring this on you.” And Kim’s brother also does not apologize to anyone, so what the hell even is this day?
Porsche smiles with wistfulness, regret, joy, and serenity all rolled up into that one expression. “I know. But I’m really, really glad. Sorry your plans got messed up.”
Kinn smiles back. “Don’t worry about it. Hey. I’m glad you found your brother.”
And now Kim feels way, way more awkward and uncomfortable than he did when Porsche and Porchay were pouring their hearts out. He desperately needs out of this room.
However, just as he’s about to quietly exit, Porchay comes back in.
“Chay, I’m sorry,” Porsche says quickly.
Porchay shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry I lost my temper. That’s something I’m working on. I really, really don’t like being lied to. Uncle Thee lied to me, Porsche. He lied a lot.”
Something hot and hard-edged sparks in Porsche’s eyes, and Kim recognizes it as the same sort of fire that Porchay has. However, in Porsche the fire has already been tempered to perfection.
“Yeah, yeah he did,” Porsche agrees.
Porsche gets up and opens his arms, and Porchay steps into them. They aren’t crying this time; they seem too tired for that. But there’s an aching longing between them, one that appears to pull them together like magnets, and still it doesn’t seem to satisfy either of them. Kim wonders whether anything can ever actually soothe the ache of what was taken from them.
Porchay pulls away first and pats Porsche’s chest, pushing him back. He looks at Porsche for a moment and then nods as though he’s come to a decision. Then he turns to Kinn.
“P’Kinn, I want to thank you again for all that you’ve done for hia. But I was thinking just now, that he deserves to be really free, not working for you just to escape some assholes. So, how can he get out?”
Kim’s eyes snap to Kinn, but Kinn doesn’t say anything right away. He puts his hands on his hips and scuffs his feet on the dirty carpet.
“Chay…” Porsche says, but he gives up, dropping his forehead to Porchay’s shoulder. He radiates defeat.
Looking like he just bit into a lime, Kinn answers in that same gentle voice he used before. “It’s not just a matter of the one dealer, Porchay. Your hia was, is, one of the most well-known prize fighters in the underground world. He could try to get out, but he’d never be safe. Not for long.”
Porchay nods slowly as though he was expecting something along those lines. He puts an arm around Porsche’s shoulders and pulls him closer.
“Okay. Then how do I get in?”
Porsche explodes into denial, telling Porchay “no” and “stay out” and “follow your dreams,” but Kim hears only every other word. The rest of his head is filled with a roaring, painful static. “How do I get in” echoes in his skull over and over.
Kinn’s presence burns a hole in the universe next to Kim. All Kim wants to know is the expression on Kinn’s face right now, but he feels sick to his stomach. He can’t bear to look at the brother he abandoned.
Kim has called Kinn ruthless and cold. But of the two of them, he knows which one is colder, crueler, more selfish.
This time it’s Kim’s turn to cool off. He walks out of the sound booth, finds a far corner of the studio, and he sits there on the floor, head hanging between his knees.
He isn’t sure how long he sits. It’s a long time. Eventually, footsteps approach.
“Kim?”
Kim doesn’t respond.
“Nong? ”
Hesitantly, Kim lifts his head, looking up at Kinn.
“They’re talking. They need some time. I was thinking, maybe I could hear you play a bit while we give them space?”
Kim nods. He feels as though, maybe, he might like that. If nothing else, it will kill some time.
So he plays.
“Tankhun is going to be so jealous,” Kinn says, smiling, his eyes closed.
Kim stares down at the strings. He thinks he hears what Kinn is trying to say.
It’s a long-ass afternoon. Porsche and Porchay talk for a long time. Kim plays song after song, and when he gets tired of the guitar, he switches to the piano. Then there’s more talking, as Kim gets Kinn caught up on his findings about the apparent Kittisawat-Theerapanyakul connection.
At some point, Kinn picks up his phone and wanders slightly away from the instruments, getting back to business as best he can.
Eventually the Kittisawat brothers emerge from the sound booth, and Kim gets to his feet. They both look exhausted, and they’ve both definitely been crying again. Of the two, though, Porsche looks worse. There’s something off about him, a sort of blankness, like all the fire has gone out.
Kim knows that look. He’s seen it in the mirror before. But it worries Porchay, and Kinn has to reassure him that Porsche just needs a chance to rest. Wordlessly, Porsche strokes Porchay’s hair and then places his forehead on his shoulder. Porchay seems to have dropped his attempt to worm his way onto Kinn’s payroll, at least for now.
Contact information gets exchanged. When Kinn explains that Porsche can’t carry a cellphone, Porchay gives him devastated eyes that make Kinn fold like a piece of wet paper. Then the brothers hug goodbye, and it lasts seven minutes. Kim knows because he times it. Porsche keeps muttering “see you soon” to Porchay over and over.
Then Kim watches Porchay watch his brother leave, following Kinn back into the dark underbelly of Thailand. When the door shuts behind them, Porchay puts his hands on his hips and just stands there, staring at the door.
Kim isn’t great with words at the best of times, let alone a time like this. He stays silent, waiting.
But the usually chatty Porchay doesn’t talk right away. Instead he takes a couple of steps to the wall by the door and rests his forehead against it. He stands there for a long time, sometimes rolling his forehead against the fabric of the acoustic panel.
“He’s alive,” Porchay mutters. “He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.”
Kim wishes he could say “congratulations on finding your brother,” but the whole situation is too solemn and sour for that. There’s a bitterness that lingers, tainting the victory.
Porchay slowly rolls so that he’s facing Kim, leaning against the wall now with his head tilted back.
“You know? He’s been all over the world,” Porchay says conversationally. “When we were kids, we thought it would have been a miracle if we ever had the chance to travel out of the country. But now he’s been almost everywhere. Because he was sold, over and over.”
“Porchay…” Kim starts, and hesitates. “The truth was never going to be pretty. You knew that.”
“I know! I know, god, I know it,” he says, his face stretched in a grimace. “But I just don’t know what to do with it. He’s alive, and he’s still fucking trapped, and what can I do for him? And then there’s my mom, who lied to me like all the rest of them.”
Porchay grits his teeth around an unintelligible snarl, balling his right hand in a fist. He raises it up like he doesn’t know what to do with it, but then he bangs it backwards against the padding.
Thunk.
Then again harder.
Thunk.
And again, hard enough to make Kim wince.
THUNK!
But Kim can see in Porchay’s eyes that the slight sting still isn’t enough for him. Letting out a wordless shout, Porchay turns and raises his arm, pulling the elbow all the way back, and Kim has to take action before Porchay breaks the panel, himself, or both.
He’s on Porchay in a flash, hooking his own arm through his and spinning him to shove him back against the wall again. Kim gets into his space, and Porchay keeps him at bay with forearms raised, clenched fists pushing against Kim’s clavacals.
Kim says urgently, “I get that you’re angry, and I get that you’re frustrated, but he’s alive! And you’re alive, so you can be there for him now.”
“You don’t understand anything,” Porchay says, and it’s quieter now, though no less emotional for the fact that he’s stopped shouting. “Do you want to know what he told me when we were talking? He lived for me. For me. So that he could find me and make sure Uncle Thee hadn’t sold me, too.”
Tears threaten to spill again, but Porchay sucks in a deep breath and somehow chokes them down. Kim eases backwards a fraction, and Porchay gives him a look that’s cloudy with too many emotions to name, and maybe emotions that have no name at all.
“So if I need to hit something, that’s my fucking business,” Porchay says, his voice growing cold and hard. Then he blinks and seems to finally see Kim. Something curious flashes across his features, and then suddenly he is focused, completely and entirely, on what’s right in front of him. And he likes what he sees. “But maybe I don’t have to hit something. Maybe there’s something nicer I could do. Yeah, that could be very, very good.”
Porchay leans his head forward just a bit, eyes locked on Kim’s like a tiger watching its next meal. His eyes dart between Kim’s eyes and his lips.
But Kim is not easy prey, and being treated as such makes him instinctively sneer in challenge.
Porchay huffs with a sneer of his own and pulls back. “Fine. Whether it’s a fight or a fuck, I have other options.”
Porchay shoves away from the wall and attempts to push past Kim, but despite his larger size and bulk, Kim easily snags an arm around his waist and shoves him back into the wall, stunning him momentarily.
Kim realizes he’s breathing harder. His nostrils flare. Porchay smells like tears and something herbal, likely his shampoo.
Kim doesn’t like being challenged. But he likes the idea of Porchay walking out, away, toward something or someone else, even less. In fact, it makes him furious.
Porchay is looking at Kim, shaken and surprised, but then his eyes narrow.
“You’re mad,” he says like it’s a revelation. He seems like he’s finally able to think about something outside of his own head. “You do want me, and you’re pissed about it.” He lets his head thunk back against the padded panel, looking down at Kim and just staring.
Porchay doesn’t grin. He doesn’t gloat about it. If he did, Kim would walk away, regardless of whatever Porchay might do when left to his own devices. Instead, Porchay simply watches Kim and waits. Kim puts his hands to either side of Porchay’s head and just looks at him, taking him in. Porchay looks like he’s nothing but a raw nerve, exposed and vulnerable, overflowing with need, so unlike the teasing games he’s played before.
“You don’t want me going anywhere else,” Porchay says, a simple statement of fact.
The thought of it makes Kim want to put his own fist through the panel.
“You said it yourself,” Kim says, and he hardly recognizes his own voice for how rough it sounds, “I’m the jealous type."
That gets Porchay’s lips to quirk, a little amused smile.
“You called me a feral cat,” Porchay says quietly, hungrily, “but I think you’re just as wild as I am. I wanna see how wild.”
And then Kim’s busy head goes completely blank.
He surges, and Porchay draws him in with two firm arms around his back, and their mouths crash together. It’s painful, it’s all wrong, and Kim needs it. They gasp into each other’s mouths, and Porchay moves just so, and then they’re kissing properly, deeply.
Porchay tastes like rage and kisses like he’s making a threat.
Kim is mentally drained, exhausted from the afternoon and the running thread of tension, but his body suddenly has an agenda of its own. He’s electrified, a live wire, and kissing isn’t enough. When Porchay tries to surge forward again, crowding Kim, he takes hold of his waist, pinning him back against the wall again. That gets a satisfying grunt, and then Porchay gets with the program, running his hands all over Kim’s back, up and down, up and down, and then down further, getting a hold of Kim’s ass and hauling him tight, so they’re pressed together from lips to thighs. One of Porchay’s hands slips back up, under Kim’s jacket, untucking his shirt to get at the skin beneath. Kim bites Porchay’s lips in retaliation, which only makes the young man laugh and pull back, eyes sparkling dangerously.
“You’re so, so hot. I’ve been dying to get my hands on you this whole time. You gonna give me what I want, P’Kim?” He licks his bottom lip where Kim bit it, and then he bites it again himself. Kim is starting to get hard against Porchay’s crotch, and the other boy grinds forward against him, demonstrating that he’s already stiff. “Gonna take me for a ride?”
Is Kim really going to have sex for the first time in his music studio? Porchay’s hand clenches on his ass and draws him in for another filthy grind, and yeah, yeah, he really is.
“We don’t have—”
“I do.” Porchay grins and then reverses their positions, so now Kim has his back to the wall. When Porchay straightens up, Kim realizes he’d been sagging against the wall to accommodate Kim’s height, but now he practically surrounds Kim. He leans in to get his teeth on Kim’s ear and then whispers, “You lock the door. I have stuff in my bag.”
Porchay gives him another small, quick kiss and then pulls away. He keeps eye contact until he has to turn away.
Kim’s groin pulses, almost like it’s commanding him to follow. For a moment he just sucks in air, one breath at a time, but then he goes and locks the door before joining Porchay in the center of the room, among the many instruments and music stands. Porchay stands over his backpack, which is propped on the piano bench. What looks like gym clothes have been scattered on the floor.
“What are you doing?” Kim asks.
Porchay looks between the clothes and Kim and then grins cheekily. “Makeshift bed. They’re clean, I promise. Was planning on working out, but…” He shrugs dismissively.
The ridiculousness of it catches Kim’s attention, clears a tiny portion of the fog from his brain. “Maybe we should relocate.” They could find at least a couch if not a proper bed.
Porchay’s eyes spark with challenge, and then in a flash Kim is wrapped up in a warm, inviting embrace once again.
“Hell no,” Porchay says, looking at Kim like he’s starving. “We move, you’ll overthink, and then there won’t be any more of this.” By demonstration of what “this” is, he dives in for another kiss, even more desperate and consuming.
When was the last time someone touched Kim? When was the last time someone held him? He can’t remember, and he has no resistance against Porchay’s raw need. When Kim demands entrance to his mouth, he moans and sucks on his tongue, welcoming it as deeply as it can go.
Porchay’s hands are suddenly everywhere, pushing and pulling at Kim’s soft jacket to get it off, throwing it onto the hasty love nest he’s built. Kim retaliates by making his way as swiftly as he can through the buttons on Porchay’s shirt. When he gets it off him and tosses it to the floor, what’s left is a tight white tank top. Porchay’s nipples are stiff, poking the fabric forward, and Kim runs his hands up that soft fabric from his waist to his chest to the back of his neck. He hesitates at the necklace around Porchay’s neck.
Porchay notices and pulls a tiny, confused face. “He told me to keep it.”
He starts to get lost in his thoughts for a moment, but Kim doesn’t want that. He yanks Porchay in for another kiss. It’s a brief one, though, because even as they kiss, Porchay quickly gets back on track and starts wrestling Kim’s T-shirt off him. They have to break to get it over his head, leaving Kim bare from the waist up.
Porchay makes a helpless little noise like he’s overwhelmed by the sight alone, and Kim’s ego purrs and luxuriates in it like an overgrown housecat.
“Down, down, down,” Porchay says urgently, pushing and dragging Kim down into the mess of clothes and then arranging Kim on his back the way he wants him. Kneeling over him, he kisses Kim thoroughly and then bundles up Kim’s own jacket for a pillow and tucks it under Kim’s head. He pulls back to look at Kim, tracing fingertips over his face. “Fuck, you’re outrageous like this. You’re so hot. If your fans knew what you really looked like, they’d die.”
Too much talking. Frustrated, hungry for more touch and skin tingling, Kim hears himself let out a little snarl as he tries to pull Porchay down next to him.
“Mph,” Porchay protests, putting a hand in the center of Kim’s chest and pressing firmly. “Hold on. Just give me one second. Stay. Put.”
He scrambles back to his feet and goes for his belt, fumbling at his fly only briefly before shucking both pants and underwear in one go, and when exactly did he get his shoes off? But that question barely registers before Kim’s eyes are roving over golden-tan legs and the stiff, darkened cock that’s now free. Kim feels an urge to touch it, play with it, find out whether Porchay likes the same things Kim does to himself when he’s keyed up and desperate to be touched.
Porchay snatches the tiny to-go bottle of lube and pack of condoms from next to his backpack and dumps them into the nest. Then Porchay straddles Kim’s thighs, his eager cock resting on the seam between them pointing the way toward Kim’s groin. Kim’s pants are really, really tight right now, and they both go for Kim’s belt at the same time. They laugh together suddenly, unexpectedly, and it’s a delirious sound, filling the room with a ring that resonates. Together they get Kim’s pants open, and he gasps and arches his back a little in relief.
“Excellent,” Porchay breathes out, panting a little, his chest expanding and contracting that white tank top in an alluring way. He looks back at Kim, eyes shining. “I like my hair pulled.”
Then he squirms backwards until he can crouch over Kim and take the head of his cock in his mouth. The hot wetness is a shock Kim isn’t prepared for, no matter how much he’s thought about it, no matter how many times he’s stared at Porchay’s lips. Kim lets out an aborted cry and bucks his hips, thrusting forward, but Porchay gets hold of his waist and pins him back down. He’s filled this room with his voice so many times, but this is different; these are desperate sounds he doesn’t control. Porchay bobs a little, and that clever tongue does something under the head that makes Kim’s legs jerk reflexively, and it’s wet, wet and tight. Kim doesn’t realize he’s clutching at cloth until Porchay grabs one of his hands and puts it into soft black hair.
Somewhere, distantly, Kim registers the sound of plastic being popped open, a wet squelch of something viscous, but he can’t focus on it, can’t focus on anything but Porchay’s mouth and tongue as they slide down and down.
Breathing hard, he dares to look down at Porchay, almost expecting him to be looking up seductively at him. But Porchay has his eyes closed, is lost in his task, giving Kim a tight place to feel good. So Kim tentatively clenches his hand in that hair to get his attention, and it works, making his eyes flutter. The little shit hums, and Kim hears himself whimper, over and over, but he can’t hold back the embarrassing noises.
Too soon, Porchay is pulling off, leaving him wet and sensitive and throbbing. Then Kim’s pretty little feral cat is tearing open the box of condoms, ripping the thin cardboard in his haste, and rolling one on Kim swiftly and efficiently and then stroking him once, twice, with a slick hand. Porchay repositions himself, up on his knees over Kim’s hips, and Kim grasps at his strong thighs as he takes hold of Kim’s cock. No sooner has he lined himself up than he starts sinking down, taking Kim inside, and Kim thinks he’s going to shake to pieces at the feel of so much pressure that it’s almost painful.
Porchay descends quickly, apparently too quickly for such hasty prep. He bares his teeth in a grimace that turns to a smile.
“Slow, slow down, go easy,” Kim manages to gasp out. Porchay grins down at him, all teeth, and Kim wonders whether this is what tigers feel like when they mate.
“It’s good, it’s good,” Porchay assures him, and he sinks all the way down, and they both have to still for a moment.
Kim is grateful for the condom as he lies there panting — without it, he’s pretty sure he might have come already. Porchay takes a moment to pant and adjust, wincing and laughing in triumph alternately.
Then Porchay starts to ride him, and it’s Kim’s turn to grimace in painful pleasure. He may be the one inside Porchay, but he’s the one being taken, and he knows it — and to his shock, he revels in it. Nothing has ever felt like this before, and every movement, every thrust, is better than the one before.
Porchay groans and leans back, his hands planting on Kim’s thighs to pin him down, and only then does Kim realize he’d been writhing unconsciously. Porchay looks down at Kim, and he’s glorious, cock stiff and proud between them, but the damned tank top is still in the way. Eager to see more, Kim slips both hands up the bottom of it. Porchay quickly gets the idea and hooks both thumbs under the hem, dragging it up and taking the bottom edge in his mouth. He bites down and lets out a muffled “unnnh” beneath the fabric, and now he’s on full display for Kim’s view. Taut abdominals ripple with his movements as he leans back again and continues working himself, hard, grinding and thrusting his ass down on Kim’s cock to pleasure himself.
Kim is a tool for that pleasure. And he wants more of it, for both of them. He gets hold of Porchay’s hips with both hands and starts to grind up, bucking frantically into that tight grip. The discomfort of the hard floor and haphazard mess of clothing barely registers against how good it feels, not to mention the increased frequency of the cotton-muffled moans and squeaks his partner releases.
Orgasm is creeping up on him rapidly, clawing at his spine and groin, but even more than his own release, he wants to see Porchay lose it.
Kim reaches for Porchay’s cock, presses it firmly back against Porchay’s own lower belly. With his other hand, he circles and traces his groin. With one thumb, he plays with the balls pulled up tight against Porchay’s body, and then he tucks the same thumb firmly behind Porchay’s balls, pressing into flesh even as Kim gives his cock a few quick, rough strokes.
And Porchay comes, gloriously, with muffled moans, eyes rolling back in his head as he releases spurt after spurt up onto his own stomach and chest. At the sudden tight clench on his cock, Kim shifts his hands to Porchay's hips, digging in and holding his partner down as he thrusts up, frantic and fast, until he spills into the condom with a shout.
The world goes quiet, and there’s only throbbing — sweet, delicious throbbing — for a while, blotting everything else out with the pulse of his own heart.
Porchay straightens up, and it causes an aftershock to ripple through Kim from head to toe. Kim can feel every centimeter of his cock being squeezed as Porchay moves. Porchay languidly removes his tank top, causing another ripple as he shifts around, and he peeks down at Kim. The gleam in his eye is tired and smug.
The little shit knows exactly what he’s doing, so of course Kim has to scrape together the energy to roll his hips, hard.
That gets a laughing moan out of Porchay.
“Okay, okay,” he says, planting a hand on Kim’s chest. “Grumpy fucker. Mm. Cute grumpy fucker.” He leans forward to kiss Kim once, nicely, and in the process Kim’s flagging cock slips free. They both wince. “You got it?” Porchay asks.
“Yeah,” Kim answers, his voice raw and breathy. He somehow successfully gets the condom off himself and ties it off. There’s nowhere to put it, and he hesitates.
Porchay laughs at him mildly — apparently a thorough fuck really does sort out his mood. The younger man takes his bitten, stretched tank top and wipes his torso down with it hastily, and then he lets Kim dump the condom into the middle of it like it’s a huge tissue.
“Gross,” Kim says, groggy. His dick is still hanging out. He’s in the middle of his studio. The whole thing should leave him feeling ridiculous and eager to escape, but all he feels is a delightful lassitude.
And somehow, that feeling only grows when Porchay snuggles up by his side, running his face and the tip of his nose over Kim’s chest. A moment later, he settles, and they simply breathe together.
Kim starts running fingers through Porchay’s hair. It’s nice. Soft.
The discomforts of their position start to make themselves known as the haze clears from his mind. Reason and questions start to reassert themselves, bit by bit.
“What are you going to do about your foster mom?” Kim dares to whisper. He isn’t afraid of this tiger, never has been.
Porchay, not looking at Kim, tenses, the arm across Kim’s chest tightening for a moment before relaxing again. “I can’t think about that right now.”
Kim hums in acknowledgement. He gets it.
“P’Kim?” Porchay shifts his head so he can look up at him. “Will you let me be your boyfriend?”
Now it’s Kim’s turn to freeze. Gears stop, grinding to a halt with a noisy clank in his head. Then he takes a deep breath as he looks down at those big eyes.
“So you can see your brother?”
Porchay rubs his chin from side to side on Kim’s chest, still looking at Kim. There’s no artifice in his expression, no mockery or taunt. “Yeah,” he says simply. He ducks down briefly to plant a wet kiss, with the tip of his tongue, on Kim’s nipple. “And we can talk music and knives. And do a lot more of this.” His eyebrows bounce once, suggestively, leaving no question as to what he means by “this.”
Kim uses two fingers to push back a stray lock of hair. “Okay.”
Big eyes blink at him in shock. “What, really?”
“Mm,” Kim hums in agreement. But then he gets a good grip on Porchay’s hair, not a painful one, but just enough so that Kim can give his head a tiny shake. Porchay hisses, but he surges closer to Kim at the same time. “But no more sleeping around.”
“Un, deal, wow, okay, possessive boyfriend alert,” he says, beaming as though the thought of it tickles him. He pats Kim on the tummy. “Gimme another minute. As soon as my legs work, we’re going back to my place for round two.”
Kim’s dick, suddenly on board with getting as much attention as possible, twitches. The traitor. Porchay notices and laughs at him before settling down.
“We’ll go soon,” Porchay promises muzzily.
Kim sighs and traces little shapes on his shoulder.
And he thinks, maybe it’s okay if they use each other, as long as they both get what they need. Maybe that’s what it takes to not be alone in this rotten, selfish world.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Porsche mentions animal cruelty and animal death as part of his past. Chay learns what caused Porsche to stay away and has a violent outburst of temper. Porsche also experiences very stressful emotions and eventually shows signs of dissociation due to stress and emotional exhaustion. After Porsche leaves, Porchay starts engaging in self-harming behavior (literally hitting a wall), which Kim interrupts.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Thus ends Act I of Bad Bet. Also, I wish a fond farewell to the last of Porchay's hinges that just got ripped off.
SPECIAL NOTE: With the end of Act I, I am going to take a hiatus from posting. This has been 15 weeks of nonstop posting, plus I posted another fic (Ascension) while still continuing Bad Bet. Now I need some downtime to focus on drafting this story. I want to assure you that this has been the plan for a long time, to reach the end of Act I and then take a break, because this is a very good place to pause. Posting will resume when I’m confident I’ll be able to post Act II nonstop. I’m not putting a timeline on when I’ll restart, and I’m afraid nudging me won’t help me write any faster. Rest will help me write faster. 🤣
I also want to say an ENDLESS THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart to everyone who has been reading and commenting! The comments have been so amazingly insightful, and at times they’ve even opened my eyes in new ways. 💖
Bonus, notable quote from nuwildcat for this chapter: "Oh, oh we are gonna have chats about this you overgrown fire breathing lizard."
Chapter 16: Interlude: Parents
Summary:
In which different parents think about their children.
Notes:
Hi! Happy Holiday season to you all. Your holiday present from me is, as you might guess, the resumption of posting for Bad Bet!
This son of a gun FOUGHT ME. I’ve been locked in a fierce battle of wills with my muse ever since last you heard from me. I eventually realized I had to abandon a whole-ass piece of plot and rework it. @.@ But I have prevailed, the draft is almost done. Plus, now that posting has resumed, the story will be back on the regular schedule until completion. Thank you to every single reader for your patience during the hiatus, which was longer than I intended.
Very special thank you to my beta, enbymoomin, and to my early reading crew (nuwildcat, DrLemurr, and mortimerlatrice). Thank you for support, tweaks, suggestions, and above all for encouragement. You make this fic better, you are an indelible part of it, and you’re a blessing in my life.
REMINDER: I have posted spoiler descriptions of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Text messages
Mom
(08:17 AM) Chay: I have a paid gig this afternoon at a friend’s studio, kind of a big breakthrough opportunity. It’s close to you, so I’ll be home for dinner and crash in my room
(08:19 AM) Chay: I’d say movie night, but I’ll be doing homework 😢
(08:36 AM) Chay: can we have Italian? 🍝
(10:09 AM) Mom: Sorry, I was on a conference call. I suppose I could whip up a little Italian for my favorite scholar. Delivery, of course.
(19:09 PM) Mom: What time were you planning to get here for dinner?
(19:41 PM) Mom: I’m going to go ahead and order for us.
(20:23 PM) Mom: Dinner’s here, but no pasta-loving son. I’m starving, so I’m going to eat. Your rigatoni will be waiting.
(21:43 PM) Mom: Are you still coming home tonight? I don’t mind if your plans changed, I know how busy you are, but let me know when you have a minute.
Voicemail
Mom
07:48 AM
Transcription:
Hey sweetie, I’m on my way into the office, and I’ll be in meetings [honk of car horn] . Did yesterday’s gig turn into an all-nighter? Make sure they’re paying you properly for your time. Drop me a message when you get this so I know you got back to your apartment safely. Talk to you soon.
As much as Yok loves the energy and excitement of a packed evening at Hum Bar, the quiet afternoons also have a unique charm. The space is saturated with memories and laughter from thousands of visitors over the years, and those feelings radiate from every surface, every nook and cranny. Sometimes she thinks that if someone pried open the wood of the bar or the seats, that person would find smiles and tears stained into the very grain.
On days like today, she pulls her old laptop out of the office, along with a stack of invoices and receipts, and she works at the largest corner table. That way she can surround herself with the very real, very human energy while she sweats over keeping Hum Bar in the black — just barely, but she’s managing it.
Maybe it’s time to run more special promotions. Or add a themed, limited-time menu. Jom and Ball have been working on new mixes, so it wouldn’t be impossible.
Just when she’s about to take a break, she hears the front door open, and a moment later Kinn comes through the beaded curtain. Pete is right behind him, dressed to the nines and looking serious.
I guess I’m not getting caught up on my paperwork after all, Yok thinks, and she bustles out from behind the table, the tassels on her pink top swaying with the motion.
“Khun Kinn, I wasn’t expecting you,” she exclaims, reaching out to him with both hands. He clasps her fingers in his own and draws her in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. The man’s eyes are tired, and his smile is stiff, making Yok frown. “Why do you look so pale, love? Oi, Pete! Is Khun Kinn not sleeping enough?”
Pete gives her a little helpless shrug and a wince.
“I’m sleeping fine,” Kinn grouses.
Yok purses her lips together. “Then why are you here?”
Kinn’s eyebrows pinch together in a pathetic little puppy face; he knows what that does to Yok and uses it against her. “Can I not visit my favorite bar owner? Maybe I’m checking my investments.” He just visited a few days ago with a couple dozen guests, but that’s clearly beside the point. Yok and Kinn have played this game numerous times over the past year. Whenever he wants her advice, he shows up out of the blue in the middle of the afternoon.
Kinn looks at Yok’s table full of paperwork and adds, “But maybe I’m interrupting you.”
As if Yok would ever turn this boy away. He’s simultaneously the scariest and the neediest of all of Yok’s lost boys; even if she had the option to turn him away, she wouldn’t.
“I’m never too busy for you,” Yok assures him. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Kinn closes his eyes briefly and gives a sharp nod. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”
Yok winks and then goes behind the bar and gets to work. They leave Pete by the door, far enough away that he won’t be able to hear them. For Kinn she fixes an Old Fashioned, and for herself she whips together a virgin mojito — Kinn may drink like a fish, but she tries to do what she can to preserve her liver. Not an easy task in her line of work.
When she’s done, she comes around the bar again to sit next to Kinn, and they clink glasses.
Yok sips thoughtfully, looking at Kinn, who is very noticeably looking anywhere but at her. His eyes linger on the display of bottles behind the bar.
This is going to be a tough one, she thinks, taking another sip.
“How’s business been going?” Kinn asks.
An especially tough one. “It could always be better, but it’s been good,” she says. “I plan to give you the final repayment next month, in fact.”
The final repayment on the interest-free loan he’d given her, when all she’d done was accidentally sit on that big head of his and listen to his woes. Kinn claims she’d saved his life, but he saved hers right back.
Kinn smiles down into his drink and gives it a swirl to make the ice clink. “Do I still get free drinks after that?” His eyebrows bounce playfully as he teases her.
“Tsk!” She swats gently at his arm, mindful of the expensive fabric. “For you? Always. If you drink me out of house and home, I’ll just ask for another loan.” Yok puts down her mojito. “Okay now, out with it. What’s bothering you? Father? Cousins? Did Tankhun try to organize another mini golf tournament in the lobby?”
Kinn looks away again. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and then lets it out slowly before taking another drink.
Oh. Oh! Yok’s eyes widen. She’s been bartending for two decades, and she knows when people are about to tell her about their love affairs, can read it on them like a haze in the atmosphere. Yok senses pining the way some people sense stormy weather approaching.
She blurts out, “Really?”
Kinn looks at her and frowns. “What? What is it?”
“You’re sighing,” Yok says, widening her eyes dramatically. “That means love problems, dear. So? What’s going on?”
The expression on Kinn’s face is complex to say the least. Annoyance and embarrassment vie for priority, and he ends up with a fierce pout. “It isn’t that… exactly.”
It takes Yok a good half-hour to coax, tease, and pry the full story out of Kinn, but she manages it. Meanwhile, she reluctantly bids farewell to the block of time she had set aside to get her paperwork done.
“So,” Yok says eventually, “let me see if I have this right. You took Phoenix, or Porsche, out on a date,” Kinn opens his mouth to deny that it was a date, and Yok holds up a finger to silence him, “a date, which got interrupted because you accidentally reunited him with his long-lost brother?”
“That’s… a very brief summary, but yes,” Kinn says.
Yok clacks her nails on the bartop a couple times. “I fail to see the problem. Just take him out again.”
Kinn swirls the melting ice in his glass, which he emptied of alcohol a while ago. “It isn’t that easy. Porsche is—” Kinn stops himself here. He looks angrily at his empty glass, as though his glare could possibly summon bourbon to it. Yok isn’t going to fill it for him. Finally he continues. “Porsche is vulnerable.”
Yok considers that a moment, thinking back to the recent gathering at Hum Bar. She’d spent a long time talking with the young man in question. “He did look like he was afraid of his own shadow.” That still doesn’t explain what’s bothering Kinn so badly.
Kinn scoffs. “Believe it or not, that’s a big improvement.”
“If he’s improving, isn’t that a good sign?”
“You don’t understand!” Kinn slams his glass down on the table so hard the ice bounces out, the sound of it making Yok startle. He turns anguished eyes on her. “He’s vulnerable to me. To me, Yok. While we were in that studio, when I thought he might want to leave with his brother, I started thinking about… ways I could make him stay.”
Yok’s heart sinks, even as a chill shivers its way through her core. Sometimes she teases Kinn that he showed up on her doorstep like a stray puppy, but the truth is that he’s more like an injured wolf — beautiful, desperate, and violent. He doesn’t fully reveal that side of himself to her very often, but neither does he keep it strictly hidden.
“It wouldn’t have been hard, either,” Kinn goes on with a pained laugh. “I could have hired his little brother. I think the kid would have accepted on the spot. Or I have video from the dark web, recordings of some of Porsche’s fights. I could use them to threaten him. But it would be so much easier than that. As I was watching him talk with his brother, I thought all I would have to do is tell him, ‘You can’t go.’ And there’s nothing he would be able to do to say ‘no’ to me.”
Kinn isn’t looking at her now. He’s staring down at the chunk of ice as it gradually melts on Yok’s bartop. He opens his mouth and takes a long, slow breath. Yok’s own breath is lodged in her throat, and her heart is jackrabbiting.
Will she be able to say the right thing? Is there even a right thing to say?
Kinn shakes his head slowly. Then he says, “I think, or I thought, I didn’t understand my father, that I could never be like him. But I’ve never been more like him than I was in that moment.”
Yok covers her mouth with one hand. Then she points an accusing finger at Pete, who’s still standing across the room from them.
“You!” she says to Pete, calling across the room. “Stay right where you are. I am going to hug Khun Kinn, and you’re not going to stop me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Pete replies. He sees fit to look to the side.
Yok gets off her stool and wraps Kinn in her arms, pulling his head to her shoulder. It’s a testament to just how upset he is that he doesn’t fight her.
Kinn doesn’t cry, but he gives a shudder and a little moan, like it’s just what he needed. Like he’s glad to say it aloud. To be heard and accepted. To be forgiven for the sins in his own head.
Yok may not be a mom, but she’s raised a lot of lost boys. And sometimes they need to be held.
“You’re alright, honey, you’re alright,” she murmurs quietly, petting his hair. “I know you won’t be like him. You won’t hurt that boy, and you won’t hurt yourself, not while I’m around, okay? You don’t have to be like your pa.”
She keeps soothing him and speaking comfort until the tension bleeds out of his broad shoulders.
Eventually Kinn swallows hard and pulls back. He blinks his eyes — he may not have cried on her shoulder, but he most certainly was fighting back tears. He straightens his hair and his cuffs, and Yok fiddles with her glass to give him the time he needs to compose himself, to set his ruffled feathers right again. When she looks at him, his ears are pink.
Kinn looks sad when he admits, “I didn’t think to ask whether he had any family. I didn’t want him to have any family.” His words are even quieter now, more confessional. “I’ve never thought about what it would be like to… own someone. But Porsche… he owes everything to me. And I like it. No, I don’t just like it. I relish it. I want everything about him to be mine.”
The words come a little more easily to Yok now. “And that scared you, didn’t it?”
Kinn gives only the barest of nods. “I don’t want to be like my father. That’s the last thing I want. And if I weren’t so… maybe I could find a way to get him out. He deserves a life after everything he lost, something better than this.”
Yok frowns, thinking about that and about what little she knows, all of which is bad. “Could you get him out?”
Kinn considers that for a long time. “I’m not sure.” Then he closes his eyes as though he’s in pain again. “No. I’m it. I’m the only way he’s safe. But even if I had the chance to let him go, let him have a normal life, would I?” Kinn lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Shit, I need a drink.” Kinn abandons his seat and goes around the bar to fix another drink.
We still haven’t really solved the trouble of his feelings, Yok realizes as she watches him work.
“What are you going to do?” Yok asks. She wonders whether she needs to caution him about falling for someone who’s so out of balance in his own life. But then again, when has that ever stopped anyone, let alone someone like Kinn?
Kinn ignores her at first and finishes putting together his drink. After he’s taken a sip, he shrugs and shakes his head. “I’m not sure yet. I need to figure out what to do, how to make sure he’s safe. Not just from outsiders, but from me.” Kinn drinks again and puts down his glass. “But I tell you what I’m not going to do; I’m not going to become my father.”
Yok beams. These are the moments that make it all worthwhile — the stress, the abandoned paperwork, the long hours. The questioning of her own sanity over getting entangled with the Theerapanyakul family.
She leans across the bar and holds her hand out to press it to Kinn’s cheek. He grins, and it’s a wonderful thing, full of boyish satisfaction at having pleased her. The smile makes his cheek turn round and firm like an apple in her hand.
“That’s my boy!”
Text messages
Mom
(16:17 PM) Mom: Are you okay? Just text me back or call me when you get this. I’m starting to get seriously worried.
(16:46 PM) Mom: What is going on? You know you can tell me anything, sweetie.
(18:30 PM) Mom: I know you’re reading these messages. There’s a little message marked read.
With a swipe and a click, the phone screen goes black.
Waking brings disorientation.
Korn opens his eyes and takes inventory of himself and his surroundings. Nothing looks familiar at first, but the curtains are open — it’s roughly midmorning. Sunlight streams across the floor. Everything farther than a couple steps away is blurry, as though a fog has entered the room. He blinks several times, but the blur remains.
This is his bedroom. He is in his own bed.
His feet feel nerveless, but more problematic is the stinging ache in his chest. That’s right — he is Korn Theerapanyakul, and he rules the underground and the business world of Bangkok, and last year his younger brother shot him.
Korn has more work to do. But first he needs to get out of bed. With a sigh, he pushes up so that he can sit on the edge of the bed, and then he takes inventory of what needs to be done. It’s a ritual he’s followed for forty years: wake up, stretch, and visualize all the accomplishments he’s going to make today.
When he starts to stretch, the twinge on the right side of his chest catches him, and he stops. Stretching is not essential. Instead he simply braces his hands on the edge of the bed and holds himself upright.
He needs to… was there a meeting today? With that one executive? But no, that was yesterday. He should go over the accounts for the… was it the casinos or the car imports?
Kinn. Korn will talk to Kinn and ensure he’s not falling behind, not letting himself fall into bad habits again. The boy had gone on a wild lark with that new bodyguard, the one that was an ex-slave and a pit fighter. But… no, that resolved itself, didn’t it? Kinn came back, and the next day, nothing. By all reports, Kinn didn’t even take the boy to bed. They came back and went their separate ways, and Kinn spent yesterday fully absorbed in his work.
Korn hasn’t spoken to Kinn in days. The last time he saw Tankhun was more than a week ago. As for Kim…
He blinks a few more times and looks out the window at the sky and the long, soft edges of the neighboring towers. The edges should be hard lines, but his eyes aren’t what they used to be.
The sky is blue just as one would expect. Blue like the dress that Nampheung wore the last day he saw her, before she married that average man so she could live an average life. Then she died an average death. His little sister.
The wave of nostalgia flows over him. Letting her go had been the right choice; she’d been unable to tolerate the mafia life and all that came with it. No, she was sweet and useless to him, and putting her out of Gun’s reach had been icing on the cake. Korn doesn’t regret saying farewell. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t even regret her death — death is something he knows well, and it comes for everyone.
If he has one regret over Nampheung, it’s that he failed her boys. But regrets are useless, and he made up for it as best he could.
Korn sighs. What was he thinking about? Oh. Kinn. He should talk to Kinn.
A knock at the door interrupts his train of thought.
“Khun Korn?” Chan calls. “I have your morning pills and tea.”
If it were anyone else, Korn would tell him to wait outside and then get himself dressed, straighten his hair. But it’s Chan, so he says, “Come in.”
The door opens, and Korn levers himself to his feet. However, he forgot that his feet were especially numb this morning, and he plops back into the bed. Quickly, he gropes for the cane propped against his bedside table. He gets to his feet on the second try and slowly makes his way to the table near the window, where Chan sets down a tray. The tray carries the newspaper, tea, toast, jam, and a small dish filled with eight pills of various sizes, shapes, and colors.
Korn sits again, and even though he goes slowly, he gets a stabbing twinge on the right side of his chest. He doesn’t make a sound, though, or let the pain show on his face. He simply tilts the cane to let it rest against the table as though nothing happened.
Chan waits, silently, as Korn proceeds to eat the toast and then down the pills one at a time.
“So?” Korn prompts when he’s ready.
“From the reports I received, the minor family is still largely focused on securing the new deal with the yakuza, with no major concerns at present. The minor family head is also nearing completion on modifications to the Blue Room and plans to reopen the venue relatively soon.” Chan pauses, and Korn looks up to meet his eyes. Chan’s face has also lost its hard edges, like everything else. “Additionally, you should be aware that currently Khun Kim is in the family room speaking with Khun Tankhun. Kim has brought a guest with him, an individual from the music industry.”
Korn lights up. Kim is here? A delightful surprise, not something he wants to miss.
“And what about Kinn? And my nephews?”
“Khun Kinn will join Kim and Tankhun when he’s free,” Chan replies. “Vegas is currently off site, and Macau is with him.”
Good, good. Excellent, even. Korn feels a little vigor come back to him, and he straightens in his seat. The way things have been going lately… well, they need to be changed. It isn’t too late to ensure the lines between the main family and the minor family remain hard and firm.
Another thought occurs to him.
“What about that Phoenix boy?”
Chan knows exactly what Korn means. “He is performing his duties appropriately, and Khun Kinn no longer appears to be paying him undue attention, sir.”
Hm, strange indeed. Kinn tends to get stubborn about certain things, particularly when he takes an interest in some boy. “Keep an eye on it for me, Chan.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I need to get dressed. Let me know when Kinn joins Kim and Tankhun.”
“Sir.”
With a small wave, Korn dismisses his head bodyguard. Chan bows respectfully before leaving.
As long as Korn is still breathing, he’ll make sure this family stays firmly on the narrow path to success. Bangkok, no, Thailand belongs to the Theerapanyakuls, and he’ll do whatever is necessary to ensure it remains that way.
Voicemail
Mom
10:31 AM
Transcription:
Chay, what is going on? I just spoke with Professor Phongphasawat, and he said you’re taking a two week leave of absence from school for mental health? I need you to call me back as soon as you get this, sweetie. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. Do I need to come over to your place? I’m going to work from home this afternoon. Come home if you need to. Please just call me.
Voicemail
Mom
10:46 AM
Transcription:
I just got off the phone with Doctor Jantra. She said she wrote you the note for school, but she wouldn’t tell me anything else, only that you weren’t in apparent danger. Did you call her for an emergency therapy session without letting me know? [untranscribable] Call me, sweetie, please.
Text messages
Mom
(11:05 PM) Mom: Let me know you’re alright. I’m really worried.
(11:06 PM) Mom: I’m going to swing by your apartment before I head home. Please answer the door if you’re there.
Messages unread.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Kinn talks with Yok and expresses some of the darker thoughts he’s had about taking advantage of Porsche, and he’s angry and frustrated and has a lot of self-doubt. Meanwhile, Chay starts ignoring his foster mother’s texts and voicemails, and Santichai becomes distressed and worried. Also, Korn is being Korn and having scheme-y thoughts.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
I wish everyone a lovely holiday and a happy new year. 💖
Chapter 17: Power Shift
Summary:
Porsche, still reeling from his recent reunion with Chay, has to contend with a Kinn who is acting strange, an entire room full of Theerapanyakuls, and a little brother who seems unable to resist trouble.
It’s enough to drive anyone to distraction.
Notes:
enbymoomin, you are an angel of a beta. THANK YOU for finding all sorts of little details to clean up. 💗
REMINDER: I have posted spoiler descriptions of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As Porsche strides through the halls of the tower, he feels like a completely different person. His skin fits better, his shoulders are lighter, and even the air around him is easier to breathe.
Logically, he knows he’s the same person he was two days ago. But that was before, before he got his brother back. Before he was found.
When they returned to the tower that evening, Porsche had barely been able to keep his head up. His limbs moved like rubber, and every time he blinked it felt like his eyelids had turned to sandpaper.
Kinn hadn’t looked at him, merely ordered him to go rest. When Porsche got to his apartment, Big looked up with curiosity written on his face, which immediately morphed to alarm.
“You look like shit,” Big said eloquently.
Porsche waved him off, ignoring the unasked questions about what happened. Then he curled up on the couch and just existed for a while.
Two hours later, Arm came to the apartment and gave him his phone, stripped down and heavily restricted. “Khun Kinn says you can have this as long as it doesn’t leave your room. You can use it for texting and calls,” Arm said. After a glance over Porsche’s shoulder to check that no one would overhear, Arm lowered his voice and added, “Congratulations on finding your brother.”
Chay had already been added to the contacts, alongside P’Chan and Jom.
Porsche and Chay have been texting a lot in the past two days, Chay catching Porsche up on his life, while carefully avoiding sensitive questions about Porsche’s own experiences.
A small part of Porsche feels guilty that Chay put so much time and effort into searching for him. But a much larger part of him is grateful that he’d never been forgotten. That fact shouldn’t actually change anything for him, but it does.
Porsche strides into the lobby in front of Kinn’s office and approaches Wanna’s desk. He smiles at her, and she beams back, dimples appearing in her round cheeks.
“I’ve been called to see Khun Kinn,” Porsche says, rocking up momentarily onto the balls of his feet.
Wanna gives him a little nod, and she picks up her desk phone. After a brief conversation, she tells Porsche, “He’s just finishing something up. Go ahead and have a seat.”
Porsche parks himself on the leather sofa. He fiddles with the bottom corner of his bodyguard vest.
He hasn’t been acting as a “companion” guard these past few days, instead spending his time either guarding doors or learning to drive. He hasn’t seen Kinn in that time, and he has a lot to say, with “thank you” at the top of his list. Energy is bubbling up inside of him — it isn’t nervous energy, not exactly. It’s something else, something almost eager.
The reunion with Chay had been so fundamentally life-altering that he hasn’t had much time to think back on the interrupted… whatever it was. Date? Not date? Instead of figuring that out, his time has been spent trying not to dent any of the extremely fancy cars in the Theerapanyakul fleet. When not driving circles in parking lots, he’s been relegated to run-of-the-mill perimeter duty. Outside of work and training, he’s been glued to his phone.
Porsche laughs softly at himself as he sits on expensive, squeaky leather. It boggles his mind to think how exactly he ended up where he is right now. The events of the past weeks, months — they all seem too fantastical, too unbelievable. But the very strangeness of everything is also exactly how he knows he couldn’t possibly be dreaming. His sleeping mind isn’t creative enough to come up with something this wild.
“Khun Kinn will see you now,” Wanna says with a graceful gesture at the door.
Porsche hurries to get up and go to the door. Before he opens it, he remembers to straighten his vest.
However, Kinn isn’t alone. He’s seated at his desk, and Big is seated across from him, folder in hand. Big closes the folder with a soft pat sound as Porsche approaches, and both Big and Kinn look at him.
Porsche slows as he approaches. He thinks Big is going to get up and excuse himself, but it doesn’t happen.
“I thought—” Porsche stumbles over his words. “Should I come back later?”
Kinn raises his brows as though the question surprises him. “No, you’re needed now. You’ll be accompanying me to the family room. I’m meeting with my brothers to clarify the situation between the Kittisawats and my family. I expect my father to join us.”
Kinn’s gaze is different somehow. Not hard or angry, not exactly, but there’s none of the friendly, open man Porsche has come to know. The aura of “commander” practically drips off the seams of his impeccably tailored suit.
“Your brother is here,” Kinn adds. “He’s in the family room with both of my brothers right now, and we’re going to join them.”
Porsche jerks his head, uncertain how to react to that. What the hell is Chay doing here? Big looks back and forth between him and Kinn, trying to gauge their thoughts on the matter.
Kinn doesn’t give Porsche a chance to respond. “I realize we haven’t discussed what to do about your identity, but your preferences are probably about to become moot. I’m just going to call you Porsche from now on.”
“That’s… fine,” Porsche says slowly. He meant to get around to that but hadn’t known where to begin.
“How many names do you even have?” Big hisses. “You can’t expect me to remember them all.”
Porsche shrugs and puts his hands up defensively. “This is the last one, I swear.”
“It better be, or I’m just going to call you ‘hey asshole,’” Big says. His brows are all twisted in the way that makes him look constipated. Porsche thinks that might be the face he makes when he’s generally frustrated. Lots of things frustrate Big, especially Porsche.
Kinn rises and buttons the front of his jacket, and Porsche realizes he means to leave. Right now.
“Uh,” Porsche mutters as intelligibly as he can.
Kinn’s eyes slide to him, sharp and almost wary. “Did you have something to say?”
“Something, yeah,” Porsche says, and he looks meaningfully at Big before looking back at Kinn again.
Kinn gives a small sigh as though he’s being inconvenienced. “Big, give us a minute.”
Big rises and bows to Kinn. On his way out, Big shoots Porsche a disapproving look.
Porsche watches over his shoulder as Big exits.
“Well?” Kinn says the instant the door clicks shut. He stands in front of his desk and leans back against it, his arms crossed. “I’ll remind you there are people waiting on us right now.”
What’s going on? Porsche wonders. The happy, smiling, flirting Kinn from two days ago seems to be buried deep under a stern visage. It makes the hairs rise on the back of Porsche’s neck.
He shakes his head a little. “I wanted to say thank you for the other day. Well, for everything, but especially for Chay,” he says as sincerely as he can, hoping that Kinn will hear him.
Kinn, however, closes his eyes slowly and then opens them.
“You don’t have to thank me for that; it was a complete accident,” he says brusquely. “But you’re welcome.”
Before Porsche loses his nerve, he says, “And about the interruption to our… uh, evening? I thought we could resched—”
Kinn holds up hand, and Porsche stops abruptly, his mouth snapping shut.
“There’s no need to reschedule,” Kinn says calmly. “While I’m glad I was able to reunite you with your brother, given everything I’ve learned, I’ve decided the best course of action going forward is to remain strictly professional. I believe I was temporarily swayed by your… companion status. But in the end, you’re still my bodyguard. I’ve never crossed that line, and I don’t intend to now.”
Suddenly it feels to Porsche as though Kinn is speaking to him from the other side of a wide lake, unreachable, only a dark speck that Porsche can barely see.
“Still, you’ll do well under Big’s leadership, I think, and you’ve certainly proven that your reputation enhances my own,” Kinn says thoughtfully. “Now, was there anything else?”
Porsche blinks a couple times, still processing that, but he slowly shakes his head. “No, sir.”
“Good.”
Without another word, Kinn walks away, his long legs eating up the length of his office. Porsche obediently falls into line behind him, and Big steps up next to Porsche as soon as they reach the lobby.
All the way to the family room, Porsche keeps darting glances at the back of Kinn’s head, the edge of his strong profile. Porsche gives his own head a little shake, trying to dispel his various thoughts like a dog shaking off water. He’s going into a meeting; he needs to focus.
When they reach the pool deck, Porsche hears the sound of a guitar echoing and distorting across the waves before he can see anyone.
In the family room, they find Kim and Chay seated on a couch facing away from them. Tankhun lounges in a chair opposite them, while Fern, Pol, and Arm hover nearby. Kim is playing the guitar.
Chay looks over his shoulder and gives Porsche a smile so bright that it sears his heart. “Hia!” Chay calls, causing Kim to stop playing and look up. Around Chay’s neck, Porsche’s old necklace gleams in the bright light of the room.
“Hia? What the hell?” Big says, giving Porsche a look, his face all scrunched up.
And yeah, perhaps Porsche should have mentioned that.
Ignoring the commotion among the guards, Chay starts to move, but then suddenly he pauses. He points right at Porsche and then he glares at each of the guards in turn. “I’m going to hug my hia, and none of you are going to shoot me.”
To Porsche’s surprise, Kim backs Chay up with a glare of his own. The guards nod and make murmurs of acquiescence.
Then, because apparently Porsche never taught Chay any manners, the young man scrambles to climb over the back of the couch that is definitely worth more than Porsche’s annual salary.
Porsche opens his arms, and Chay flies into them with a thump that makes Porsche stagger. Porsche may not be able to scoop Chay up in the air like he used to, but he tries anyway, lifting the young man off his feet. Instead of Chay smelling like fruit juice and sunshine as he did all those years ago, now Porsche picks up the fragrance of aftershave and general boy. The hug is tight. Porsche digs his fingers in, pulling at Chay’s T-shirt.
People are murmuring. He doesn’t care.
“Ahem!” Tankhun says loudly, followed by three sharp claps. He has risen to his feet.
Porsche reluctantly lets go of Chay, but they each keep an arm around the other.
Tankhun continues, “Very touching and all, a heartfelt moment, brothers reunited, etcetera etcetera. But I am in the midst of my own brother moment. I am having a private concert here!” He thrusts his arm toward Kim in a wide gesture, the gold-and-green leather of his jacket creaking.
“Concert’s over, Khun,” Kim says, putting the guitar down in the case on the floor beside him.
“Aww! I was going to request ‘Wanderer.’”
Ignoring them, Porsche leans closer to Chay. “Are you okay?” It isn’t quite a whisper. He doesn’t want anyone thinking he’s trying to hide anything, but he really needs to know. What he really wants to ask is whether Chay needs a hand getting out of here.
“Kinn asked Kim and me to come,” Chay says, and Kinn gives them a split-second sideways glance. “He wants to get everyone on the same page. Kim and I got P’Tankhun up to date.” He shrugs and adds, “Well, up to date on the basics, at least.”
Kinn signals to one of the sentry guards, who brings a chair over for him and places it next to Tankhun’s. Kinn and Taknhun both sit.
Chay takes Porsche by the crook of the elbow and drags him along, straight over to the couch. Then he pushes Porsche to sit down on the far side from Kim.
“You sit next to me,” Chay declares.
“I really shouldn’t. I’m on—” Porsche tries to get up.
Chay makes a face and pushes him back down. Porsche doesn’t resist and ends up flopping onto the couch.
“Good.” Chay plops into his own seat next to Kim.
“—on duty,” Porsche finishes helplessly. He looks up at Big, who’s standing respectfully at ease behind Kinn. Porsche is hoping for some sort of cue or sign about what he should do, but Big just gives him a look that tells him to stay put.
Silence descends.
Porsche looks around at the three Theerapanyakul brothers, each so vastly different in both form and fashion. One thing they have in common, though, is that they know how to weigh the moment, to scrutinize.
“So, what’re we here for?” Chay asks.
Porsche barely contains the wince. He wishes he could hide Chay away. The fact that he’s here and not safely far, far away from the tower and the Theerapanyakul family is about to give him heart palpitations.
Kinn looks at Chay and smiles. It’s an easy smile, small and amused, not at all sharp like his usual shark-like grins.
“We’re waiting, actually,” Kinn says, “for my father to join us.”
“Tsk, really?” Tankhun asks. “I would have staged this meeting much differently. The gardens, maybe. Or a grand family dinner.”
Kinn shrugs. “Too much effort for me.”
“So boring!” Tankhun says this with a haughty air, but the way one finger scratches at the armrest of his chair gives away his nerves. “Well, as long as we’re waiting, we might as well get back to the concert.”
Kinn raises his eyebrows and looks at Kim. “Nong, can I request ‘Wanderer’?”
“Ai’Kinn!” Tankhun swats at him. “I wanted to do that!”
That is, predictably, followed by bickering, all on Tankhun’s part, but eventually Kim gets his guitar back out. As he’s setting up, Porsche sees his opportunity.
“I should—” He points at the empty space behind Kinn next to Big, where he technically ought to be standing. He moves to get up.
“Nope,” Chay says, grabbing Porsche’s arm to pull him back down. “You’re with me.”
Porsche should object. But seeing Porchay’s determined expression, he can’t find it in him.
As they listen to Kim play, Porsche catches himself starting to bounce his leg nervously and has to stop himself both times. Then it happens again. Chay clings a little tighter after the second time.
What are you doing here? he wants to ask, looking at the side of Chay’s head. Chay’s gaze is riveted on Kim. Kinn seems to be up to something that revolves around his father. Porsche can’t begin to guess, and he doesn’t dare ask.
He’s left to stew for only a couple of songs. Then an irregular percussive sound joins the music, pat-pat-click, the sound of footsteps and the tap of a cane coming from the pool deck. Kim keeps playing, but Porsche cranes his head over his shoulder.
Bodyguards all around them bow as Khun Korn enters the room with P’Chan behind him. Porsche has to gently dislodge a protesting Chay from his arm in order to rise and greet the mafia elder properly.
When Korn stops in the middle of the room, behind the couch, only then does Kim stop playing.
Korn waves his hand like a magnanimous king so that all the bodyguards can stand at ease.
“My, my,” Korn says with a wide smile, folding his arms on the top of his cane, “it certainly is lively here. My three boys, all gathered in one place.” He chuckles lightly. “I was beginning to think it would take me dying to bring you together again.”
“Pbb, pbb, pbbtt!” Tankhun mock spits on the floor to the side of his chair. “Such bad luck, Papa. Don’t even say it. Ppppbtt! No bad luck allowed in this tower.”
“Of course, thank you, Khun. Someone bring me a chair,” Korn says as he starts to walk around the couch.
Porsche rushes to comply. He brings over a chair from the nearby table, where a strange game is set up, a chess board with both checkers and chess pieces set up.
Porsche places the chair next to Kinn’s chair. Then Porsche finally takes his place next to Big. Hesitantly, he looks over Kinn’s shoulder at Chay. Chay screws up his face and gives Porsche a mutinous look. He glances sharply at the seat next to him and indicates it with his head, trying to tell Porsche to sit back down. Porsche gives his own head a subtle shake of denial.
Korn sits down and leans his cane against his chair, and then his too-knowing gaze inevitably settles on Chay, much to Porsche’s dismay.
“And who do we have—” Korn pauses abruptly in the middle of his sentence, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward to examine Chay more closely. “—here. Ah. Excuse me. You seem familiar.”
Chay smiles and gives a perfectly polite wai. “I’m impressed you recognize me, Khun Korn, sir. I’m Porchay Pichaya Kittisawat. I understand you knew my mother, Nampheung, and you saw to it that I was placed with a good foster family nine years ago… among other things.” He gets to his feet, bows deeply, and adds, in a strong voice, “Thank you, sir.”
Porsche can feel his palms getting sweaty. In front of him, Kinn is perfectly relaxed in his seat, his hands folded neatly. All three of the Theerapanyakul brothers are similarly poised, watching the exchange closely, watching their father — carefully, from the corners of their eyes.
“You’re Nampheung’s boy,” Korn says hesitantly, like the words cost him something to say. “Oh, you have grown, haven’t you? Yes, I can see it now, something of your mother about your eyes and cheeks.”
Chay nods, looking pleased. “You did know her, then?”
“Ah, yes,” Korn says, leaning back in his chair. “That was a long time ago, though. She was my foster sister for some years when I was much younger.” He smiles as though a pleasant memory just occurred to him. “She brought a lot of joy to the house while she was here.” He sobers up then and offers a consoling look to Chay. “It’s a shame what’s happened to your family. I would have liked better for you, my boy. Nampheung was…”
Porsche waits, as do they all, but the sentence never ends.
“Pa?” Kinn prompts.
Korn shakes his head and spreads his mouth in a wide, narrow smile. “Don’t mind me. Just getting lost in thought. You’ll do it when you’re my age, too. Now, tell me, Porchay, what brings you here today?”
Chay grins even bigger. “Well, sir, I also want to formally thank P’Kim and P’Kinn. It’s because of them that I’m able to see my hia Porsche again.” And here, Chay’s gaze turns hard and determined, and he looks right at Kinn. “P’Kinn, you made a miracle possible for me. Thank you for bringing my hia back. I owe it to you, and to P’Kim for all his help, and I will never forget that for as long as I live.”
With that, Chay bows once again, deeply this time, showing the utmost respect to Kinn. Porsche isn’t sure whether he wants to be proud of Chay for his sincerity, touched by how much their reunion means to him, or drag him out of the building by the scruff of his neck. Possibly all three.
“Your… hia?” Korn stumbles over his words. “I’m sorry. Did I mishear you just now?”
“My hia! ” Chay says proudly. Then he walks around the table and squeezes behind chairs to stand by Porsche. “This is Porsche. Ah, I heard that everyone around here knows him as Phoenix. That’s just one of his names, though.”
Korn frowns up at Porsche, squinting and leaning forward again, and that’s when Porsche realizes how bad his eyesight must be. Why isn’t the man wearing glasses or contacts if he needs them?
“You’re…” Korn shakes his head slowly. “But, Nampheung’s oldest… died years ago. My men told me they found… there was a body in the warehouse.”
Porsche blinks, and a distant memory comes back in flashes.
It was weeks after Thee — damn him — had sold Porsche to pay off his debts. Porsche had been kept in a warehouse since then, locked away in a small room with three other boys around his age.
One of the boys they brought in had a series of cuts on both his arms as though he’d been in a knife fight. One of the cuts, the deepest and longest one, was poorly bandaged and developed an infection. Porsche tried to tell the guards the boy needed a doctor, only to be backhanded and ordered to shut up and mind his business. The men made the boy take medicine, but the infection only grew worse.
Then one day, while the boy was riddled with fever, more men came.
“Move the healthy ones out,” one said. “New base, boss’s orders.”
“What about him?” Porsche asked. “He needs help. He’s sick!”
Another smack was Porsche’s only answer. They bound him, blindfolded him, and dragged him away. Two gunshots rang out behind him.
“It was another boy who died in the warehouse,” Porsche said. “He got sick. It wasn’t me.”
Korn blinks up at him and sways in his seat. “Porsche died. There was a body. My men reported… the body. It was burned.”
And Porsche thinks, maybe that was it. Maybe the gang who trafficked him had moved them out because the Theerapanyakul clan was looking for him. And they just barely missed him.
“It wasn’t me,” Porsche says, a sort of cold calmness descending. “Your men made a mistake. A lot of people made mistakes.” Especially Thee, he thinks. The clan may not have found Porsche in time, but Thee had sealed his own fate.
Korn looks down at the coffee table, shaking his head slowly. Silence descends again.
Next to Porsche, Chay shifts from one foot to the other, takes a breath as though he’s going to say something again, and Porsche puts a hand on his arm and grips tightly, silently begging him to stay quiet.
Kinn is the one to break the silence at last. “Given our connection and history, I’m more than happy to continue to keep Porsche, or Phoenix, on my team and out of the hands of people like Davies.” Kinn glances over his shoulder and uses two fingers to indicate that Porsche and Chay should have a seat back on the couch.
Chay leaps at the chance, dragging Porsche from behind Kinn and bringing him back to the couch to sit. Porsche goes along with it reluctantly.
“Porsche,” Kinn says, making him look up, “I believe my father’s intent was to recover you if he could, but that wasn’t possible. It’s my honor that I accomplished that on his behalf, even if it wasn’t my intent. So, Porchay, you don’t have to feel you owe me anything.”
Relief washes over Porsche, so sweet and cool that he has to close his eyes. No debts. Good, it’s good; there’s no need for Chay to be in a life debt like that.
Korn sits back in his chair slowly, and now he’s staring at Porsche and Porchay like he’s lost and confused.
Tankhun chimes in. “We will, of course, be giving Tsunami-Phoenix-Porsche-Whatever-Your-Name-Is certain privileges, all things considered.” Tankhun says, waving a hand. He sniffs. “Special case and all that.”
Kinn looks at Tankhun and nods. “I’ll discuss that separately with Porsche. There are a few other matters I wanted to mention while we’re all together.”
“If you’re selling off the bread company, I’m all for it,” Kim says dryly.
“Hush, nong,” Tankhun scolds. “I like the bread. I get to make special requests for Elizabeth and Sebastian.”
Kinn shakes his head. “The bread company isn’t going anywhere. Pete, however, is. I’m transferring him to Vegas’s household, where he will take on the role of head bodyguard. I’ve already put this into effect — Pete is with Vegas now.”
Here, Kinn pauses as he glances at Korn, whose gaze doesn’t sway from Porsche and Chay. Korn’s expression is hard to read, and something about it seems to Porsche like the older man has been cast adrift.
Kim’s sharp eyes seem to take in everything, though. After a look at his unresponsive father, he turns back to Kinn. “Then what about your head bodyguard role?”
Kinn tilts his chin and nods over his shoulder at the man acting as his shadow. “That will be Big. He’s experienced in the role. I’m also having him take on greater responsibilities.”
“Sir, it’s my honor to serve you and the main family,” Big says with a formal bow.
To Porsche, Big doesn’t seem surprised. The promotion must be what he and Kinn were discussing before Porsche showed up in Kinn’s office.
Tankhun sighs heavily. “I still can’t believe my son Pete would betray me for the minor family, but I guess there’s no helping it. I’ll just have to plan another celebration soon to show my reluctant acceptance. If Pete wears a gorilla costume, I might even forgive him.”
Kim plucks a chord on the guitar because for some unknown reason he still has the thing in his lap. The sound gets everyone’s attention.
“I should probably mention I’ll be staying at the tower more often,” Kim says, his every muscle deceptively relaxed. Porsche still doesn’t know quite what to make of Kim yet, but one thing he’s certain of is that he’s quick-witted and calculating. “I’m collaborating with a studio nearby. And maybe I can pick up some of Kinn’s slack.” He gives a small jerking nod at Kinn.
“What?” Tankhun asks, sounding alarmed, a hand clenched in a fist. “Who said there’s any slack to pick up? There’s no slacking around here, none.”
Porsche looks across at Kinn’s reaction. The man seems to be locked in a staring contest with Kim.
“And since Kim’s going to be here, that means I’ll be around, too,” Chay chimes in. “I’m the one he’s collaborating with. Plus he’s my boyfriend, sooo…”
“He’s your what?” Porsche blurts, unable to hold back any longer, and Chay grins at him like he’s done a particularly clever trick. Something manic and determined lurks in Chay’s expression, and Porsche doesn’t remotely know how to deal with that, so he looks at Kim. “Is this for real?”
Kim shrugs helplessly, spreading his hands. “He’s kind of hard to resist.”
Instead of being pleased with this, though, Chay scowls at him, pouting. “You mean that in a bad way.”
Kim looks at Chay, and the corners of his mouth curl up in a wicked, taunting smile. It makes him look so much younger, but at the same time, an identical sort of manic glee that Porsche saw in Chay’s eyes is reflected in Kim’s.
“I absolutely mean that in a bad way,” Kim says to Chay.
Chay makes a sound of protest and then reaches behind the guitar to try to pinch Kim’s side. Kim makes a small sound and twists away, dodging a vicious hand.
Are they… flirting? They’re actually flirting. This isn’t some sort of ruse. They’re really together.
Porsche doesn’t know what to think. It’s all too much to process.
“Porsche,” Korn says, getting his attention, “is it really you?”
Porsche winces. All he wants to do is ask Chay what the hell he’s trying to pull, but he can’t ignore Khun Korn.
“Yes, sir,” he says. “I’m back, thanks to Khun Kinn.”
Korn lifts a hand but then doesn’t seem certain what to do with it. “Alive. Nampheung. Nampheung will want to see you. Chan, call my sister here. And that husband of hers. They’ll want to see their boy.”
Porsche’s face falls, and he looks up at P’Chan. The head guard looks distraught, but somehow he remains unsurprised. The others gathered around the coffee table all seem shaken… all except for Kinn.
“Chan.” Kinn’s soft, commanding voice cuts through the sudden silence.
Chan looks at Kinn. For a long moment, they lock gazes, while Korn quietly shakes his head, a frown creasing his brows.
Kinn looks once at his father, and then his eyes instantly dart back to P’Chan. There’s authority in Kinn’s gaze, a silent order.
Porsche holds his breath, as does everyone else in the room.
Finally, Chan lowers his gaze and bows his head to Kinn.
Chan leans over toward Korn to speak next. “Khun Korn, sir, perhaps you would like to wait in the garden while I make arrangements? I can also have lunch brought to you, as well as your medicine.”
Korn looks up at Chan again, and after a drawn-out moment where Porsche is terrified the older man is about to argue, his mouth wobbles, and he says, “Yes, yes, that will be good. Thank you, Chan.”
Korn gets to his feet and picks up his cane, and Chan escorts him out of the room. The head guard takes a moment to look over his shoulder at Kinn as they go, and Kinn gives him a slow nod of acknowledgement.
Eventually Porsche looks back at the Theerapanyakul brothers. Kim and Tankhun seem shell-shocked. Kinn looks stormy.
Porsche is almost certain he just watched all the power of the Theerapanyakul main family pass fully into Kinn’s hands the moment Chan bowed to him. Only long after the sound of footsteps and tapping cane completely disappear does anyone dare to speak.
“When,” Tankhun starts, and he takes a moment to give his head one sharp shake, “when did it get that bad?”
Kinn’s mouth tightens his mouth into a thin line. “I suspected, but I wasn’t certain. Chan’s been helping him hide it.” Kinn takes a long, deep breath and deliberately relaxes his shoulders. “We’ll handle it. Let’s save the discussion for later, though, Khun. In the meantime, not a word about this gets out, from anyone.” Kinn’s voice rises, carrying his command to everyone within earshot.
“Sir!” the guards chorus back.
Porsche looks around, realizing just how many people were witness to that scene.
Tankhun is opening and closing his mouth like one of his fancy carp. He can’t seem to decide what to say or where to start.
Big, meanwhile, touches his earpiece like he’s listening to something, and a moment later he leans down and whispers a few quick words to Kinn.
“Good timing,” Kinn says. “Send Vegas up.” Big straightens and relays the order.
Tankhun rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s just icing on the cake. But nevermind Vegas. Kim! What are you thinking? I want you to visit now and then, but you’re not supposed to stay. Go! Do the music! Make me proud!”
“He never really left the business, you know,” Chay says with a shrug, and Porsche begins to think that smothering him with a pillow might be the only way to keep him quiet.
Tankhun turns a dramatically narrowed gaze on Porsche’s younger brother. “Nong. Porchay. Young Kittisawat. I see you’re just as nosy as my Kim.”
Tankhun looks like he’s about ready to get in a slap fight with Chay, Chay looks like he’s ready to crack up, and Porsche can hardly believe it’s only noon. He feels like he’s aged an entire year in the past hour.
“He isn’t wrong, Khun,” Kim says softly, turning big eyes on his eldest brother. Porsche has a terrible feeling that someday Kim and Chay are going to learn how to use that tactic in sync.
Kinn shifts in his seat and leans forward, ignoring the puppy eyes that are being wielded on Tankhun.
“Porchay,” he says, getting the young man’s attention, “I feel it’s important I let you know what you’re getting into by dating Kim.”
“Um?” Chay says, and Porsche notes that a small blush creeps across his cheeks. “Um, what’s that, P’Kinn, sir?”
Kinn grins, his gaze shark-like. “Just that you’re the first person my sweet little nong has ever dated. I guess the cute kid has finally grown up.”
Kim growls. “Hey Kinn?” Kim gives a pinched smile and aims a pair of middle fingers at Kinn. “Fuck off.”
Kinn chuckles and leans back in his seat, the epitome of a satisfied older sibling who got the upper hand. He’s still smiling when he adds, “In all seriousness, I hope you’ll be good to my brother.”
Chay lifts his chin. “Likewise.”
Kinn’s smile doesn’t falter, but his answer comes slowly. “Of course. Porsche is under my protection. I take care of all of my staff.”
The words hit Porsche like a blow. Protection. Staff. It’s a reminder of Kinn’s earlier words and the way he’d cut Porsche off. He’s gone cold, when before there was warmth, interest, something that Porsche was just beginning to explore...
Porsche frowns, trying to catch Kinn’s eyes. Kinn doesn’t avoid him, but when their gazes meet, it’s as though he runs up against a wall.
“Given what we’ve just learned, I’d like a word with you later about your contract,” Kinn says, his expression as unreadable as a slab of marble.
“Sir,” Porsche replies, and he doesn’t know who he wants to shake more, Chay or Kinn. Neither of them are making sense.
Of course that’s when Vegas shows up, with Macau on one side and Pete on the other.
“Looks like a party,” Vegas says. “Did I miss anything good, cousins?”
“Oh hey, it’s little cow!” Chay crows, the words “little cow” in English.
“First of all,” Macau says, “I told you not to call me that, you overgrown telephone poll. Second, what the hell are you doing here?”
Horror dawns on Porsche. “You did not just call Khun Macau a cow!” he hisses at Chay.
“Oh, he used to call me much worse,” Chay insists with wide eyes.
“Not the point, Chay!” Porsche says urgently.
Kim is looking at Macau with narrowed eyes. “So you’re the leak.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Macau strolls over and slumps into the chair that Korn vacated a short while ago.
Kim grins, and it’s sharp around the corners. “I’m moving back into the tower.”
Macau cringes and looks up at Vegas. “Hia, is my room still available at the compound?”
Vegas comes up next to Macau, takes him by the scruff of the neck, and hauls him out of the chair to make him stand beside it. Then Vegas claims the chair for himself.
“Your room is exactly as you left it, and you know it,” Vegas says. “But you should stay and play with Kimmy. It’ll build character. Who’s the kid?” He nods at Chay.
“That’s Chay. He was a year ahead of me in high school,” Macau says. “Tutored me in math for a semester. He’s not totally the worst.” The kid gives Chay a sideways look.
“Porchay Kittisawat,” Chay adds. Then he crosses his arms and points to either side of himself. “I’m Kim’s boyfriend and Porsche’s nong.”
Vegas gives Kinn a dry look. “When I asked whether I missed anything, I didn’t actually want to know any of this.”
Kinn snorts. “I don’t blame you. Everyone settle down.” Kinn doesn’t have to raise his voice for all those gathered to come to order; they hear and comply. Pol scurries to bring over a chair for Macau, and Pete takes up a position behind Vegas.
“I came by to say that the Blue Room is reopening next week,” Vegas finally says when everything has settled.
Porsche perks up. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten that was even happening. He may not have been involved with the Blue Room for long, but he’ll never forget what Mark, Ford, and all the other Blue Room guys did for him.
“Oh?” Kinn leans forward. “That’s much faster than I expected.”
Vegas gives a half shrug. “There’s a problem, though. That scumbag Davies still hasn’t left town, and he’s getting more than a little uppity. Two of my contacts in the police department came by, said there’ve been a series of kidnappings conducted in the vicinity around the Blue Room. All of the people taken have been teens or younger, all in the past couple days.”
Ice rushes down Porsche’s spine. Davies. That sick son of a bitch. Is he doing it to get revenge because of Porsche? If so, then it’s Porsche’s fault these kids are being taken. Just the thought of it makes his stomach roil and his blood go cold. He recalls his encounters with Davies, his cavalier attitude, his overweening arrogance. Porsche clutches his fists so tight they hurt.
Fingers digging into his arm catch his attention, and Porsche finds Chay looking at him intensely. His gaze says, I’m here. I’ve got you, and Porsche takes a deep breath, letting some of his brother’s warmth seep into his veins. Chay is probably confused about what’s going on, but he seems to instinctively know that Porsche needs his support.
“And what did you tell your contacts?” Kinn asks.
Vegas frowns. “That I’ll let them know if I learn of anything out of the ordinary, of course.”
Kinn nods. “Well done. We can discuss our strategy. Let’s take this to a more private room. Big, Arm? Come with me.” He rises and straightens his jacket, and Vegas does the same.
Porsche starts to rise and follow, but Porchay holds onto him.
“No need to join us, Porsche,” Kinn says. “Meet me in my office at two o’clock. Keep Kim company in the meantime.”
Porsche barely has a chance to say, “Yes, sir,” before Kinn, Vegas, Arm, and Pete are gone. All the other guards, the normal guards, bow as the major and minor family heads leave, while Porsche remains seated.
“Hia, who’s Davies?” Chay whispers to him.
Porsche closes his eyes and shakes his head. He’ll tell Chay, but not right now.
Macau switches seats, taking Kinn’s so he’s next to Tankhun.
“Hey, Khun, got any new board games recently?”
The strategy meeting runs long. Davies is a troublesome opponent for a lot of reasons, primarily because of his many connections and international dealings. He isn’t exactly untouchable, but it’s a close thing. Whereas a lone wolf like Benny was easy to deal with swiftly and permanently, a wrong move against Davies could lead to severe and long-lasting consequences.
Fortunately Vegas still has a man on Davies’s local team, but their mole has to play it careful and has gone radio silent. Kinn and Vegas are in agreement that they need to let Davies overplay his hand and meanwhile minimize his damage and impact until they can push him out of Thailand. If the man chooses to set up a harassment campaign out of spite, well, they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.
It’s nearly three o’clock when Kinn heads back to his office. When he reaches the lobby, he finds Porsche there waiting for him. He’d forgotten about meeting with him.
Porsche unfolds himself from the couch and stands at attention, all long limbs and narrow waist, all temptation. And the temptation is worse now that Kinn has had a little taste of him, not nearly enough.
No. The line is there for a reason.
God, I need a drink, he thinks. Father’s deterioration, Davies’s blatant disrespect, Porsche just being Porsche, and even Porchay somehow ending up in a relationship with Kim — it’s already been a long day, and it isn’t even over.
“Come with me,” Kinn orders.
Porsche follows him into his office. Kinn heads straight for the mini bar behind his desk. He gets out a tumbler and his favorite whiskey and pours for himself. He takes a drink, the delicious, smokey scent of the liquor soothing his senses and then goes to sit on the couch. With a gesture, he gives Porsche permission to sit across from him.
Porsche sits, quietly observing him. He doesn’t even seem the slightest bit annoyed at how long he had to wait for Kinn. The man is obedient to a fault and so, so careful in his every move. So easy to take advantage of.
Porsche is also completely, utterly dependent on Kinn for his continued survival. The ex-slave may not be Kinn’s property, but no one is more Kinn’s than he is. He could order that Porsche get on his knees and blow him right now, and he wouldn’t complain.
What had Porsche said the first time they met? Back when Kinn knew him only as Tsunami? “I can fight. I can fuck.”
Manipulating him would be so easy. Hadn’t Kinn already set up all the pieces to ensure Porsche would take the job in the first place? Child’s play, really. Which is why he’s off-limits.
“Your father,” Porsche starts, his tone gentle, “is he okay?”
Kinn blinks a couple times, not expecting the question. He’d known that Chan was hiding the full extent of his father’s health problems, but the severity and the nature of those problems are fresh discoveries. Kinn intends to set up a private meeting with Chan and his brothers this evening and go from there. Chan most certainly knows that there’s no more hiding at this point.
A little over a year ago, Kinn wouldn’t have been prepared for this, knowing that the weight of the entire Theerapanyakul family well and truly rested on his shoulders. Now it’s just another day, the same as the one before.
“My father’s health is both a security concern and a family matter,” Kinn says firmly, letting a note of chastisement slip into his voice.
Porsche sways back slightly in his seat as though some invisible force pushed him. The warmth in his eyes shutters, and he nods sharply. “Understood, sir.”
“The reason I called you here was to discuss some manner of atonement, on behalf of my father,” Kinn clarifies. “Under other circumstances, I would offer to set you up with a place to live and a job, but that isn’t in the cards for various reasons. Thinking of alternative compensation—”
“My brother,” Porsche says, a rare interruption from the circumspect man. “I want him safe. He’s so close to the business now. I tried to talk him out of it, but I can’t stop him. He needs protection.”
Kinn’s hands twitch. Porsche really is a great treasure to have around, not only for the reputation boost and his fighting prowess, but also for his natural protective instincts. He could teach the other guards a thing or two.
“Of course,” Kinn says. “He’ll have a detail assigned to him. That will remain in place regardless of his relationship with Kim.” And isn’t that another wild trip in and of itself? Kim and Porchay, dating. From what Kinn has witnessed so far, the pairing has all the potential of pouring whiskey on fire.
Porsche relaxes, letting out a little sigh. It’s on the tip of Kinn’s tongue to say how impressed he is with Chay’s fierceness and loyalty, but he suspects Porsche wouldn’t appreciate it.
“A protection detail, however, isn’t the compensation I had in mind,” Kinn says. He picks up his glass and takes another drink. Then he lets it dangle in his hand, swirling it so that the ice chimes prettily against the crystal tumbler. “The Davies situation is delicate and has to be managed carefully. However, I’ll hear you out if you would want revenge as a form of compensation.”
Porsche makes a grimace and tilts his head. “Revenge?” He scoffs, and it’s a small, painful sound. “Davies had me for just three months, and I only saw him a few times.” He throws his head back and lets out a bitter laugh that’s aimed at the ceiling. When he looks at Kinn again, his eyes are more than a little wild. “Who am I supposed to get revenge on, exactly? Anyone who ever did anything bad to me? That would take the rest of my life. And I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired, Kinn.”
The ice clinks as Kinn clutches the tumbler in his hand. It’s the only thing preventing him from reaching out, touching, and taking what he wants from a vulnerable man.
He should call Porsche out on the informal use of his name. Letting it go is like allowing a dent in the wall he wants to build.
He lets it go.
“There must be something the Theerapanyakul clan can offer,” Kinn insists.
Porsche shakes his head slowly. “The one person I would have killed myself, my uncle, is already dead, thanks to your dad. And Chay is okay, also because your dad stepped in. You’re keeping me out of hell, giving me a chance to finish school, paying me to work… a couple months ago, I could hardly imagine something like that. Right now, I don’t know what to tell you. Sir.” The “sir” is added on belatedly, a rushed detail nearly forgotten.
Kinn sighs, realizing he’s being unreasonable to expect an immediate answer given Porsche’s circumstances. It only serves to further emphasize how ill-equipped he is for a normal life, that he has no greater dreams or wishes to speak of, no idea of what to do when offered what is practically a blank check.
“Fine. We can revisit this at your half-year employee review,” Kinn says. “But if you don’t have an answer for me then, I won’t renew the offer. Acceptable?”
That seems to put Porsche more at ease, and he nods. “Yes, sir. Was that all?”
Kinn nods. “You’re dismissed.”
He doesn’t get up as Porsche walks out, merely lifts his tumblr to his lips to appreciate the whiskey’s sharp fragrance.
There’s a pause before Porsche leaves, and he turns to meet Kinn’s eyes.
“There is… something, sir,” Porsche says. “The meeting you had. You’re planning moves against Davies, aren’t you?” Porsche clenches his fists at his sides.
Ice clinks in Kinn’s glass, and he nods. “Yes.”
“The kids— it’s because of me they—” He cuts himself off and looks at Kinn, his eyes haunted, angry. “Can you find them? And send them back to their families?”
Kinn’s heart clenches in his chest, and he tightens his grip on his tumbler. What Porsche asks isn’t easy. Nothing about the Davies situation is easy.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says.
That earns a lopsided smile and a small bow of Porsche’s head. He leaves silently.
Kinn grits his teeth for a moment and then tosses back the rest of his drink.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Kinn calls off the almost-but-not-quite relationship that was developing between him and Porsche, which disappoints Porsche. (Really that doesn’t deserve a warning, but considering I’m certain some people are going to be upset, I figure I might as well throw it in. 😅) There is also discussion of human trafficking happening in the present time (not happening to Porsche).
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Yes, I attic wife’d Korn. Or attic dad’d? Whatever. You get the idea.
Also, this chapter is *checks notes* two scenes? Good gravy.
Chapter 18: Begin Again
Summary:
Chay, now the "boyfriend" and proud boy toy of Kimhan Theerapanyakul, decides to go exploring the tower. (That is to say, he's snooping.)
Notes:
Thank you to enbymoomin, my beloved beta! 🙏
REMINDER: I have posted spoiler descriptions of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chay wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, a streak of diffused morning light peeking through curtains to spill across his eyes. He’s on his side, with someone else’s warm, strong forearm slung over his waist. His partner’s face is tucked into the back of his neck, and Chay can tell by the way he’s slowly snuffling that he’s still asleep.
It’s far from the first time Chay’s woken up in a strange place, but when Chay remembers where he is and who he’s with, a slow, satisfied smile starts to curl his lips.
Porsche is alive. Porsche is alive — and although he’s only nominally “free” for a given definition of the word, at least he has protection.
Behind Chay, Kim sighs in his sleep and shifts a little closer. The guy is clinging to Chay, cuddling him like he’s a teddy bear.
Chay has his brother back. And somehow Chay snagged a whole-ass, drop-dead gorgeous pseudo-boyfriend in the process of reclaiming his family. The thought of it makes him so giddy he has to smother his face in his pillow so as not to wake Kim with his giggles.
A glance at his phone on the bedside stand tells him it isn’t even seven o’clock. He’s already arranged his leave of absence from his college courses, and his manager agreed to leave him alone for a couple weeks as long as he does a livestream or two. So he has nowhere to be but here. After years of rushing to and fro and tackling countless special “missions” between everything else, it’s strange to wake up without any need to rush.
He gently extricates himself from Kim’s clutches, picks his rumpled clothes up off the floor, and pads as quietly as he can to the bathroom. The bathroom happens to include a huge walk-in closet full of clean clothing, and Chay happens to be utterly shameless, so after freshening up he helps himself to one of Kim’s shirts. It has “Bold” printed in English on the front, and it’s a little tight on him. He steals some underwear, too, because for some reason Kim has a whole pile of designer briefs that still have tags and labels on them, probably received as gifts from events or promotions.
When Chay tiptoes back into the bedroom, he finds two eyes glittering at him from just above the edge of a pillow. The eyes are fierce, and the sheets are rumpled and shoved aside enough to reveal a lot of very, very nice skin.
“Where are you going?” Kim asks, glaring. The words come out muffled because the lower half of his face is still buried in the pillow. Chay notes that it’s his own pillow.
Chay straightens up. “I want to go snoop around,” he says, because if there’s one thing he knows about Kim, it’s that he appreciates honesty almost as much as Chay does.
Kim’s brows draw together cutely, and he grunts and mutters a curse along with something about a “morning person.” Chay smiles and goes to sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at him. A black lock is falling across his forehead, so Chay tucks it out of the way. An unexpected wave of fondness, liberally seasoned with intense attraction, sweeps through Chay.
“How’re you feeling?” Chay asks quietly. “Sore?”
Kim growls and buries his face completely in the pillow, swatting at Chay’s hand the same way a person swats at a fly. Kim is clearly trying to hide his blush, but it’s still visible on the one ear that Chay can see. He kinda wants to bite it.
Chay is pretty sure last night was Kim’s first time getting fucked. Chay has decided to be nice, though, and not make his boyfriend admit it aloud. It’s Chay’s first time being a boyfriend, just as it is for Kim, and even though it’s primarily a practical arrangement, he still wants to do it right.
After a moment, Kim lifts his head to say, “I’m fine,” in a tone that’s nothing like his normal, polished voice. It’s rough, not only from sleep but from all the screams he’d muffled into the pillows last night.
Chay starts to trace a bare shoulder with a fingertip, but Kim squirms away. At first Chay thinks he’s going to get up, but instead he fumbles with the stand on his side of the bed. Then Kim squirms back toward Chay, this time holding a black pen.
Grumbling, Kim takes hold of Chay’s left arm and writes something on the back of Chay’s hand.
He’s with me. ~Kimhan
Kim clicks the pen closed when he’s done.
“So no one bothers you,” Kim says. He stretches and then flops back down, burrowing into the pillows and bedding like an overgrown cat.
Chay looks back and forth between the drying ink and the mafia heir.
“Could I take one of the company cars with this, do you think?”
Kim yawns hugely, completely unbothered. “Probably.”
“So what’s to stop me from taking a car, taking my brother, and running?” Chay asks, tilting his head.
Kim rolls his eyes. “As if you’d be that stupid.”
It’s true — as reckless as Chay acts, he’s always weighing the consequences of his actions and whether or not they’re going to get him what he really wants. Most people can’t tell the difference. Kim, on the other hand, just seems to get it.
Chay comes to a decision. “I’m going to blow you.”
Kim frowns. “Right now?”
“Right now,” Chay replies with a small, firm nod.
“What the hell?” Kim says, starting to pull up the covers toward his chin. “I want to sleep. And I’m not even horny.”
Chay grins, and it feels like a wicked promise. He licks his bottom lip. “I bet I can fix that.”
Snooping can wait. He dives under the covers, and it doesn’t take long to turn sleepy bitching into happy moans.
Sometime later, when Kim is thoroughly satiated and once again fast asleep, Chay leaves his apartment and sets out on a self-guided tour of the tower. Yesterday upon their arrival, Kim had shown him only a couple of the major areas.
Today Chay’s first objective is breakfast at the main cafeteria. He’d barely gotten a glimpse of it the day before.
One of the tables has four bodyguards seated around it. They glance briefly his way before continuing their conversation. A couple other tables are occupied by guards or staff members, but they mostly ignore Chay.
He steps up to the counter.
“How can I help you, young master Porchay?” a middle-aged auntie greets him.
Oh, impressive. The rumor mill works hard around here. He points at his own face innocently. “You know who I am?”
The auntie smiles wide. “Of course. You’re with our own Khun Kim, and you’re the brother of the little Phoenix boy.”
She’s making it so easy for him that he almost feels guilty.
Ten minutes later, he has charmed his way into an invitation to see the kitchen. The first auntie introduces him to another woman, Auntie Anong, who’s a cook. He’s summarily plopped down on a stack of empty fruit crates, handed two pork skewers, and allowed to chatter away with Anong while she works.
Anong has worked here for sixteen years, and she’s a fount of interesting and valuable information.
An hour later, when Anong is done with her breakfast shift and going on break, she shoves a sweet, crispy khao taen in his hand and shoos him on his way.
As he nibbles his rice cake and wanders, he goes over what he learned. Porsche has apparently been very skittish and shy, slow to adjust to life in the tower, but he’s been gradually coming around. The Theerapanyakul family members are known to be eccentric — definitely not a surprise. Khun Kinn is very popular with the staff, and he’s shown a special interest in Porsche, which, yeah, Chay noticed that, too.
Also of interest were the questions that Auntie Anong didn’t engage, most notably around Khun Korn and the minor family.
After that, he keeps poking around and finds an extensive training facility, which is in use by various sweaty people. Sadly, he doesn’t run into Porsche there. He also finds a gun range, bunches of empty meeting rooms, offices, and even a sauna.
It isn’t until he’s wandering through the lobby for the third time that he catches it: There, at the base of one of the marble columns, is a small, round hole. A bullet hole. Huh.
As soon as he knows what to look for, he’s able to spot a couple other bullet holes here and there, as well as a suspicious patch job or two.
Interesting and concerning. He files that away for further exploration.
Eventually, after being firmly steered away from a couple areas by some stern-faced fellows, he gets pointed in the direction of a garden. It isn’t particularly informative or useful, but at least it’s nice to look at for a few minutes.
He crouches over the walled-in pond, and two big, fat koi come swimming up to the edge.
“I don’t have any treats,” Chay tells them. His khao taen disappeared long ago, and it probably wouldn’t be good for them anyway.
“They belong to my eldest son, Tankhun,” calls a voice from the red-brick patio.
Chay straightens up and finds Khun Korn looking down from above, a tentative smile in place on his weathered face. Behind him, P’Chan and two other bodyguards are lurking quietly.
Best to go with “ordinary, polite boy,” Chay decides.
“Oh, hello Khun Korn, sir,” he says cheerfully. “Someone told me it was okay for me to be out here. Was that wrong? Should I go? I can go.” He points off to the west entrance, which was the way he’d entered, and starts to walk that way.
Korn holds up a hand and pats at the air to forestall him. “No, no, not at all. You’re welcome to visit the garden as you please. Actually, I was just sitting down to have some tea. Come join me. I could use some company.”
Ah. This wasn’t exactly what Chay had in mind. However, he’s not opposed to jumping from basic snooping all the way to expert mode.
“Sure thing, sir,” Chay says. He walks around the side of the patio and climbs the stairs. Just as he arrives, a bodyguard sets out a second chair for him to use. Another brings out a second, matching teacup and saucer to go with the set that is already laid out.
Korn eases himself down into the seat in a sort of careful manner and gestures for Chay to sit as well. P’Chan pours for them, and Chay picks up his cup delicately — it’s quite hot, too hot for a stuffy, humid day like today, but whatever.
“That’s quite an interesting mark on your hand,” Korn says.
Chay looks down at the black writing on his hand and lets himself giggle. “Yeah, it was Kim’s idea. Kind of like a visitor’s badge, I guess?”
“Hmm,” Korn murmurs thoughtfully.
An awkward silence descends, and Chay kicks the toes of his boots against the cement a couple times. Then he thinks of an angle.
“Is this where I need to reassure you that I’m very sincere in my affections for your son, and I won’t hurt him?” Chay asks as earnestly as he can. “Because I can do that, sir.”
Korn chuckles lightly. “Not at all, my boy, not at all. I know my boys very well indeed, and Kimhan is a lot of things, but fragile is not one of them.”
Chay thinks about how Kim looks at him sometimes, with so much longing and hesitance, and he comes to the conclusion that Korn does not, in fact, know his boys very well.
“By the way, I meant to mention, don’t mind my conduct yesterday,” Korn says, smiling mildly. “I’m afraid I spent a little too long in the sauna. My doctor says I got overheated. Nearly gave myself heat stroke, I’m afraid.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Chay raises his brows, widens his eyes. “Are you feeling better, sir? Was your doctor able to prescribe you something to help?”
“Yes, right as rain now,” Korn replies. “But enough about me. Tell me about yourself. I imagine we might be spending time together regularly, what with Kim and Porsche both being under my roof.”
Let the games begin.
“Oh, I expect I’ll be in and out, with college and music. I hope I won’t be too much trouble for you, though. I just want to be with Kim, and see my brother, too.”
“Not at all,” Korn says, and his smile widens. “In fact, I hope you and Kim will have little chats with me like this occasionally. Quality time is important, I agree.”
Chay thinks he sees where Korn is going with this — and how he can turn it around. “Yeah! Actually, that’d be great. I have all sorts of questions to ask you, about my mom.”
Korn’s smile slips a little. “Your mother. Nampheung. Yes, I see.” He turns his gaze out over the garden.
Chay blows on his tea. “I wasn’t really old enough to keep any memories of her. Porsche used to tell me stories, though. It’d be great to hear more about her.” He takes a drink of his tea, cooled to the perfect temperature.
“Nampheung was…” Korn turns his gaze to look out over the flowers in the garden. He seems to get lost in thought for a moment. “Perhaps I can do that another time. You’ve caught me off guard. I’ll have to think of a good anecdote.”
Another voice interrupts them. “Porchay, Pa.”
Kim joins them, entering from the French doors. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he’s slouching in a deceptively casual manner. The tension is leaking through almost imperceptibly, lurking in the pinched corners of his eyes.
Korn turns to look at Kim, and the former family head lights up like he’s just gotten the best surprise.
“Kim! Excellent,” Korn says with evident delight. “Come, sit down. Beam, bring another chair.”
“Actually, I was hoping to steal Porchay back,” Kim says with an apologetic face. “We have a Zoom meeting coming up about the contract for our collaboration piece.”
Kim looks right at Chay with raised brows that say, play along. They finalized the contract a week ago.
Porchay cringes. “I thought I had time to finish tea. I’m sorry, P’Kim. I can come now. Will you excuse me?” He bobs his head politely at Korn.
P’Chan speaks up then as well. “You also have a meeting coming up soon, sir, with Khun Kinn.”
The mafia elder sighs and nods. He waves at Porchay. “Go, go. Business waits for no man.”
“Sorry!” Chay says, setting down his tea and rising. He gives a polite wai.
And Kim — prickly, suspicious, standoffish Kim — holds out a hand for Chay to take. Oh, wow, he really was worried. Chay takes hold, and if Kim grips his hand too tightly, Chay doesn’t make a peep about it or let it show on his face.
Kim doesn’t let go and doesn’t say a word until they’re back in Kim’s apartment.
As soon as the door shuts, Kim whirls on him, eyes blazing, mouth a tense line.
“Looking around is one thing, but talking to my father is something else entirely,” Kim snaps.
Chay shrugs helplessly. “I’m sorry. It just sort of happened.”
“Well, make sure it doesn’t happen again. Do whatever you have to do to stay off his radar,” Kim says in a rush. “He’s dangerous, Porchay.”
That strikes Chay as particularly funny, but he doesn’t think Kim will appreciate him laughing right now, so he chokes back the giggle that threatens to escape. It comes out as a weird little gurgle.
“Yeah, well, newsflash, you’re dangerous, and I’m doing a lot more than just talking with you.” Porchay sighs and shrugs. “Your dad isn’t that hard to figure out, you know. Chronic liar with a serious god complex. It took him about three seconds before he started trying to use me to get more access to you.”
Kim freezes and slowly, muscle by muscle, starts to unwind.
When he’s certain that Kim is listening, Porchay continues. “I can see why you ditched the place now. I would have, too.”
Then, to Chay’s surprise, Kim comes forward, leans against him, and puts his forehead on Chay’s shoulder. Oh. This is nice. Chay brings his arms up and cuddles Kim close. Kim doesn’t hug back, letting his arms stay limp at his sides, but he also doesn’t protest when Chay squeezes.
“Just try not to be alone with him. Please?”
Well, if Kim is going to pull out all the stops, Chay can’t say no to that. Besides, he seems pretty shaken.
“Okay. I’ll try.” He runs his fingers through the hair at the back of Kim’s head. “Hey Kim? I have two questions.”
Kim finally pulls his head up, and Chay lets him go enough that they can look at each other. He gives Chay the stink eye. “What do you want to know?”
“First,” Chay holds up one finger, “what the fuck is up with the bullet holes in the lobby? And second,” Chay puts up another finger, “can I be your date to the Blue Room reopening?”
“You would notice things like overlooked bullet holes,” Kim grumps. “You’re the worst.”
Chay pouts. “You mean that in a bad way.”
Kim snorts and shakes his head, a small smile breaking free on his face. “I mean that in a good way.”
When Kim draws him down into a kiss, Chay complies happily.
Porsche taps his pen against the cafeteria table a couple times, staring down at the papers in front of him. His dinner plate is shoved to the side of the table. The dour Human Resources manager, Sunan, had shoved a whole folder of information for an online high school into his arms and told him to pick his classes and give her the list.
One of the pages describes a slew of aptitude tests, some of which are required and some of which are optional. But even the optional ones are prerequisites for certain courses.
His pen stills, and suddenly he recalls Kinn sitting down with him and reading the job contract, line by line, making sure he understood the benefits and all the requirements.
When he catches himself daydreaming, he looks up and around the cafeteria. The dinner rush is ending, and the crowd has thinned out. No one is paying him any attention.
Fucking Kinn. Confusing hot-and-cold bastard. Porsche sighs and tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling. He had thought there was something… but no, it doesn’t matter now. Kinn has drawn a line, and who is Porsche to cross it?
Anyway, he has everything he needs.
“Hia!”
Porsche startles at the sound of Chay’s voice and looks over at the cafeteria entrance. And there he is, Porsche’s little brother, bounding up to him with a grin and an exuberant wave, all lanky limbs and edgy idol fashion. The shirt he’s wearing says “Bold” in large print. Porsche’s heart gives a little flip flop and a twinge, still struggling to match up the little boy he used to literally toss in the air and carry on his back with this tall young man.
“Chay,” Porsche says, pulling his chair back. He’s half tempted to get up just to hug Chay again. He can’t get enough of that.
“I’ll join you, no need to get up,” Chay says, practically throwing himself into the seat next to Porsche.
Porsche grips his pen. He should be telling Chay to get back to school, not take a leave of absence for him. Not to mention he should be trying to get Chay to leave the tower and never set foot in it again… but he can’t. It already took all his strength to walk away once; he’s not strong enough to push him away now.
“What’s all this?” Chay asks, looking at the papers. He reaches out for the folder without waiting for an answer, flipping it open.
“It’s, ah,” Porsche swallows, “some information. About classes.”
“Oh, wow,” Chay says, his jaw dropping as he looks at the papers. “High school? Online? That is,” he shakes his head slowly, looking slightly stunned, “so good. That’s so good. Wait, tell me they’re covering expenses?”
Porsche feels a little smile start to curl his mouth. “Yeah. It’s totally covered. I think I can even start right away. Or I might have to start next semester — still figuring that out. One page says one thing, and another says something else.”
Chay looks at Porsche, then at the paper, and then back at Porsche again. “I could… lend a hand? I swear I’m a pro at this. I do all my college planning.”
They both freeze at the same time, and Porsche keenly feels the misaligned sequence of things. Chay is at the beginning of his college life, where before he was still just in elementary school.
Porsche is about to say no, to insist on doing it himself, but Chay’s look turns mutinous, a crease appearing between his brows. It’s a look Porsche still remembers from back then.
“We’re doing this,” Chay says. “Hold on. I’ll get another pen from the aunties.” He’s off like a shot before Porsche can protest.
“Okay?” Porsche says.
With Chay’s help, the decisions Porsche had been sweating over take all of ten minutes. Maybe Porsche should be embarrassed to rely on his younger brother this way, but he’s just so relieved it’s done. They both sigh and lean back in their chairs. Porsche’s foot accidentally knocks into Chay’s, and somehow that sets off a brief kicking war, echoes of familiar behaviors at the family dinner table.
As they’re winding down, Chay’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket, checking it. Porsche barely has a second to catch that the screen identification reads “Mom” before Chay shuts it off and shoves it back in his pocket.
Porsche hesitates. “You’re not going to take that?” he asks quietly. Chay has been extremely reluctant to talk about his foster mother.
Chay glances only briefly at Porsche before picking up a paper and staring at it. “Not ready.”
Porsche scratches at a little groove in his pen, but Chay doesn’t say anything else. “I know I should have… contacted you—”
“Stop,” Chay says, holding a hand up, and Porsche stops. “You did contact me. I went back and found the messages you sent, and her replies to you. Look, I know her, better than you do. I may not know exactly what she did to talk you out of meeting me, but I have a really, really good guess. She made a choice. And I get to be mad as fuck about it, okay?”
Porsche thinks about the days and hours and sleepless nights he spent, wondering whether Chay was healthy, whether he was safe. But more than that, he thinks about all his longing just to see him again.
“Don’t look at me like that, hia,” Chay says, looking guilty and angry at the same time. “It’s not forever. I just need to not feel like I have to break something anymore.” His hands briefly clench, wrinkling the paper held between them, but then he straightens it back out, smoothing it against the table.
“You’ve got a temper,” Porsche says casually, a little smile threatening to break free. “That’s new.”
“I can keep my cool,” Chay says blithely. “When I feel like it. Which I usually don’t.” He gives Porsche a patented I’m-so-cute grin.
Porsche shakes his head at him. Then he goes back to the papers, tapping his pen twice against the table. “So it looks like I’ll start classes at the beginning of the next semester. But I need to take the tests in the next two weeks.”
“I can help you study for them, too,” Chay offers, practically squirming in his seat with eagerness.
Porsche narrows his eyes and points his pen at Chay. “You study for your own classes, brat.”
For some reason, that draws giggles out of his brother. He bobs his head, shaking it ruefully as he laughs.
“What? What is it?” Porsche asks seriously.
“Nothing, nothing,” Chay says, still grinning. “Just nice to hear you call me that. Really nice, I think.” Chay stretches his arms out in front of him, and Porsche notices the writing that caught his attention a couple times earlier while they were working.
“What’s that?” Porsche asks. “Pretty sure you didn’t get a tattoo in the time since I saw you yesterday.”
“Oh, this? Just a little hall pass from Kim,” Chay says. He tilts his arm this way and that to show off the squiggly handwriting. “Cute, isn’t it? I have the best boyfriend.”
Porsche hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He isn’t sure what to make of Kim Theerapanyakul yet — the guy is very carefully, very deliberately hard to read, which only makes Porsche more determined to figure him out.
Chay traces the letters and then bites his lower lip, looking at Porsche with something like excited hope in his eyes.
Porsche jerks his chin. “What’s that look for?”
Chay squirms and leans over the table toward him, straining to get close. “Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?”
Taken off guard by the question, Porsche blinks and responds, “I have one.”
Chay perks up. “You do? Where is it? Can I see?”
Porsche winces. He probably shouldn’t have said anything. “It’s just something small. Numbers. On my ankle.”
Chay’s face falls at that, and then his expression hardens like granite. “You can get a coverup. Cover it with a different tat, I mean. Artists do it all the time.”
Porsche hadn’t even given it any thought before. He remembers when they’d put it on him after he first arrived in California, the first stop in a long journey around the world. Afterward, he’d cried in frustration at the unfairness of it, at the loss of control over his own body. Later, when he’d been among fellow slaves who were using crude methods to create their own tattoos, Porsche had always declined, not wanting any more marks than he already had. The scars were permanent enough — he didn’t feel the need to add anything else, like some false sense of ownership over his own body. It would have felt like lying to himself, trying to say, “this is mine,” when he knew very well it wasn’t.
Now, though, things are different.
Chay bites at his thumbnail for a little bit, watching Porsche’s face, and then he adds, “I’ve been thinking. I’m planning to get another tattoo soon. Is it, um, maybe something you’d want to do together? I mean, only if you want, but I just thought, you know, it might be cool.”
Porsche looks at Chay’s earnest face, takes in his excitement, and he can see his little brother tucked away in the corners of a sharp jaw and styled hair.
Porsche feels his own mouth kick up in a small smile. “Let me… think about it a bit?
“Yay!” Chay practically bounces in his seat. “Yeah, yeah, take some time. And you can think about what you might want. It’s a long-term commitment, so you have to pick something you’ll love forever.”
Porsche thinks about all the tattoos he’s seen people wearing, some of which were beautiful and some of which made him question the wearer’s sanity.
“You said you’re getting another one. So, you have a tattoo already? What did you get?” Porsche asks, feeling extremely curious.
For some reason, the question makes Chay duck his head and bunch his shoulders up around his ears. His little brother suddenly looks unreasonably bashful, and it awakens something in Porsche: the need to tease.
He grins. “What’s wrong? Did you get mistranslated Chinese characters? A cartoon character? A naked lady?”
“What?” Chay rears back, and his voice practically squeaks. He’s so offended, and it makes Porsche snicker into his hand “Shut up, I did not!” But that only sets Porsche off harder so that he practically has to bury his face in his hands to stifle the laughter.
“No? Wait. I have it. You were really into Pokémon. Did you get Pikachu? That’s so cute, nong.” Porsche makes little squirrel noises at Chay.
“Tsk,” Chay sneers. “Fine. You wanna know what I got?”
Then, to Porsche’s shock, Chay gets up from his chair and takes off his shirt, right there in the middle of the cafeteria. Now Porsche is the embarrassed one, and he looks around and sees that they’re starting to gain some attention from other guards and staff members. He reaches out a hand to touch Chay’s arm.
“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have teased, okay?” he says urgently. “You can put it back on. We’re in the dining room, Chay.”
“So? I don’t care. You haven’t even seen it yet.”
Then Chay turns his back to Porsche, and Porsche is so completely and immediately distracted that all thoughts of embarrassment fly from his head.
The tattoo is huge, much bigger than he imagined; it’s a whole fucking wing for fuck’s sake. It looks like a demon’s wing, but only the left one — the right side of Chay’s back is blank. The wing is all knobs and claws and leathery skin, and it’s folded, lying at rest. The artistic rendering is so detailed and lifelike that Porsche wouldn’t be surprised if it came to life and started flapping in front of him. Then he notices there are numbers, near the bottom, configured in the format of a date. At first the date doesn’t trigger anything for him, but then his eyes start to widen. He reaches out and touches the inked skin.
“Is that…?”
Chay looks over his shoulder at Porsche. “That was the last day I saw you. I told myself I would only get the right wing when I found out the truth. Told you I was looking for you. I meant it.”
Porsche swallows hard and leans back in his chair, just staring. Slowly, Chay turns and looks down at him. Porsche isn’t sure what expression he’s making, but the look on Chay’s face is triumphant. He isn’t smiling, not exactly, but he’s radiant. His stubborn chin is tilted up, and his eyes are fiery, like he’s ready to take on the whole world. Porsche can’t even find words to express what he’s feeling. Humbled? Awestruck?
Loved.
Overwhelmed.
He’s saved from having to speak by the sound of a low whistle. Ashing and Som approach Porsche’s table, looking at Chay’s back. Suddenly Porsche remembers that they’re in the middle of the cafeteria.
“That is some nice ink you have there, nong,” says Ashing.
“Yeah, who’s your artist?” Som asks.
Chay grins and engages the guards with ease. “It was Nin in Pathawikon. I talked to six artists before I found her.”
“Hey, hey, Phat, show him yours,” Som says, shouting across the cafeteria at a staff member. “You’re not going to believe this. Trust me; it’s some of the best ink you’ll ever see.”
In a matter of minutes, Porsche’s little homework table is swarmed. His normally solitary dinner turns into an ink-centric convention, with people pulling up sleeves and pant legs, taking off shirts left and right.
Then Auntie Anong comes out from the kitchen. She has a spatula in one hand and a huge frown.
“What are all of you doing out here in my dining hall?” Auntie Anong demands.
Some of the people gathered start to cower, bow, and apologize, but Anong slaps her spatula into Chay’s hands without a word. Then, to Porsche’s amazement, this sweet lady rolls up her left sleeve to display a stunning motif of a temple on her left forearm. He’s pretty sure it’s Wat Arun. Everyone leans in and starts shouting their compliments, but Auntie Anong does them one better: She starts rolling up her right sleeve to display a tiger creeping down it toward her hand. When she flips her arms over, the delicate inner forearms display long lines of script.
Auntie Anong earns a round of applause, which makes her grin and blush.
“Okay, but put your clothes back on, you fools,” she says grumpily. “This is still a dining hall. Naughty children, all of you.” Then she takes her spatula and stalks back to her lair, not unlike the tiger that dwells on her arm.
Most of the gathered throng laugh at that, and some meander away. A few stay to chat with Chay and Porsche, claiming seats around the little table and pulling them in close.
As two guards argue about what tattoos they want to get next, Porsche catches Chay’s eyes. Porsche smiles and nods, and Chay ducks his head, looking at him bashfully again. Unable to resist, Porsche reaches out and puts his hand on the side of Chay’s head, clutching tightly, letting his brother know how much it means to him to be remembered, to be found.
Maybe it’s okay that he can’t find words. Maybe there just aren’t words for something this profound.
Kim is trapped in the clutches of a madman, and there’s no way out. Escape is futile — he’s made three attempts already, each one ending in failure. Helpless, he eats his popcorn and suffers in silence.
“No! No!” Tankhun shouts at the screen, rising from the couch and stomping his foot. “That can’t be right! He cannot marry that princess, not while the woman he loves is right there. Don’t you think, Kim? The marriage won’t happen, will it?”
Kim has never seen the show before, but he’s sure Tankhun has probably seen it numerous times already. However, given the formula of Chinese dramas and the fact that the show still has numerous episodes to go, the prince is definitely going to marry the wrong person.
“I don’t know, Khun,” Kim says slowly, looking up from the floor at his looming brother. “I don’t think they have any way out of it.”
Khun huffs and flops back on the couch, folding his arms. “But I don’t like it!”
For once, it’s just the two of them, none of Tankhun’s usual entourage in sight. Tankhun had chased his trio of guards out the door after getting his clutches on Kim. When Pol asked who would keep Khun Nu safe without them, Kim had leveled him with a glare that made Fern and Arm inch away from the tall guard. Pol had only blinked in confusion.
“I bet if you keep watching, it’ll get better,” Kim says mildly.
“Fine! But I’m going back a bit. I missed what they just said.” He picks up the remote and wields it like it’s a magic wand.
Kim knows better than to argue about rewinding. He has learned the hard way.
A couple minutes later, Tankhun sprawls sideways across the couch, and he throws an arm over Kim’s shoulder. At first he leaves it dangling there, but then he starts to steal Kim’s popcorn. Kim raises the bowl to his brother’s hand while the concubine on screen mopes into a pillow, drunk and crying to her maids about her misfortunes.
“When are you going back to your apartment?” Khun asks offhandedly. The question is anything but casual, though.
“I’ll go get a few things tomorrow,” he says. “And Chay and I both need to do livestreams. We’ll be gone for the day.”
Khun snorts. “I meant going back for real.”
Kim stares at the unfolding historical drama before him and hardly sees it.
“You don’t want me around?” he asks point blank, not looking away from the TV.
“As if!” Tankhun says in English and practically shoves Kim’s head into his popcorn. “Just focus on your music career. We have things covered here.”
Kim shrugs slowly. “Pa’s fading. Kinn is reeling Chan in, step by step. That means no more special assignments. No more hits, no spying, nothing. Not for the past year, and not with Pa like that. I don’t have to stay away anymore, Khun.”
They say nothing for a long while. Onscreen, the drunken concubine is stumbling her way through the palace, heading to the chamber of the man she loves.
“But you should.” Tankhun pulls his arm back. “Visits are fine. Visits are nice. But you should just do music. You’re good at it, nong.”
“Mmhm,” Kim agrees. He stuffs his mouth full of popcorn even though he doesn’t want anymore.
“Aish! No respect for your elders,” Tankhun complains. “Is that Kittisawat boy being a bad influence on you? You used to listen to me!”
“No I didn’t.”
Spite-fueled retaliation comes swiftly.
Five minutes later, Tankhun has Kim pinned to the floor on his belly and is stuffing popcorn down the back of his shirt. That’s the moment when Macau walks in.
Tankhun and Kim freeze, both looking up at their teenage cousin. Macau blinks down at them and slowly shakes his head.
“Why my shithead father ever felt inferior to the main family, I will never know,” Macau says.
Tankhun, thank fuck, clambers off Kim’s back, and Kim rolls free into a cross-legged sitting position. He untucks his shirt and starts trying to shimmy a ridiculous amount of popcorn out the bottom of it.
“Who let you in here?” Tankhun demands, hands on both hips.
“Uh, you did,” Macau says. “You told Fern to tell me it was movie night.”
“Oh. Well. You’re late. I thought you weren’t coming.” Tankhun walks around to the couch, stray pieces of popcorn crunching under his hard-soled slippers.
Macau shrugs. “I was busy with homework.” He eyes the array of snacks and grabs the empty popcorn bowl off the floor. “Refill time.” Then he wanders off to Tankhun’s kitchenette.
Tankhun flops down at one end of the couch, leaning over the armrest and pouting. Kim gets up, shakes loose one last bit of popcorn, and then sits next to him.
“Khun,” Kim says quietly, “I want to help the family. I just don’t want to be used, like a chess piece in a game. I’m not a tool to clean up his messes.” They both know who Kim means.
“So you’ve, what? Just been biding your time? You should be out.”
Kim bites his lip. He knows very well, deep inside, that he can’t leave. Not really; never permanently. He thinks Tankhun knows it, too, but prefers to cling to the daydream. And yet, Kim’s eldest brother has been the one to struggle the most to let go, always wanting to know when he’ll visit, when the next live will be, anything to do with Kim’s life.
If it were just Korn, Kim could walk away, disappear, without a single regret.
“So what bullshit c-drama are we watching this time?” Macau asks, coming back with an overflowing bowl of popcorn. He sits next to Kim on the couch, keeping the bowl well guarded in his lap.
“It is not bullshit!” Tankhun declares. “It is a thoughtful exploration of the historical struggles of ordinary people.”
“They’re all princes and princesses who can do martial arts while flying,” Macau says with an exaggerated eye roll. He points at the screen, and to prove his point, two guys are doing wirework stunts as they flail at each other with ornate weapons.
“Whatever,” Macau says. “Hey Kim, I hear your boyfriend was stripping in the cafeteria.”
Kim blinks a couple times, staring at Macau. That… well, yeah, that honestly sounds like something Chay would do.
“Where did you hear that?” Kim asks.
“The guards, of course.” Macau stuffs popcorn into his stupid face and crunches.
Kim looks at Tankhun questioningly, judgingly.
“I have made every attempt to stop the guards from gossiping like old hens. It is impossible.” Tankhun says.
Claims the biggest gossip of them all, Kim thinks.
“Okay, but can we focus on the real weirdness at hand?” Macau asks. “Because the real weird thing is having two sets of brothers shacking up. Does that ever happen in your dramas, Khun?”
Tankhun screws up his face. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about KimChay,” Macau points at Kim, “and KinnPorsche. KinnPorsche may not be happening yet, but it’s only a matter of time, trust me.”
Okay, so Macau might have become a challenger for biggest gossip when Kim wasn’t looking.
“Why are you even here?” Kim asks, exasperated. He’s barely spent any time with Macau in the past few years.
“I’m here because I want to form a Youngest Brother Coalition,” Macau tells Kim as though it should be obvious. “If you’re going to be around, I want you in on the deal. We work together to keep the old people,” here he looks at Tankhun, who lets out a yell of outrage, “from doing dumb shit that tears us all down. No more house rivalry bullshit. Which is what I’ve been working on for the past year without you, by the way. You’re welcome for that.”
Macau looks at Kim with a steady gaze, the gaze of a young man who watched his trash father die in ignominy. Who wants better for his brother.
“So, you want in?” Macau asks.
Kim looks back at his little cousin. He’s seen from the outside what Macau has accomplished with what little leverage he had at hand.
“I’m in.”
“Betrayal!” Tankhun cries.
Macau grins. “Great. Your little boyfriend can join, too. He’s going to have a double-vested interest in our mission. But I’m the president of the coalition.”
Kim shakes his head. “Whatever.”
Out of the corners of his eyes, he looks first at Macau and then at Tankhun, one on his left and one on his right. They’re both staring at the big-screen TV, the blue and pink lights dancing on their faces.
Something nice settles in Kim’s chest. Something warm that he’d thought he’d lost. It feels like family.
“What the fuck is even going on?” Macau asks, pointing at the screen, where a group of fancy-dressed women are eating around a table.
“We’d better start at the beginning.” Tankhun dives for the remote.
Kim smacks Macau, making him whine.
They begin again.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Chay encounters Korn and gets into a brief battle of wits with him, which alarms Kim. In a conversation between Porsche and Chay about tattoos, Porsche reveals that he was tattooed against his wishes while he was enslaved.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
*drowns self in KimChay and sibling feelings*
Chapter 19: Fighting Spirit
Summary:
Porsche returns to the Blue Room, this time with a great deal more company.
Notes:
Psst, hey enbymoomin, guess what? Thank you for beta. 🤩
REMINDER: I have posted spoiler descriptions of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For Porsche, the pocket of time after reuniting with Chay feels like a big, floating soap bubble: idyllic and iridescent, transparent and oh-so-temporary.
It’s Friday, just after an early dinner. They’ve claimed a small corner of the west tower garden. Technically, Porsche shouldn’t be allowed to take breaks here, but “should” and “shouldn’t” are hard to apply to him these days, given his unique connections.
Chay has taken off his shoes and socks and is lying down on his back on the plush, manicured lawn. Porsche sits cross-legged next to him, wearing his regular dress uniform. He’s plucked a large, half-wilted frond out of the garden bed next to him, and he’s slowly tearing off little pieces to throw on top of Porchay. His brother doesn’t even bother to brush them off.
They’ve talked so much in the past week and a half that they’re running out of words. At least, they’re running out of casual words. Plenty of questions are still unasked, and even more statements are left unsaid.
“You know,” Chay starts, “I’ve been thinking. I could take another week—”
“No.”
Chay’s eyes cut up to Porsche, and he looks miffed, mulish. “Even a semester would hardly—”
“Chay.” Porsche doesn’t chastise, merely says his brother’s name. When he continues, he speaks gently. “You can’t watch over me every day, forever. That’s not going to work in the long run.”
Chay’s face twists like he bit into something sour. “Well, with an attitude like that, I can’t.” His expression becomes contrite almost instantly, and he turns woe-begone eyes on Porsche. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
Porsche snorts and tries to tickle Chay’s nose with the end of the denuded frond. “You also can’t treat me like I’m fragile forever. It’s okay to argue with me. You used to be good at it.” Porsche throws the rest of the frond onto Chay’s chest. “Classes on Monday.”
Chay sighs. He’s about to say something else, but he shuts his mouth and looks across the grass to where Big is approaching them.
“Porsche?” Big says. “Come with me. Khun Kinn asked me to ensure you’re dressed properly for this evening.”
This evening. The re-opening of the Blue Room. Vegas has pulled out all the stops to ensure it could happen this quickly.
Porsche gets to his feet and brushes off his dress pants. Porchay sits up and starts sweeping away bits of plant from his face and shirt.
“He sent you to get me dressed?” Porsche asks, eyebrows raised. He’s barely seen Kinn in the past few days, only accompanying him on short outings where Porsche would be seen in public by the right people, people who would recognize Porsche. Even when he did see Kinn, the man was all work, all professional polish.
It doesn’t matter. Porsche can exist like this. Brother, paycheck, food, a clean bed. He’s practically rolling in luxury.
Big gives him a dry look. “No one in their right mind would trust you with fashion. Ever. C’mon.” He turns away and starts walking, hands in his pockets and shoulders slouching.
Porsche looks down at Porchay and shrugs ruefully before following Big.
A couple minutes later, as they’re walking through the lobby toward the elevator, Porsche realizes they have a tagalong. Porchay is trailing after them like a determined puppy… or maybe a demonic one. Chay has a lot more sharp edges these days that weren’t there nine years ago.
Chay is given away by Miss Erika.
“Hello Big, Porsche, Porchay,” she says from behind the desk when Big nods to her.
Big looks over his shoulder at Chay without pausing in his stride. Chay grins and waves back at him.
When all three of them get into the glass elevator together, Big stares balefully at Chay without saying a word. Chay grins back, all teeth, waggling his eyebrows to see whether Big will tell him off.
Big isn’t the type for that, though. Porsche knows Big would rather wait until the end of the world than say something improper to a guest of the family.
“Aww, c’mon, you can talk shit to me,” Chay encourages. “I’m just dating Kim, not married to him. Go on, ask me what I’m doing.”
Permission granted, Big speaks, “Whatever you’re doing, I’m sure it’s none of my business.” Big gives Chay a tired look. “And I’m sure it’s also completely unnecessary.”
Chay snickers in delight. “Knew you had it in you. It’s just that I heard rumors about the style closet dedicated to super-companion Porsche, and I wanna see it. And I can help! Trust me.” Chay gives Big his best, most endearing smile, but Big is already onto him.
“Khun Kinn has exacting standards,” Big says, like he’s a walking textbook.
“I’ve seen that,” Chay says. “But I know my way around a designer label.”
Big mutters something under his breath, and Porsche thinks it almost sounds like “perfect for Khun Kim.”
When they enter the room stuffed full with Porsche’s extra-fancy work clothes, Chay whistles long and low. “Wow, this is the real deal. Oh shit, I saw my favorite actor wearing this shirt just recently.” He starts rifling through the clothes.
Porsche glances at Big, who’s staring at Chay with a befuddled look on his face. Porsche probably wears the same stupefied expression when he turns back to Chay.
Chay notices them staring. “Oh, hey, don’t mind me. Whatever you need to do, go ahead. I just want to look around. This is one hell of a collection.”
Big rolls his eyes and starts looking around as well. He pulls out a few options for shirts, and he and Porsche get into a small argument because Big selects something ridiculously oversized by that one designer — was it Dour? Door? Dior? Regardless, Porsche doesn’t want to be swimming in his clothes all night.
Ten minutes later, Porsche is dressed in something manageable. It’s a matching jacket and pants in dark blue, with a black button-down shirt beneath the jacket.
“Is this okay?” Porsche asks Big.
Before Big can answer, Chay looks up from where he’s rifling through the shirts.
“No,” Chay says after a cursory glance.
Porsche can practically hear Big grinding his teeth. “You want to give it a try, Khun Porchay, sir?” His words are polite, at least in theory. The way he says them like he’s chewing gravel gives away that he’s losing his patience.
“Fuck yes I do,” Chay says. “Ditch the jacket and shirt. Try this instead.”
Chay pulls out a blousy, long-sleeved top. Although the top is black, the material is sheer enough to see through. The plunging neck gives way to folds that cross in the front, and the loose sleeves end in opaque black hems.
Porsche’s eyes go wide, and he looks between the shirt and Chay. “Really? That?”
Chay wiggles the shirt in the air, and the material is so light that it flows with the movement. “Yeah, it’ll be cute!”
“You mean slutty,” Porsche says flatly.
“Same thing,” Chay says with a blink and a shrug.
Big looks like he bit into a lime. “Porsche is still on duty.”
“Yeah? So? Khun Kinn bought this for him to wear while he’s on duty, didn’t he?” The question is playful, but in the silence that follows, the mirth on Porchay’s face cracks, chips, and finally shatters into something serious. “You want the ‘companion bodyguard’ thing to work? Get word around that you’re off limits? This will make it stick like nothing else.”
Chay is right. Actually, he’s very right, and Porsche knows it. Porsche pinches the button on the front of his jacket for a moment, fiddling with it. And that should be enough of a reason, but…
Kinn’s stern, almost apathetic face comes to mind, the way he stared at Porsche like he was just another bodyguard as he talked about not crossing lines.
Porsche sets his jaw and whips off the jacket, starting in on the shirt’s buttons quickly.
“Yay!” Chay exclaims.
A minute later, Porsche is wearing a shirt that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. He looks himself over in the mirror, gently tugging at the loose folds of fabric in the front as Chay pokes through a dresser drawer full of accessories. Big has completely given up on them and is leaning against a wall, probably wishing he were anywhere but here right now.
“Oh, fuck me, this one. Definitely this one,” Porchay says. Porsche turns and looks…
… and finds Chay holding up the collar that Porsche wore when Davies came to meet with Kinn, the one borrowed from Tankhun that Kinn couldn’t seem to resist. The vertical row of diamonds sparkles at him tauntingly in the center of the black band.
Might as well go all out.
“Help me put it on?” he asks. “The clasp is difficult.”
“Oh my god, best big brother in the world, I swear,” Chay says, and he practically bounces over to put it on Porsche. “I would dress to match, but I don’t want to steal your spotlight tonight.”
Porsche makes a noncommittal sound. “So you’re already planning to steal it some other night?”
“Of course.”
Chay had hesitated at first to tell Porsche that he and Kim were coming to the Blue Room tonight, expecting to be told to stay away. But Chay has already told Porsche, hinted really, about some of his forays into the seedier sides of Bangkok.
Is Porsche comfortable with Chay’s choices? No. Is there any point to shoving a hatched chick back in an egg? Also no. They’ve barely been reunited for two weeks, and it’s clear that Chay has a stubborn streak a mile wide. Who is Porsche to tell him what he can and can’t do?
And Porsche has no defenses against someone who so fiercely wants to fight for him.
“Maybe I’ll have to learn this fashion thing so you can’t one up me,” Porsche says.
Chay snorts. “Don’t make threats you can’t back up. If you had your way, you’d wear flip flops, shorts, and a worn-out tee for the rest of your life.”
“Ha ha ha.”
“You look good,” Chay says, eying him critically, “but not good enough. One more thing, and then I’ll leave you be so I can go do my own styling.”
Porsche looks himself over. “What else can you possibly do to me?”
Chay grins, and his eyes glitter. “Makeup.”
Porsche thinks, at first, that having makeup put on him will be torture.
It isn’t. It feels like being pampered, a little like when Didi put the hot rocks on his back and then massaged his feet and calves until the world melted away.
Under Big’s watchful but curious eyes, Porchay efficiently dabs and brushes at Porsche’s face and eyelids. The brushes are nice. And when Chay tilts his face up and draws lines around his eyes, all he has to do is trust him.
At one point, Chay brushes against the scar on Porsche’s face, and it’s Porchay who flinches back.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to. I’ll try to be careful.”
“It’s fine, I promise,” Porsche reassures him.
Chay hesitates and then asks. “Does it hurt?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Porsche says. Any sensation is dull, like the area is numbed.
Seeing Chay still looking uncertain, Porsche takes his brother’s hand and puts it on the side of his face. “Get back to it, nong.”
Chay’s eyes widen. He swallows hard, pinches his lips together, and nods with a hum of agreement.
When he’s almost done, Chay catches Big watching them.
“I can do yours next if you want,” Chay offers.
“Fuck off,” Big replies calmly, turning his gaze to stare at the bathroom wall.
“Finally! No need to treat me like a young master,” Chay says. “You’re my brother’s roommate. We’re practically family.”
“We really aren’t,” Big says.
“Is he always like this?” Chay asks Porsche.
“He’s usually meaner,” Porsche says. “He’s probably being so nice because he thinks you’re a good kid.”
“Aww!” Porchay leans on Porsche’s shoulder and smiles at Big. “I didn’t realize. That’s really sweet, Big!”
“You are both the worst,” Big says as though he’s being personally tortured. “Are you done yet?”
Porsche looks at Chay for confirmation. Chay turns hopeful eyes on him.
“Lip gloss?” Chay asks.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Boo!” He pats Porsche once on the head. “In that case, I deem you fit for a night out. Now come help me raid Kim’s gift closet and pick out my own outfit.”
Caught up in Porchay’s personal hurricane of his own making, Porsche smiles. “Sure. Let’s go.”
“We have to—”
Chay checks his watch. “We’re not leaving for another twenty. It’s fine,” he insists. “I’m fast. In fact, I might even have enough time to do your makeup, Big.”
Big’s brows pinch together. “I repeat, fuck off.”
“That’s not a no!” Chay bounds away, and all Porsche and Big can do is follow in his wake.
Kinn waits impatiently in the large carport, the sound of running car engines an ongoing dull roar in the cavern-like space. It isn’t everyday that he — well, his family — gets an entire fight club for the first time. He’s eager to go right now, even though the Theerapanyakuls are arriving well before the opening, so they can run through the pomp and circumstance of introductions. After that, though, Kinn expects an evening full of good liquor and even better entertainment.
He treated himself to a new black-to-blue ombre jacket, with matching black dress shirt, just for the occasion. The expense for his tailor to complete the rush job had been worth it.
Kinn checks his watch. Twelve minutes after departure time. Where are they?
Instead of his expected party members, Chan arrives, giving Kinn a short bow.
“Khun Kinn, your father asked me to tell you to uphold the honor of the main family tonight and to do him proud.”
Kinn narrows his eyes. “And how is my father doing?”
Chan is silent for a long moment, bearing Kinn’s stare. Eventually he says, “He isn’t feeling well.”
Kinn nods slowly. That wasn’t so hard to admit, was it? However, he doesn’t say his thought aloud — it’s better, he finds, to wear Chan down, one concession at a time, as Kinn pries his loyalty entirely away from Korn.
“Please let him know I hope he feels better soon,” Kinn says.
Chan bows again, and Kinn dismisses him.
Nearby, Mek touches his earpiece, listening for a moment.
“They’re almost here, Khun Kinn,” Mek assures him.
“About damn time,” Kinn mutters.
Kim and Chay come into view in the hallway, and whatever Kinn was expecting, it wasn’t this. Kim is wearing a black turtleneck, and over it is a long, asymmetrical jacket, half in black and half in newspaper-print. Bright silver necklaces and ear cuffs complete the look. It’s bold, extremely bold for Kinn’s reticent little brother. Next to him, Porchay wears sleek pants and a silky shirt with mottled, irregular black, gray, and beige squares. They are very noticeably a matching set.
“Did you raid Tankhun’s closet?” Kinn teases.
“No, Porchay raided mine,” Kim says, failing to rise to the bait as he comes to stand in front of Kinn.
“P’Kim has all sorts of forgotten goodies,” Porchay says, looping an arm through one of Kim’s, and it boggles Kinn’s mind that Kim allows the public display of affection.
“Do you have makeup on?” Kinn asks in genuine shock.
Kim shrugs. “I wear makeup all the time for work.”
“I did his and mine,” Porchay says proudly. Kim’s look is subtle, around the eyes and accenting his cheeks; Chay’s makeup is all thick liner and candy lip gloss that’s sure to smear.
What can Kinn say to that? “You certainly have range,” seems like a safe statement.
“Thanks. I also did Porsche’s. Speaking of which…” Chay looks over his shoulder. “Oh, there he is!”
Kinn moves slightly to peer around the tall young man, and he almost chokes on thin air.
Porsche strides up to them, walking-step in step with Big, and Kinn’s “companion bodyguard” looks like he’s ready to be escorted to the nearest bedroom rather than an underground fight ring. Kinn can see right through his shirt, and that’s only going to make it that much harder for Kinn to stick to his plan of ignoring the man’s very existence. To make matters worse, he’s wearing that stunning diamond choker, and his eyes look dusky and alluring.
Kinn tears his eyes away and looks at Big. “This is what you chose?”
“No, hia’s outfit was me, too,” Porchay says. “What? Did I misunderstand the assignment? People are supposed to think he’s your favorite. No one’s going to doubt it now.”
Kinn closes his eyes. For the sake of his sanity, he should make Porsche go back and change. However, he can’t fault Porchay’s logic. This is arguably an ideal setting to show off his “ownership” and shine the desired light on the situation, to broadcast it loud and clear. He questions his past decision to even select that shirt, though it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Fuck. He has just one hope left then.
Kinn turns a sharp eye on Porsche. “And you’re okay with this?”
Say “no,” Kinn thinks at him as hard as he can.
Porsche meets his gaze, absorbs it, visibly registers Kinn’s dissatisfaction… and then to Kinn’s shock, instead of backing down, he sets his chin at a stubborn angle.
“Chay’s right. It was the plan all along,” Porsche says with a small nod. “I’m fine with it.”
“And you might as well look good doing it,” Porchay chimes in, agent of chaos that he is. Kim lets out a little snort of amusement and looks away.
“Fine,” Kinn says. “We’re running late. Porsche, with me.”
The car ride is quiet. Kinn engrosses himself in his phone or in staring out the window, alternating between the two options so he doesn’t have to look at Porsche. Meanwhile, Porsche is just there, sitting next to him quietly. Or not-so-quietly. He’s fidgeting, one hand lifting up to fiddle with a diamond-studded ear cuff.
Kinn is caught in a trap of his own making.
Later, when they arrive at Pink Spice, they have to wait inside the venue for Kim and his party to catch up — his caravan had taken a slightly different route. Big sends Mek on ahead to check in downstairs at the Blue Room, and a few minutes later Kim and his detail arrive. Altogether they have a large group tonight, considering the addition of Kim and the extra security required for him. Kinn isn’t used to it, but glancing at Kim out of the corner of his eye, seeing him look so put together and confident, Kinn thinks it’s something he’d like to get used to.
Big touches his earpiece and then turns to Kinn. “We’re clear to go down to the Blue Room, sir.”
They move together, a bit like an amoeba, squeezing the shape of their group through the stairwell, downward into the basement area, and then spilling out again into the main room of the underground fight ring. Kinn is pleased to see that Vegas hasn’t changed the place too drastically from the last time he was here. The single, long, noticeably upgraded bar is new, as is the single dedicated area for placing bets. There are also now large, paneless windows in the wall between the main room and the back room. The main stage is unchanged, as are the furnishings and general decor.
To one side of the ring, a group of men is gathered, many of them wearing the Blue Room fighting uniform — some with a silver top, some with blue. Kinn guesses the ones who aren’t in uniform are staff of some kind.
Vegas is with them, speaking to them. He’s trading words with a middle-aged man who’s wearing a checkered shirt and gray slacks. When Vegas notices that the main family’s party has arrived, Kinn catches his eyes, stepping forward. Vegas gestures for the man he’s speaking with to follow him, and he starts to lead him toward Kinn for a formal introduction.
However, before they’re even halfway across the room, the checkered-shirt man halts in his tracks, looking as though he’s seen a ghost. He starts to backtrack, heading back to the group of staff, and Vegas follows him.
Feeling baffled, Kinn watches as the group of Blue Room employees start engaging in fast and passionate discussion. They’re too far away for Kinn to catch any words, but suddenly there are numerous angry glances being thrown his way. One of the fighters even starts jabbing a sharp, pointed finger in his general direction.
What the hell is going on? Kinn takes another step forward, determined to find out, but Big gets in his way, and even Porsche catches his elbow to hold him back.
“Sir, you need to remain where you are,” Big says, and he has on his “right now my orders trump yours” tone. To everyone else, he says, “Eyes up. We might have a situation.”
“Sir,” chorus back the guards, including Porsche.
Kinn relaxes, no longer attempting to move, and Porsche releases Kinn’s elbow. He hadn’t even held it long enough for Kinn to feel the warmth through his suit jacket.
After a few tense minutes, Vegas comes strolling over to them on his own, hands in his pockets and a crooked, mocking smile on his face. Behind him, the group he left is watching everything, whispering to each other, many of them milling about or standing with their arms crossed.
“What was that all about?” Kinn asks, trying to keep his face smooth and his stance relaxed.
“It would seem, cousin of mine,” Vegas drawls, “that this lovely group of professionals has asked me to negotiate for the release of your,” he looks at Porsche, eyeing his attire, “companion. For some reason, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s wearing next to nothing, they think you’re dabbling in human trafficking.”
Vegas then holds up one finger, and Kinn can’t figure out exactly why at first, but then his lips start twitching, and the absolute asshole begins to actually laugh at him. He stifles it, trying to hold it in, but he just can’t seem to help himself.
“It isn’t funny, asshole,” Kinn snaps. Shit, what a mess. For all intents and purposes, the world is supposed to think that Kinn owns Porsche — that’s the entire goal. “Tell them it’s none of their damn business.”
“Oh, I tried that, but,” Vegas shrugs, grinning, like it’s out of his hands, “they just aren’t satisfied with that answer. They want their phoenix back, or according to them, you’re barred from the club for life. If I didn’t own the place, they’d think about kicking me out, too.” He laughs again, like this is the greatest joke of all time.
“They’re just worried about me, sir,” Porsche says, his voice calm and soothing, and Kinn dares to look at him. “I could talk to them, let them know I’m alright.”
“No,” Kinn says. His hands twitch. “You stay here with the team.” The idea of sending Porsche over to negotiate sits wrong with him, twists his gut. He doesn’t like it. He isn’t sure why.
What’s he to do? Should he simply leave? That would be a terrible move from a business perspective, basically removing himself from anything related to the club, even so much as having a casual business meeting here. Alternatively he could explain the situation, but he’s the head of the Theerapanyakul family, for fuck’s sake — he can’t just go lowering his head to any group of people who are angry at him. If he started doing that, he’d never stop.
“Where’s Pete?” Kinn asks Vegas. Pete has a particular knack for situations like these.
Vegas shakes his head. “I left him at home. He had a particularly rough night last night, so Heng is heading up my security tonight.” He gestures to a man in a bright shirt lurking by the long bookie’s desk, glaring at everyone and everything.
Frustrated, Kinn puts his hands on his hips and looks around. He taps one finger against his side, hoping for inspiration. Big gives him nothing, merely looking focused and determined. Porsche, well, he looks a little dazed. As for Kim, Kim is…
… Kim is alone.
“Where is—?” Kinn frowns and looks around, suddenly unable to find Porchay among their party.
Did Porchay get scared and try to leave? No, he wouldn’t leave without Kim. But that means the only option left is…
Kinn looks back over at the gathering of Blue Room staff and fighters. They’re all circled around Porchay, hanging on his every word.
Kinn snaps his gaze back to Kim. “Can’t you keep a closer eye on him so he doesn’t get into trouble?”
Kim raises his eyebrows, and for a second Kinn thinks he’s going to say something bitchy, but then his mouth starts to slowly curl into a smile.
“Don’t wanna.”
Kinn blinks in shock a couple times and then turns away. “Holy shit, they’re perfect for each other,” he mutters under his breath. “What the fuck is he doing, anyway?”
“He’s…” Porsche pauses and swallows, “I think he’s thanking them.”
As if on cue, Porchay bows to the group, deeply, just as he had to Kinn. The group rushes to get him to straighten up again, which is quickly followed by more talking.
After a short pause, suddenly there comes the sound of laughter. The once-angry mob is now chortling in delight. One of the fighters slaps Porchay on the back, making him stagger, and the checkered-shirt man pats him on the shoulder.
Porchay turns and shouts across the room. “Porsche! Hey Porsche, come over here! Everyone, come over!”
Porsche glances at Kinn only briefly, just long enough to get a nod, and then he’s striding confidently in the direction of the throng of Blue Room employees. Kinn follows, at a more leisurely pace, and he’s treated to the sight of Porsche being welcomed with cheers and grins and pats on the back. Porsche looks somehow younger in that moment, bashful, his eyes sparkling as he slowly breaks into a grin and a laugh.
This is supposed to be an introduction of the family to the staff, but now Kinn hesitates to call attention to himself.
He’s just reached the group just when Porsche says, “No, really, I am, I swear. They even trained me to shoot. See?” He turns around and flicks up the back of his ridiculous sheer shirt, showing off the back holster holding his gun. It also shows off his perfect little ass in the process, making Kinn clutch his fist.
“Come on now, stop waving that thing around,” says the man in the checkered shirt. “Put both those weapons away, punk.”
Porsche turns around, flashing a grin at the man who spoke, but when Porsche looks at him more closely, he goes quiet, and the smile fades quickly. Above the man’s left brow is a livid, still-healing cut about two inches long.
“Mark…” Porsche says, looking at the cut. His mirth has disappeared.
“What?” says the man called Mark. Then he notices where Porsche is looking. “Oh, this? Don’t worry about it. The boys tell me it makes me pretty. Isn’t that right, lunkheads?”
“You’re the prettiest, boss!” shouts someone from the back of the crowd, making everyone laugh.
Mark grins at Porsche. “Hey, I’m glad you’re alright, kid, and that you found your brother.” Mark turns measuring, speculative eyes on Kinn. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear from Phoenix again. I’m Mark, and I’m the manager here. Phoenix is one of ours, so it’s important to me that he’s safe, just like the rest of the Blue Room.”
“Anyone would be grateful for such loyalty,” Kinn says smoothly. “Especially given the pests that have shown up in Bangkok recently. I assure you, all of my staff, including Phoenix, are under my protection.” He tilts his head toward Vegas. “And of course that extends to my cousin’s enterprises as well.”
“I’m very glad to hear it, Khun Kinn, in all regards,” Mark says, and he gives Kinn a polite wai. “I take great pride in the staff and fighters of the Blue Room, who all put their hard work into making this the finest fight club in the country.”
Kinn smiles and nods at Mark, pleased at reaching an understanding so quickly.
Vegas leans over to Kinn and says, “I don’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed that you got out of that so easily.”
Kinn catches Porchay watching them closely, and the young man actually dares to wink at him.
“I’m just lucky, I guess,” Kinn says.
Porsche sits next to Kinn in one of the three circular VIP booths, doing his best to portray an air of nonchalance, just like the spoiled, treasured pet he’s supposed to be.
At least he has a decent view of both the center stage and the first caged ring. The main stage is currently empty, but in the cage Narong is fighting against a guy Porsche doesn’t know, going toe-to-toe in an MMA brawl. Porsche is certain Narong is going to win this one; he looks like he’s playing with his food right now, having the time of his life.
Kinn, sitting to Porsche’s right, has barely looked at Porsche all night. Kim sits on Kinn's other side, and Kinn is peppering him with question after question, about his music and his photoshoots and how he manages the business side of being an idol. Porsche listens with only half an ear. He splits his attention between Narong’s fight, which is almost over, and scanning the crowd for threats. It’s a packed night, busier than the other two times Porsche had come. Vegas is in great demand as he circulates the room, being congratulated left and right; he appears to be thriving on it.
Porsche is bored. He half-wishes he could get in the cage with Narong so he could go a few rounds, let off some steam.
He looks across the table at Porchay, who sits next to Kim. At first Porchay had tried to slip into the booth next to Porsche, but Kim had scruffed him — literally scruffed him like a kitten — and dragged him to the other side of the table.
“He’s working right now, sweetie pie,” Kim had drawled.
Chay had made a show of whining at him. “You’re such a spoilsport, Mik.”
Porsche is going to have to ask about the Mik thing some other time.
However, Chay doesn’t look so playful now. He’s staring at Narong’s match, intensely focused on it, leaning toward it as though he’s heavily invested, although Porsche knows he didn’t make any bet.
Porsche supposes that he should be more concerned that his little brother is in a fight club, a literal gambling den. And that he’s drinking. But Chay clearly does what he wants and goes where he wants, and very little stops him.
Porsche is interrupted from his ponderings when Vegas slides into the booth next to him. “Business is booming already,” he says with a tiny, self-satisfied smile aimed directly at Kinn.
Kinn smoothly lifts his almost-empty tumbler of whiskey. “To a bright blue future, and to your success for decades to come,” he says in a quick cheers. Then he downs the rest of his drink.
Vegas looks at Kinn as though he’s measuring the words, trying to find fault and failing. Finally, he gives a little snort, like a cat that smelled something strange and unfamiliar.
“Anyway, about our ongoing pest problem, as you put it,” Vegas says, “I put in a tip with my little police detective friend about a warehouse on the docks. They raided it last night, but the pests had already moved out. There was evidence of trafficking, but nothing that was left behind could be pinned on Davies.”
“Damn,” Kinn says. “Any further word from your man?”
The mole, Porsche thinks. Kinn is talking about Vegas’s mole that’s planted with Davies’s Bangkok team.
“Regrettably, the warehouse information was from my man, and after he gave us that tip he had to come back home somewhat urgently,” Vegas says. “Which means we’ll have to track Davies the hard way now. And given that my resources are limited—”
“What do you need?” Kinn asks.
Vegas narrows his eyes and leans toward Kinn. Porsche tries to squish himself back against the booth, wishing he weren’t stuck between them right now.
“That depends. What’s the catch?” Vegas fires back.
“Simple,” Kinn says. “Catch is we don’t stop until the pest problem is resolved.”
Vegas blinks, the wind suddenly taken out of his sails. His face goes through a range of emotions, something along the lines of shifting from challenging to shocked to quietly confused. Eventually he rattles off a list of requests, including a not-insignificant amount of Arm’s time along with various pieces of equipment, both technical and combative.
“Done, though you’ll have to negotiate with Tankhun about how much of Arm’s work can be done remotely,” Kinn says, relaxing back against the bench cushion.
Vegas’s upper lip curls. “Ugh. I would have preferred an actual catch, I think.” Vegas slides out of the booth and buttons his jacket. “That’s more than enough inter-family bonding. Back to schmoozing for me.” He walks away and melts into the crowd, not stopping until yet another patron catches his attention so she can express admiration.
On the other side of Kinn, Kim starts laughing softly.
“What? What is it?” Kinn demands.
“I just never thought I’d see the day,” Kim says ruefully. “Kinn, you’ve learned diplomacy.” He titters again, his shoulders shaking. “And Vegas can’t figure out what to do with it.”
“Oh, shut up, pipsqueak,” Kinn snarks. He has a sour look on his face, but Porsche thinks he can see a hint of laughter tucked in the corners of his eyes.
Kinn and Kim turn their attention to the central stage, where a pair of fighters are bowing to each other and about to start a demonstration. The emcee announces that they’ll be demonstrating Muay Thai. As soon as the match starts, Kinn watches it closely.
Kim turns to Porchay. “What do you think? Which one is better?”
Porsche watches Chay closely. His little brother is trying to look nonchalant, but Porsche can tell he’s feeling pleased to have his opinion considered. Chay has told Porsche a lot about the training he’s done, how he’s been working at it for years.
“They’re both really good,” Chay says after observing silently through several initial exchanges and light taps between the fighters. “The brown-haired one is better, though.”
Porsche smiles a little. Kim notices.
“You agree with him?” Kim asks.
“Yeah,” he says. The brown-haired guy looks like he isn’t even trying hard yet. Porsche doesn’t know him, but he thinks Muay Thai must be his specialty.
Kinn glances at Porsche, and their eyes catch. It’s a reluctant connection on Kinn’s part — he tries to tear his gaze away, but it comes back to Porsche in a flash.
Intensity. Heat. That’s what Porsche reads in Kinn’s eyes, and it makes his breath catch a little. Then Kinn turns to Kim again, speculating aloud about what it will take to make the Blue Room highly profitable.
Porsche lets out the air that got trapped in his chest in a huff, looking back to the Muay Thai demonstration. He knows what it’s like to be wanted, but to be wanted and resisted? That’s still a new and novel experience. Also new to him is the utter frustration of it. Stupid, annoying, irritating Kinn. Stupid nose, stupid mouth.
As Porsche watches the fight, he has Big in his sights where he’s standing next to their booth seat, so he’s the first to notice when Big tenses. Instinctively, Porsche’s muscles respond, preparing to spring into action as needed. He follows Big’s line of sight to its destination, where it connects with a man heading their way. The man in question is relatively young, perhaps around Kinn’s age, and he has a small entourage with him, including a woman hanging off his arm as well as three bodyguards.
Porsche looks up at Big, waiting for a cue as to what the next move is.
“Khun Kinn, sir,” Big says firmly, getting Kinn’s attention. Big nods in the direction of the approaching man, and although Kinn doesn’t seem alarmed, he winces.
“Shit,” Kinn says, and the relaxed posture he had disappears before Porsche’s eyes. “Who let him in here?”
Kim scratches his cheek briefly. “Vegas probably invited him on purpose to fuck with you.”
“Is there a problem?” Porsche asks. Why can’t anyone ever be clear about these situations? They’re making it hard to guard when he doesn’t know what to guard against.
“One of Kinn’s seniors from university,” Kim clarifies. “An annoying one.”
“Kinn!” says the senior in question as he approaches. “I’d say it’s a surprise to find you here, but Vegas implied you would be.”
Porsche catches Kim giving Kinn a sideways look as though to say, “I told you so.”
Kinn smiles stiffly. “Megat. Still based in Kuala Lumpur?”
“Yes, I am,” he says, “but I’m here in Bangkok for a few months. By the way, this pretty little thing with me is Bella. Bella, Kinn is an old classmate of mine from university. Say hi to Kinn, honey.”
“Hello, Kinn,” she says, and she’s almost-but-not-quite simpering. She saves the simpering for the look she gives Megat next.
Kinn smiles and nods but doesn’t answer.
“Hey, we should catch up,” Megat says. He looks at his guards. “Get my honey and me some chairs, would you?”
Kinn looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, and yet he doesn’t protest, so Porsche simply stays alert, scanning each of the newcomers and clocking all the weapons on them. Porsche thinks even the girl is carrying something, maybe a knife, in a holster under her short skirt.
There’s some shuffling and delay as two of the guards go to get the required chairs, but eventually Megat and Belle are seated.
“How’s your uncle?” Kinn asks mildly, as though asking about the weather, and Porsche is able to get the shape of things from that. Megat is possibly not a direct heir, like Kinn, but he’s directly connected to someone important, so Kinn will treat Megat with at least nominal respect for the sake of that connection.
“Uncle is doing well. I’m pretty sure he’ll outlive all of us, which is fine by me,” Megat says, and then he looks around the table. “But how about some introductions first? I already introduced Bella; she’s a model by the way. As for your companions… This must be Kim, right? I can see the resemblance.”
Kim glances at Kinn out of the corner of his eye before nodding at Megat. “That’s me,” he says, “and this is Porchay.”
“Ooh, you’re that singer, right?” Bella asks. “My little sister loves you.” It seems to throw Megat off, but Chay rolls with it.
“Aww, that’s so sweet,” he says, cheerful as can be, as though he isn’t in the middle of an illegal club. “I love your necklace, Bella. Kim, don’t you think it’s cute?” Chay leans into Kim, winding an arm through his. The necklace in question is a single black pearl drop, dangling off a chain that hangs through a little loop of diamonds
“It’s Mikimoto,” says Bella, touching the necklace artfully.
“Mm, hey, P’Kim,” Chay says, “will you get me one?”
“Brats don’t get nice things,” Kim says with a completely straight face, which makes Chay pout and shake the arm he’s holding in protest.
Porsche frowns across the table at Chay. What the hell is he doing? All of a sudden he’s acting like he’s some sort of sugar baby. Porsche hasn’t seen him behave like this even once before now.
When Porsche catches Chay’s eyes, Chay turns his head just enough to hide the quick wink from their erstwhile visitors. Oh. Oh. He’s doing it on purpose, for their audience. Kim seems to know what’s going on with Chay, too, and is playing along. Meanwhile, Kinn is barely paying attention, focused entirely on Megat.
Megat turns his gaze on Porsche then, his eyes raking across him, pausing at the scar, the diamond choker, the blatantly deep V of the neck of his shirt. It isn’t a lustful gaze, but it’s calculating and judgmental.
“And of course I’ve heard about your new acquisition,” says Megat. “Tsunami, was it?”
His question isn’t directed at Porsche but at Kinn. Porsche thinks abstractly that he should perhaps be offended by that, but it hardly matters. In fact, it shows that word is getting around that he “belongs” to Kinn, just like it’s supposed to.
Kinn’s smile somehow manages to grow even colder. “He goes by Phoenix now, actually. Like you said, we should catch up. Tell me, what brings you back to Bangkok this time? Business? Pleasure? Or just generally getting away from your uncle?”
Something like irritation crosses Megat’s expression, and Porsche thinks Kinn must have hit a nerve with his last question.
Megat shakes his head. “Nothing like that. Just spending some time with my dear old mom. I’ve also been doing some recruiting. This is my new bodyguard, Jeab. He’s one of, if not the, best mixed martial artists in Thailand.” Megat gestures to the bodyguard standing to his left, and the man in question gives Kinn a wai.
Porsche just barely hears Kim muttering something under his breath that sounds derogatory. Meanwhile, a thrum of excitement starts to circulate under Porsche’s skin; he thinks he knows where this might be headed.
“Is that so?” Kinn says dryly. “Congratulations, then. I think I’ve seen a match of yours before. It was quite the show.”
Jeab inclines his head, and Megat smiles. Bella strokes a hand along Megat’s arm.
“What do you think, Kinn?” Megat asks “Shall we set up a little match between Jeab and your Phoenix, so we can see who’s better?”
There it is. This wasn’t exactly how Porsche expected his night to go, but a fight seems inevitable now. The energy buzzing through his veins starts to make him twitchy, and he stretches his neck as subtly as he can.
However, Kinn holds up a hand in his direction, forefinger raised. It’s a clear cue to wait, to hold back. Porsche slowly unbunches his muscles and leans back in his seat — he isn’t even certain when he started to lean forward.
“Perhaps some other time,” Kinn says. “I’m just here tonight to relax and enjoy the opening.”
“Ah, of course,” Megat says, “something so crass as using your pet to fight for you, your father probably wouldn’t approve.” He’s watching Kinn like a hawk, searching for any sign of weakness.
Kinn gives away nothing, though. “I don’t think my father would care one way or another. No, I’m simply here to support my cousin and enjoy a good drink and some entertainment.”
Megat laughs without any real humor. “Since when did you become so dull, huh, Kinn? What happened to the guy who used to sneak out to the race tracks at night?” Bella blatantly leans her head against Megat’s shoulder, and he takes a moment to coo over her before turning his attention back to Kinn. Bella is looking at Porsche with a dare in her heavily lined eyes, and no small amount of lust as well.
“It’s just responsibilities, Megat,” Kinn says. “They make dullards of us all eventually. I prefer more relaxing pastimes these days.”
“I suppose if you plan to indulge yourself tonight, you need your precious Phoenix in one piece,” Megat says with another deliberate, suggestive gaze at Porsche.
Porsche doesn’t dare to look away from Megat, but distantly he hears Chay make some sort of noise that’s abruptly cut off.
Kinn, however, still doesn’t rise to the bait, though he’s stiff and wary. “As you say. I’m sure you understand.”
An awkward silence descends on the table, overlaid by the sounds of the crowd around them and in-progress fights.
Megat’s lip twitches, and he’s the first to break the stalemate. “Your pet phoenix doesn’t seem very affectionate, though, does he? You know, I was surprised when I heard you broke your family’s long abstinence from trafficking, though I suppose I can’t blame you. He does appear exceptional.” Megat pauses just briefly, but when that still doesn’t get a rise, he keeps pressing. “I guess if you just want a regular bed warmer, you have more control over him than you did your last lover.”
Finally, that does it. Kinn snaps. Porsche isn’t sure how he knows, because Kinn doesn’t react outwardly in any obvious way, but the aura surrounding him seems to drop below freezing in an instant. Porsche risks a glance at Kim for any clues as to what’s going on, and Kinn’s younger brother looks like he’s ready to start throwing knives; he’s already doing so with his gaze alone, which is locked fiercely on Megat.
Porsche doesn’t know anything about whatever it is Megat is referring to, and Porsche doesn’t really care except that the man has successfully pissed off Kinn, which makes it Porsche’s business.
Porsche leans toward Kinn and reaches up to run his fingers through the hair at the back of his head, exactly the way he’s been wishing to do. Kinn startles and looks at him, eyes wide and effectively distracted.
“I want to fight him, Kinn,” he says loud and clear for everyone at the table to hear. “Will you let me?”
Kinn blinks, and something like annoyance flashes across his face momentarily. Nerves flutter in Porsche’s gut, and he hopes he made the right move, even though he basically just forced Kinn’s hand. He watches as Kinn takes a steadying breath. Then the mafia leader takes Porsche’s hand from the back of his head and kisses his knuckles. Kinn puts both their hands down on the seat of the booth so he can release Porsche’s hand discreetly.
“Megat, it would seem you have yourself a fight,” Kinn says. He looks up at Big. “Big, let Vegas know I want a word.”
Big touches a hand to his earpiece and gives an order to Mek.
While they wait, Megat gamely fills the silence with banal chatter, clearly content now that he knows he’s getting what he was after in the first place. Porsche takes the opportunity to scan Jeab from head to toe. He regrets that he’s never seen one of Jeab’s fights, but fortunately the reverse is also likely true; the chances that Jeab has ever seen Porsche fight are slim. Jeab looks to be about an inch taller than him, with perhaps twenty pounds more mass.
The size difference isn’t concerning — that’s well within Porsche’s experience. What truly catches Porsche’s attention is that Jeab carries himself properly, so Porsche knows he isn’t likely to be a pushover.
A few minutes later, Vegas and Mark approach Kinn’s table.
“I hear you’d like to set up a special fight,” Vegas says, acting the part of the indulgent owner and enjoying every minute. Porsche still isn’t certain what to make of the man.
“Right! We, Kinn and I, want to borrow that cage,” Megat points to the cage within view of their table, “for a little friendly match between our two guys, Jeab and Phoenix.”
Vegas smiles serenely. “I believe we can make that happen. Mark?”
Looking resolute, Mark nods. “Special matches can be held at cost to the participating fighters or their sponsors.” Then he rattles off a sum that makes Porsche’s left eye twitch, and even Chay whistles long and low.
Megat smiles and holds up his hand. “It’s on me, Kinn, since I insisted.”
Kinn smiles, but his eyes look pinched. He nods graciously, but Porsche somehow feels as though Kinn is about ready to drag Megat into the ring himself.
Mark takes a minute to rattle off rules and restrictions, as well as disclaimers and lack of liability. This isn’t the kind of place where anyone signs any agreements or waivers — everything is at their own risk.
When he’s done, Megat, Kinn, Jeab, and Porsche all agree. Then Jeab starts stripping his weapons and handing them over to one of the other bodyguards.
Porsche looks at Kinn, who meets his eyes. Kinn jerks his chin up in a quick nod at him. “Go on.”
Porsche nods back and slides out of the booth. He first strips off his back holster, which was clipped to the back of his pants.
“Here, give me that,” Big says next to him.
“Thanks,” Porsche murmurs, handing it over. With no better solution at hand, Big simply adds the clip to his right hip, and his suit jacket refuses to settle.
“This looks ridiculous,” Big grumbles, and Porsche can’t help but snort.
Porsche looks down at his shirt. It’s expensive — best not to rip it. He strips it off and drops it on the bench.
“Holy shit,” someone says, and Porsche looks up and time to see that it was Jeab, whose eyes are wandering over Porsche’s frame and the network of scars all over it. Jeab suddenly looks pale.
Porsche slowly grins, showing teeth. He dares a glance at Megat, who also looks taken aback.
“I’ve never been a professional fighter,” Porsche says, “but I have a little experience.” The need to fight is bubbling under his skin, and knowing that Kinn is supporting him makes him feel bold, daring, and most of all free to speak his mind.
Megat blinks and is slow to respond, but finally he says, “I see that.”
“Yo, Phoenix,” Big says, snagging his attention back. Big gestures at Porsche’s ear and throat. “Jewelry, too.”
Porsche strips off the ear cuff and hands it over. Hesitantly, he also reaches up and undoes the clasp of the choker — the thing is much easier to open than to close. When he pulls it off, he looks down at the diamonds sparkling in his hands. He could also hand it to Big, but somehow he doesn’t want to.
Instead, he looks at Kinn.
“Khun Kinn,” Porsche says. He holds out his hand, offering the diamond choker to him.
Kinn looks at him for a long moment, and at first Porsche thinks he’s gone too far, but no. Kinn’s eyes flutter, almost as though he’s yielding, and he reaches out to take the choker from Porsche. He tucks it securely into the inner breast pocket of his jacket.
A small movement catches his eye, and Porsche looks over to see Chay, staring at Porsche intensely. The emotions in his eyes are too deep and too numerous for Porsche to begin to fathom. He’s clutching at Kim’s jacket, and Kim is watching Chay the way one might watch a bomb that requires careful, delicate defusing.
Chay looks like he wants to stop the fight… or like he wants to fight someone himself.
Porsche had almost forgotten he was there, or rather, perhaps he couldn’t let himself think about the fact that Chay was playing witness to this little scene, because then he’s not sure he would have been able to do what needed to be done.
But that’s his little brother. He can’t just leave him like that.
So Porsche digs down deep, and from somewhere inside of him he manages to pull out the kind of smile he used to give Chay whenever he was worried.
“Hey, when I win, I wanna hear the new song you’ve been working on,” Porsche demands.
Believe in me, he pleads with his eyes. Trust me.
Chay frowns and nods. “Then you’d better win.”
Porsche smiles then, and this smile doesn’t take any effort at all.
“Khun Megat,” Mark says, “if your man is ready, he can wait in the on-deck zone and start warming up.” Jeab, Porsche notices, is down to a tank top and pants and has also stripped off weapons and jewelry.
It's time to get this show on the road. Porsche moves to follow Jeab as he starts walking away.
“Hold it, blockhead,” Mark says, putting a hand on Porsche’s chest, pushing him backwards a step. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To… wait on deck?” Porsche tries. That should be obvious, he thinks.
Mark gives him a look. “Not like that you aren’t,” he says.
Porsche’s eyes widen as he slowly realizes what Mark means.
“Huh?” asks Megat. “Then how’s he supposed to fight? You want him wearing that girly blouse?”
“No,” Mark responds, not looking away from Porsche. “Phoenix is one of my fighters; he fights for the house. So, bird boy,” he addresses Porsche, “go get your ass in uniform.”
Kinn watches every step Porsche takes as Mark ushers him away and to a door that presumably leads to some sort of locker room. Jeab goes in the opposite direction toward the cage where he and Porsche will be fighting.
“Well, it would seem my man Jeab gets to play the underdog,” says Megat. “Now, how about we consider a little gentleman’s wager, Khun Kinn? Let’s say, if your boy wins, I hand over those diamond mines your family tried to negotiate for two years ago.” He traces little patterns on Bella’s arm as he speaks.
The man is so obvious it’s almost painful to watch. Kinn already has a pretty solid guess as to his intentions, but he takes a minute to look at Kim. Kim blinks at him slowly in acknowledgement. Next to Kim, Porchay looks uncertain, but he’s done well keeping his mouth shut so far.
Kinn leans over to speak quietly in Kim’s ear. “Megat is going to ask for Porsche. Keep Porchay quiet. No one’s going anywhere.”
Kim whispers back, glancing at Megat to make it look more like they’re conferring about business. “I got it. Just promise me I get to be the one to tell Macau about Vegas’s little stunt tonight.”
Kinn smiles. That’s a good deal, so he nods. Kim leans back again, and he wraps an arm around Porchay, pulling him in close as though to snuggle. The young man seems to catch on quickly, because he leans in just right so that Kim can nuzzle him and whisper quietly and unobtrusively.
“You caught me by surprise with your offer,” Kinn says. “And what would you expect in exchange?”
“Oh, something simple, really,” Megat says. “I’ve heard about the fabled Tsunami. He made quite the splash in Hong Kong. What do you say? The mines against your new toy.”
Kinn allows himself to laugh, though it sounds hollow even to his own ears.
“When my mom was around,” Kinn says, “she taught me the first rule of gambling: Never wager something you’re unwilling to part with. But of course, I suspect you know that considering those diamond mines dried up six months ago.”
Megat’s whole face twitches, his scheme suddenly taking palpable weight, increasing the tension around the table. He brushes it off as best he can. “Well then, shall we discuss—”
“No.” Kinn drops the word like a rock thrown into a pond.
“What?” Megat asks.
“I need you to understand something,” Kinn says, “and understand it very well. I never bought Tsunami, or Phoenix as he’s called now. I stole him, and I consider him a special case. He is not now, and never will be, available for sale, trade, wager, or exchange of any kind or under any circumstances. Now, would you care to make a monetary wager?”
Megat hisses through his teeth in annoyance. Defeated, he rises from his seat and straightens his jacket. “Boring as ever, Kinn. Come on, Bella, I want a word with Jeab before the match.” Bella scrambles to get up and reclaim her place on Megat’s arm.
A belated thought occurs to Kinn as soon as Megat turns his back, and before the man departs, Kinn adds, “Give my regards to Davies, won’t you?”
Megat stiffens, looks over his shoulder with a sneer, and then he stalks away, and his people go with him.
When they’re far enough away, Kinn turns to Big, “Big, call the code red. Megat and his team are targeting Phoenix, and I don’t want them to so much as twitch without my team breathing down their necks. Jeab doesn’t go into the ring without being searched, and the search needs to be at the very last second. No allowance for handoff. Pull Vegas’s team for support if you have to — I doubt Vegas wants Megat ruining his opening night.” Kinn picks up his glass, only to find it’s still empty. “And have someone put in an order for a fresh round of drinks for the table.”
“Sir,” Big says, and he touches a hand to his earpiece to start rattling orders. Big adds in an extra order of his own, sending Mek to run and tell Porsche the situation.
“Can I stab Megat?”
Kinn looks over at Porchay, who looks about ready to twitch out of his skin. Kim is looking at Chay like he thinks the young man just said something endearing.
“No,” Kinn says. “While I respect that you want to, you’re not allowed to stab anyone tonight.”
Porchay frowns, but then he turns a beaming, megawatt smile on Kim.
“P’Kim, will you stab Megat for me? Please?”
Despite the situation, Kinn finds himself chuckling.
Kim kisses Porchay’s temple. “Not tonight. But don’t worry. He just earned himself a permanent place on my shit list. Long game, remember?”
“Tsh, fine.” Porchay’s tough-guy facade falters, and he looks at Kinn with something that almost resembles vulnerability. “Nothing’s going to happen to Porsche?”
Kinn nods. “If they try anything, my team will drop every one of them where they stand.” He cranes his neck a little, and across the room he sees his men moving into position. They aren’t being the least bit subtle about it.
Megat overplayed his hand already — and now Kinn has every reason to show he has a full house.
Barely a minute later, Porsche comes out of the back room, wearing the Blue Room uniform, his tight shirt a bright blue. Mek is at his side, and three other Blue Room fighters walk with them. It sends a powerful message.
This one is off limits.
“That’s quite the show,” Kim says.
“Hell fucking yes,” Porchay hisses, watching the procession.
Porsche glances at their table, and as he’s passing by it, he breaks away, hopping into the booth next to Porchay. He takes his little brother’s head in his hands and presses their foreheads together.
“Trust me, Chay? Every time I’ve fought, it’s always been for you. This time you just get to see it.”
Porchay nods frantically. “Yeah. Yeah. Kick his ass, hia. And P’Kinn has your back. I’m so—” Porchay pauses to swallow here. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Okay. Okay. Good.” Porsche kisses the top of Porchay’s head. He spares a glance and a nod at Kinn and then tears himself away, heading for the cage. Kinn watches him go.
“You like him. A lot.”
Kinn snaps his eyes back to Porchay, who’s staring at him with an eyebrow raised.
“Pardon me?” Kinn says sharply.
“My hia. You like him. But you aren’t doing anything about it.”
“Porchay,” Kim grinds out, “leave it alone.”
“Why? I’m just calling it like I see it.” To Kinn, Porchay says. “Hia has been hung up on you. But I figured if I made him look that good tonight, you’d either do something, or he’d be able to move on.”
Kinn watches from afar as Porsche prepares to head into the cage. Without looking at Porchay, Kinn responds. “You’re your brother’s keeper, is that it?”
“I’m not. But I’ll sure as fuck try my best for him. My hia deserves everything he wants. If he wanted to fuck his way through half the city, that’s what I’d want for him. I’d buy him the condoms to do it. But if he wants just one person, I’m going to make sure that person is never going to let him down.”
Kinn’s ears heat, both with embarrassment and anger. Who does this child think he is to be judging Kinn?
“But you just proved you’ll never let him down in the way that matters most,” Porchay says sincerely. “And I realized maybe you have your own reasons that I don’t know about. And I’m grateful all over again that you saved him.”
The anger suddenly evaporates like mist, leaving Kinn only with pleased embarrassment, something light and bubbly like pride in his chest, which he should not be feeling over the words of a freshman college student who’s mooching off Kinn’s free booze.
“But you still like him,” Porchay adds nonchalantly.
“Oh my god! ” Kim says, exasperated. “Are you being a little shit just because Kinn wouldn’t let you stab Megat?”
“Sir,” Big says to Kinn. “They’re about to start. Just confirming that Som searched Jeab and removed a knife.”
Their drinks are delivered to the table. Kinn picks up his glass and slides out of the booth. “I think I’d like to watch up close,” he says.
“Yes! Come on, P’Kim!” Porchay starts scrambling. Kim follows him and takes both their drinks, sipping first from one and then the other.
“Big dragon and little dragon are moving toward the cage,” Big announces into his earpiece, and he follows Kinn.
Kinn takes up a position where he has a fantastic view of both the cage and Megat. Inside the cage, Jeab and Porsche are both twitchy and bouncing, eyeing each other from across the ring.
The referee steps into the middle, checking in with them that they’re both aware of the rules, and Kinn’s heart thumps hard in his chest, the excitement making his blood rush through his veins. He hasn’t gotten to watch Porsche in a real match since…
… not since the night of the auction.
Somewhere, distantly, he hears men chanting, “Blue Room, Blue Room, Blue Room!” It almost sounds like dogs rhythmically barking or some sort of mystical chant.
And when the referee blows the whistle and steps out of the way, Porsche and Jeab come to the center, cautiously circling and checking each other for weak points with little feints and jabs. Porsche is taking this seriously from the start, no playful or underhanded tactics out of the gate. Instead, Jeab makes the first two strikes, lashing out with foot followed by fist, and Porsche nimbly blocks and weaves away. He’s watching, looking for his opening.
Jeab tries to go for an aggressive kick to the head, but Porsche is ready for it, getting in two small, quick jabs, which Jeab tries to return, but he swings wild, misses.
Kinn smiles into his drink. Jeab has already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet.
The exchanges start to happen quicker, and Jeab keeps swinging only to come up on nothing but air as Porsche never stays put and controls every inch of the space around him. Then, as Jeab moves in for another attempted blow, Porsche suddenly jumps and whirls so fast the eye can barely follow it, and his foot connects with Jeab’s neck, sending him spinning, and that’s it, that’s all the advantage Porsche needs. He moves in strong, going in with an elbow to the face that sends Jeab to the floor, and then Jeab is down and Porsche follows, raining a righteous hailstorm of blows on him to ensure he stays down.
It’s over just that quickly. The referee blows the whistle, prying Porsche off. Porsche throws back his head and howls, to the delight of everyone watching. Well, everyone except Megat.
Kinn, though. Kinn feels that howl all the way down in his gut.
He watches as Porsche takes his victory lap. Porsche stops when he sees Chay in the crowd, slams his fist on his chest and then points at him. Then he goes back to his circling like a caged animal. When he spots Kinn, he comes up short, meeting Kinn’s eyes.
For Kinn, Porsche pauses. He takes a moment to center himself and makes a formal and solemn wai.
Kinn nods back, unable to take his eyes off him.
Megat comes up next to Kinn, silent for a long moment as they watch Porsche leaving the ring and the referee trying to rouse Jeab.
“He isn’t going to give up with just this,” Megat says. “Davies, I mean.”
“We’re done here,” Kinn says calmly. “Goodnight, Megat.” Kinn raises his hand, and two men materialize to either side of Megat — one of Kinn’s and one of Vegas’s.
“Whatever,” Megat says with a sneer. “Have fun dealing with Davies on your ass.” Megat turns to go, and he and his people are escorted off the premises. Megat’s two other guards half-carry Jeab, who stumbles clumsily between them.
Raucous cheering catches Kinn’s attention, and he turns to see that Porsche is out of the cage, coming down off the raised platform, and some of the Blue Room men are congratulating him. Porchay also goes up to him, and Porsche hauls him into a hug, which causes the younger man to flail and protest. From a distance, Kinn can just make out that Porchay is saying something about Porsche being sweaty and gross.
“Sir?” Big says, and Kinn turns his attention to Big.
“What is it?”
“Confirming that Megat and his people have left the premises. Bouncers have been informed not to allow re-entry. Code red remains in effect until we return to the tower.”
Kinn nods. It’s the right decision. “We’ll need an emergency strategy meeting tomorrow. The situation with Davies has changed. Schedule it for the afternoon, and make sure Vegas is there.”
Big gives him an uncompromising stare. “Yes, sir. I’ll debrief the team in the morning.”
Davies is crossing lines left and right with no signs of stopping.
Vegas approaches them, hands in his pocket and looking like a content cat.
“How did you like my little present, cousin?”
“Hated it, thanks.”
Vegas pouts. “That’s a shame. I suppose you won’t be interested in knowing that one of my girls got all sorts of juicy gossip from Bella in the ladies’ room. Along with an exchange of other favors, but I tried to avoid those details.” He gives a delicate little shudder of distaste.
Kinn finds himself grinning from ear to ear. “Excellent. I’ll be interested to hear more. Strategy meeting tomorrow; you’ll hear from Big.” Then he shakes his head, bemused. “You know, I wouldn’t mind going along with these plans if you told me about them ahead of time. A little warning about Megat would have been nice.”
Vegas looks at him like he’s said something particularly stupid. “Where’s the fun in that?” That said, he stalks away.
Slowly shaking his head, Kinn cranes his neck to look back at where he last saw Porsche, but he’s gone now. In fact, he’s nowhere to be seen. The fact that Porsche is out of sight after the imminent threat from Megat leaves Kinn feeling on edge.
“Big, what’s Phoenix’s status?” Kinn asks.
“He went back to the locker room to change, sir.”
Hmm. Kinn returns to the table, where Som is standing guard in front of the empty booth. Kinn is too restless to sit.
“Where are Kim and Porchay?” he asks.
“Sir, they’re in the second room, observing other matches,” Big responds.
Unsettled and uncertain what to do about it, Kinn looks around the club before looking back at the booth. There on the seat of the booth is Porsche’s shirt, though calling it a shirt is more generous than the flimsy thing deserves.
Kinn grabs the garment and is moving before he thinks twice about it, heading for the door to the staging area.
“You can stay here, Big,” he says at the door.
“Sir, I don’t think—”
“Big.”
Big’s face does that thing where he clearly disapproves and has to fight it down. “Yes, sir.”
Satisfied, Kinn enters, making his way down a long hallway lined with pipes and machinery, all of which keep the building functioning for its more straight-laced visitors. The Blue Room is the seedy underbelly of a skyscraper that houses office workers, CEOs, and household name brands during the daylight hours.
When Kinn walks through the door at the end of the hallway, he finds himself in a bustling locker room. Men loiter about the room, but as soon as Kinn enters, they stop what they’re doing to look at him. The space goes quiet.
“Khun Kinn,” says one of the fighters, stepping forward. “I’m Ford, sir. Do you need something?”
“I need a word with Phoenix,” Kinn says, looking around. He doesn’t see him, but the space seems to be partitioned, with multiple areas for changing and warming up. “He forgot his…” he holds up the sheer top, “shirt.”
Ford gives Kinn a look that’s difficult to decipher. After a moment’s hesitation, he points down beyond the first partition. “He’s at the back. Wanted time alone to clear his head.”
Kinn nods in acknowledgement. He makes his way past sparring mats, more fighters, partitions lined with lockers, and a couple of storage areas. Just when he’s starting to get worried, he almost goes too far. Kinn finds Porsche sitting on a short crate, long legs sprawled out in front of him as he leans back against a wall of lockers. He’s shirtless, his long legs once again wearing slacks rather than the Blue Room fighting pants. A towel is draped around his neck, and his uniform lies rumpled on the crate next to him.
He looks like a feast, and Kinn is so, so hungry. But Porsche’s utter stillness is of greater concern.
“Porsche?” Kinn says softly.
Porsche opens his eyes and looks up at him. He doesn’t seem surprised to see Kinn, but he also doesn’t rush to his feet.
“You know,” Porsche says with a wry little twist to his lips, “with how many times you’ve saved me, I don’t think I can pay you back in just one lifetime. I might need two or three.”
Caught wrong-footed, Kinn has no idea how to respond. He holds out the shirt in his hand. “I brought you, uh, this.”
Porsche stretches and gets to his feet. He ditches the towel, dropping it on the crate, and then takes the shirt from Kinn’s hand and practically slithers into it, a waterfall of gauzy fabric hiding the rippling muscles. He looks suddenly softer and somehow even less decent than when he’d been topless.
Art by Lady-Guts
When Kinn looks up and meets Porsche’s eyes, the man is smirking.
Kinn shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a step away, looking through the chainlink of the storage cage opposite Porsche’s crate. Inside the storage cage are boxes and more crates and a few machines with blinking lights.
“You did well tonight,” Kinn says. “I wouldn’t have forced you to take the match, but your volunteering was helpful. And on top of it all, you won. So. Is there anything I can do for you?” That’s better. Talking business is good; he’s more in control this way.
“What? Like another reward?”
Kinn looks at Porsche out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, just like that.”
Porsche scoffs. “Fine. Yeah, that’s fine. I give up.” He starts gathering the uniform and towel, bunching them together in one hand. “You know what? I do want a reward. How about the rest of the night off? And no curfew — I don’t have to go back to the tower until morning.”
Kinn turns sharply to Porsche, his eyes widening. There was an attempt on Porsche’s life barely half an hour ago, and the person who wants Porsche dead is still out there. Suddenly Kinn wants to take back his offer.
“Why? What for?” he asks sharply.
“Why? Why does anyone want to go out on their own for the night?” Porsche rolls his eyes. “Because I want to go out and get laid. Do you know when the last time I got laid as a free man was? When I was sixteen. So yeah, I want a reward. And if you can cover the taxi over to Hum Bar, that’d be really great, boss, thank you so much.”
Porsche is panting angrily as he stares at Kinn, and Kinn is reeling from it. It’s as if all the fire Porsche had in the cage is still with him, and that fire is lighting him up from the inside. Kinn feels almost as if he’s dealing with an entirely different person than the Porsche he’s used to.
Other thoughts are also creeping into Kinn’s brain, thoughts of someone else touching Porsche, especially while he’s in this state…
Kinn pulls his hands out of his pockets. “You can’t. It isn’t safe.”
“Really?” Porsche scoffs again, and then he steps forward slowly, stalking closer and closer, until they’re only inches apart. Kinn can feel Porsche’s breath. “That’s what you’re going with? Are you sure you aren’t…” Porsche flicks his eyes down at Kinn’s lips and then back up to his eyes, “jealous?”
Kinn glares back. “You’re overstepping,” he hisses, but because he’s weak and can’t help himself, he licks his lips.
Porsche catches the tell and smirks. Helplessly, Kinn notices that his eyeliner is smudged.
“Am I? Am I really?” Porsche leans in closer, and this is it, this is all Kinn needs, just for Porsche to close the last inch, and then whatever happens isn’t Kinn’s fault, it really will have been too much to resist…
But Porsche slowly pulls back, and Kinn, lured in by the promise of possibility, makes a helpless, yearning sound and starts to follow after him.
Startled at the sudden shift, Kinn’s eyes widen in alarm. And Porsche, well, Porsche is grinning at him maniacally.
“What about not crossing that line?” Porsche reaches up, a hand sliding around to grasp the back of Kinn’s neck in a firm grip. “Anakinn. Kinn. Ai’Kinn?”
Kinn realizes he’s panting, his hands opening and closing, needing to grasp something but holding only air.
He steps in toward Porsche, closing the distance until their noses are practically touching. “Fuck. The. Line.”
Porsche makes a small sound of triumph, and then their mouths crash together in a kiss that’s also a claiming, for both of them. Kinn finally has arms full, wrapping them around Porsche’s slender waist, running his hands over his back. Porsche, for his part, throws both arms around Kinn’s shoulders, as though he wants to trap him close and make it impossible for him to escape this kiss. Kinn doesn’t want to escape anymore, though. He isn’t strong enough for that.
The kiss is a battle, a fight for dominance. Porsche is biting at his lower lip, but Kinn won’t give in easily. He angles his head sharply and takes the opening as soon as he sees it, thrusting his tongue into Porsche’s mouth. Porsche lets out a sound deep in his throat that tastes like heaven.
Porsche’s strong, hot body surges against Kinn, pushing him backwards, and he goes willingly, one step, two, a third, and then he’s being shoved against the chainlink of the storage cage, the metallic rattle startling him and making him pull back from the kiss.
Porsche is looking at him as though he wants to eat him alive. He grabs hold of the chainlink to either side of Kinn’s head.
“More,” Porsche demands, and Kinn opens his mouth to let Porsche in.
While Porsche does his best to explore every single bump and ridge of Kinn’s mouth, Kinn sucks fiercely. He reaches down and gets his hands on Porsche’s ass, encouraging him to lean in, to rub his crotch against Kinn’s own. As soon as their groins come in contact, Porsche pulls back from the kiss, laughing with fierce delight and looking almost like he’s drunk, even though he hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol.
Unable to help himself, Kinn reverses their places, putting Porsche’s back to the chainlink so Kinn can give him a slow, hard grind while looking into his eyes.
“Will you let me give you a different reward?” Kinn whispers, harsh and husky. “Shall I suck you off? Right here, right now?” Porsche gasps, staring at him in disbelief, but with a keen edge of excitement in his eyes. Kinn leans into that even as he leans into Porsche harder. “Say yes. Say yes. Right now, you’re the most powerful man in Bangkok. You can have me on my knees with a single word.”
Porsche is panting in his arms, but his eyes narrow, and his movements go still. Kinn, sensing the change in him, also goes still, waiting.
“No.”
Kinn feels the word almost like it’s a physical blow, but Porsche continues.
“If I’m really the most powerful man in Bangkok,” Porsche whispers, his eyes somehow challenging and questioning at the same time, “then I want more than just a blowjob.”
“Tell me what you want,” Kinn demands, begs, hoping he knows the answer.
Porsche smirks. “How about you show me a nice view?”
Kinn smiles back. He can play this game. “What view would you like? A view of the river? Wat Arun all lit up at night? The Rama bridge?”
Porsche shakes his head, still grinning, looking smug. “The view of your bedroom ceiling.”
Kinn sneers. “You won’t even see it.” He squeezes Porsche’s ass, pulling him in tight again. “I’ll make sure your eyes are on me the whole time.”
Porsche laughs and gives him a quick kiss. Kinn attempts to chase after him for more, but Porsche gets both hands on Kinn’s chest and slowly but steadily shoves him away. Kinn tries to drag him into another kiss, which Porsche dodges.
“Not here, not here,” Porsche says, even though he’s laughing at Kinn’s attempts, which only makes Kinn want to try harder. Finally Porsche captures his face with both hands. “Let’s go.”
Grinning, Kinn can only nod vigorously between Porsche’s palms. “Okay.”
He should probably be embarrassed that he folded so easily, but he’s too giddy to give a fuck right now.
“Okay,” Porsche parrots right back at him, and he pats at Kinn’s chest. That’s when he notices the small lump in Kinn’s breast pocket. “Oh, that’s the, uh… yeah. Could you put that on for me? I can’t get the clasp.”
Kinn feels something fierce and delightful bubble over inside of him. “Yeah, yeah, I can.” He pulls the diamond choker out of his pocket, and Porsche turns his back to him. With both hands, Kinn settles the silky black band into place, so the line of diamonds can stand straight and tall in the center of Porsche’s throat. After he closes the clasp and lets it settle on Porsche’s neck, he gives it a little kiss, startling Porsche.
“You’re ridiculous,” Porsche accuses, turning and ducking out of Kinn’s reach, walking backwards toward the way out.
“Maybe I am,” Kinn says, still smiling, “but that makes you the one who chose a ridiculous reward.”
Porsche bites his bottom lip and shakes his head, looking fond as he does so, and then he turns around to walk away, leaving Kinn to follow. Of course Kinn will follow.
But when he gets around the lockers, he freezes in his tracks.
There, on the other side of the locker partition, is a group of seven Blue Room fighters, watching them in dead silence. Ford stands in the center of them, arms crossed. He isn’t looking at Kinn, though; he’s looking at Porsche, who has also frozen.
Huh. Maybe Kinn should have realized that the rest of the locker room had gone quiet, but he was a little preoccupied at the time.
“You good?” Ford asks Porsche.
Porsche nods. “I’m good.” Then he grins. “Really good.”
Ford raises his eyebrows and gives a little impressed nod. “Okay.”
Ford holds out his fist. Porsche pounds down on it with his own fist and then lets Ford return the move before they bump knuckles together. All of the fighters watch as Kinn follows Porsche.
Finally, Kinn breaks and whispers in annoyance, “Why do I have to do the walk of shame when I haven’t even gotten laid yet?”
Porsche’s laugh is more than worth the embarrassment.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
There is discussion of human trafficking when someone attempts (emphasis on attempts) to make a bet with Kinn, with Porsche as stakes. There’s also a threat on Porsche’s life.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
I think I must be developing a thing for “applying makeup as a bonding experience.” I already did that in another fic. XD
Also, I’d like to just take a moment to say that when I was originally dreaming up this fic, the Blue Room was just a small stepping stone in the plot. It was meant for a couple scenes and then wouldn’t be needed again. But then when I started writing it and putting life into the setting and the characters, I realized I couldn’t let it go. I fell in love with it. So I did the only thing I could possibly do and figured out how to get it back into the story. And thus here we are again.
*dusts off hands* Anyway. That was a pretty long chapter. Hope you liked it!
And here's a little something for reference:
UPDATE: This chapter now has ART of Porsche thanks to the incredibly talented Lady-Guts! THANK YOU, Lady! 🥰 I'm very 👀 about Porsche and that super-sassy over-the-shoulder glance of his.
Chapter 20: Safe and Sound
Summary:
Porsche spends the night with Kinn.
Notes:
Extra thank yous for this chapter:
Thank you enbymoomin for beta!
Thank you mortimerlatrice for specific consultation on some phrasing/etiquette.
And thank you nuwildcat for general story detangling assistance.REMINDER: I have posted spoiler descriptions of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
SPECIAL NOTE: There is nothing graphically described about Porsche’s past with sexual assault/abuse, but there are some implications, so some reader discretion is advised, and please use the end-of-chapter warnings if needed.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The ride back to the tower is a special kind of torture for Kinn. Porsche is seated next to him, but Mek is right in front of them both, minding his business in the driver’s seat.
There’s no divider between the front and rear cabins of the car. Kinn wonders why he owns any cars at all that have no dividers. If there were a divider, he wouldn’t be stuck staring out the window at the nighttime lights of Bangkok. If there were a divider, he could be sliding his hands beneath the sheer fabric of Porsche’s shirt, exploring his chest, his stomach, getting his hands all over that dusky skin…
Some kind of sixth sense tingles, alerting Kinn, and he turns his head to find Porsche staring at him from the corner of his eyes. Porsche doesn’t shy away from being caught staring, nor does he give coy looks or glances the way Kinn’s paid escorts might. Instead, he simply looks, and Kinn thinks he knows what it must feel like to be stalked by a panther.
Finally, Porsche puts his hand down on the middle seat, and he turns his head to look out the window.
Kinn accepts the invitation, putting his own hand on the seat, next to Porsche’s. He links their pinkies together and turns his own head to stare out the window at the lights.
Porsche’s hand moves, touching Kinn’s fingers, his knuckles, in a slow and warm exploration. Kinn lets Porsche do as he pleases, sometimes playfully capturing a fingertip before releasing it again.
Kinn smiles. Maybe a little anticipation isn’t so bad.
The next mistake he makes, after having a car without a divider, is that he arrives at the tower’s carport instead of sneaking in through the garage.
When they get out of the car, Chan is waiting for him, expectancy written in every inch of his countenance.
Kinn stares at him. Chan bows and says, “Khun Kinn. your father requested that I take your report on the opening.”
Kinn sighs. “This can’t wait until morning?” He has much, much better things he’d like to do with the rest of the evening.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Chan says.
Kinn closes his eyes and tamps down the frustration. “Fine. Big?” He looks around to find his head bodyguard, and Big appears at his side.
“Yes, Khun Kinn?”
“I’m with Chan. You’re done for the night after the team turns in their field equipment.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kinn looks at Porsche, standing slightly off to the side. Kinn doesn’t want to say much, not with Chan watching. He winces just a bit, showing his regret.
Give me a little time, Kinn tries to say with his eyes.
Porsche gives the barest nod of his head. The smudge on his eyeliner is still there, calling Kinn’s attention.
Kinn tears himself away and leads Chan into the tower, heading for his office.
The meeting lasts nearly an hour. Chan grills him on everything that happened, and when he finds out about the encounter with Megat, the discussion turns into a debate on strategy for managing the Davies debacle. Kinn manages to verbally wrestle Chan into agreeing that cooperating with Vegas is the best course of action, which is a huge win, and everything they talk about is vital for moving forward. But the meeting lasts nearly a whole fucking hour.
By the time Kinn is finally able to return to his suite, he assumes Porsche has given up on him, likely already tucked away in his own bed in the bodyguard quarters. Kinn will just have to make it up to him, perhaps revisit the dinner plans that got left by the wayside on their first date.
Kinn can admit now that it really was a date — a mere “seduction” was never going to be enough with Porsche.
Kinn strips off his jacket as he walks into his apartment, and he almost bypasses his living room to head straight for the bedroom, except that the overhead light is on. He pauses, cautiously peeking around the edge of the doorframe…
… only to find Porsche, fast asleep, lying on his side on Kinn’s couch.
Kinn freezes, uncertain he’s actually seeing what he’s seeing. Even after he blinks a few times, Porsche is still there, wrapped up in Kinn’s bright white bathrobe. When Kinn is certain his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him, he toes off his shoes and quietly crosses the room. Gently, he lays his suit jacket on the marble table, almost expecting Porsche to wake up at the slightest sound, but he doesn’t bat an eye. Kinn smiles and tilts his head, looking down at Porsche. One bare knee is peeking out from the bathrobe, the brown skin an attractive contrast against the fluffy white.
Kinn unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt one at a time, getting more comfortable and rolling up his sleeves. Still, Porsche doesn’t wake, so Kinn slowly sinks down to kneel on the floor next to his head, allowing himself the luxury of observation.
Porsche looks peaceful like this, more youthful, without the tension and wariness that are usually his hallmark traits. The right side of his face is nestled into a couch pillow, hiding the vertical scars that Kinn hardly notices anymore. His hair, too, has gotten longer, Kinn notes, grown out from the shorter style he’d had at the auction. It looks slightly damp, as though it’s been air drying.
Porsche is beautiful, and he’s strong, and Kinn wants. Yet when he raises his hand, he hesitates to disturb the man’s rest.
He shouldn’t sleep here all night, Kinn thinks, and it’s a good enough reason, sound logic to justify waking him. So Kinn brushes the backs of his fingers against Porsche’s cheek.
The reaction is instant, Porsche’s eyes opening wide and body going tense. Kinn freezes, just as startled as Porsche appears to be, and they stare at each other for a handful of heartbeats. Then the tension bleeds out of Porsche’s muscles, and he sort of melts back down into the couch again. He stretches a little bit, nuzzling against the cushion with furrowed brows.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Kinn feels his smile come back, and he allows himself to stroke that soft cheek again. “It’s fine,” Kinn says just as quietly. Something about the moment feels secretive and intimate, not meant for loud noises. Kinn makes note of the large, embroidered K on the terrycloth. “You stole my bathrobe,” he teases.
That wins him a tiny smile, just the corners of Porsche’s mouth kicking up. “I did.” He pulls a lapel of the soft robe up to touch his jaw. “And you stole… me.” Porsche snickers lightly at his own joke. “Big told me that’s what you said to Megat. That you stole me. You said it to Jom, too.”
Porsche’s obvious pleasure is infectious, and Kinn finds himself grinning, unrepentant. “You like that, huh?” Kinn asks. When Porsche nods, Kinn nods back. “Me too. I think it was pretty clever of me, actually.”
Porsche frowns dubiously at him. “Clever of you? You had to be convinced. I’m the one who talked you into stealing me.”
“Yes. And that was very clever of you.” Kinn cups Porsche’s cheek, dusting his thumb along the man’s jaw. “Clever of you to make a bargain.” He gives Porsche a little kiss. “Clever of me to agree.” He gives him another kiss, with a quick little tease of his tongue along Porsche’s lip. After lingering for a brief moment, he pulls back, and Porsche follows, seeking more and then widening his eyes at Kinn in surprise.
Ha, payback, Kinn thinks, smiling.
Porsche pouts, shuffling back into place. The bathrobe slips to reveal a tempting peek at Porsche’s chest. Kinn traces the line of exposed skin.
“And what do you have on under my robe, may I ask?” Kinn runs his finger up and down that narrow path, just a small area near the top of one pectoral.
Porsche’s expression turns sly. “Not much,” he admits, “just underwear.” He shifts his legs a little, exposing more bare flesh, just enough to make Kinn’s mouth water.
Privately, Kinn regrets that he didn’t get the chance to peel that gauzy shirt off Porsche’s shoulders, or rip the thing off altogether. Some other time, Kinn thinks.
Kinn leans in for a kiss. It’s slow, and sweet. He tastes a hint of his own mouthwash on Porsche’s lips. One kiss turns into two, and when Porsche opens his mouth, two turns into three. Kinn takes his time, savoring it, tasting and nibbling where he pleases. He hasn’t done much kissing in a long time. He didn’t think it was much of a loss, but now that he has the time to explore and play, it’s hard to stop. He missed this, much to his surprise.
When he pulls back, Porsche’s eyes stay closed for a moment before blinking open. A very flattering reaction.
Porsche smiles. His lower lip is puffy where Kinn nipped at it.
“You’re good at that,” Porsche says softly, like it’s a confession. His tongue flicks out to quickly trace his bottom lip.
Kinn can’t seem to stop himself from smiling. “Yeah? You like that, huh?” He gives Porsche a little tease, kissing one corner of his mouth and then the other. “There’s a lot that I’m good at, you know.”
Porsche’s eyes widen just slightly, and he squirms a little closer to Kinn on his cushion. “Is there? Like what, for example?” Porsche lifts one cautious, curious finger to Kinn’s face, gently tracing at the side of it.
The smugness that creeps into Kinn’s smile is, he thinks, justified. “Like, for example…” Instead of explaining, he takes Porsche’s wandering hand in one of his own and draws it to his mouth. Then, making sure to keep his eyes trained on Porsche’s, he guides that index finger between his lips, sucking it down and letting it rest on his tongue like it’s a wet and comfortable bed. Porsche’s eyes go even wider, and Kinn makes sure his mouth is nice and tight, sucking as he draws back, only to dive down again until his lips are on Porsche’s knuckle. That earns Kinn a full-body shiver, and Porsche’s reactions reawaken the heat in his belly that had dulled during the delay.
When Kinn pulls off Porsche’s finger with a tiny pop, Porsche is looking at him with parted lips, his pupils blown.
“I think I offered you a blowjob,” Kinn says, feeling cheeky. “If you’re still interested, that is.”
Porsche blinks a couple times, almost as though he’s confused. Slowly, he traces Kinn’s lips, first with his wet finger, then with his thumb. He looks contemplative.
“That’s… something you like doing?” Porsche asks.
Kinn kisses the pad of Porsche’s thumb and hums his agreement. “I offered, didn’t I?”
But the other man makes an expression that’s somewhere between confusion and a pout. “Mm. That coulda been just to get me into bed, though.”
Kinn thinks he should probably take offense at that — Porsche basically just called him a liar. But the mood and the quiet atmosphere are too intimate for that, too open and honest.
“I assure you, the offer was genuine,” Kinn says. He leans in closer, kisses the highest part of Porsche’s cheekbone, and then whispers in his ear. “And I am very, very good at sucking cock.” He trails his lips along Porsche’s jaw as he pulls back to look him in the eyes again, raises his own brows in question.
Porsche still seems to be reluctant. “And you like it?”
Kinn grins, and he can’t keep the hunger out of it. “Let me show you how much. Hm?” He nods slightly at Porsche, encouraging him to do the same.
Porsche bites his lip and then nods back. “Okay,” he says breathlessly.
Just what Kinn wanted to hear.
He gives another happy hum and climbs onto the couch, kneeling and straddling Porsche’s thighs. He puts one hand on Porsche’s waist, over the plush robe, so that he can gently nudge the man to roll onto his back. Porsche shifts, eyes wide and locked on Kinn. As he resettles, the lapels of the robe part to reveal more of his chest, and Kinn can’t possibly resist that. He scooches a little so that he can place a kiss in the space between Porsche’s collar bones, then another between his pecs, and then he can’t resist running his tongue up and down the seam of his sternum.
The robe is hiding Porsche’s nipples from him, but no matter. Kinn slips one hand under the robe so that he can caress slowly up from Porsche’s stomach to one pec, splaying his fingers to get as much of it in his hand as possible. He unerringly finds Porsche’s nipple with the edge of his thumb, and finding it semi-erect, sets about flicking it to help it along the way. At the same time, he starts to suck, firmly, at the top of the same pec. Porsche’s reaction is excellent; he lets out a small gasp as his body tenses and briefly curls toward Kinn.
Delightfully responsive. Kinn is going to have to take his time with him.
Kinn takes hold of the lapel, pulling it to the side and revealing half of Porsche’s chest and one shoulder. The nipple he teased is fully erect now, and it’s positively calling Kinn’s name, so he dives down and feasts on the little morsel, latching on firmly.
“Kinn!” Porsche exclaims in surprise. “You’re— oh!”
Smiling around his mouthful, Kinn sucks hard, rhythmically, giving Porsche another preview of his talents. At the same time, he slides his hand under the robe again to place it on the smooth skin of that tiny waist. Kinn clutches and pulls, encouraging Porsche to arch into his mouth. Porsche follows along beautifully.
When the nipple he’s teasing is sufficiently tender and swollen, Kinn pauses to look up at Porsche. His head is thrown back against the couch cushion, and he’s staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, panting and lost in his own little world of pleasure. Realizing that Kinn has stopped, Porsche draws his attention down to look at him. His lips are parted, his eyes wide and enthralled.
“Mm, the other one, too, I think,” Kinn decides, smiling.
“Oh god,” Porsche gasps.
The giggle Kinn lets out is probably not all that dignified, but there’s no one here to hear it except Porsche, and Kinn has better things to focus on than his dignity. He pulls the other lapel to the side. Just to the left of the nipple is a straight, diagonal scar, very pale pink and about two inches long. Kinn caresses gently just beneath it.
“It doesn’t hurt?” Kinn asks. He traces his finger right next to the scar. “Should I not tug on it?”
“Huh?” Porsche lifts his head and looks down at Kinn. He seems dazed, like he has to gather his wits, but after a moment he focuses on where Kinn is touching. “No, no, it’s fine, doesn’t hurt.” The expression on his face is hopeful, imploring Kinn to continue.
So sweet. He deserves something nice for that. Kinn starts by brushing a little kiss to the pink line, meanwhile getting both of his hands on Porsche’s sides, along his rib cage. Then, locking his eyes with Porsche’s, he opens his mouth wide and lowers the pointed tip of his tongue to flick the nipple.
Porsche’s head thumps back on the cushion, and he tries to writhe, but Kinn is ready for him. He uses his grip on Porsche’s sides to push him back down, and Porsche lets out a breathy little sound.
“Keep watching,” Kinn demands. He waits until Porsche lifts his head to look at him again, and then he repeats the motion with his tongue, again and again, prying more small sounds out of Porsche one at a time.
When Kinn settles down to suck on his treat properly, he hears a scratching sound. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Porsche digging his fingernails into the back cushions of the couch, trying to find purchase.
Kinn winds him up, and up, and up, and when he lets go and raises his head to survey the results, he can’t resist blowing on the wet nub, making Porsche shudder.
After getting his bearings again, Porsche looks down at Kinn, eyes wide and curious. He isn’t doing anything, just waiting to see what Kinn will do next. Feeling playful, Kinn blows on his nipple again, making him give a small wince of pleasure.
“Are you always like this?” Porsche asks.
Kinn rarely takes this much time with his escorts, even the more regular ones. He does when he’s in a particular mood, when he gets the itch to take full control and leave his partner in a wrung-out, sweaty, exhausted heap. Which is exactly what he has planned for Porsche.
Kinn gives a considering hum. “Special service. For my champion,” he says. “Maybe I want to make sure you’re well motivated.”
Porsche lets out a short burst of a laugh, and his head thumps back down on the cushion. “Motivated? Okay, yeah, this is good motivation.”
“Only ‘good’? I can do better than that.”
Kinn shuffles further backwards down the long line of Porsche’s body until he’s hovering over Porsche’s middle. Instead of untying the bathrobe, Kinn leaves the knot at the waist where it is and simply splays the edges of the bottom half to either side of Porsche’s legs. It’s much like unwrapping a present, just a little at a time. He wants to savor every bit of this.
Porsche is wearing basic white briefs, and his cock is straining at them, flatteringly erect just from the nipple play. Kinn is most of the way there himself. Porsche squirms under his gaze, and Kinn feels a rush of arousal at the sense that he’s doing something terribly, terribly naughty to this man. He strokes a hand along one of Porsche’s thighs; he notes the feeling of more scars under his palm, reminds himself to be gentle. Kinn would like to get his mouth on the sensitive skin between Porsche’s legs and leave some pretty marks, but he’s running out of patience.
He wants to make Porsche leak in his cute little briefs, so he goes for the prize, leaning in to nuzzle along the hard line of his cock and breathing warmly on it. Porsche lets out a small sound of surprise, and it makes Kinn want more. He runs his nose over the cotton, going from the base of Porsche’s cock to the head, where he opens his mouth and gives a quick, wet suck. That wins him a full-body shudder and a shocked gasp of his name, “Kinn,” from Porsche.
Mm. He can do even better.
Nuzzling down further he nudges at Porsche’s balls through the cloth, and he gives them the same quick suck treatment. This time Porsche gasps and can’t seem to help thrusting up, but Kinn is ready with a hand to pin him down by one hip. Porsche really is a sensitive one, and Kinn is going to take every advantage.
Kinn returns his mouth to the head, lavishing it with attention while also sliding his other hand over the crease between hip and thigh to cup Porsche’s balls. He sucks until he can taste a hint of salt and tang through the cotton, and then he pulls back. Porsche is gripping at the back of the couch and gritting his teeth. He’s taking very carefully controlled, deep breaths, his beautiful chest expanding and collapsing rhythmically.
“Still just ‘good’?” Kinn asks, teasing.
Porsche swallows. “Great, it’s great, so great,” he says in a rush.
“I suppose that’s better. But still not good enough,” Kinn says, grinning, and he gives the covered cock another quick nuzzle and huff of breath. Porsche whimpers for him, and god, but that does things to both Kinn’s ego and his arousal.
Kinn hooks his fingers into Porsche’s underwear and starts pulling them down those long, long legs. Porsche’s cock springs free, the head jutting straight up and bumping against the knot of the robe at his waist. Kinn discards the underwear on the floor and takes a moment to admire his prize; the other man’s cock is lovely, somewhat slender and perhaps with a little more length than average. A comfortable mouthful, just to Kinn’s liking.
He takes a few moments to rearrange their positions, making room for himself to kneel between Porsche’s legs. He picks up one strong leg behind the knee and lifts it, positioning it over the back of the couch. Then he nudges Porsche’s other leg until he puts that foot on the floor. The new position leaves Porsche splayed open, lewd and vulnerable to Kinn’s gaze, the robe still cinched together at the waist but doing nothing to hide his chest or his flushed, leaking arousal.
“Beautiful,” Kinn breathes out. And Porsche gives another little shiver just at that.
Kinn bends over, settling with his forearms along Porsche’s hips and hands on his waist, and he opens his mouth to take down half of Porsche’s cock in one go.
Porsche grunts, and his hips buck, but Kinn holds him down with a firm grip. Kinn pulls back slowly to suck on the head, playing with his tongue on the underside the same way he’d done with Porsche’s nipples. Saliva pools in his mouth, easing the way as he takes a deep breath and slides back down again, this time taking Porsche’s cock to the root, welcoming him into his throat.
Kinn isn’t gentle, not with Porsche and not with himself. He uses Porsche to ravage himself, taking and sucking and swallowing even as tears pool in his eyes. Through it all his own arousal only creeps higher, the slow and steady blaze of coals in comparison to the bonfire he’s stoking for his partner. As for Porsche, the effect is quickly devastating. When Kinn glances upward, he finds the man has stuffed the soft edge of one of the robe’s lapels in his mouth and is biting on it furiously. It muffles his moans and grunts and whimpers, but not by much — they come rapidly as Kinn works, sliding his mouth up and down and occasionally pausing at the head to torment the sensitive tip with his tongue.
Porsche’s cries start to increase in frequency and urgency. Kinn thinks he’s getting close, so he begins to move faster, encouraging him to come, but just then Kinn’s chin bumps against Porsche’s hand. Kinn doesn’t stop his efforts, but he reaches up with a hand of his own to find that Porsche is holding his own balls, pulling them away from his body and attempting to stave off his orgasm.
Kinn slowly pulls off Porsche’s cock, replacing his mouth with a nice, firm grip to keep him feeling good.
“Don’t hold back,” Kinn says, and his voice is a raspy mess, wrecked from the abuse to his throat. “Don’t you want to come?”
Porsche reluctantly releases the edge of the robe from his mouth, and Kinn gives him a little stroke just to see that cute grimace of pleasure again.
“Feels… good,” Porsche says panting. “Want it to… last.”
Kinn smiles. “Darling, I promise I’ll make you come again,” he assures him. “Just let go for me.”
He takes hold of Porsche’s wrist, encouraging him to release himself, and as soon as he lets go, Kinn dives down again, this time also cupping Porsche’s balls in one hand as he sucks, holding them warmly and firmly in place where they draw up tight to Porsche’s groin. Porsche bucks, and Kinn has to use his forearm to pin him down as he works to finish him off.
Porsche’s body tightens, and Kinn braces for it, his own body singing a sympathetic song as Porsche hovers over the edge. As the first spurt of release hits Kinn’s tongue, he pulls off and starts jacking Porsche’s pretty cock furiously, working him through it as he spills into Kinn’s hand. Porsche writhes, and he moans, and he calls Kinn’s name so perfectly.
Kinn wishes he could wait for Porsche to come all the way down, but he can’t. He can’t wait another moment. He pulls out his cock and uses his wet hand to start stroking himself at a fast, brutal pace while he looks down at Porsche, pleasured and splayed for Kinn’s eyes only.
Still panting, still trembling with a series of aftershocks, Porsche starts to shift.
“I can… I’ll—” Porsche says, starting to rise, but he fumbles, tangled in the bathrobe and still limp from the way that Kinn worked him over so thoroughly.
“No, no,” Kinn says urgently, breathing hard, and he leans over Porsche, bracing one hand in the center of his chest to keep him in place. “Just like this. You don’t have to move, just like this.”
He looks down, seeing Porsche’s nipples swollen, already showing a hint of bruising where Kinn sucked a little too hard, and he groans, stroking himself harder, from root to tip. The glide is just this side of too dry with only Porsche’s spend to ease the way, but it’s enough, it’s more than enough, and using his thumb to tease the sensitive crown of his cock, he comes with a groan. He spills over the robe, over Porsche’s stomach, and all over Porsche’s flagging cock and balls and the dark hairs framing them. Porsche gives a sensitive little shiver at the first splash of come and then goes limp, watching Kinn with half-lidded eyes as he continues to come down from his own high.
Relief washes over Kinn, leaving him feeling more relaxed than he’s felt in days, maybe weeks. His muscles feel like jelly, and all he wants to do is collapse onto Porsche, but he does so gently, easing himself down and tucking his face into the other man’s neck, inhaling deeply as he burrows against him. Bracing his forearms at Porsche’s sides, Kinn perches carefully so he isn’t entirely crushing him.
A weight settles over Kinn’s hip and the back of his leg; Porsche’s leg that was draped over the back of the couch now rests on Kinn. Then a hand lightly strokes his hair, the side of his face, just a soothing, gentle touch. He leans into it, wanting more.
“Final verdict?” Kinn asks, his voice husky. “Still just good? Great?”
“Good, great, best I’ve ever had,” Porsche says, sounding like he’s still out of breath.
Kinn can’t help the pleased sound that vibrates through his chest, nor can he help the thought that occurs to him next: I’ll be the best you ever have for your entire life. It wants to escape him, to skitter off his tongue, but he holds it back by the smallest of threads.
Instead, he lifts his head and gives Porsche another kiss just for being so sweet.
Porsche draws away from the kiss first with a breathless gasp, and Kinn realizes he has to give up snuggling him like he’s a giant body pillow. He levers himself back up into a kneeling position and helps Porsche straighten himself out so that he’s sitting upright.
“Your robe’s a mess,” Porsche says bluntly, and it is. Kinn did a number on it.
“Doesn't matter,” Kinn says. He has laundry service for that reason. “It can go in the laundry basket.”
Porsche fiddles with the sleeves of the robe, caressing the soft fabric. “You promised me a view of your bedroom ceiling.”
Kinn grins, feeling loose and playful. “No, I promised you a view of me. We’ll see whether you can get a glimpse of the ceiling.”
They get up, and Kinn tucks away his damp cock, making more of a mess, and Porsche collects his underwear from the floor. They start the migration to Kinn’s bedroom, and it’s slow going. Kinn walks behind Porsche and repeatedly catches him, pulling him back into his arms for quick, languid, lazy kisses.
When they enter the bedroom, Kinn pauses at the open doorway.
“Let me clean up,” Kinn says. “Oh, and since it’s dirty, I’d better take this, too.” He pulls Porsche close by the knot in the belt around the bathrobe, and then he unties it and strips it off him. Porsche, however, snags his underwear from one of the pockets.
“I’ll take these,” he says, but he doesn’t immediately put them on again. Kinn lets his eyes wander in appreciation before he steps away.
In the bathroom, Kinn doesn't rush. He figures Porsche might want a moment to gather himself, and he needs a couple minutes as well. He strips, putting away his clothes, and he runs the water to warm it. While the water runs, he takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror. He looks like a proper mess, his hair coming free from its styling, a slight flush on his cheeks, his lips red.
This is still probably a bad idea. He feels like he’s in far, far too deep already. Even with Tawan, it had never been like this. Tawan, before he’d shown his true colors, had been easy to be with, almost effortless. The light and heady feeling of young love… or at least it had felt like love to Kinn at the time. Hindsight colors his perception these days.
Porsche is different. Everything with Porsche is intense, sharp and focused, with a hard edge of yearning that he’s unable to resist.
Sighing, Kinn tests the water temperature and gives a little yelp at finding it too hot. He shakes his hand and twists the faucet slightly.
He goes out to the bedroom wearing a red silk robe, leaving the matching pants behind. In his bedroom, he finds Porsche sitting on the edge of the bed, still naked. Kinn offers him the damp rag he’s carrying, and Porsche rises to make quick work of cleaning himself. As Porsche steps around Kinn to place the rag on the bedside stand, Kinn can’t help but notice there are more scars on his back.
Porsche’s history is written on his body. The marks are reminders of what people took from him. And they’re also reminders, warnings, to Kinn that he can’t be selfish with this one.
Kinn steps up behind Porsche, placing his hands on the sides of his arms, and he kisses one mark on the back of his left shoulder. It’s thick, and it has uneven little marks as though it was poorly stitched.
Porsche turns in his arms and doesn’t seem to know where to let his eyes rest, looking anywhere but at Kinn. “We can turn the lights down,” Porsche says with a casual voice that rings false. “If you want.”
If you prefer not to see the scars, he means.
“I’d rather see you,” Kinn says softly, “If that’s okay.” He draws Porsche closer with an arm around his waist. “I want to see every part of you, and I want to see your face so I know how good I’m making you feel.”
Porsche looks at him then, considering him thoughtfully. His hands come up behind Kinn’s back to curl around his shoulders, and his eyes are locked on Kinn’s, examining his expression, probably looking for any hint of falsehood. “Okay. Yeah, that’s fine,” he says at last. He angles his head and kisses Kinn, warm and soft, before pulling back to look at him again. “You… want to fuck me.”
Although the words are framed like a statement, Kinn can hear an underlying question in them. And Kinn, for all the yearning and fantasizing he’d done, hadn’t really thought ahead to this moment and this question and what it might mean to Porsche. He knows, logically, that there are harsh realities for people who are bought and sold like property, that fighting rings and beatings aren’t the only abuses someone in Porsche’s position would have suffered.
The thought cools Kinn’s ardor swiftly and efficiently, leaving him a clear head.
“We don’t have to do that,” Kinn says, surprised to find how easy it is to say it sincerely. “This is about pleasure. Only what feels good. There are lots of ways to have sex.”
Porsche runs his fingers through the hair at the back of Kinn’s head, uses his blunt fingernails to give a pleasant little scratch. Then Porsche draws Kinn to him for a long, thorough, open-mouthed kiss that heats Kinn’s blood right back up again. Kinn takes a tiny step forward just so he can press more firmly against Porsche, and by the time they break apart, he has to take a gasp of air.
“Are you as good at fucking as you are at blowjobs?” Porsche asks urgently, panting against Kinn’s lips.
Kinn kisses Porsche again. “No,” he says. With his nose and lips, he traces a trail along Porsche’s cheek until he reaches his ear, where he whispers, “I’m much better.”
Porsche pulls back, looking at Kinn with a startled and titillated expression. His fingertips dig into the nape of Kinn’s neck. His mouth drops open to pant lightly. “That. I want that,” Porsche says, staring into Kinn’s eyes, and in the circle of Kinn’s arms, he moves, surging against the silk of Kinn’s robe so that Kinn feels every inch of where they’re pressed together, and it’s delicious. “Make me feel good.”
Fierce delight courses through Kinn’s veins. “Darling, I’m going to make you feel better than you’ve felt in your life,” Kinn promises.
“Really? I mean that blowjob was already, hm,” Porsche’s brows furrow as he thinks, “probably my number two best experience ever. You’ll have to outdo yourself.”
“Is that right? Number two.” Kinn sways toward Porsche, smiling. “So tell me, what was number one? I need to understand the competition.”
Porsche grins cheekily. “The first time I ate a perfectly ripe mango,” he says.
Kinn struggles to contain his laughter. “A mango? I have to beat a mango. I don’t see how that’s fair. I could call the late night kitchen, have one brought up? Leave you two alone together?”
Porsche snickers and gives him a small shove. “Don’t you dare.”
“But now I want something sweet,” Kinn says, and he steals another kiss, licking between Porsche’s lips. “Mm, just like that,” Kinn says when he pulls away. Porsche’s eyes drop to his mouth, and he looks like he’s about to go for another kiss, but Kinn stops him with a finger on his lips. “Let’s get more comfortable, yeah?”
Kinn peels himself away from Porsche, holding onto the other man’s waist to nudge him backwards. He grabs the edge of his white comforter, and with a dramatic woosh, he flings back the covers to the end of his enormous bed. Porsche wastes no time, scrambling into bed as Kinn pauses to take off his robe, tossing it to the floor. In the half moment it takes for Kinn to do that, Porsche is already lying on his right side, propping his head up with one hand and looking poised.
“I meant to give you a sexy welcome, but I fell asleep earlier,” Porsche says, grinning. “This is a do-over.”
Kinn smiles back, appreciating the sight. He’s still feeling very relaxed from his first orgasm of the night, arousal a pleasant simmer in his veins, like good alcohol, leaving him in the mood to play and explore. “I like it.” He climbs onto the bed on his knees, looking over Porsche from head to toe, all long, lean muscles and acres of beautiful brown skin, interrupted with various marks. His cock is half hard in its nest of black hair, partly obscured by one leg propped forward.
When Kinn notices Porsche’s ankle, he stops and stares. On the outside of Porsche’s left ankle, written vertically on the soft skin between the knobby bone and the tendon, there’s a four-digit number.
Kinn doesn’t even think before he blurts out, “What’s this?” He follows the question with a touch to Porsche’s ankle.
Frowning, Porsche looks down and gives his foot a little wiggle. “Oh. That.” He shrugs as best he can in his position, and he looks away at the interior wall behind Kinn. “Just a souvenir from my time in California.”
The mood shifts. Slowly, Kinn lies down on his left side, mirroring Porsche’s position, putting himself in Porsche’s line of sight to win his gaze back for himself.
“You can get that covered,” Kinn suggests. He reaches out to run his hand down Porsche’s arm.
Porsche lets out a small snort of a laugh.
“What? What’s funny?” Kinn asks.
“It’s just that when I told Chay about it, he said the same thing,” Porsche says, and Kinn can practically feel the mood lighten around them. “Actually, he invited me to get tattoos together, the both of us. Sort of a brother bonding kind of thing.”
Kinn tries to picture Porsche with tattoos. “Do you want to do that?”
“I’m thinking about it,” he says, and he shuffles closer to Kinn, so that it’s easy now for Kinn to put his arm over Porsche, run his hand along his back. “I didn’t, before. I had the option a couple times to get something done that I requested. I’ve met a couple of guys, they could do cool tattoos with just a needle and ink. But…”
“But?” Kinn prompts. He taps Porsche’s back a couple times with his thumb.
Porsche refocuses. “Didn’t want to. I used to… used to want one, back when I was a kid. But not while I wasn’t free.” He folds down the arm that he was using to prop up his head, and he lets his head fall to the pillow, so that he’s looking up at Kinn. “I think it would have felt like giving up. I don’t know, like, like pretending it was my body, and I could do what I wanted with it, when I couldn’t actually do jackshit.” He snorts again in wry amusement. “Plus, you know, dirty needles. I had enough education to know about that, at least.”
Kinn tries to imagine what that might have been like, and it feels so far away and impossible that he can’t truly grasp it. He raises his hand to trace lines on Porsche’s face. “I think you might be the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
Porsche looks startled by this, but his surprised expression quickly morphs into a pleased look, and he blinks slowly up at Kinn, looking like nothing so much as a content housecat.
“Yeah?” Porsche says quietly. He brings both hands up to run them over Kinn’s chest, and he touches Kinn’s free arm as well, the one he doesn’t have pinned. “You seem pretty strong yourself. These muscles don’t look like they’re just for show.”
“That isn’t—” Kinn started, but that’s when Porsche runs a thumb over one of his nipples, making him jump. “That isn’t what I meant.”
Porsche looks up at him with questions in his eyes, and Kinn nudges him so he’s lying on his back, making it much easier for Kinn to press kisses along his collar bones, his shoulders.
“I mean,” Kinn presses a kiss over his heart, then another to his chin, his lips, “you have a strong spirit.” Porsche smiles up at him, strokes his hand along Kinn’s arm as he puts a hand on Porsche’s waist. Kinn can’t help but smile back. “I like seeing you happy,” he says, and when he hears it aloud, it’s so much more intimate than he realized it would be.
“Oh, so you can be charming, too?” Porsche says, teasing. “That doesn’t seem fair. You’ve got charm, money, power, good looks, and a huge cock?” He makes a quick, pointed glance down at Kinn’s cock before looking at him again. “Isn’t that a little too much for one person?”
Kinn grins shamelessly. “You think I’m good looking?” He’s certainly been told so plenty of times in his life, but from Porsche it comes as a delightful surprise, making him want to puff up his chest with pride.
Porsche suddenly looks bashful, and it’s incredibly endearing.
“Shut up. I was wrong. You aren’t charming at all,” Porsche says, and he tries to roll away from Kinn and turn his back, but Kinn catches him and pulls at his shoulders so that he’s lying on his back again.
“I take it back, I take it back, okay?” Kinn says, having fun now. He props himself up so he can look down at Porsche properly, and he traces Porsche’s lips with his thumb. “You’re gorgeous.”
That doesn’t get the reaction he wants, though; the sparkle in Porsche’s eyes dims, and a small line appears between his brows.
“You don’t have to say that. I know the scars aren’t nice to look at.” His gaze wanders away, roaming around the room like he can’t pick a place to look.
“Porsche.” Kinn says his name softly, as softly as he can, and when Porsche still doesn’t look at him, he uses a finger to nudge his chin the right way until their eyes meet. “I can’t take my eyes off you. I tried, but I can’t. I want to see all of you.”
Porsche still looks like he has his doubts, but he lifts a hand and runs his fingers through Kinn’s hair. Slowly, carefully, telegraphing his intention, Kinn leans down. He hesitates for a second, but Porsche doesn’t stop him, so Kinn presses a kiss over the scarred skin next to his right eye. When he pulls back, Porsche slowly opens his eyes.
“Kiss me,” Porsche demands, and Kinn is more than happy to oblige. He dives in and makes a space for himself in Porsche’s mouth, and for a long while, that’s all they do. They kiss, and taste, and explore, pausing only at brief intervals to catch their breath before they start again. Eventually, though, Kinn’s hands grow restless, and he explores, mapping out Porsche’s chest and shoulders inch by inch. Then he makes the mistake of running his hand up Porsche’s throat, and Porsche flinches back, away from Kinn’s touch. Kinn pulls his hand away just as quickly.
Porsche pants lightly, breathless from being kissed, and he looks away at the windows and darkness being kept at bay by the lights in Kinn’s room.
“Porsche?” Kinn asks, feeling out of bounds and uncertain.
“Yeah? Yeah,” he says, turning back to Kinn, smiling with false casualness. “Um.” He opens his mouth, hesitates, and then says, “Maybe, ah, not my throat. Not with your hand.”
Kinn pulls away farther, looking over Porsche’s throat, suddenly afraid that his fingers might have left marks even with his light touch.
He doesn’t want to think about the implications.
“Is there…” Kinn hesitates now, not sure how to put words together quite right, “anything else? That I shouldn’t do?”
Porsche’s face twitches, and he looks irritated, though Kinn doesn’t feel it’s directed at him. “I don’t want to write a list. Don’t think I’d be up for anything by the time I finished. Okay? Can’t we just… keep it simple?” Porsche looks up at Kinn, imploring him with his eyes. He gets a hand on Kinn’s waist and tries to pull him close again, but Kinn holds back.
It wouldn’t be a bad idea, making a list. Kinn has a list of his preferences on file with his escort agency. He’s made lists with partners when he’s felt the urge to engage in more structured BDSM scenes. But this list wouldn’t be quite the same as those.
“Dammit, stop with the thinking face,” Porsche says vehemently, and suddenly he shoves Kinn onto his back and straddles his waist. Planting his hands on either side of Kinn’s head, he leans over him. “You still gonna fuck me or just think all night? You offered to make me come again, and I want to collect.” He rubs his groin against Kinn’s stomach, and in spite of being unsettled earlier, his cock is still at half mast.
Kinn settles his hands on Porsche’s forearms, and the muscles feel as hard as steel. “Okay. We’ll keep it simple,” Kinn agrees. “But how about I check in with you as we go?”
“Check in? What do you mean?” The look Porsche gives Kinn is so much like a confused puppy that he can’t help feeling endeared by it.
“I mean just, checking in,” he says, and that isn’t helpful, but in his defense Porsche is very distracting. “Like, is this position okay? Do you want to be on top?”
Now Porsche looks intrigued, at least until a lascivious grin spreads across his face. “Yeah, yeah, this is good. I like this.” He goes down, leaning with his elbows braced on either side of Kinn’s head, boxing him in and then kissing him thoroughly, and yeah, that’s better. Porsche makes little grinding motions with his hips, enjoying himself against Kinn’s belly, and eventually he breaks away from the kiss to give a quick, shuddery gasp. Only then does Kinn realize he has both of his own hands locked around Porsche’s waist. Normally he would slide them down to his partner’s ass about now, but…
“Do you still want me to fuck you?” Kinn asks quietly.
Porsche pulls a face. “I already said so earlier.”
Kinn shrugs. “It’s fine if you changed your mind. We have options.”
“Oh,” Porsche says, and Kinn can practically see the light bulb going on. “This is that check-in thing?” Kinn nods, and Porsche seems to consider that, but as he thinks he doesn’t quite stop grinding his dick along the hard muscles of Kinn’s abs, almost like he can’t help himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I wanna. You said you’d make it good.”
There’s nothing quite so intoxicating for Kinn as someone offering himself up, giving himself over for Kinn to provide pleasure.
“In that case, we need a little something,” Kinn says, and he nods his head to his right. “In the beside stand.”
Porsche nods and gets off Kinn to reach for the drawer. He pulls out a box of condoms. “Extra large?” he says. “That seems about right.” He tosses the box on the bed next to Kinn, and then he rummages in the drawer until he finds a tube of lubricant as well. It joins the condoms.
Kinn rolls onto his side and props himself up. “Do you want to stretch yourself, or would you like me to?”
Porsche makes the most adorably confused look. “You’re really planning to ask me about everything?” Kinn doesn’t answer verbally, just gives him a smug smile and a jerk of his chin, which makes Porsche huff. “Okay. I see how it is. You know what? You’re the one rewarding me, so you do the work.” He nudges the lube toward Kinn and shuffles around to stretch out on his stomach. After he gets his arms wrapped around a pillow, he gives Kinn what’s probably supposed to be a stern glare, but it only ends up looking cute and woebegone. “I’m still going to do the riding, though.”
“Of course,” Kinn agrees. He decides now is probably not the right time to explain that stretching out his partner is hardly what he’d call “work”; in fact, he loves it.
Kinn gets up into a kneeling position by Porsche’s hip, deciding to stay on Porsche’s right side, in his direct line of sight. He takes a moment to run a hand down the long, perfect line of his spine, appreciating the hard-earned musculature. There are so many things Kinn wants to do with this man, do to this man, but he reminds himself to take it slow. Savor the meal, Kinn reminds himself. Make every taste last.
Porsche tentatively arches into the petting, so Kinn does it again, and again, even occasionally raking his nails gently across skin a few times. He continues until Porsche seems less cautious and more like he’s luxuriating in the touches. Then Kinn takes the lube in hand and murmurs softly, “Spread your legs for me, darling.”
With his eyes on Kinn’s face, Porsche does so, giving Kinn access to the small, delicate opening between those two glorious mounds. A large part of Kinn longs to take a bite out of the nearest cheek and also bury his face between them, but no, Porsche asked for simple. Kinn can do simple, he thinks, even as his cock twitches and urges him onward.
“I’m going to open you up now, Porsche,” Kinn tells him. “I’m going to go slowly.”
Porsche looks up at him from where he has his head propped on the pillow, and his eyes are a little glassy from the petting, but in a good way, Kinn thinks. “Okay,” he says.
And that’s exactly what Kinn does, slowly, being generous with the lube and sinking one finger into Porsche’s body bit by bit, and Porsche takes it perfectly, not a flinch under Kinn’s watchful gaze. The space inside him is welcoming and hot around his finger, and if this were one of his casual partners or an escort, he’d be going much faster. He’s dying to sink his cock in, to surround himself with that warmth, but no, not yet. This is Porsche, and Kinn can’t approach this like it’s just any other fuck.
When Porsche lets out a little sigh, Kinn tests the slide of it, pulling back and giving a small thrust, and Porsche shivers.
Before Kinn can ask, Porsche says, “C’mon, another. Give me another, Kinn.”
Kinn leans over to kiss a fine, silvery line on Porsche’s shoulder blade. He briefly wonders whether Porsche would even know the scar is there.
“Okay,” Kinn whispers, and he spreads more kisses along Porsche’s back as he applies more lube and slowly, slowly adds another finger. Kinn feels almost embarrassed at how arousing it is to move at this glacial pace; he’s never gone about things quite like this before, and the long, gradual glide with his fingers makes him hyper-aware of his throbbing cock and what it might feel like to use the same, slow motion as he carefully breaches Porsche’s body.
With two fingers, it’s a bit more of a stretch, and when he sinks in up to his knuckle, Porsche is breathing harder, and Kinn catches a small wince.
“You okay?” Kinn whispers.
“‘M’fine, it’s fine,” Porsche says, taking a long, deep breath. Then he gives his pert little ass a sweet little wiggle, trying to find a good angle. “If you’d just…” He wiggles again.
Kinn has been deliberately missing Porsche’s sweet spot up until now. “What? You mean this?” He pulls his fingers out, deliberately dragging the pads along Porsche’s prostate, and he strokes it again when he fucks them back inside.
Porsche reacts like a lit firecracker, arching beautifully, pushing back against Kinn’s hand, letting out a short, shocked cry. His entire body tenses until Kinn lets up on the pressure, and then he practically melts into the bed. Kinn can’t help but wonder, if he’s that sensitive to a little stroking, what’s he going to be like with Kinn’s cock pressed unceasingly against his prostate?
Kinn grins against Porsche’s shoulder. He can’t wait to find out.
“You good, darling?” Kinn asks. “We need to stretch you a bit more, and then I’ll lie down for you.” He gives a little nip to the shoulder under his mouth, just because he can’t resist, and then he uses his tongue to soothe the bite.
“I can take—” Porsche gives what seems to be an involuntary thrust, clenching down on Kinn’s fingers with a little grunt. “I can take more.”
Kinn murmurs agreement and whispers a very, very soft, “Well done,” against the back of Porsche’s neck, making him shudder and go boneless. Kinn starts scissoring his two fingers, fucking them in and out, and when Kinn adds a third finger, he keeps his eyes locked on Porsche’s face, taking in every microexpression, watching the blend of hurt and fierce pleasure. He’s made for this, Kinn thinks, a body expressly designed to take cock and love every bit of it. He’s using his whole body now, rocking forward and back, working in tandem with Kinn.
When Kinn stills his hand, Porsche’s hips keep rotating restlessly,
Kinn leans down close to his face and kisses the corner of his lips. “You okay? Think you can handle me now, or need more stretching?” Kinn says, and he gives a little nudge with his hand to make Porsche groan, adding a stroke to the perineum with his thumb
“You are just so full of yourself,” Porsche complains with an eye roll.
“Mm, but pretty soon you’ll be full of me, too.”
Porsche moans into the pillow. “I can’t believe you said that.”
Happy and incredibly horny, Kinn snickers and gently removes his hand before flopping onto his back, propping his head up on two pillows. Porsche appears to have a little struggle getting his limbs coordinated as he pushes himself up, but when he does, Kinn notices his cock is flushed, so hard it looks like it must ache, and it’s smeared wet with precome from the way Porsche was thrusting against the sheets.
Porsche takes a condom out of the box, tears it open, and rolls it onto Kinn. He wastes no time, adding a smear of lube straight from the tube, not bothering to warm it, so Kinn hisses at the sudden sensation of coldness on his dick.
“Sorry, sorry,” Porsche says, wincing in sympathy. “I’ve got you.”
And then Porsche straddles Kinn once more, grasps Kinn’s cock in one hand to position it, and he takes a deep breath and slides down more than half way in one go. He groans as he does it, and Kinn grasps his thighs and holds stock still when Porsche clenches up and shudders.
Kinn wants to say something, a warning to be careful, but the sudden hot grip on him after the cold is a lot, just so much. It’s all he can do not to thrust up the rest of the way into that heat, but he needs to give Porsche a minute, let him adjust, let him go at his own pace. Kinn hisses in pleasure, staring up at Porsche, pushing his own head back against the pillow as he tries desperately to hold still.
Porsche puts both his hands on Kinn’s waist and then writhes and takes another inch, and all Kinn can do is hold on. Distantly, he thinks he’s probably clenching too hard on Porsche’s thighs.
“Fuck, you’re a lot,” Porsche gasps out. “But how… does this feel so fucking good? Uhn.” He shudders, breathes, and then he slides the rest of the way down with a long, hitched sigh.
Now it’s Kinn’s turn to writhe, pinned in place, trying his best to hold on, to be passive and wait when all he wants to do is take. His toes curl, and he moves his legs restlessly. He can’t quite contain himself, and he makes a stuttering thrust up, shifting Porsche, making his cock bounce.
“Sorry,” Kinn gasps. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Porsche breathes back. “Good. This is… really good. Fuck, it’s so good.” Still keeping a hold of Kinn’s waist, he rises and falls experimentally, testing the glide, and then he settles and starts to grind and slowly drive Kinn out of his mind.
Porsche is right — it’s so good. Kinn closes his eyes, puts his head back, and just lets himself feel as Porsche sets up a steady rhythm, a gradual rise and fall, like waves against the beach or the slow beat of a drum. When Kinn opens his eyes, he sees Porsche, looking golden and glorious, rocking himself on Kinn’s dick with his eyes at half mast.
“Is it good?” Porsche asks, panting. “Like this?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kinn encourages. “Can you take more?” He nudges upward with his hips, hard, and Porsche leans forward, bracing his hands on Kinn’s shoulders. Porsche nods fast with a little moan, and then they’re off, grinding together, thrusting, learning each other’s bodies and what works best. It’s clumsy, and urgent, and the most shocking thing is it’s still the best Kinn has ever had, and when Porsche starts stroking himself, it only gets better as his passage tightens around Kinn’s cock.
But even as they’re gliding together and getting into a rhythm that seems to be building toward a crest, Porsche’s gaze slides away from him, and his cock starts to flag in his own grip. And yet he doubles down, working himself even more urgently on top of Kinn until Kinn grasps his hips to hold him still. Porsche makes a needy little sound and then stops resisting.
“Porsche?”
“It’s good, it’s good, I swear. Just keep going. I don’t want to stop.” He lets out a mirthless laugh and throws his head back. “I want to come.”
“Okay, shh, okay,” Kinn says, stroking soothingly down his thighs. Meanwhile, Kinn’s cock throbs, aches, and he has to take a few deep breaths of his own. “How about a different position? Or I can suck you off again.”
“I—” Porsche starts, but he shakes his head to stop himself. “Let’s try. Another position.”
Together, they lift Porsche off of Kinn’s dick, and Kinn guides Porsche to lie down next to him. After a moment’s contemplation, he grabs a pillow and has Porsche lift his hips up so he can slide it under them.
“Keep it simple, right?” Kinn asks, still trying to catch his breath, and he positions himself between Porsche’s open thighs. “Is this okay?”
Porsche meets Kinn’s eyes, and Kinn can see the threads of gold among the deep brown. “Yeah. Yes. Like this.” He uses his legs to draw Kinn closer.
It takes Kinn only a moment to urge Porsche’s legs up and back, making more room for himself, and Porsche is so flexible that he easily wraps them high around Kinn’s waist, practically at his ribcage. And Kinn sinks his cock back inside Porsche’s body like he belongs there. Like this, he settles down on top of Porsche so that they’re face to face, no longer separated, and all Kinn has to do is stretch just a little to kiss him. They stay like that for a breathless moment, connected, until Kinn’s baser instincts take hold and drive him to thrust, down, into the tight grip that Porsche has on him.
And the noise Porsche lets out is music to his ears, a startled and high gasp of pleasure. So Kinn chases that sound, makes it happen again, and again. Porsche starts scrambling at the sheets, seemingly unsure of what to do with his hands, until Kinn captures both of his wrists. He pauses in his thrusts to draw Porsche’s arms in between their chests, so that they’re huddled together, and Kinn wraps his own arms around him, forearms tucked under his shoulder blades and hands on his shoulders, enclosing him with his body.
“I’ve got you,” Kinn says, and it sounds like a promise. He thrusts again, surging against Porsche but holding him in place at the same time, keeping him right where he needs him so that he can rock their bodies together. Against Kinn’s stomach, Porsche’s cock surges, leaking against his skin. “Is this okay? How do you feel?” He starts thrusting, urgently, needing to chase his release, thrilled by the way he has this strong, beautiful man so tightly contained under him.
Porsche has trouble getting words out between the high, eager sounds he’s making with each thrust, little uh, uh, uh noises escaping unchecked. “G-good, uh, safe.” Porsche moves his fingers, the only part of him that’s free besides his legs, and he touches at Kinn’s chin. Kinn can’t resist sucking two fingertips into his mouth. “Uh! So good, more, more!”
Doing his best to still keep Porsche enclosed, protected beneath him, Kinn moves one hand to get it on Porsche’s cock, stroking hard and fast, the movement slippery with precome. He pauses only long enough to add some lube so he can make it even better for Porsche.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” Kinn tells him, orders him. “Show me. I’ve got you.”
A few hard thrusts and a twist of his hand, and that’s all it takes to light Porsche up. He comes, hard, in Kinn’s hand, spurting long and messy, and Kinn tries to keep working him through it, but the clench of his hole on Kinn’s cock is too much. Kinn thrusts, frantic and gasping, and follows Porsche over the edge barely a moment later, spilling into the condom.
He floats downward after that, a slow descent. Everything tingles, and his entire body feels both exhausted and energized. When he has enough of his wits about him, he opens his eyes to find Porsche panting, his mouth open and curled up at the corners in a small, beatific smile.
Relieved, unreasonably proud of himself, Kinn smiles back. He gives Porsche a quick kiss. “Like I said. Even better than my blowjobs.”
Porsche’s smile turns into a teasing frown. “It’s cheating if you have a cock that big. You can’t miss the good spot.”
Kinn hums, neither in agreement nor in disagreement. He pushes himself up so he can grasp the base of the condom and carefully, reluctantly withdraws from Porsche. No longer restrained, Porsche’s arms fall to his sides.
All Kinn wants to do is flop down beside him, but he forces his languid, satiated body to move. It’s slow going, but he quietly goes about addressing the aftermath of two amazing orgasms and a mildly wrecked bed. He discards the used condom, cleans them both up. Kinn has to bully Porsche into sitting up just long enough to drink some water while Kinn plants an extra kiss on his shoulder, and then Porsche gets up on unsteady legs to visit the bathroom. Kinn takes the opportunity to turn off the lights except the bedside ones.
Porsche comes out again a couple minutes later and lingers in the doorway, and Kinn looks up at him from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Porsche is wearing his underwear and has a small pile of his clothes in his hands.
Porsche looks at Kinn, hesitant. “I should—” He gestures with the pile of clothes toward the hallway. “I should go. This was… good. Really good.”
Kinn’s heart makes a little zing in his chest. He’d just assumed… “You’re welcome to stay,” he says. I’d like you to stay, he thinks, but the words don’t come out — too much, too vulnerable.
“You,” Porsche starts and stops. He looks at Kinn for a long moment, eyes scanning every inch of Kinn’s face. Kinn isn’t sure what expression he’s making, but whatever it is seems to convince Porsche of his welcome. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”
Relieved, Kinn smiles and gets up. “Okay,” he says, and he gives Porsche a quick kiss on the cheek as he heads for the door. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Kinn does the bare minimum getting ready for sleep, eager to collapse but also to get back to Porsche.
Returning to his bedroom after mere minutes in the bathroom, he finds Porsche snuggled up under the covers, fast asleep, his face lax and soft the same way it was when Kinn stumbled across him sprawled on his couch.
Quietly as he can, Kinn slips into bed beside him. His concerns about waking him are for naught — Porsche only shifts a little in his sleep and then settles, even as Kinn scooches in closer, just close enough to feel his warmth.
Even exhausted and satiated to his core, Kinn thinks it might take him a bit to fall asleep, unused to having someone next to him in bed. But sleep comes quickly for him, and he drifts off peacefully.
Chay sits on the couch in Kim’s living room, staring to the side out the window at the pitch-black sky. He can’t sleep, and even as tired as he is, it seems impossible. He gets like this sometimes, when his mind is too full.
In his hands, his phone screen goes dim for the umpteenth time, and he taps it to prevent it from going to sleep. If he can’t sleep, his phone doesn’t get to either.
On his phone, at the top of a blank note page, he’s typed, “Make Porsche Happy.” He’s written one idea after another, only to delete them all.
Chay thinks back to the panic he felt when Porsche offered to step into that cage match tonight. He thinks about how pointless that panic was, how Porsche handled it effortlessly, like he’s done it a hundred times before. Chay thinks about how quiet and cautious Porsche is now, so unlike the brash, fearless, protective big brother from his memories. But when Porsche took on that fight in Kinn’s name and put on that uniform, when he stepped into that ring, Chay could finally see his older brother again, the same one from his distant memories.
The phone screen goes dark again, and Chay taps it. He rubs at his eyes and groans a bit. He’s tired, so tired. He just wants to crawl back in bed and fall asleep, but he doesn’t want to wake Kim with restless tossing and turning, which seems inevitable right now.
“What are you doing?” says a voice directly behind Chay.
“Shit!” Chay jumps and whirls on the couch, reaching for a knife that isn’t there in the pocket of his loose pants. But it’s only Kim, leaning over the couch, a blanket wrapped around his bare shoulders. Chay clutches at his pounding heart. “Fuck, you scared me. I’m gonna put a bell on you, I swear.”
Kim smirks. Chay thinks he probably means it to look threatening, but Kim is too sleepy to pull that off, and it just ends up looking smug.
“You can try,” Kim says. He points at Chay’s phone, which he dropped on the couch. “So. What’s that?”
Chay picks up his phone and taps the screen again. “Nothing. Just thinking about things. Don’t mind me. You should go back to sleep.”
Chay expects Kim to accept that and wander off, but instead his kind-of-boyfriend nods and walks around the couch to curl up at the other end of it, sitting sideways to face Chay. He looks like a caterpillar in a cocoon with his fluffy blanket.
“Thinking about your brother?” Kim prompts with a jerk of his chin.
“Yeah.” Chay’s mind wanders again, back to the way Kinn looked at Porsche, the way he defended him. Chay has thought about that over and over as he’s been sitting here, awake in the dead of night. “He went to Kinn’s apartment tonight.”
Kim blinks and nods. “I noticed that. They weren’t being subtle.”
Chay had thought it was a good idea for Porsche to be with Kinn. For Porsche to be safe. But he’s been second-guessing himself. He’s second-guessing everything right now.
“Will you tell me about him?” Chay asks. “About Kinn?”
Kim looks at him for a long time, so long Chay thinks he won’t answer, but then he rests the side of his head on the back of the couch, eyes lazy and still staring at him.
“I’ll tell you what I can. What do you want to know?”
Heart in his throat, Chay asks. He asks question after question, about Kinn’s personality, about his past. Most of the time Kim answers, usually with simple and straightforward replies, occasionally with details, and sometimes he dodges questions entirely. By the end of it, when Chay starts to run out of things to ask, he thinks he has a pretty good picture of Kinn, at least the picture of Kinn through Kim’s eyes. And if that picture is true — a man who’s hard but fair, who cares deeply about the people closest to him — then Chay doesn’t have to second-guess himself anymore. As long as Porsche wants to be next to Kinn, it’s the best place for him to be.
Chay has spent so much time and effort just trying to find the truth about Porsche. It’s a new thing altogether to know where he is and worry for him.
“Can I ask you a question?” Kim says.
“If it’s about my mom, no,” Chay says with a hard look. Kim huffs and turns his eyes away, and yeah, Chay busted him.
“Okay,” Kim says, “a different question then.”
Chay smiles. Stubborn bastard. God, he’s so much fun. Chay often feels like he gets Kim, on a deep level. It could just be his imagination or hormones, but it’s nice.
“Sure. Shoot,” Chay says.
“What’s that list about?” He nods his head toward Chay’s phone, which has gone dark now, ignored.
Chay snorts a small laugh, but it’s mirthless. “It’s been… strange. Talking to Porsche. Like I’m getting to know him again. And there’s just so much that he doesn’t… have.” He kicks a heel against the couch, the restless feeling hard to contain. “And getting him stuff isn’t the problem. I can get him stuff. But stuff isn’t the only thing he needs. I don’t know what’s going to make him happy. And after everything he’s been through? He deserves some fucking happiness.”
Kim gives a nod to show that he’s heard him. That’s something else Chay likes about Kim, the way he measures his responses, carefully weighing his words and actions.
“I think it makes him happy that you found him,” Kim finally says.
“‘Found’ him,” Chay scoffs. “It was a coincidence. We just stumbled into each other.”
“You found him,” Kim says again. “Kinn saving him? That was a coincidence, or good luck. But Kinn brought Porsche straight to you for two reasons: because of your music, and because you hacked a poll to connect with me. That isn’t a coincidence, Porchay.”
Kim’s words hit home and rearrange things in his mind in unexpected ways. His first instinct is to try to brush it off, but he can’t.
“I think he’s happy you never gave up looking for him. And he’s happy you’re safe.”
Chay feels his face twist up. He can’t think about that right now — that he was safe, the whole time, while Porsche was going through hell.
“Why are you helping me?” Chay says, turning the focus away from his tender, vulnerable spots. “I asked before, but I still don’t get it. You know I’m using you, and you’re letting me.”
Kim shrugs and shakes his head. “Because you’re interesting to me. You understand things that most people don’t get.”
Chay frowns. It hits amazingly close exactly what he’d been thinking about Kim.
“Here’s another question for you,” Kim says, “which one’s the real you? You change for everyone around you. So which one’s real?”
Kim’s eyes are too knowing, and Chay has to look away from them, look outside into the night sky and city lights.
“Honest answer?” Chay says. “The completely honest answer?”
“Yes,” Kim says.
“The ten-year-old brat who’s still waiting for the brother he remembers to come home. But that isn’t who Porsche is anymore.”
Kim nods like it was what he expected. “Mm. And that isn’t who you are anymore.”
Chay snaps his gaze back to Kim and glares at him, not liking the patronization. He knows that already. He isn’t stupid. Porsche and Chay have both changed, and there’s no going back.
Kim yawns in the face of Chay’s ire, though.
“Calm down,” Kim says with a little smack of his lips. “Hey, I had an idea for your list. Unlock your phone for me? I’ll add it.” One of his hands peeks out from the blanket, held up expectantly.
Chay has half a mind to tell him to fuck off, but whatever. If he has an idea, it couldn’t hurt to consider it. Grumpily, he enters his passcode and hands over his phone.
Kim takes only a few seconds to type whatever it is into the notes — in fact, he barely seems to type much at all. Then he gets up, clicks the phone off, and drops it on the couch next to Chay. Kim reaches out a hand to try to ruffle Chay’s hair, but Chay swats the hand away.
“I’m going back to bed,” Kim says with another yawn. He starts walking to his bedroom, the blanket trailing like a cape. “If you come to bed, try not to wake me.”
Chay watches over the back of the couch as he goes. Kim leaves the door to the hall slightly ajar.
Chay tries to resist and return to his own thoughts, to churn over everything Kim told him about Kinn as well as everything else. But then curiosity gets the better of Chay, and he picks up his phone.
At first he’s confused — nothing has been added to the lines of the note page. But then Chay notices that the title has changed.
It now reads “Make Porchay Happy.”
Chay stares at the title for a long time. Eventually he shuts off his phone and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.
He resigns himself to a sleepless night.
Kinn isn’t certain what wakes him. He’s disoriented at first — the sky is still dark, and he forgot to put down the electric blinds before going to sleep.
Before he drifts off again, a sound catches his attention, small and thin and muffled. He thinks he’s hearing things, but then it happens again, and now he’s more alert, seeking out the source.
Blinking, Kinn’s eyes start adjusting to the darkness. Nothing seems amiss in the room, but then he notices that Porsche has pulled away and is curled up at the edge of the bed.
The sound comes again. It’s coming from Porsche.
“Porsche?” Kinn calls softly.
The mound of comforter over Porsche seems to shiver.
“Sorry, sorry,” Porsche says quietly. “I’ll go. Didn’t mean to wake you.” The mound shivers again, but Porsche doesn’t get up.
Confused, Kinn stretches to turn on the lamp on his side of the bed, and when he turns back to Porsche, he discovers that all he can see is a little bit of black, the top of his head peeking out from under the covers.
The mound shivers momentarily, followed immediately by another small whimper.
Something is very wrong.
Is it some sort of belated sub-drop? A panic attack? Something in between?
Kinn inches closer to Porsche, but he leaves a good bit of distance between them. “You don’t have to go,” Kinn says. “What’s wrong, Porsche?”
“I d-don’t know,” Porsche says, the stutter accompanied by another one of the sporadic shivers. “I woke up and just c-couldn’t—” Whatever thought he has, he doesn’t finish it. “I should go.”
Kinn has a brief, absurd thought that if Porsche leaves, and word gets around that he had a panic attack while sleeping with Kinn, Kinn won’t just have to worry about his reputation — he’ll have to worry about his chances of survival, because Porchay will definitely try to kill him. And it’s a toss-up whether Kim might help him.
“Has this ever happened before?” Kinn asks gently. He’s helped Tankhun through dozens of panic attacks over the years, and with Tankhun he knows what to do. Kinn has steps he can take to de-escalate, and he also knows what triggers will set Khun off and make it worse. But Porsche is an unknown.
“No. This is n-n-new.” He lets out a little moan on a hard shiver. “Fuck, this sucks.”
Privately, Kinn agrees. It’s the middle of the night after a stressful event, and he’s worn out from head to toe after staying up even later, and all the pleasant, relaxed feelings from a thorough fuck are evaporating.
But still, he inches closer to Porsche again, trying to close the distance without triggering him.
“I think you might be having a panic attack,” Kinn explains quietly.
“What?” Porsche asks, startled, and he turns his head to look over his shoulder at Kinn. “I’m not— I’m n-not panicking. There’s nothing to panic about.” His statement is punctuated by another shiver. “I’m just—” He turns his head away again, unable or unwilling to speak.
“It’s okay.” Kinn thinks back, trying to recall everything Tankhun’s therapist had advised him. He’d had multiple meetings with her just to learn what to do with Tankhun, but Porsche and Tankhun aren’t anything alike.
Kinn inches closer again. He’s close enough to touch now, to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t. “Hey, Porsche? Take some deep breaths. Nice and slow.”
“What? Why?”
“Just try it. You meditate, don’t you? Do that, the meditation breathing.”
He does, and Kinn watches as the covers go up and down. The slow breathing continues for a minute, and then two, and the shivers continue.
“It isn’t making it stop,” Porsche says, his voice small.
“That’s okay. But if it feels a little better, just keep doing it.”
“Fine.”
They continue like that for a little bit in silence, until Kinn can’t resist the urge to ask, “Can you talk to me? Tell me what you’re thinking?”
Porsche snorts, and he gives a small and bitter laugh. “How stupid I am.”
Kinn frowns. He starts to reach out but then catches himself and pulls his arm back. “What do you mean?”
The mound of covers shifts and shuffles, making whispering noises of cloth against cloth.
“I mean it’s stupid,” Porsche hisses. “Why did I… want that? For you to hold me down. Restrain me. That shouldn’t feel…” He makes a noise, small and angry, frustration rolling off him in palpable waves.
Kinn thinks back, trying to put the pieces together, but something is starting to take shape in his mind.
“Safe?” Kinn asks, his tone gentle. “Do you mean you feel stupid because you felt safe?”
Another bitter laugh escapes Porsche, and he turns his head to look at Kinn again. “I shouldn’t have. Does it make any sense at all for me to feel safe with you? It doesn’t.” When Kinn can’t find the words to answer him, he turns away again.
It’s hard, almost impossible, not to feel offended at that. “But you did,” Kinn says. “You felt safe.” Even as the words escape him, he knows it was the wrong thing to say.
“I shouldn’t have.”
Kinn looks around the room, desperate for a solution that isn’t there to be found. There’s no one here to tell him how to get this right.
He takes a deep breath of his own. Then another. And he does it until his head clears. Beside him, he listens as Porsche also breathes deeply, snatches of peace stolen between shivers.
When Kinn is calm again, he asks, “When was the last time you felt safe?”
There’s no response at first. Then the shivers turn to shaking, accompanied by a muffled noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob.
“Porsche? Porsche,” Kinn says urgently. “Hey, hey, shit. Porsche, can I touch you, sweetheart? I’m just going to hold you, that’s all.”
Again, there’s no response right away, and Kinn waits with bated breath.
There’s another sob and a shivering shake, but then there’s a frantic nod, which Kinn can see only by the movement of black hair against the white pillow. Kinn wastes no time, pressing himself along Porsche and taking him in his arms, covers and all, holding him close. He has to wrestle with the covers to sneak a leg under them so he can wrap around Porsche’s legs, holding him close and tight.
Porsche squirms in Kinn’s grasp and then lets out a wet, gasping breath, and it sounds like relief.
“Oh god,” Porsche says. “Tighter.”
So Kinn holds Porsche tighter, bundles him in his arms and lets him shake and shiver through it. Kinn rocks him sometimes, and whispers things to him, soft words of praise and encouragement. The words that come aren’t so different, really, from when he’s sweet-talking a sub, but this isn’t sexual, only comfort, the peace one human can find only with another who’s willing to offer tenderness. Something Kinn knows has been missing from Porsche’s life for far too long.
“You’re so strong,” Kinn whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, nuzzling close. “You’re okay,” he says. “No one’s stronger than you are. You’re still here, right here.”
The praise and kind words draw out more gasps and sighs, and Kinn feels like he’s drawing poison out of a wound.
They continue like that for a long while, and eventually the shivers slow and stop altogether. Porsche unwinds himself, nudging Kinn a little so that he has space to roll onto his back and look up at Kinn. There’s a sheen of sweat on his brow and tears clinging to his lashes.
“I’m sorry,” Porsche says again, even as he reaches a hand to capture one of Kinn’s wrists, keeping him close. “You didn’t have to… do that.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Kinn says, and he brushes a damp strand of hair off Porsche’s forehead. Then he stretches over Porsche, reaching across him to pull a couple tissues from the box and hands them to Porsche, who wipes his eyes with them. Kinn adds, “I think it might also have been at least partly sub-drop.”
Porsche’s brows furrow. “A what?”
Tentatively, Kinn wraps his arm over Porsche’s chest. Just as tentatively, Porsche tucks himself closer to Kinn.
“Sub-drop,” Kinn says. “Sometimes, after submitting to a partner, there can be sort of an emotional crash? You and I didn’t really plan a scene, but I did take control from you, and you were feeling good in the moment, but you still had to come down from that. And as your partner, it’s natural that I help you through it.” Kinn thinks back and realizes how much he’d gotten swept up in the moment, after wanting and not touching for so long.
Porsche makes a cute face, like he’s thinking about that very hard, and it does something to Kinn’s heart, makes it twist and beat faster in his chest.
“Don’t worry about it,” Kinn assures him. “It’s the middle of the night. Or early morning. Whatever. Maybe it’s best to talk it through when we aren’t both exhausted.”
“But,” Porsche says, “you’re saying that people want that? That it’s normal. But… I’m not like normal people. After everything…”
“You are,” Kinn says adamantly, giving Porsche a little squeeze in his arms. “You’re allowed to have the same wants and needs as everyone else. I told you before, remember? You can be yourself. It’s normal to want things.”
“But to want you to… hold me down?” Porsche shakes his head, and he looks over Kinn’s shoulder instead of at him. He sighs deeply, and the sound of it is still shaky.
This isn’t getting them anywhere. Kinn needs to try something else. Then a thought occurs to him.
“Just a second,” he says. He gets up and goes to the breakfast table, where he left his tablet. He climbs back into bed with it and, propping himself to sit up against the headboard, turns it on and starts searching through his files.
Porsche props himself up next to Kinn, looking over his shoulder. When Kinn gets to the right file group, Porsche lets out a disbelieving snort.
“You keep porn on your work tablet?” he asks.
Kinn shrugs. “Why not? No one’s going to fire me for it.”
Porsche gives him a bemused look. “True.”
Kinn pulls up the video he’s thinking of, and he skips ahead to the scene he wants. On the screen, a lean and gorgeous man is standing, naked, next to a table and leaning over it, palms flat on the surface. Another man, noticeably buffer and thicker, stands next to him, wearing only black boxer shorts.
“Here.” Kinn offers the tablet to Porsche. “You can see what I mean, if you want.”
Porsche takes the tablet, but he gives Kinn a dubious look. “You know they’re actors, right? They’re paid to do this and make it look like they like it.”
Kinn shrugs. “Actors enjoy sex, too.”
“Uh huh. Are you using porn to seduce me out of a panic attack?”
“No? Yes?” Seduction isn’t the goal, exactly, but as a distraction, it seems effective. “Only if it’s working.”
Porsche huffs a small laugh and starts to play the video. It’s one of Kinn’s favorites; he knows everything that’s going to happen, and yet still he can’t help but watch over Porsche’s shoulder. The dom starts to explain his rules, that he expects his sub to keep his hands on the table at all times. Then the dom explains that they’ll be using the green light system for safewords. As the dom begins to thoroughly and systematically test the sub’s restraint with pleasuring, teasing touches, Kinn leans closer, crowding Porsche so he can see too.
“You want to watch, huh?” Porsche says, and he must be feeling better, because he’s definitely teasing Kinn.
“Mmhm,” Kinn says.
“Here, wait.” Porsche pauses the video, and then to Kinn’s delight, he shoves his way onto Kinn, ending up sitting between his legs and leaning back on him like he’s the headboard. “There.”
“Okay.” Kinn wraps both arms around Porsche’s waist and rests his chin on his shoulder.
Porsche plays the video again. Together they watch as the dom torments the sub, bit by bit, stroking and touching all over, until the sub breaks and tries to touch himself. The dom gently corrects him and tells him to put his hand back where it was. When the sub follows the order, the dom praises him and asks his color, which is green.
“Oh, like the check-ins,” Porsche says.
Kinn nods, rubbing his cheek against Porsche’s neck. “Yes, like that.”
As the dom slowly starts to open up the sub, Porsche’s breathing deepens, and he begins squirming in Kinn’s arms. At first Kinn is concerned that he’s uncomfortable or distressed, but it quickly becomes apparent that he’s aroused when his cockhead peeks out from his underwear, bumping against Kinn’s forearm. Kinn’s own arousal is only a low simmer, his focus entirely on Porsche right now.
“Do you like that?” Kinn asks, and he places a kiss on the scar on Porsche’s shoulder. “Are you thinking about how good it would feel to be touched the way he’s being touched?”
“Yes,” Porsche whispers hoarsely, and at the same time, the dom in the video gets on his knees behind the sub, spreads his cheeks, and starts to eat him out. The sub lets out a gut-wrenching moan of pleasure.
“Think you can come again, darling?” Kinn asks. He may not feel any pressing need to come himself, but having Porsche so aroused and eager in his arms is its own sort of pleasure. “Can I touch you?”
Porsche’s breath hitches, and his hips wriggle between Kinn’s thighs. “Yes. Please.” He spreads his legs, and Kinn adjusts his own legs to accommodate him.
With a groan of delight, Kinn slides both of his hands into Porsche’s underwear, taking his cock in hand and cupping his balls. How Porsche has any energy left for this, Kinn has no idea, but Kinn will have a good time of his own seeing him through it. He starts to stroke slowly and steadily, and Porsche sighs and drops his head back on Kinn’s shoulder.
“Try to keep watching, sweetheart,” Kinn says encouragingly. “I’ve got you.”
Porsche lifts his head, gluing his eyes back to the screen. And Kinn, well, Kinn feels like he’s painting a picture with Porsche’s pleasure, painting over bad memories with sweet touches and firm strokes. He works him up, bit by bit, toward the crest of pleasure.
In the end, barely a minute after the sub in the video comes to a shattering climax, Porsche gasps in Kinn’s arm and spills in his hand, though he doesn’t have much left to give. Then Porsche is practically putty, and Kinn coaxes him to lie down on his side, with the video still playing next to him.
“Keep watching,” Kinn urges, even as the dom in the video takes the sub to bed and strokes him nicely, helping him through a gentle drop back to Earth. At the same time, Kinn tidies up and turns off the light.
By the time he settles into bed next to Porsche, the other man is already asleep, snoring lightly. Kinn taps the tablet to stop the video, and he presses a kiss to Porsche’s temple.
“Sleep well, darling.”
This time, Kinn curls up with his arms wrapped tightly around Porsche, and soon he follows him into sleep.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
When Kinn offers to blow Porsche, Porsche shows hesitance and makes extra certain that Kinn wants it. Later, when they discuss boundaries, Porsche states that choking would be a trigger for him. Kinn attempts to discuss other boundaries, but Porsche pushes to move forward, insisting that he wants to continue and they can just keep it simple. When Porsche struggles to come a second time, Kinn holds his arms together to help ground him. After going to sleep, Kinn wakes up to find Porsche in the middle of a panic attack mixed with sub-drop. Porsche calls himself stupid, but Kinn coaxes an explanation out of him, and Porsche cries. Kinn helps ease him through the anxiety/drop by providing aftercare.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Whew, that was a lot. Man, KinnPorsche and KimChay are all gonna be so tired the next day.
Chapter 21: Questions
Summary:
Porsche has questions for Kinn, and Tankhun has questions for Porsche.
Notes:
Y’all, every week, enbymoomin comes through for me on beta, rain or shine. 😭 ILU enby.
REMINDER: I have posted spoiler descriptions of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Porsche wakes to the sound of a soft curse, and he goes from fully asleep to fully awake between one heartbeat in the next, ready to assess the threat. But there is no threat, only comfort. When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of Kinn, sitting upright in bed with his back against the headboard.
Kinn is wearing slinky blue silk pajamas… and a pair of reading glasses as he stares down at the tablet propped up by a pillow in his lap.
Cute. Cute cute cute.
I should not think the most powerful mafia boss in Bangkok is cute, Porsche thinks, very intensely and seriously.
“Something wrong?” Porsche asks, his voice a little hoarse and thick from sleep, among other things.
Kinn looks down at him and raises his eyebrows. “Ah, just keeping up with Arm’s reports. After last night, the situation with Davies has become—” his face makes an irritated little twitch “—a high priority.”
That isn’t too surprising, all things considered. But Porsche’s groggy mind isn’t ready for something like that just yet. He gives a little hum and rubs his face against the pillow, his patchy stubble rasping against it.
After a moment, Porsche reaches up a finger and touches the rim of Kinn’s glasses. “These are cute,” he says.
Kinn looks down at him and, to Porsche’s surprise, immediately breaks out in a grin that stretches wide, his eyes crinkling at the corners, making him even cuter. Kinn takes off his glasses and sets them aside along with his tablet. Then he squirms down in the bed so he’s lying on his side next to Porsche, propping his head up on one elbow. Porsche smiles up, feeling sore and still exhausted but also very charmed.
“Oh yeah?” Kinn says. “Well, if you think they’re cute, maybe I’ll wear them more often. Part of the seduction.”
Porsche clutches at the pillow but then makes himself let go. “You want to… seduce me again?” He gestures at the bed and then frowns, embarrassment starting to creep up the back of his spine. The particulars of his sudden, forceful reaction last night start to come back to him in vivid detail. “Even after, uh, all of that? Last night, I mean. The…” He still isn’t sure exactly what it was, even though Kinn tried to put words to it. “Um. Sorry I kept you awake, by the way.”
Kinn sobers, his smile disappearing and a little frown taking its place, his thick eyebrows drawing together. “Don’t be.” Eyes on Porsche, he slowly leans down and kisses his shoulder, soft and gentle, looking contrite. “I was part of what brought it on. ” Kinn hesitates and seems to struggle with what to say. “How are you feeling? Did you sleep well?”
Porsche searches Kinn’s eyes, trying to find any hint of deceit in them but coming up empty. Absolutely the strangest mafia leader Porsche has ever met.
“Slept good. Not enough, though,” Porsche admits. “So, you want to? Again?”
“Yes,” Kinn breathes out quickly, and a blush appears on his cheeks, seemingly embarrassed about his own enthusiasm. “I do. If you do, that is.”
Porsche thinks about how it felt to have Kinn’s full, undivided attention, to have him practically worshipping Porsche’s body. He thinks he’d have to be a fool to turn that down. But…
“Why did you stop?” Porsche asks quietly. “Before. You said you wouldn’t sleep with a bodyguard.” If Kinn still feels that way, maybe it would be better not to get in too deep.
He sees the question hit Kinn, and the other man takes a long deep breath before settling down further, putting his head on his pillow as he looks at Porsche.
“The reason I said that was because of my father.”
“Huh?” Confused, Porsche shuffles so that he can better look at Kinn. “You mean he told you not to?”
Kinn shakes his head slightly. “No, it’s not that. Just let me explain, yeah?” Porsche nods, and Kinn continues. “There was… hm. Between the main family and minor family, the relationship used to be much worse. A little over a year ago, there was a big confrontation between the families. My uncle died, killed by my father, but he also shot my father, a bullet to the chest. My father was in a medically induced coma for a month.”
Porsche had gotten hints about a big incident that happened in the past, coming from various sources. The guards talked about what they called “the big shakeup,” distinguishing the before and after as very different times. Porsche couldn’t have guessed it was something like this, though.
“That can’t have been easy,” Porsche says.
Kinn gives a small, strained smile and shakes his head. “I took over the family then. It was a difficult time, but I kept visiting my father… because almost no one else did. Tankhun saw him now and then, and Chan stood guard. But he was alone.”
Kinn suddenly looks so young and lost, and Porsche notices Kinn’s large hand on the bed between them. He puts his own hand over it, and Kinn gives him a brief, stiff smile.
Porsche still isn’t sure what this has to do with him, but Kinn clearly needs to work his way through this.
After a heavy sigh, Kinn continues. “People sent flowers, and they came to talk to me, showing their respect. But I couldn’t help but think back. Back when my mother was shot — she was in the hospital for days before she passed. Everywhere I turned, people were crying, desperately praying for her to get better.” His eyes get a little misty, and Porsche squeezes his hand. Kinn gives him a grateful smile. “It wasn’t like that for my father, though — there was only duty, obligation. My father made his choices about how to lead, and those choices led to an empty life.”
Kinn pauses to kiss Porsche’s hand where he’s holding Kinn’s.
“What I want is to be more like my mom. I don’t want to end up alone like my father. But habits die hard, and I learned a lot from him. I’ve caught myself thinking things… about you. Things that would be very selfish, about how much I wouldn’t want to let you go. And ways I could make sure to keep you here.” He blushes, looking away, and Porsche thinks he looks ashamed of himself. “So I put a stop to it.”
Porsche lets that roll over him for a second. There are so many implications he can barely grasp them all.
“But you didn’t?” Porsche says. “You didn’t do anything like that, did you?”
Kinn meets his eyes again and shakes his head. “No. After everything you’ve been through, you deserve something better. I don’t know what, but not this. You shouldn’t have to be stuck in this life. I wish I could give you that freedom.”
He can’t, though. And when Porsche left that first time, if he’d had any thought on his mind except Chay and finding Chay, he thinks he might have realized that.
But, Porsche realizes, Kinn doesn’t even have any way out for himself.
That’s too much to say aloud, though. So instead he tries teasing, which Kinn seemed to like last night.
“Oh yeah?” Porsche says, and he fiddles with Kinn’s hand, tracing the veins and tendons. “You seem to keep wanting to give me things. All the talk of rewards, the work clothes, the date.” With a big, cheeky grin, he adds, “You should just admit that you like me.”
What he expects Kinn to do is respond to the teasing in kind, to laugh, maybe reach for Porsche, tell him how much he liked the sex last night. That isn’t what happens, though. Instead, Kinn gives him a look, and it’s so full of tender fondness that Porsche suddenly feels like he can hardly breathe.
“I do. That’s why I couldn’t stay away,” Kinn says, and he reaches out to touch Porsche’s cheeks, to run his thumb along his cheek. “I like how brave you are. I like it when you’re happy.”
Stunned, Porsche searches Kinn’s eyes, and his heart kicks into high gear. People have said things to Porsche in the past. Said things to coax and convince, to lure and entrap. But this? There’s no artifice in it. To take joy in Porsche’s happiness? Suddenly he feels like he’s drowning in the look Kinn is giving him, and he can’t possibly get enough of it.
He has to be closer, has to touch this man, and it’s easy to do because there’s already so little space between them. Porsche surges forward, wrapping his arms around Kinn to drag him close and kiss him for all he’s worth. Maybe if he can get his tongue deep enough, he’ll never have to come up for air, he can just live in this one moment forever.
Kinn is overwhelmed at first, but he quickly gets on board with the program, moaning around Porsche’s tongue. Eventually, though, the object of Porsche’s lust breaks away with a giddy laugh.
“Is that a ‘yes, Kinn, date me now, you sexy man’?” Kinn asks, finally teasing back. “I think it is. Seems like it?”
“Date me later, fuck me now,” Porsche says, and embarrassingly it comes out as half-whine. He grabs Kinn’s hand and puts it around his waist. “C’mon, touch me. You’re not too worn out from last night, are you? If you can’t get hard, just give me your fingers.”
“If I can’t— what do you mean if I can’t get hard?” Kinn growls and hauls Porsche in close, and yeah, that’s Kinn’s cock, thickening up against Porsche’s lower belly.
Porsche freezes, and Kinn freezes in response.
“What’s wrong?” Kinn asks in alarm.
“I need to take a leak,” Porsche admits. He just woke up. It’s entirely fair.
Kinn is momentarily stunned, but then he starts laughing, and he lets Porsche go.
“Fine,” Kinn says. “I’ll order breakfast. If you’re back in bed fast enough, I’ll get us both off before the food even gets here. I have a meeting in,” he checks the bedside clock, “just under an hour.”
The promise of orgasms and food has Porsche scrambling out of bed. “On it.” He darts toward the hallway.
As he goes, Kinn calls after him, “I’ll be sure they send up fresh mango!”
Porsche is already in the hallway, but he steps back around the corner just to give Kinn the middle finger, which sets him off laughing again.
Tankhun wakes slowly, the way any proper prince of leisure should. When he’s sufficiently awake enough to face the day, he shoves the sleep mask up to his forehead and spends a minute just stretching in bed, arms and legs extending as far as they can.
After a visit to the bathroom, he goes into his largest closet so he can change from nighttime pajamas to daytime pajamas, ones with sailboats on them. He puts on a sailor’s cap, and then, because his throat feels too exposed today, he puts on a scarf as well.
When Tankhun is properly dressed, he heads to the breakfast nook in his apartment, where he finds Arm chatting with Fern. They both greet him with soft “good mornings” instead of the usual salute — he can’t stand being shouted at first thing after he wakes up. If anyone needs to shout in the morning, it can only be him.
A cup of hot tea is waiting for him. He sits down and takes a sip.
“Ahh!” Jasmine and orange and not too sweet. Perfect. Now he can think properly. “Arm. Morning report. How did the Blue Room opening go?” Nothing could have gone too terribly wrong, or Arm would have woken him earlier.
“I have a breakdown of profit and loss ready for you, sir,” Arm says, handing over a tablet. “Betting profits fell short of goal, but only by a narrow margin. Attendance was in line with expectations.”
“I want to go next time,” Fern grumbles.
Tankhun casts a quick glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She loves adventure, and in fact she begged to be a part of the Cape Town mission and came back from it practically beaming with pride. Maybe Tankhun needs to set up a regular exchange program with Kinn to let her get out more… but the only guard he’d want to trade for would be Pete, and that traitor is too busy knocking boots with Vegas.
Tankhun shudders. Ugh. Horrible thought. Pete has terrible taste, and Tankhun clearly should have raised him better.
He refocuses on the spreadsheet, taking in the numbers and committing them to memory.
“The second tab shows the Blue Room’s numbers for the previous quarter,” Arm adds.
Tankhun looks at those as well. When he’s satisfied, he puts the tablet back on the table and takes another sip of tea. “Good work, Arm. Anything else to report? Did my little cousin behave himself?”
Arm nods sharply. “He did, sir. In fact, he assisted in the subversion of an attempt on Porsche’s life by Megat Yusof, instigated by Reese Davies.”
Porsche. Again with Porsche. This new guard of Kinn’s seems to spend more time causing trouble than doing his job. “Tell me everything you know. And if there’s anything you don’t know, find it for me.”
“Sir. I have reports already drawn up. Additionally, there’s a strategy meeting this afternoon.”
“There is?” Tankhun asks, straightening in his chair. “Am I attending?”
“Yes, sir.”
Arm runs down details about how Megat tried to cozy up to Kinn and even ended up dragging Porsche into a cage fight, where Megat’s fighter attempted to sneak in a weapon. Tankhun quickly revises his opinion of the situation.
Tankhun taps a finger against his teacup, thinking. “I want a report of Megat’s current business interests and your recommendation about which one might be due for a little misfortune. Have that to me by Monday.”
“Yes, sir,” Arm replies. But then he goes quiet in the way that means there’s still more, and he and Fern exchange looks across the table. That can only mean one thing: There’s something he isn’t going to like.
“Well?” Tankhun says testily. They know better than to try to keep things from him. “What is it? Just spit it out already.”
Arm and Fern have a brief, intense battle across the table as they figure out who’s going to enjoy the intense honor of ruining Tankhun’s morning. Fern, as Arm’s junior, eventually concedes defeat.
Fern grimaces and seems to want to sink into the table. “Porsche spent the night in Khun Kinn’s apartment last night, Khun Nu.”
“He what?” Tankhun yells.
Yes, yes that would do it. That could indeed ruin his morning. He puts down his teacup hard, and some of it goes splashing out of the cup and onto the table. Fern and Arm hastily rush to clean up and try to sooth him.
“No. Nope. I’m going back to bed. Goodbye.”
Concerned shouts of “Khun Nu” follow him as he goes, but he needs time alone to think. He slams his bedroom door shut and locks it firmly, making sure they hear the click. No one would ever dare open it anyway, but that isn’t the point.
He goes to the large panel window and paces in front of it, arms crossed, staring down at his feet as he walks.
Of course he’d already known that Kinn was attracted to Porsche — he’d have to be blind to have missed that. But after the fateful reunion between Mr. Gloomy McScarface and his hot mess of a little brother, the budding infatuation had seemed to go up in smoke. Now both of the Kittisawats are in bed with both of Tankhun’s little brothers. Little Unhinged Porchay is pulling Kim back into major family activities, and Sad Gloomy Porsche is seducing Kinn.
Tankhun’s pacing is getting faster, and the anxiety is getting worse. So he stops in his tracks, puts his fists on his hips, and does as his therapist instructed so many times: He takes a deep breath, and he reminds himself that he isn’t in danger.
He just needs to protect Kinn. That’s all. There are too many unknowns about Gloomy Porsche. He needs… he needs…
He needs to do exactly what he least wants to do, and that’s talk to Porsche. One on one. Man to bodyguard.
“Arm,” he starts, but then he realizes Arm is elsewhere.
So Tankhun unlocks the door and storms out to find Arm and Fern in the living room.
“Arm!” he says with a broad gesture. “I’m going to have a word with Porsche. Alone.” He almost tells Arm to have Porsche brought to him, but then an idea occurs to him, and he runs with it. “I’ll wait for him in his room. You’ll tell me when he’s approaching.” He grabs one of his two phones from the coffee table and heads for the door.
“Khun Nu!” Arm says in alarm, and Tankhun stops in his tracks. “Perhaps a battle outfit?”
Tankhun looks down at his sailboat pajamas. “You’ve gotten so sassy, Arm. Did I raise you to be this sassy?”
Arm successfully convinces him to eat breakfast first and get changed. Fern, meanwhile, monitors the security cameras for signs that Porsche might be on the move.
A short while later, dressed in a peacock-colored suit with broad shoulders, he makes his way to the bodyguard quarters and the apartment Porsche shares with Big. Unfortunately, Big is in residence, but a little flourish and a minor tantrum convinces him to leave the room. As Big exits, he gives an eye roll that he thinks Tankhun doesn’t see.
When he’s alone, Tankhun touches the little device in his ear.
“Secretary Bird, this is Big Eagle,” he tells Arm. “I am in the nest. What’s the status of Black Turkey?” He pauses and then adds, “Over.”
“Black Turkey is still in Baby Bird’s treehouse along with Baby Bird,” Arm replies. “The kitchen sent up breakfast fifteen minutes ago. Over.”
“Let me know when that changes. Over.”
Tankhun noses around while he’s waiting. The living room is decorated according to someone’s basic understanding of decoration. He suspects it’s Big’s doing. The kitchen fridge and cupboards are stocked mainly with energy bars, energy drinks, and a couple of boxes of leftover takeout. In the bedroom, it’s easy to tell which bed is Porsche’s — there’s a framed, autographed photo of Porchay by the bed.
Porsche’s closet and dresser are full of work clothes and just a few basic, cheap street clothes. There’s also a blue hoodie that seems out of place; Tankhun knows it’s high end. It isn’t the kind of thing he’d wear, of course, but it also isn’t the kind of thing just anyone could get. It reeks of Alix’s doing.
Eventually, Tankhun just stands in the middle of the bedroom, hands on his hips. What was he even hoping to find? He isn’t sure. But something. Something that could tell him what to think of this person who looks capable of anything when his eyes go cold and mindless…
… like a pair of eyes that Tankhun refuses to remember.
“No,” he says calmly and coldly.
Shaking himself, he storms out of the bedroom. This is a stakeout, and he came prepared — he settles himself onto the couch, whips out his phone, and plays Sudoku.
Sometime later, Arm informs him that the Black Turkey is on the move, and Tankhun realizes he needs to decide what first impression he wants to make. He strikes various poses where he sits, going for the “Confident, In-Charge Mafia Prince” look. Then at the last second, he gets an idea: Why not make it a proper ambush?
Tankhun sets himself up around the corner of the entrance, behind the kitchen counter and against the wall, where Porsche might not notice him right away.
A scant minute later, he hears the door open, and he waits.
“Big?” Porsche calls. “Big, are you here?”
Tankhun doesn’t answer, and there’s a pause, but then he hears footsteps. Porsche comes into view and then stops in the middle of the living room, wearing Kinn’s polo and pants. Kinn’s clothes don’t fit him right. He isn’t looking Tankhun’s way, instead staring out the window with a small, bemused smile on his lips. Interesting.
Even more interesting is the way he raises one hand to touch at the side of his neck, where there’s a slightly dark mark that looks like—
Oh. Gross.
“You had a good time, I take it?” Tankhun says firmly.
If Tankhun had expected a yelp of surprise, he’d have been disappointed. Porsche doesn’t make any sound, but he whirls, wide-eyed and on high alert. Tankhun sees the moment when Porsche recognizes him, but he doesn’t relax, merely staring at Tankhun in alarm and breathing heavily with the shock.
Finally he eases up, standing straight with a respectful, “Khun Tankhun.”
He looks at Tankhun properly, not letting his gaze slide off into the distance like he usually does. But at the same time, Tankhun feels Porsche disappearing right in front of him. The life goes out of his eyes — the personality he was showing a moment ago fades to nothingness.
Tankhun doesn’t like it, can’t stand it, in fact, but by all the dramas on his all-time favorite list, he refuses to let it get to him ever again. He is not going to quiver before one scarred, traumatized bodyguard.
“Did he ask to see you again?” Tankhun asks. He walks behind the kitchen counter and traces a finger along it. “My little brother, that is. Kinn.”
A small twitch of the eyebrows is the only reaction that Porsche gives away, and it gives away nothing of what he’s thinking.
“Yes, sir,” Porsche answers.
Not surprising.
“You know, and this is a little advice from your wise elder,” he says, making a gesture toward himself as he takes a seat at the kitchen table, “whatever it is you think you want from him… status, money, protection—” the last word gets a very slight, startled reaction, and ah, there’s the weak spot “—you really ought to think carefully how you go about it. Do you know what happened to Kinn’s last boyfriend?”
Something like trepidation finally appears in Porsche’s eyes. “No, sir.”
“Kinn shot him.”
Tankhun lets that hang in the air for a while. Then he slowly crosses his legs. He can see thoughts whirling in Porsche’s eyes, even if he isn’t reacting, and that’s at least better than total blankness.
Tankhun is about to break the silence and continue with more details, but Porsche speaks first.
“What did he do? Kinn’s boyfriend.”
That brings Tankhun up short. Porsche shows no denial, no fear. He only has a question.
Tankhun considers his answer before he gives it. “Tawan betrayed him.”
Instead of looking more nervous, some of the strange tension actually starts to bleed out of Porsche’s countenance. His face loses that careful, distant expression, and he even nods. “The first time I met Kinn — Khun Kinn — he shot two men and almost shot me. I won’t betray him, Khun Tankhun. Thank you for the reminder, sir.”
The man is thanking him? How exactly did Tankhun lose control of this conversation? Tankhun is supposed to be convincing him to stay in his lane, but somehow things got twisted around.
He rises from his chair and gestures, big and broad. “That is beside the point!”
And Porsche flinches.
That’s when the light bulb suddenly goes on in Tankhun’s mind.
Oh. Oh! He’s terrified. This man could quite literally snap Tankhun in half without the need for any weapon, but unlike the other bodyguards who know their place and all the rules and consequences of failure, Porsche is terrified just from being in the same room with Tankhun. Just from Tankhun behaving like he normally does.
The dreadful dead eyes aren’t because Porsche is a threat; they’re because he feels threatened.
“Well now,” Tankhun says softly. “That does change things.”
“Sir?” Porsche asks, clearly confused.
“Nothing, nothing,” he says with a dismissive gesture. “You’re still not allowed to betray my nong or break his heart. Now then, next order of business: dinner and a movie. Tonight. Be at my apartment by seven. Oh! And your little Porchay can come too, but only if he manages to bring Kimhan. In fact, if he can do that, I’ll adopt Porchay myself.”
“S-sir?” Porsche says, trying to keep up. He looks overwhelmed, which is fine. Tankhun is used to that sort of reaction.
“Right! That’s all.” Tankhun dusts off his sleeves and straightens the lapels of his suit. “I have things to do. Ta-ta!”
Without looking back, he saunters out of the apartment and into the hallway. After the door shuts behind him, he manages to get ten paces before his knees wobble, and he has to place a hand against the wall to brace himself.
He catches his breath and casts a look behind himself, but thankfully no one is there. He leans his back against the wall and stares at the ceiling, allowing himself a brief moment to recall that other face with its own dead, heartless eyes from so long ago, to tell himself firmly that that man isn’t Porsche. That man is dead. And Porsche has never done anything to Tankhun. Tankhun can’t let himself be ruled by his fear, not like this. Not over som eone who might actually be good for Kinn.
Tankhun lets out one short, self-deprecating laugh. He’s going to have a lot to talk about with his therapist tomorrow.
Several minutes later, when he’s able to straighten again, he touches a finger to his earpiece again.
“Secretary Bird, this is Big Eagle. I have left Black Turkey’s nest. New plan: movie night. I’m going to need the fluffiest romcom in my library. And schedule me a massage with Didi ASAP.”
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Very mild warnings for Tankhun experiencing stress responses to encountering Porsche, Porsche showing some dissociation, and Tankhun recalled the expression of the man who tortured him.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
This was originally going to be an interlude with just Tankhun’s POV. But then I really, really needed a chunk of Porsche POV, so instead this is simply a slightly short chapter. After the two previous super-long chapters, it isn’t too bad to take a breather, I think.
Chapter 22: The Tipping Point
Summary:
Despite a distinct lack of sleep, Kinn holds a follow-up meeting to determine next steps about the Davies situation.
Also, brotherly bonding doesn’t have to involve physical pain… but sometimes it does anyway.
Notes:
Psst, enbymoomin, psst, hey hey. Thank you for beta! 🙏
REMINDER: I have posted spoiler descriptions of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need, but I promise there really isn't much for this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Kinn enters the grand meeting room with Big trailing at his side, the chatter goes quiet. All heads turn his way. The bodyguards present in the room greet him with a sharp, “Khun Kinn.”
“At ease,” Kinn says with a wave of his hand, not pausing as he makes his way to the head of the table and takes a seat.
Kinn is the last to arrive, even though he’s a minute early. Already seated around the table are Tankhun, Kim, Vegas, Pete, Chan, and Arm… everyone he needs for a proper war council.
Kinn’s eyes flick quietly to the opposite side of the room, where Porsche stands. He’s wearing his regular bodyguard attire, black slacks and black vest, and his gaze is trained on the archway behind Kinn. However, as though sensing Kinn’s regard, Porsche’s eyes meet his, and for a moment they soften. Something that isn’t quite a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Then the expression is gone, and Porsche is focused once more on the space behind Kinn.
A kind of clarity has settled in Kinn’s bones from head to toe. Despite his lack of sleep, he feels calmer, more clear headed than he normally does in these types of meetings.
“I won’t waste anyone’s time by beating around the bush,” Kinn says. “We’re here to talk about Reese Davies, the current threat he poses, and how we intend to respond to his blatant acts of aggression. Arm? The rundown.”
“Yes, sir,” Arm responds sharply.
Arm proceeds to give a detailed but concise summary of the events that led to the current conflict. He follows this with a thorough breakdown of intel gathered on Davies to date, including an overview of his global operations, primary business partners, and current activities in Bangkok.
Kinn considers himself lucky Vegas fell for Pete and not Arm — Kinn would have stopped at nothing to keep Arm on his own team, leading to an entirely new family rift.
When Arm finishes his breakdown of threats and weaknesses, a lull follows as everyone sits with the information.
“Opinions,” Kinn says. It’s a long-standing tradition in their meetings that the head of the family listens to opinions, one by one, before making any decisions. “Vegas?”
Vegas tilts his head and gives Kinn a long, slow blink. “What I’d like to say is, ‘your mess, you clean it up,’ but the shitstain is fucking with my club and my territory. He keeps popping up like a damn weed, and it’s about time we go full scorched earth on his ass.”
Kinn can always count on Vegas to choose violence.
“Khun?” Kinn prompts.
Tankhun scratches his head with one finger. “Scorched earth sounds fun, but this one could end up burning us if we go about it the wrong way. I think we ought to give him a good reason to get the hell out of Bangkok. Arm needs more time, and we’ll come up with a strategy that leaves us smelling like roses.”
Kinn narrows his eyes. “How much time?”
“A week,” Tankhun says.
“Five days,” Arm offers.
Kinn nods slowly and moves on to the next person. “Chan?”
Chan takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “This started with an aggressive act by the Theerapanyakuls on Davies’s property, one that was outside of our mission parameters. Clearly he thinks the compensation you provided was insufficient. We should do our due diligence to find out what would be required for a peaceful resolution.”
Kinn frowns. “Davies made it clear what he wants. And I’ve made it clear that Porsche is off limits, yet he still orchestrated that fucking stunt last night at the Blue Room.”
Chan fixes Kinn with a stare meant to make Kinn feel like he’s a wet-behind-the-ears teenager again. “Have you attempted to make a counter offer?”
They both know the answer to that, and Kinn grinds his teeth. “Noted.” Kinn turns to his younger brother. “Kim.”
Kim raises his eyebrows. “A man like Davies…” Kim slowly shakes his head. “He’s gone too far already. But I agree with Khun. We need to be smart about how we do this. If Arm can get me a location, I can get in and gather the intelligence we need.”
“Denied,” Kinn says sharply.
Kim straightens in his seat and glares at Kinn. “What? Why? You think I can’t do it?”
“I know you can do it. That isn’t the issue,” Kinn says. “From what we know, Davies is moving around and doesn’t have a permanent base. This isn’t like dealing with locals.”
Arm pushes his glasses up his nose. “The intelligence I need primarily has to do with his business operations and interests, so we can determine which strings to pull in order to divert his interests away from Bangkok. I’ve made progress, but I need more time.”
Kinn taps a finger on the table, considering this. Briefly, he looks across the room at Porsche, whose eyes are hard and whose mouth is set in a thin line.
“What intel do we have on the kids that Davies took?” Kinn asks.
Arm winces at this. “Sir, we have our people on the lookout for suspicious activity, especially around the docks and the warehouse districts, but it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”
“Let me know right away if something comes up,” Kinn says.
“Of course, sir,” Arm says.
At Kinn’s side, Big touches a finger to his earpiece, listening.
Chan draws Kinn’s attention again. “Davies has connections and resources. Khun Kinn, sir, you need to consider whether it’s worthwhile to make him an enemy in the long run.”
“The man is a bottom feeder who likes to think he’s a top dog,” Vegas drawls. “He isn’t that special, Chan.” The two of them get into a staring contest, and Kinn can’t tell who’s winning.
While they’re engaged in their silent battle, Big leans over to speak quietly in Kinn’s ear. “Sir, Mek just informed me that he has two visitors here who say they have information about Davies.”
It could be nothing. But then again, the meeting isn’t going how Kinn hoped, and new details could be exactly what he needs. “What kind of information?”
Big shakes his head minutely. “All Mek knows is that our visitors were approached by one of Davies’s representatives. They won’t say anything else without some… assurances.”
Weighing his options takes only a fraction of a moment. “Have Mek send them up.”
“Sir,” Big acknowledges.
“It looks like we have some guests who may be able to shed some light for us,” Kinn tells the room at large, “but let’s keep the conversation going.”
He gets a couple curious stares for that, but he’s able to keep the meeting on track. A short while later, a firm knock at the door brings discussion to a halt again. At a nod from Kinn, a bodyguard opens the door. Mek comes in, escorting two young people.
The first appears to be in her twenties, and she’s dressed in street-punk style. Her hair is buzzed short on both sides, but the rest of her hair flows long to her shoulders, and it’s dyed yellow at the ends. The sleeves of her tan jacket are cut short and ragged, and the jacket is covered in pride flags and other patches. She’s also wearing ripped skinny jeans, a faded T-shirt, and enough cheap jewelry to sink a ship, some of which is attached to her face.
At her side is a boy. He appears younger, perhaps in his late teens. Compared with the aggressively styled young woman, he’s nondescript in ordinary street clothes, his hair dyed a mottled brown.
The young woman is looking all over the room at the numerous bodyguards and decorations.
“Fuck me, crime really does pay,” she says with a wry twist to her pierced lip.
An amused smile pulls at Kinn’s own mouth. “If you do it well,” he says. He folds his hands in front of him. “I understand you have some information that might be of interest. I’m hoping it’s worth my while.”
The young woman seems to start paying attention to the actual people in the room, and her eyes widen as she takes in just how many are present. She quickly hones in on Kinn. “You’re the guy? Khun Kinn?”
Kinn’s smile stretches wider, stiffer, more business-like. “I am ‘the guy.’ And you are?”
She straightens, and she sheds the tourist-like amazement from her expression, replacing it with a stern expression. “Everyone on the street knows me as Mom, but I doubt you want to call me that. My name’s Gem. And this is Charan.” She indicates the boy next to her.
Kinn doesn’t bother to introduce everyone at the table. Gem knows who Kinn is, and that’s more than enough.
“I see. And what do you know of Reese Davies, Gem?”
Gem pinches her lips together and shakes her head with an exaggerated shrug. “I got things I wanna say, but look, I’m small time and I know it. I’m like a mouse telling on one cat to another here. What’s to say I won’t get eaten?”
It’s a reasonable question, not to mention the right question, and Kinn can respect that.
“I help those who help me. That’s just good business.” Kinn leans back in his chair, giving Gem a long, quiet stare. She doesn’t flinch. “You don’t have to worry about retaliation from Davies. So, if you care to talk, have a seat. If not, I’ll have to ask you to leave so we can get back to our meeting.”
Gem is going to have to talk at this point. She’s already set foot in the lion’s den, so to speak. Even if she and Charan leave now, they’ll be leaving with a shadow trailing them.
Gem may be young, but the expression on her face says she knows the game. She nods, and she walks to the side of the table to sit next to Kim. Charan sticks to her like a shadow and sits next to her. Som, without needing to be ordered, serves them bottled waters along with empty glasses from the bar. Gem mutters a thanks, while Charan looks at the bottle like it might be a snake.
Growing impatient, Vegas throws out the next question. “How do you know Davies?”
“Haven’t met him personally, but I know he’s a real shitstain,” Gem says, and Kinn sees Vegas’s lips twitch with amusement at her using his own language for Davies. She nods her head thoughtfully a couple times, considering. “I didn’t meet Davies himself, but one of his men. Not that the guy told me who he was working for. Had to figure that out on our own.”
Tankhun shakes his head vigorously. “Stop. Stop!” He leans forward over the table to look around Kim at Gem. “Introduce the characters in the correct order in the story. Start again, at the beginning this time, my little fashion-challenged urchin.”
Gem blinks a couple times, unsure what to make of Tankhun, but fortunately for her she keeps her opinions to herself.
“From the start, sure,” she says. “So, I run what you might call an operation. It’s not a gang, but it’s not not a gang, y’know? I got a lot of kids I look after. They pull their own weight, and I make sure they got food and shelter.”
“We’re all runaways,” Charan throws in, and then he immediately looks nervous about having spoken.
Gem ruffles Charan’s hair fondly. Then she says, “So two days ago, this guy approaches me, says he wants to talk. I tell him to fuck off, but he’s pretty persistent, y’know? I figure the only way to get rid of this guy is to hear him out.”
“Can you give a description of the man?” Chan asks.
“Big guy,” she says. “More than six feet tall. Had a goatee and a big tattoo of flowers on his left arm. He said his name was Rama. That coulda been a bullshit name, though.”
“Was he Thai?” Chan asks.
Gem nods. “Yeah, definitely Thai. That description help?”
“Good enough for now,” Chan says with a wave of one hand.
Gem eyes him carefully and nods before continuing. “So we go somewhere private to talk, him and me, plus another guy of his and Charan here. Rama starts explaining that he’s heard about my operation, wants to provide support, so right away I know he’s full of shit. I ask what the catch is, and he says all I gotta do is introduce some kids to him every month, and he’ll ‘help’ them get off the street. In return, I get a fat wad of cash to help the other kids.” Gem sneers bitterly. “Piece of shit musta thought I was born yesterday.”
Kinn leans forward. The young woman is rambling — nerves will do that — but he thinks he can see where this is heading. Around the table, he senses that others have also picked up the thread of the connection to Davies.
“Tell ‘em about Tor’s gang, Mom,” Charan urges her.
“I was gettin’ to that,” she says with a little gesture at Charan. “There’s this other gang to the east of us, kind of overlaps with us, run by Tor. I don’t have anybody I answer to, but Tor’s got a boss over him. And Rama tells me that Tor’s boss said no, and now Tor’s finding himself ‘short staffed.’ I manage to find out later that five of Tor’s crew have gone missing, all the younger ones. So what can I do? I tell Rama I need to think it over, and he says he’ll be back in one week, and he wants to meet some kids then.”
Gem pauses to get control of herself, anger blazing in her eyes. So far, what she’s shared isn’t terribly informative.
Tankhun must agree with Kinn’s thoughts, because he interjects next. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this story, little urchin, I really hope you have some sort of climax or grand finale prepared.”
“Sure do. I got eyes and ears everywhere. That’s how I also know you got a big beef with Davies, and you want info on ‘im.” Gem nudges Charan. “Show ‘em the video of our buddy Rama.”
Slowly, telegraphing his movements, Charan pulls a phone out of his pocket and unlocks it. He’s about to set it in the middle of the table, but Kinn lifts a hand and crooks his fingers. “Here.”
They pass the phone to Tankhun, who gets out of his seat when he hands it to Kinn and then promptly leans over Kinn, slinging an arm around his shoulders. More casually, Vegas rises to stand just behind Kinn, hands tucked in his pockets.
The still frame of the video shows a man standing in a parking lot with a phone to his ear. The edge of the still frame is dark, and Kinn guesses the video must have been filmed from just around a corner. Kinn taps to play and immediately turns up the volume.
“... might not be a matter of trust with someone like Mom,” says the man in the video before a long pause. He’s speaking in accented English. “Yes, Mr. Davies,” he says before pausing again.
Inside Kinn, the hot fire of hope blazes high.
Tankhun’s hand clutches at Kinn’s shoulder. “C’mon,” he whispers low right next to Kinn’s ear, and Kinn feels the same way.
“Not yet, Mr. Davies. The security is too tight. Planting a mole would be—” Rama gets cut off by whatever Davies says in response. “Yes, sir, but the clans are demanding assurances before they are willing to back Khun Red. To bring down the Theerapanyakuls once and for all, we need—”
The video shakes, and Rama cuts off again, though not from an interruption. He moves sharply as though to turn, and the person recording the video pulls the phone back around the corner just in time. The audio picks up the very faint sounds of nervous panting from the person taking the video.
“It’s nothing, sir,” Rama says, although there’s no longer any visual of him, just a view of a gray wall. After a moment of silence, the video peeks around the corner again, and at that moment Rama chuckles lightly and says, “If there is booze, I will be there. I will even bring a housewarming gift.”
Rama opens the car door and gets inside it, and that’s the end of the audio, but not the video. As soon as the man is in the car, the video taker comes around the corner, crouching low, and actually creeps closer to the car. Kinn isn’t sure why until the video captures the license plate, just a moment before the car drives away. Kinn has to admire the bravery of whoever took the video.
The video ends, and no one dares to break the silence in the room. Tankhun and Vegas resume their seats without a word.
Gem is staring at him, wary, like a dog that doesn’t know whether to expect a scrap to eat or a kick to the ribs.
Kinn says, “Arm,” lifting the phone in the air.
Arm answers with an eager, “Sir!” before rushing around the table to take the phone from him, carrying it back to his seat like it’s a precious jewel. He opens his laptop and gets to work immediately, now blind and deaf to anything else around him.
“Gem, Charan,” Kinn says, getting their attention. “I need to ask you to step out while we conclude our meeting. I’ll speak with you again after that.”
Gem hedges. “And Davies…”
Kinn lifts his chin. “We’ll have a word about your safety and the safety of every one of your people.” He allows himself a small smile and a gracious nod. “You have my appreciation.”
Mek starts to escort them out.
“My phone,” Charan whines to Gem, not nearly quiet enough.
“Leave it, just leave it,” Gem says back.
When the door closes behind them, Kinn once more surveys the expressions on the faces around the table, and he sees hardened resolve on every countenance.
Then he looks up and across the room, at Porsche.
Porsche’s brows move only slightly, a quick rise and fall, followed by the subtlest nod of his head, as if to say, Do it.
“I want Davies brought in. Preferably alive — I have questions,” Kinn says, his tone leaving no room for further discussion. “It’s time to scorch the fucking earth.”
Porsche discovered long ago that just by staying quiet and observing, he could learn a great deal. More than that, though, he found that most of the things he learned would eventually be helpful to him.
So he pays attention to the meeting about Davies, to the thoughts and opinions of the people at the table, to the new information introduced by Gem.
Then, after Gem and Charan leave, he learns where Davies went wrong.
While Kinn may have told Porsche he’d see what he could do about the children who’d been reported missing, Porsche also knows that bastards like Davies are incredibly good at hiding their “products.” Finding a small handful of kids in an entire city — and beyond the city if they’ve been moved — is next to impossible. Plus it was still in the Theerapanykul clan’s best interest to mitigate the conflict and avoid confrontation, which meant finding the kids would not necessarily be a primary objective. Even an assassination attempt on one companion bodyguard couldn’t unite the clan leaders toward aggressive retaliation, even though Kinn and Vegas would clearly have preferred action.
Davies’s real mistake was changing his game plan and trying to sink his teeth into Bangkok, up to and including the disruption of the power balance. And the Theerapanyakul clan could never, ever tolerate that.
There might still be a chance to recover the kids who were taken if they haven’t been moved too far. Porsche tries to remind himself not to cling too hard to hope, though.
The remainder of the meeting centers around the strategy for taking Davies without spooking him, as well as directives about how to use the new intel brought in by Gem and Charan.
When the meeting ends, Porsche is more than a little grateful. His legs feel like they’re about to go numb from standing still for so long, and he’s so tired his brain feels like it’s melting. His relief is short-lived, though.
“Porsche, with me,” Kinn says as he walks out the room with Big and P’Chan.
“Sir,” Porsche says.
Porsche spends the next hour standing behind Kinn, side by side with Big, situated in a small meeting room with the street kids from earlier. Kinn and P’Chan ask Gem and Charan questions, first about their encounter with Rama, and then about protection from Davies.
“Look, if I tell my kids to hide, they fuckin’ hide if they know what’s good for them,” Gem says flatly. “I already told ‘em to hit the dirt and stay down. And I can take care of myself.”
Porsche likes Gem. It would be hard not to, he thinks.
“Still,” Kinn says, “for my peace of mind, I need to insist that I take responsibility for the safety of you and Charan until this matter is resolved.” Gem looks mutinous, but Kinn continues, “This is also for the security of my people and operations. And, you may not have seen it, but there’s an Olympic-sized swimming pool in the tower, as well as a spa, hot tubs, and three restaurants. The luxury accommodations will be at your disposal while you’re here. Consider it a part of my gratitude.”
Charan looks intrigued, but Gem doesn’t look convinced.
“So, what, you gonna have us stay until the next meeting with Rama? Then I help you snatch ‘im?” Gem asks.
Although Porsche is standing behind Kinn, he can tell by the way the man’s cheek rounds that he’s grinning.
“That won’t be necessary,” Kinn says. “I’d hate to have to wait that long. I think we can have this wrapped up before then.”
A little thrill goes up Porsche’s spine. Kinn’s confidence is… well, Porsche likes it quite a bit.
When Kinn finishes his meeting with Gem and Charan, he rises from his seat and sends them off with Big to get settled in for a short stay. Then Chan bows to Kinn and excuses himself, leaving Porsche alone with Kinn.
Kinn takes one look at Porsche and says, “You look dead on your feet.”
Porsche takes in the bags under Kinn’s eyes and the way his shoulders are drooping. He appears stern, but something about his eyes says he’s teasing. Porsche smirks. “I could say the same for you.”
Kinn smiles, and Porsche smiles back, pleased that he read him right.
With a short jerk of his chin, Kinn indicates the door. “Go. Get some rest. You’re done for the day.”
Porsche raises his eyebrows. “What about you?”
“I’ll be busy for a while yet.” Kinn gives a little shrug. “I’m going to be needed for a lot of fast decisions. But…” Kinn tilts his head and looks at Porsche curiously, hopefully, and Porsche feels something tighten in his chest as he thinks cute, cute, so cute.
“But what?”
“You could come up to my apartment tonight. When I’m done. If you want, that is.” Kinn considers him for a moment before adding, “We don’t have to do anything. You’re right. I’m completely beat. Just some time to relax is fine.”
The way he’s tripping over himself makes Porsche revise his assessment from cute to adorable. Porsche feels his mouth slowly stretching wide, and Kinn looks stunned.
“I dunno,” Porsche says. “You just gave those punks the VIP treatment. I didn’t get that when I was here the first time.”
Kinn’s eyes light up, and he approaches Porsche swiftly, slipping one hand onto his waist and using the other to reach up and touch Porsche’s cheek. “Let me make it up to you then?” he offers, grinning, playful. “Whatever you want for dinner, anything at all, I’ll have it brought up. And I have a private jet pool.”
Ridiculous man. Porsche laughs and tries to shove at Kinn’s chest, but he barely budges, only grinning harder and pulling Porsche closer. Porsche gives Kinn a quick peck of a kiss, which is sufficient enough to distract him, allowing Porsche to dip down and literally duck out of his arms, spinning away smoothly. Kinn makes a sound of distress and reaches for him again, but Porsche stops him with nothing more than a hand held out.
“You said you have meetings,” Porsche reminds him. “And I want curry.”
Porsche has to make a hasty retreat, nimbly dodging Kinn’s outstretched arms.
However, even after his escape, there’s no time to rest. Not half an hour later, the bodyguards get pulled into small group meetings with team leaders handing down instructions on heightened security protocols and changes to rotations. Big leads the meeting for Kinn’s team, which includes Porsche, Mek, and Som. He explains that Kinn will be remaining in the tower for the duration of the high alert, and Mek and Som will provide support to other teams conducting off-site objectives.
“What about me?” Porsche asks. He’s pretty sure he could be helpful on a mission. His aim has improved a lot; not perfect, but getting good.
Big glares at him. “Your ass stays here so we don’t have to guard you from assassins. Or did you forget that Davies wants you dead?”
Porsche isn’t sure what his face does in response to that, but whatever it is, it makes Big roll his eyes.
“Don’t give me that look,” Big snaps. “Last night at the Blue Room wasn’t enough excitement for you? Just keep training.” Then he tacks on an extra, “Asshole,” because he’s still trying to convince everyone that he can’t stand Porsche.
By the time that meeting finishes, he’s even more exhausted and yet so keyed up that he doesn’t think he can rest. So he collects a test prep booklet from his room and reads while he continues his training, just as Big suggested. Chay finds him and chatters at him about anything and everything except the events in the Blue Room last night.
When evening rolls around, Porsche changes into casual clothes and then drags his tired ass up to Kinn’s apartment. Kinn lets him in, and he looks just as tired as Porsche feels.
“You look like shit,” Porsche says, surprising himself, and by the look of it, surprising Kinn as well.
Oh. I probably shouldn’t have said something like that to Kinn, he thinks a moment too late. They may have had sex, but Kinn is still—
But Kinn recovers and gives him a lopsided smile. “Well, you look cute.”
They eat dinner together at a little table on Kinn’s patio. It’s a quiet meal, punctuated with a few questions and more than one interruption by way of urgent texts for Kinn’s attention. After dinner, Kinn excuses himself and takes to the couch with his phone, firing off reply after reply.
Porsche watches him for a little while. The crease between his brows looks like it’s about to become permanently stuck there. Maybe he should leave Kinn alone, but instead he sprawls out on the couch next to him and then wiggles until he can rest his head on Kinn’s lap.
Kinn looks down at him, startled. Porsche looks back, waiting.
“Hmm,” Kinn murmurs. He continues to type rapidly for another couple minutes and then shuts off the phone and sets it aside. With his hands free now, he uses one to stroke Porsche’s hair.
“Is it usually like that?” Porsche asks.
Kinn shakes his head. “Not all the time. Mainly when there’s a situation.” His thumb sweeps across Porsche’s temple. “It’s been a couple very long days. You tired?”
“Mm, yeah, but it’s too early to sleep.” Porsche shuffles and settles his head more comfortably on Kinn’s thigh. “I’ve been thinking…”
“About what?” Kinn asks softly, not pausing in his gentle ministrations.
“About what you and Chay said, about how I could get the tattoo on my ankle covered,” Porsche says. “And about getting another one, with Chay. Chay suggested we could… get tattoos done together. A brother thing.”
Nothing can replace the nine years they’ve missed, but something about Chay’s idea feels more and more right to Porsche the longer he thinks about it.
Kinn looks suddenly excited, and he settles his hand, heavy and warm, on Porsche’s collarbone. “I’ll cover it. Your tattoo, no, both of them, yours and your brother’s.”
Bemused and no small bit overwhelmed, Porsche gives Kinn a lopsided smile. He reaches up to touch Kinn’s cheek. What is this man trying to do? Spoil him rotten?
“Chay wants to pay,” Porsche says. “He wants it to be the first present he gets me. Sort of a backlog of missed birthday presents, is what he says.”
And then Kinn, because he is just a big baby, actually pouts and turns his head away to look out the window.
“Aw,” Porsche coos, “don’t be sad. Kinn. Ai’Kinn.” Porsche tries to nudge Kinn’s chin to make him look down again. It takes a couple of tries, but Kinn does, his expression sour. “You know you already gave me the first real present I got since I was taken, don’t you? Remember that blue hoodie? I sleep in it sometimes. I like it a lot.”
Kinn’s face slowly transforms from a frown to a pleased, smug little smile. “Yeah? Mm, okay. When were you thinking of doing this?”
Porsche shrugs as best he can in his current position. The movement jostles Kinn’s leg a little. “Chay thought he could introduce me to his artist sometime this week, but I guess it’ll have to wait until after the lockdown.”
Kinn’s eyebrows rise. “I might be able to help with that.” He traces a thumb along Porsche’s nose thoughtfully. “So, about the jet pool…”
In hindsight, Chay has no idea why he was getting himself all worked up worrying about Kinn. As it turns out, the guy has the makings of an excellent brother-in-law.
Okay, so the fact that he called Chay’s cell phone incessantly at eight a.m. this morning — on Chay’s last Sunday before going back to school — was not exactly in the man’s favor, but given how things have turned out, Chay can suck it up.
The reason for the early morning assault was to ask for the name of Chay’s tattoo artist. And then to ask whether Chay was free today. Which is how Chay has ended up in his current situation, lying on his front in the massage parlor of the underground spa that belongs to the most elite Bangkok kingpin.
Life is full of unexpected surprises, Chay thinks as his tattoo artist, Nin, rains fire down his back in long black lines of ink.
Chay’s entire back feels hot, but the sweat on his forehead is cool, and the whir of the tattoo machine has long-since lulled him into a calm state of mind. They’ve been at it for hours now. Next to the bed is a transportable workstand, with tools and a bright lamp aimed directly at Chay’s back.
He’s been watching Nin’s face for a while as she concentrates, but when she pauses to swipe a white cloth over his skin, Chay shifts his head off the pillow he’s clutching so he can take a look at Porsche. His brother is lying on his side, his brows pinched together sharply as another artist, Thia, works on his ankle.
“What’s wrong, hia?” Chay teases. “Too much for you? Can’t keep up with your nong?”
Chay has been through this whole process previously with Nin, so it had taken nothing more than a short conversation and some sketching before he was able to hop onto the table and start getting his line work done. Soon he’ll have the outline of an angel wing on the right side of his spine, a contrast to the demon wing on the left. Porsche, meanwhile, spent a good chunk of time iterating with Thia as they discussed ideas, sketched, rejected, and restarted.
Porsche makes a face at Chay. “You try getting one on your foot.”
Chay smiles. “Maybe sometime.”
He looks at Porsche and feels a wave of sheer, overwhelming rightness wash over him. It’s cleansing, fierce and joyful, and it rakes over his heart like that tender internal organ is getting tattooed as well, permanently marked.
It’s like the world finally makes sense again.
Just as Nin is just about to start working again, there’s a light rap on the door, and she pauses. Thia also takes the knock as a cue to pause and gently swipe a cloth across Porsche’s skin.
Kinn enters the room
“I thought I’d swing by and see how things were going,” he says. He looks at Chay briefly, but then his eyes swing over to Porsche and stay there.
Such a simp, Chay thinks, amused. And, perhaps some part of him is still wary about Kinn, tattoo assistance aside. Who knows how long his attention will last? Porsche could very well end up being disappointed sometime in the future. But as long as they’re together at least until Porsche is safe, well, anything else can be a problem for future Chay and Porsche to tackle.
Kinn notices Porsche’s ankle. “That’s all? I thought you were getting something bigger? You’ve been here almost all day.”
Chay snickers. “Hia was very picky about the design.” Thia covertly catches Chay’s eye and nods in solemn agreement, which makes Chay laugh harder.
Nin taps Chay’s shoulder a couple times. “Okay, no more laughing. Let me get back to work if you want this line work done today. I may be fast, but this is still a lot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says as he settles down again, and the buzzing of the tattoo machine precedes a new wave of fresh, hot fire.
“We ran out of time to start on the big one today,” Porsche says, “but Thia said she could get the little one completed.”
“One this size?” Thia says. “Yeah, no problem. We’re going to need multiple sessions for your wings, though.”
“This is… a feather?” Kinn asks, looking at Porsche’s bare ankle. The feather is half black and half blue.
“Yeah,” Porsche says, a wistful little smile on his face. “The blue part is for the Blue Room. Plus…” He flicks his eyes to Chay before looking at Kinn again. “Plus some other symbolism.”
Kinn nods. “What did you decide on for your back?”
“There’s a sketch,” Porsche says. “Thia can show you.”
At the prospect of getting to see the sketch, Kinn’s entire face suddenly radiates such childlike delight that Chay almost can’t recognize him. When he catches Chay watching him, he coughs and tries to school his expression… but utterly fails.
If the thing between the two of them isn’t quite so short-lived, if it’s something more than infatuation, well, that’ll also be for future Chay and future Porsche to handle.
Today is good, and that’s what matters.
Thia pulls out the sketch to show Kinn, and he takes it in with wide eyes. After a moment, he glances between Chay’s back and the sketch.
“The two of you will be quite the pair,” Kinn says. “A sort of matching-but-not-matching set.”
Just thinking about that makes Chay grin so wide that his smile hurts. His heart feels like it could burst. Nin pauses in her work again, and Chay takes the opportunity to reach out a closed fist across the space between the beds. Porsche, smiling just as wide, reaches back and bumps their fists together.
“Stop it, you assholes,” Nin complains. “Shit, you’re gonna make me cry. Do you want a tattoo artist working on you when she can’t see? No, no you do not. God. I need a tissue.”
Nin has to pause and take her gloves off so she can get herself cleaned up and calmed down, and Chay takes her hand and squeezes it for comfort, letting her know he’s okay, he’s good. They spent a lot of hours together on Chay’s left wing, and she knows every bit of how much this tattoo means to him.
Chay angles himself up to get a better look at her. “I’m hugging you as soon as you let me up,” he warns.
“Shut up,” Nin says after a sniffle. “Canvases should lie down and be quiet. The wing lines are done. I’m going to add the date next, and then you’re done for today. You good?”
“Yeah, let’s do this,” he settles back down, and in a moment the room is filled with the buzzing of two tattoo machines.
Kinn, having put away the sketch, comes back up to stand near the heads of the beds. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks like he wants to say something, but then his phone rings.
He pulls out his phone and answers, “What is it, Big?”
There’s a long pause, and Kinn walks over to stand near the door. The buzzing of the machines covers anything that might be heard from the speaker on the other end, but something about Kinn’s posture tells Chay to pay attention. He feels a little extra adrenaline spike that has nothing to do with the pain from the needle. When the wait goes on too long, Chay casts a questioning look over at Porsche, but his brother just raises his eyebrows in mutual curiosity and jerks his chin back toward Kinn.
“Excellent work,” Kinn finally says. “I’ll come now.”
When he hangs up, Chay asks, “Is that about the thing that I’m not supposed to know anything about?”
Kinn gives him a baleful stare. Chay stares back until he has to wince as the needle hits a sensitive spot. Really, did Kinn expect Chay not to pry and snoop when the tower went on high alert? Kim already filled him in on the key outcomes from the war council, and he found out a few other details on his own.
“Porsche, take as long as you need to finish up,” Kinn says, “then check in with Big.”
“Yes, sir,” Porsche says. The words come out hesitant, though, uncertainty lacing through them.
Kinn gives a half smile. “Don’t worry. It’s good news. I’ll see you in a bit.”
He leaves, and Chay looks at Porsche, looks at the complicated expression on his face, the concern mixed with hope.
Chay clutches his pillow tighter, and he savors the burn as Nin inks numbers into his skin.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Discussion of human trafficking. Also, a mild warning for tattooing in case anyone’s dicey about needles.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Welcome to the chapter that caused me a massive block and was the whole reason the posting hiatus took longer than I ever intended. Whew. I eventually threw out a whole plot line and redid the darn thing.
Also, doopity doo, not me making a pun out of the chapter title and tattoo needles. I swear, I’m just here to amuse myself. Thank you for joining the crazy train.
Chapter 23: Consequences
Summary:
Eventually, the bill comes due, whether for action or inaction, for good or for ill. Choices come with consequences.
Notes:
Thank you to enbymoomin for beta, and an extra special thank you to nuwildcat for some help detangling some story stuff.
REMINDER: I have posted spoiler descriptions of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need, but I promise there really isn't much for this chapter. Also, this is a particularly heavy chapter (as you might guess from the chapter title), so please just bear that in mind.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It isn’t until hours later that Porsche catches up with Big. The head bodyguard had been locked into back-to-back strategy meetings.
When he finally emerges, the first thing Porsche learns is that Arm has pinpointed Davies’s location. The second thing he learns is that Kinn insisted on prioritizing capture over kill.
“It would be so much easier to just light the bastard up,” Big grouses. “I can’t even figure out why Kinn is pushing so hard to take him alive. And I have another meeting in five minutes. Shit, I have to go.” He takes a moment to swipe a hand roughly across his face before he stalks off, shoulders and jaw stiff.
Porsche knows exactly why Kinn is trying to capture Davies — he’s doing it for Porsche. Because Porsche requested that Kinn try to find the kids who had been taken, and the best link to them is Davies himself.
Porsche is at a loss. There’s nothing he can do right now. He wishes he could see Kinn, but Kinn is just as busy as Big is.
So instead Porsche holes up in his room, exhausted, his ankle hot and sore and sensitive. He curls up on the couch and looks at the puffy skin. Half of the feather has swallowed up the five small digits in black ink, and the other half of the feather is a rich, vibrant blue. Near the base, six barbs — that was what Thia had said they were called — are separated, sticking out and pointed rather than smoothly aligned with the rest of the feather. Porsche had asked Thia to incorporate the number six into the piece, and separating the barbs had been her suggestion. Porsche hadn’t explained the reason behind the number. How could he? He couldn’t say to her that they were in remembrance of the people he’d killed in death matches. And yet the feather also tells the story of how the Blue Room helped save his life, not once but twice.
It’s beautiful, lifelike, eye-catching. And better still, the numbers are completely gone. He’ll never see them again.
A text catches his attention.
Kinn: Tired. Going straight to bed. Try to get some rest. No guarantees on how long this will take.
Porsche bites his lip. It’s only just now sinking in that his request to search for the stolen kids is causing a significant impact on operations. People, his colleagues, are going to have to risk their lives to make Porsche’s request possible.
Is it worth it? Does Porsche have the right to ask that?
A few minutes after he receives Kinn’s text, Big finally enters the apartment, looking haggard.
“Fuck I’m tired.” Big strips off his jacket and throws it on the coffee table, then loosens his tie. He catches sight of Porsche’s new ankle tattoo. “Nice ink. Good to have those damn numbers gone.”
Porsche never even realized Big had noticed the numbers. But even more astonishing… did Big just say something nice to him?
He must be just as exhausted as I am, if not more, Porsche thinks.
“Thanks,” Porsche says. “I brought dinner up for you. It’s in the fridge. Didn’t think you had time to eat.”
Big blinks a couple times and sways where he stands.
“Yeah, I didn’t. Uh, thanks.” Big lets his ponytail down and scratches through his hair. Then he stares at Porsche for a minute as though debating his next words. “You’re not going up tonight?”
Porsche feels a little heat rush to his cheeks. “No. Kinn’s going to sleep. And I’m beat, too.” Now it’s Porsche’s turn to hesitate over what he wants to say. “It doesn’t bother you? That I’m, me and Kinn, we’re… and you’re—”
“Don’t.”
Porsche snaps his mouth shut. Big’s command was sharp and forceful, but his expression is calm.
“Don’t say it,” Big adds. “I don’t wanna hear it. I’m just going to explain this once, so listen up. If I was ever gonna do something, I would have done it a long time ago. I wouldn’t — fuck, why am I telling you all this? Look, I wouldn’t know what to do with him if I had him. Sex is gross, and Kinn’s a fuckin’ horn dog.”
Porsche reels. He’s pretty sure he’s never heard Big speak this much at once outside of a meeting.
“Oh,” Porsche finally says aloud. “Okay.”
“Dinner had better be something good,” Big says as he walks into the kitchen.
It is something good. Porsche made sure the kitchen aunties knew Big was having a hard day.
Porsche looks at his feather again, tracing the skin around it with one fingertip.
He thinks about the numbers that lived on his body for years, about the kids who are scared and alone right now, about his fellow guards who may be put in a position where they have to put their lives on the line.
Is it worth it?
A sort of thick anticipation settles over the entire tower over the next couple of days. Everyone is more cautious, more careful, and people whisper to each other in the many corners of the building. The guards, already so disciplined and diligent, apply themselves with extra vigor to training. The gun range is overcrowded, and there are lines for equipment in the weight room.
Porsche had to wait twenty minutes for one of the two bowflexes, but as luck would have it, the minute he sits down, Som comes up to him and taps him on the shoulder.
“Hey, Porsche,” Som whispers, “hate to interrupt, buuut…” He bobbles his head from side to side, looking around to make sure others aren’t listening in. He whispers even lower. “Look, P’Chan and Khun Kinn kinda got into it in the last meeting. Mek and I, we were just thinking, maybe it’d be a good thing if you talked with your boy.”
Porsche blinks at him. “With… my ‘boy’?” he asks incredulously.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t play dumb,” Som says. “C’mon.”
Porsche follows Som, albeit reluctantly, to what Som calls “Khun Kinn’s lair.” Although the name of the setting sounds stark and foreboding, it turns out to be a stylish pastry bar in an out-of-the-way nook of the tower. Kinn sits in a booth, an untouched pastry in front of him. No one else is present in the small cafe except Mek, standing by Kinn’s side. When Mek sees Som and Porsche, he steps away.
Kinn is brooding fiercely. Mek and Som don’t have to say anything else to Porsche; they go to stand by the door, and Porsche approaches Kinn, sliding into the booth across from him.
Kinn looks up at Porsche, and his mouth thins to a narrow line.
“Wanna talk about it?” Porsche asks.
Kinn just shakes his head and looks away.
Must have been bad, then, Porsche thinks.
After a minute of silence, he slowly reaches across the table. He drags the plate with the croissant on it to the center, letting the plate scrape along the smooth wood. Porsche tears the pastry in half and discovers it’s filled with some sort of thick cream. He gives the cream a quick taste and then pulls off a crispy, flaky bite, shoving it in his mouth.
It’s delicious. He swallows and looks at Kinn’s stern, unhappy profile.
“I’ve been thinking,” Porsche says, considering his words carefully. “About Davies. And the mission. I didn’t realize I was putting you in a tough spot. That this will be a riskier mission because of what I asked.”
Kinn lets out a startled laugh, almost like it’s forced out of him. “Don’t tell me you want to take it back now,” he blurts out.
Porsche fiddles with his half of the pastry. “No. No. I don’t want to do that. But I was thinking. What if you make the mission volunteer-based? Tell the team you’ve assembled that the reason—” Porsche tears at the croissant “—the reason behind the extra risk is to save the kids that got dragged into this mess. And if they want to opt out, they can. Then you can see if someone else wants to take their place.”
Kinn’s whole face slowly relaxes, and he stares at Porsche with his mouth hanging open. Then, like the sun coming out, his mouth turns up into a big, happy grin. With a wordless exclamation, he leans across the table and takes both of Porsche’s cheeks in his hands, squishing him in little circles until Porsche has to swat him away.
“How did you know?” Kinn asks in wonder. “How did you know what Chan and I fought about? That’s exactly the solution I needed, Porsche.”
Bemused, Porsche shrugs. “I didn’t know. I’ve just been thinking about it, is all.”
Kinn laughs and picks up his half of the pastry, taking a big bite out of it.
No one backs out. In fact, more guards who weren’t assigned to the mission ask to join it. Porsche is stunned when he hears the news.
The mission takes place on a Wednesday night. Arm gets taken away from Tankhun, and Arm is holed up with Kinn in the armory, watching the mission play out via camera and audio so that Kinn can make real-time decisions and direct the action. In retaliation for Arm being taken from him, Tankhun claims Porsche for a movie night.
Tankhun’s couch is crowded. Pol gets relegated to the floor, Chay sits in Kim’s lap at one end of the couch, and Porsche gets sandwiched between Tankhun and Macau.
On the screen, Keanu Reeves is dressed all in black, and he does a physically impossible balancing move.
No one is paying attention to the movie, even though it’s their second one of the night. Tankhun continuously picks up his phone from the coffee table, checks it, and puts it down again. Kim attempts to engage Tankhun with half-hearted comments about the action on-screen. Pol jumps at every little sound that isn’t the movie, much like a startled woodland creature.
Porsche, meanwhile, is chewing his thumbnail, mentally running through a list of all the people he knows who are out there right now.
Just as an explosion goes off on the TV screen, Tankhun’s phone lights up.
“I am C-3PO, human-cyborg relations,” comes a tinny voice from the phone, making Porsche jump. “I am fluent in over six million forms of communication.”
Tankhun lunges for the phone, but he fumbles it, almost dropping it over the other edge of the table, knocking various objects to the floor in his haste. The ringtone phrase repeats itself before Tankhun manages to answer.
“Arm, what’s the report?” Tankhun asks from where he’s sprawled across the coffee table on his belly. Popcorn is scattered everywhere.
Porsche watches Tankhun impatiently as he makes unspecific “uh-huh” noises to whatever Arm is saying on the other end.
“What is it? What’s he saying?” Kim asks. One of his arms is locked around Chay’s waist like it’s a safety belt.
Tankhun doesn’t reply in words, only gets up and makes a wild hand-flap at Kim before going back to his “uh-huhs.” Finally, he says, “Good. Let me know if there are any updates,” before ending the call.
“Khun!” Kim hisses. “What did he say?”
Tankhun takes a moment to smooth down one immaculate eyebrow with his index finger.
“Mission successful. They’re bringing Davies in now, along with a couple of his men. And Fern is okay, no injuries.” Then he breaks his composure with a big, “We rule!” and wild flapping arm movements. “Pol! Get the champagne!”
“Yes, sir! With pleasure, sir!” Pol says, scrambling to get his long legs under him and clamber up from the floor.
Porsche leans forward, his gut still tied in knots. “What about the rest of the team?”
Tankhun turns to Porsche, his expression more serious now. “Some injuries, a few of them severe, no losses.” He straightens up and adds, “Big took a bullet in one arm, but he’s going to be fine. He’s already on his way to the hospital, and he’ll get the best care.”
Porsche stiffens. “Big? How bad is it? I should go. How do I get to the hospital? Fuck, I should have been there.” He starts to get up. Chay reaches for him, but Tankhun beats him to it, pushing Porsche back down.
“No, you shouldn’t have,” Tankhun says firmly in a voice without any playfulness or frivolity. “We don’t expose targets unnecessarily, because that’s stupid, and we aren’t stupid. It’s late. We’re going to drink champagne ‘til we pass out, and then we’ll make our rounds at the hospital in the morning after we nurse our hangovers, like sensible people.”
Chay slides off Kim’s lap into the seat Tankhun vacated, taking hold of Porsche’s arm. “Listen to Tankhun, hia. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Well, sometimes he does,” Kim snarks, directing a baleful gaze up at Tankhun.
“Aish! Brat!”
Tankhun makes a threatening motion toward Kim, but Porsche interrupts.
“What happens next?” he asks. He doesn’t really feel ready to celebrate, but it seems like there’s no getting out of it.
Tankhun shrugs. “Kinn asks them whatever questions he wants. And if he doesn’t like the answers, Vegas gets to ask the questions.” Tankhun shakes his head vigorously. “But I’m not interested in that part. No, no, that won’t do. Pol! What’s taking so long?”
“Coming!” Pol shouts from another room. A moment later, he returns, precariously balancing a tray of glasses filled with champagne. “I have the drinks! Porsche, I brought you fruit juice. I hope that’s okay.”
Porsche gets to his feet, and Pol hands over a glass that’s filled with a different color liquid.
“Yeah, thanks,” he says.
“A toast!” Tankhun proclaims.
They each claim a glass and gather around the table.
On screen, Neo speaks in a velvety smooth voice, talking about a new beginning.
Tankhun raises his glass high, and they all follow suit. “To the Theerapanyakuls, and,” Tankhun pauses for effect, “fuck Davies and anyone who gets in our way.”
“CHEERS!”
Although the offensive mission is over, the affair is far from wrapped up. The lockdown continues despite the fact that they now have Davies and two of his men in custody. Or perhaps the lockdown continues precisely because they have such a significant person in their grasp.
Porsche barely sees Kinn during this time. Days go by with very little for Porsche to do besides study, train, and harass Big into recovering faster. Plus, with Chay back at school, there’s even less to distract him.
It isn’t until four days later that Porsche gets a text from Kinn at midday.
Kinn: We have a lead. Following up to verify.
At first, Porsche is confused about what lead Kinn means. Then in a flash he remembers: the kids. Certainly that wouldn’t be the only topic that would come up in the interrogations, but it’s the only lead that would be relevant to Porsche.
He’s useless for the rest of the day. He checks his phone over and over, but he doesn’t receive any more messages. Part of him wants to text Kinn back and ask for updates, but he knows these things take time.
By the next evening, he’s about ready to twitch out of his skin. Just ten minutes after joining Kim and Chay in one of the many, many dining rooms, Chay calls him out.
“Hia, you’re going to start an earthquake if your leg jiggles any harder,” Chay says.
Porsche slaps a hand on his leg, holding it still. “Shouldn’t we have heard something by now?”
Kim gives Porsche a sidelong look, assessing. “Spar with me,” he says.
“What?” Porsche blurts out. Kim doesn’t look like much. Maybe he has a little training?
Kim stands up from the table. “You need to blow off steam. Let’s go.”
“But what about the food?” Chay asks, looking at their full plates. They’d barely managed to take a few bites.
“We’ll get something after,” Kim says. He pulls the chair out of his way and starts to leave, evidently expecting to be followed.
“Wait!” Porsche says. “Are you sure about this?” He doesn’t want to get blamed if he injures Chay’s boyfriend and Kinn’s little brother.
Kim turns around. Although his expression remains perfectly placid, there’s fire in his eyes. “Let’s go.”
Chay just shakes his head slowly. “This is such a bad idea.”
Kim smiles, and suddenly he doesn’t seem entirely… balanced. Excitement rises in Porsche’s chest, a sort of itch and need to move. He doesn’t ask any more questions after that.
They claim a vacant training room. As it turns out, the baby Theerpanyakul — who, to be fair, is about Porsche’s age — fights like a demon. And he fights dirty. Porsche has to use all his wits to stay in the ring and on his feet. He can’t remember the last time he had a fight this satisfying.
Chay watches from the sideline, refusing to cheer for either of them. In fact, he curses them both out for going too hard.
Kim, whom Porsche had taken for little more than a spoiled, rich idol, lays Porsche out flat. Then he offers Porsche a hand up.
Porsche takes Kim’s hand. “Best two out of three?” he asks, hopeful.
“Haven’t you had enough?” Chay asks, sounding panicked.
Porsche hasn’t had nearly enough. He’s about ready to get down on one knee and propose to Kim that they be sparring partners for life.
Mek finds them when they’re on round three. Porsche is just about to launch himself at Kim when Mek calls out to them.
“Khun Kim, Porsche!” Mek approaches the ring and respectfully bows to Kim. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Khun Kinn wanted me to inform you that we just recovered eight young people from Davies’s operation. The extraction team experienced only minor injuries.”
Porsche drops his fighting stance, shocked. “Really? Are you serious?” He must have heard that wrong. It sounds like they just succeeded.
Mek grins and gives one sharp nod, beaming. “Completely serious. Pete led the team himself. He said the kids are shaken and scared but in relatively good condition. He’s coordinating with Vegas’s police detective to get them home.”
A buzzing begins underneath Porsche’s skin, and it makes him start bouncing on his toes. He’s suddenly so excited that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Because Chay is too far away, Porsche lets out a shout of joy and throws his arms around the nearest target, which happens to be Kim. Kim hollers in alarm, but Porsche just lifts him up in the air in the bear hug and shakes him.
“Get off me, maniac!” Kim bitches, but he doesn’t fight his way loose.
Still, Porsche decides it’s best not to push his luck, and he drops Kim to his feet and then goes after Chay, who has to wrangle him to prevent him from hugging him, considering Chay’s recent back tattoo. Laughing, Porsche buries his face in Chay’s shoulder instead, and Chay hugs him tight and pats his back, saying things like “that’s so amazing” and “they’re going home.” When Porsche lifts his face, he has to blink rapidly to see again because apparently he started crying as he laughed into Chay’s shirt.
“Porsche?” Mek interrupts. “Khun Kinn wants to see you. He asked me to bring you to him.”
Porsche looks down at himself. He’s a mess from the sparring session, with sweat soaking his shirt. “Let me change real quick, then I’ll go find Kinn. Where’s he at?”
Mek hesitates, and Porsche thinks the older guard is going to answer, but the silence draws out for a surprisingly long time.
Kim is the one who ends up answering. “He’s in the holding cells,” he says in a voice as heavy as lead. “That’s where he’s keeping Davies.” More gently, he says to Mek, “I’ll take him down. You can go.” This is accompanied by a dismissive wave of one hand, and Mek bows before leaving.
The exuberant thrill of success disappears as fast as it came on, leaving Porsche stunned and hollow in its wake. His arm starts to hurt, and he realizes Chay is clutching at it, hard, watching Mek’s retreating back.
Kim comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. First things first. Clean shirts.”
Porsche follows along with Kim, and somehow he loses track of time again. That hasn’t happened for a while, and yet it feels as though he blinks and then he’s somewhere deep in the bowels of the tower, following Kim down a wide staircase. Chay is at his side.
They reach a turn in the staircase where there’s a landing, and Kinn stands there with Mek and Som watching over him. Kinn looks up as they arrive, and his gaze lingers on Chay for a moment before going back to Kim, who gives Kinn a jerking nod of his chin.
“Come with me,” Kinn says, and he walks down the next staircase, flanked by Mek and Som. Kim, Chay, and Porsche bring up the rear.
At the bottom of the stairs, Porsche discovers Kinn has a whole damn dungeon in his tower. Porsche assumed there had to be something like this, but he’s become so used to the opulence of the building that the barren, gray atmosphere makes a stark contrast.
Another guard stands outside a spacious, poorly lit cell. The guard hurries to open the door for Kinn, and Kinn motions for Kim and Porsche to follow him in. Chay follows because no one stops him.
In the cell, Davies sits on the floor, his back to the concrete wall behind him. His arms are pulled above his head, strung up in shackles. There’s a streak of dried blood in his hair, and his left eye is swollen and bruised. Clothes that once would have been worn to a party are now stained, marked in brown and black and red.
Davies weakly turns his head to look at everyone before focusing on Kinn.
“What’s this, then, Anakinn?” Davies asks in English. “Visiting day, is that what’s happening?” He coughs, groans, and winces. “Nevermind, nevermind. Have you contacted Fredrick yet? I swear he can get you whatever you want in exchange for my release.”
“I have, in fact, been in touch with him,” Kinn says, also in English. “He sends his regrets.”
Davies’s eyes slowly widen. He laughs once, but it’s mirthless. “You’re lying.” He whispers the two words to himself a few more times as though willing them to be true.
“I’m not lying,” Kinn says, folding his arms across his chest and coming to stand on Porsche’s left. He continues, “I’m afraid I have worse news. Your man Rama gave us the location of the children, and we’ve just completed the operation to recover them. Which means you no longer serve a purpose.”
“Ransom!” Davies tries to move, to pull at his shackles, but he doesn’t get far. With the way he cringes, Porsche wonders whether he has a broken rib. “Fredrick can pay you a ransom if you contact him.”
“Fredrick is too busy wrestling for control to concern himself with you,” Kinn explains patiently, as though to a child. “And I’m not interested in that sort of disgusting money anyway.”
Porsche looks down on the man who once held him captive. It was for a mere handful of months, but this man owned Porsche, and yet here he sits, fallen. Caged and chained, displaced from the wealth that once surrounded him. Without power, without control.
Just like Porsche used to be.
And as Porsche looks at him, he thinks that he should feel something more clearly, but his emotions are muddled. He doesn’t feel disgust, or pity, or anger. Instead, he calmly thinks, This isn’t justice.
What can a few days of suffering compare with nine long, agonizing years?
Porsche looks at Kinn. “What did you call me here for?”
Kinn meets Porsche’s eyes, and he’s every inch the mafia leader, but there’s still something hidden in the depth of those eyes, something that says he’s the man and lover that Porsche has come to know.
“I wanted you to see that he isn’t a threat to you anymore,” Kinn says.
On the floor, Davies scoffs. “I am—” he struggles to straighten his posture, “— I am still Reese Davies!”
Kinn spares Davies a condescending smile before focusing back on Porsche. “There’s only one thing left to do. And that’s up to you.”
Kinn reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun. He flips it in his hand so that he can offer it to Porsche handle first.
“You can’t be serious! You can’t be serious!” Davies says, shaking his head. “This has gone far enough. You said you have the kids! So what else is it that you want? Whatever it is, you can have it. Just tell me already!”
Porsche stares at the gun, and without looking away from it, he says firmly, “Chay, you should go. Now.”
“No.”
Porsche whips his head around to meet his brother’s eyes. Chay is glaring, mutinous, eyes hard as stone and burning with unconcealed rage.
“I have the right to be here,” Chay manages to grit out.
Silently, Kim drifts closer to Chay’s side, hands in his pockets. His eyes are calm, almost serene, but no less resolute than Chay’s.
Porsche stares at Chay for a long time, while Davies continues to rant and make one-sided arguments with Kinn. Porsche shouldn’t… and isn’t this a part of why he agreed to walk away when Chay’s foster mom told him he should? To avoid Chay getting caught up in something like this?
Porsche’s eyes drop down to the floor, staring at stains and meaningless patterns as he thinks.
Seeing his indecision, Chay finally snaps, “Porsche!” so sharply that it startles him, making him look up again. Chay shakes his head slowly. “What would you do if our roles were reversed? Huh? Would you go? Think about that for just a second.”
Porsche doesn’t have to think about it. He knows what he’d do. So he swallows down his regrets and gives Chay a nod, and then he takes the gun from Kinn, cocks it, and aims it at Davies.
“You can’t be serious,” Davies says, eyes wide. “You can’t be.”
Porsche breathes deeply and steadies himself.
“Do you have any last words?” Porsche asks.
“Last words? Last words?” Davies exclaims, and spittle flies from his mouth. “Sure. Sure, I have last words. Do you think you can change anything? You can’t. You’re still the same thing that I picked up and sold at a higher price.”
“Porsche,” Kinn hisses, “don’t listen to this. Just end it. Now.”
At that, Davies starts laughing. “See? See? What did I tell you? You may have changed hands, and Anakinn may be playing nice with you for now, but you’re still just a tool. You think you’re free now? You’ll take your orders and do what you’re told for the rest of your life, because that’s the difference between those with power and those without it. You’ll never be free.” His laughter echoes through the cell, out into the hall, scattering in all directions.
The laughter sickens Porsche. But what sickens him more is that what he said… makes sense.
He stands there for what feels like a long time, but in reality he only breathes in deeply, once, twice.
“Porsche,” Kinn says quietly, neither a question nor a command.
Porsche looks at Kinn and asks, “What happens if I tell you no?”
Kinn’s eyes slowly widen, as though he has some sort of realization.
“Nothing,” Kinn says. “Nothing at all.”
Porsche swallows and nods and refocuses on Davies, steadying his aim.
At this, Davies starts writhing in his chains, trying to rise but unable to get to his feet. “You can’t, you can’t, you can’t,” he says over and over.
And slowly, Porsche realizes that he doesn’t want to pull the trigger. But he also can’t look away, can’t take his eyes off this pathetic man.
A gentle hand settles lightly on his forearm. Chay is at Porsche’s side, and Porsche looks at him.
“It’s okay, hia,” Chay says. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. It’s okay.”
The gentlest of pressure guides Porsche’s arm down. And when Chay holds Porsche’s wrist to take the gun from his hand, Porsche lets go.
“You can leave it to me.”
Chay then aims the gun at Davies and fires three times in rapid succession. It happens so fast that Porsche only has time to gasp after it’s over. Porsche looks at the body, feeling stunned and numb, watching as red spreads from two holes in Davies’s chest and one in his forehead. The expression on his pale face is one of stupefied surprise.
A sharp huff escapes Chay, like a gasp that’s an exhale. He starts shaking, and Kim swiftly takes the gun from his hand before it can fall. Barely paying attention to Kim, Chay turns tear-filled eyes on Porsche.
“I did it, hia,” Chay says, and tears start to fall. “I finally protected you.”
Porsche reaches out, getting fistfulls of Chay’s shirt, and he hauls his brother into himself to cry on his shoulder.
And if Porsche cries too, his face twisting up and tears falling into Chay’s soft hair as he strokes it, well, that’s fine. They can have this.
Chay isn’t nervous, at least not exactly. He’s walked into strip clubs, gambling dens, illegal race tracks, and underground fighting rings, all without batting an eye. Now he sits on a comfortable couch, at home, and an unnameable emotion weighs his shoulders down like lead.
He’s the only one home right now. His foster “dad,” Freeloader Pu, is who-knows-where as always, and mom doesn’t know Chay is here, waiting for her. Chay feels it’s fair that she doesn’t get any warning to expect him; after all, she didn’t inform Porsche that she would be meeting him in Chay’s place.
When Chay thinks about Porsche, how he must have felt as he sat there expecting Chay to show up any minute, and how Chay didn’t even know it was happening, a fresh wave of anger bubbles up in his chest.
Chay’s heart starts racing. Anger and anxiety make uncomfortable companions in his chest, and he presses his hand over his heart. Steady beat, he needs a steady beat, the right rhythm, and he takes deep breaths to calm down, just like Dr. Jantra always tells him.
When his heart slows, he props his elbows on his knees and looks at his hands.
I killed a man yesterday, he thinks.
In dramas and movies, characters seem to make a big deal of washing blood off their hands, or they have traumatic reactions that make them think their clean hands are dirty. But for Chay, it’s the opposite. He feels like something rotten and festering has been exorcized from his soul. He feels cleaner, lighter than he did before. Although there’s no way to ever get back what was stolen from him and from Porsche, he was able to fight back. He isn’t helpless anymore.
His phone is on silent, but it vibrates in his pocket when he gets a text.
🍑Mik🔪: you sure you don’t want me there?
Chay smiles, and some of the tension eases up.
Me: aww
Me: I’m fine, but you’re cute when you worry
Me: i mean that in a good way
🍑Mik🔪: you’re a pain my ass
Me: is that a request? 😜
🍑Mik🔪: shut up
🍑Mik🔪: good luck
Chay sighs and scrolls back through his texts with Kim. They’re all short and to the point, unlike his texts with Porsche, but somehow even the tiny messages and insults are endearing to him.
Then he flips to the list he’d been trying to work on a while back, the one that Kim had changed to “Make Porchay Happy.” It’s been sitting empty since that night. After a moment’s deliberation, thoughtfully chewing at his lip, he types a to-do item:
Marry Kim
It’s so stupid. Their relationship is based on convenience. They probably won’t even last a year. But typing it and seeing it there makes Chay happy, so he decides to leave it for now. He can always change the list a million times. He looks at the note page again and realizes that having just one item on the list seems even sadder than leaving it blank, so he types another item quickly: Visit Korea. Then he adds another. And another. The list grows longer and longer. He forgets about all the messy, tangled emotions and loses track of the time between one wish and the next.
He almost misses the sound of the car pulling up the driveway. Almost.
He left his motorcycle in front of the garage, so she knows he’s home.
The anger and frustration and nerves all come rushing back. He puts his phone back in his pocket and rubs his hands together, looking down at them.
The front door opens and closes.
“Chay?” his mom’s voice calls out hesitantly from the front hall.
Chay doesn’t look up. “In the living room,” he calls back. Good. His voice is steady, firm. Vocal training has its advantages.
She takes her heels off in the hall, so the slow, measured patting sound of house slippers tells Chay that she’s approaching. He doesn’t look up, just stares at his hands as he folds them once, opens them to stretch his fingers, and then folds them again. He doesn’t know what expression to make, what he wants her to see on his face, so he keeps his eyes down.
Across from him, Santichai puts her briefcase and purse down on the floor next to a chair, and then she perches on the edge of the seat.
The silence stretches out, long and thin, like the final chord of a song that refuses to fade. But Chay is very patient, and he won’t be the one to speak first.
“Are you in any sort of trouble?” his mom asks, gentle but firm.
The question irritates him. It was the wrong thing for her to ask.
“For a given definition of ‘trouble,’ no, I’m not,” Chay says, eyes still glued on his hands.
Mom takes a deep, shaky breath at that. “Good. That’s good.”
Chay clenches his hands together, hard, but he forces himself to unfold them again.
“I’m going to ask you something,” Chay says, “and I need you to be completely honest with me. Completely honest.”
Finally he looks up at her, at that face he knows so well. A worry line appears between her brows, and her mouth is tense. Looking at her now, he feels his anger rise to the surface again, and he lets it show on his face.
“Why did you do it? Why did you make him stay away?” he asks, desperate. She opens her mouth slightly, but he has more to say, so he keeps going. “And I swear if you say anything about it being his choice, I will walk out that door without looking back. He chose to find me, and you chose to send him away.”
She flinches, and good. That’s good. She’s taking him seriously. Something about her reaction satisfies him but also makes him want more. He wants to drag a confession out of her no matter how much it will hurt her.
But he knows his mom well, and she isn’t one to ever lose her cool or stay ruffled for long. Even as he watches, he sees her steel herself, straightening her shoulders the way she does every day when she walks out the door.
“I did make that choice,” she admits calmly. Chay almost feels like he’s one of her board members, staring at her across a conference table. “But I want you to know I didn’t make it lightly.”
“The fact that you made it at all is the problem!” Chay snaps, betrayal and hurt roiling under his skin as he searches for any sign of remorse on her face. “You had no right to do that! I trusted you, and you took that choice away from me, took Porsche away from me. You lied to me,” and that’s it, that’s the moment where his voice breaks, but he doesn’t stop. “You looked me in the face when you knew exactly where my hia was, after you sent him away. You had no right.”
“I… didn’t think of it as a ‘right,’” she says. She blinks slowly, and suddenly Chay realizes how tired she looks. Even with her makeup on, he can tell that dark circles stain the skin under her eyes. “What I had was an opportunity to buy time, and I decided to take it. I hoped there’d be more time, but in the end there was hardly any at all.” She lets out a small, bitter laugh.
Chay shakes his head slowly. “I don’t understand anything you’re saying. What do you mean? Buy time?” His volume increases with every question. He can’t seem to control it. “What were you going to do? Hide me away so he could never find me? Buy time for what?”
“Time for you!” Santichai shouts back, and a swift jerk of her head knocks her perfectly groomed hair loose, ruffling it. “I was buying time for you, Chay. For you to grow up, for you to make a life of your own, for you to—”
She cuts herself off, but he won’t stand for it.
“For me to what?” he demands. “Just say it!”
“For you to let go of the guilt that’s been eating you alive,” she says, and here she finally breaks, getting up and pacing restlessly, looking at him whenever she turns. “I have hoped, and I have prayed, that you would find something, anything, that would keep you out of the darkness, but you’ve chased it, further and further. I know, Chay. I know some of it, at least. About the deals you make and the nightclubs and the hacking. The types of people you’ve associated with in your quest for answers. And when you came home one night with that demon wing on your back…” She stops her pacing and swallows hard, looking straight at him. “I had hoped with the music, or with starting a new life at college… but it was never enough. The path you’re on, it’s dangerous, Chay.”
Chay looks up at her, the fire in his veins fading away, only to be replaced with frosty cold.
“But I’ve been on this path since I was born,” he says, anger lacing his tone, “which apparently you’ve known since the day we met. You knew it much better than I did, in fact.”
His mom closes her eyes and sways where she stands.
“You found out, then,” she says.
Chay nods. “I’ve learned a lot recently.”
He clenches his jaw as he stares at her. He hates all of this so much, but there’s nothing he can do to make it go away. This is the same woman who sat next to his bedside and told him it was okay, he didn’t have to speak until he was ready. The woman who became the first mother he could remember. He just can’t make sense of how she could hide so much from him and betray his trust so badly.
She returns to her seat, this time folding herself into it and leaning against the backrest, her legs sprawled out in front of her. “I do know what that’s like. I had no clue, none at all, that the work I was doing to build that accounting firm was all to support the mafia. I knew nothing until I was forced to take over.”
Chay narrows his eyes. “You got a shitty deal. I get that. But is that supposed to make me feel bad for you? So I’ll forgive you for keeping the truth from me?”
Then his mom, his composed and calculating foster mother, actually rolls her eyes at him. “I’m not making a sympathy play. I’m just… letting you know what happened.” She sighs. “You deserve that.”
“Yeah,” Chay agrees. “But that wasn’t the only thing you kept quiet. I also deserved to know why you agreed to foster me. And I deserved to know that Freeloader Pu threatened to expose you if you ever tried to divorce him.”
Mom’s eyes snap to Chay’s face in alarm. “How did you find that out?”
Chay laughs, once, and he shakes his head. “I didn’t. It was just a guess. I literally just put it together right now.” He laughs again, low and hollow, and puts his head in his hands.
After a pause, mom laughs as well, and it sounds every bit as painful as his own laugh. “Clever, very clever. You know, I think there ought to be a curse that says, ‘May you have smart children.’”
Silence descends after that. Chay tries desperately to gather his thoughts, but they’re even more scattered now, like a stone being broken into smaller and smaller pieces until it becomes sand. Where was he even going with this? What did he hope to achieve? At first he wanted answers, but now what?
He hears his mom get up from the chair. She approaches Chay and delicately perches on the couch next to him. Chay drops his hands and tilts his head, looking sideways up at her.
“Chay,” she says softly, “when I first brought you home, I admit it was because I had no choice. I walked on pins and needles, thinking the Theerapanyakuls could show up at any moment, especially during that first year when you wouldn’t speak. I’d been so afraid for so long, and then my survival depended on a little boy who looked like he’d completely given up hope.”
She was right; he had given up hope. He’d lost his family and his ability to believe in other people. Chay only vaguely remembers that year; it felt like he spent that time walking around in a trance.
His mom continues speaking, her voice now gently coaxing. “But then you started talking again, started living again. And I wanted both of us to live. Not just live but be free.” She puts a hand on his forearm, and he stares at that hand without knowing what to do. “But you haven’t been free. You’ve been torturing yourself with the past. Chay, honey, I don’t want to see you lose yourself or get dragged down.”
Suddenly horrified, Chay scrambles away from her, getting up off the couch.
“And that’s it, isn’t it?” Chay snaps, anger rising to the surface again. “You think Porsche is going to drag me down. You took one look at him and decided you had to ‘protect’ me from him.”
Mom’s eyes go firm and unyielding. “I did. That’s what I decided. I knew the moment you came home with that wing that no matter what it cost you, you’d chase him anywhere, no matter what. Even if it got you hurt.”
“It isn’t about just me,” Chay hollers, angry, gesturing helplessly with his hands. “Porsche needed help, and you turned your back on him!”
“I refuse to open the door to someone who’s going to prey on you, use you!”
“How the fuck did you look at him and decide he was going to use me?” His voice is getting torn to shreds now. “Excuse me, but what the fuck?”
She presses her mouth together in a thin line. “What I saw was a man, using his fists to fight for a living, who had been traveling around the world doing it. I know you wanted to believe that he didn’t abandon you, Chay, but if he really had been trafficked, there’s no way he could have just shown up out of the blue after nine years.”
Chay clutches his hair and lets out a shout of wordless frustration.
“No! No! You don’t see, because that is exactly what happened!” He rushes back to her, sits on the couch next to her, points at the skin next to his own right eye. “You saw the scars, didn’t you? On his face? Do you want to know what that’s from? It’s because a person who paid money for him threw him in an arena with a vicious attack dog and no weapons, in front of an audience who paid to see it happen. And the dog tried to chew his face off!”
That finally seems to get through to her, and she gasps, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. Her eyes are wide and horrified, and she shakes her head.
But that tiny bit of horror isn’t enough for Chay.
“Still don’t believe me?” Chay demands. “0-4-7-8. That’s the number they tattooed on him to turn him into a piece of fucking property. And you know what else? That same day you met with him, men tried to chase him down to kill him for getting away. So you know what? Maybe you really did save my life that day, but you did it by throwing him to the wolves!”
Tears well up and overflow in his mother’s eyes, running down over the hands that are still covering the lower half of her face. “I don’t know. I didn’t know,” she mutters over and over again behind her hands.
Chay takes a shaky breath and realizes he’s also crying.
“Well, it’s too late now,” he says brokenly. And he gets up again and walks away. He turns his back on her and stands in front of the window that overlooks the backyard.
Chay listens to her sniffle behind him, listens to the little movements and rustles as she gets herself under control. He takes satisfaction in not giving her any out, not making this any easier for her.
He leans his forehead against the cool glass.
Eventually, she asks, “What do you plan to do now?”
The wrong question again. Chay closes his eyes, annoyed and exhausted. Then he turns around and leans back against the large window, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m going to do what I can to help him.” He thinks of the list he started building just before she arrived. “And I’m going to think about what else I want. But Porsche is going to be a big part of my life from now on, and you can’t do anything to stop that.”
Her eyes are red, sore as well as tired. He so rarely sees her looking less than perfectly groomed that it’s startling to see.
“When have I ever really been able to stop you from doing anything?” she says, sounding bitter and amused at the same. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and she clasps her hands in front of her. “I still don’t know whether that’s a good thing for you, though. You have no idea how worried I’ve been these past weeks. I have no idea where you’ve been, and I’m afraid to ask.” She looks up at him, and her knuckles go white from squeezing her hands together. “Can you tell me that since you’ve found him, you’ve been making safe decisions? Or have you been taking even more risks? How long will it be until you do something that you could never come back from?”
Unbidden, the image of Davies comes to Chay’s mind. At first the image is of the man pulling against his chains, ranting and raving, but as he blinks to try to clear the thought, it changes. He sees Davies, dead and bleeding and pathetic, killed by Chay’s own hand.
He opens and closes his mouth and can’t speak. The silence rings, and his ears fill with the rushing sound of his pulse.
“I see,” she says quietly.
The words unlock inside of him, and he steps away from the window, dropping his arms to clench his fists at his sides.
“My hia is worth taking risks for. He’s worth it.”
She looks up at him with haunted eyes and then looks down at her hands.
Chay closes his eyes and sighs. There are things they still need to sort out, but if they talk anymore, they’re liable to end up going in circles.
He makes himself relax. He puts his hands in his pocket and starts walking.
When he gets past the couch and nears the entry hall, she speaks.
“Chay.”
Chay halts in place but he doesn’t turn around.
“I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” she says, and he hears a rustling movement behind him as she rises to stand. “I’m not sorry I kept you safe. But…”
She hesitates, and Chay thinks she’s going to ask more questions — where he’s going, who he’s with, what he’s planning. He doesn’t want to hear them.
“But I do want your forgiveness for betraying your trust,” she says, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to lose you. So how do I fix this? Is there any way you can forgive me?”
Chay closes his eyes. It’s the right question.
He takes a long, deep breath and turns slightly, looking at her over his shoulder.
“I don’t know the answer to that,” he says honestly. “But if there’s something you want, you have to try for it to happen.”
She nods slowly with understanding.
This time when he starts walking, she doesn’t stop him.
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Heavy chapter. No shade on anyone who wants to skip this chapter and go straight to the next one.
Davies is captured. Eventually Kinn basically offers Porsche the opportunity to kill Davies himself, and Davies basically says Porsche is still a possession in Kinn’s hands, but Porsche confirms with Kinn that he has a choice. Porsche realizes he doesn’t want to kill Davies. Chay, who is also at the scene of the confrontation, takes the gun from Porsche and kills Davies in cold blood.
Also, Chay confronts Santichai, and it is a messy experience for them both. Chay brings up the scar on Porsche’s face and how he got it, describing the cruelty involved (both to human and animal) in vivid terms out of anger, and he also brings up that Porsche was tattooed against his will. Chay and Santichai both get a lot out in the open but don’t completely resolve their conflict.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Whew. You all okay? That was a lot.
Chapter 24: Sunshine Smile
Summary:
A smile is worth fighting for.
Notes:
Thank you to enbymoomin for beta!
REMINDER: I have posted spoiler descriptions of potential triggers at the end of the chapter. Skip down to check spoilers if you need, but there isn't much for this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Kinn reclines on the couch in his apartment, fighting the never-ending battle to keep his work email from overflowing. Spam, spam, documents to sign, spam, spam, investment reports to read, more spam. As he works, background noise accompanies him; the clack-clacking of wooden puzzle pieces acts as background noise, along with the dialogue of the movie playing on the TV.
He nudges his reading glasses back up on the bridge of his nose.
Sitting on Kinn’s left, Porsche is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, as he finishes reassembling a wooden puzzle ball for the third time. On the TV screen, an animated boy in a red jacket talks to a skeleton wearing a straw hat. The movie had been Porsche’s idea, something he’d heard of but never seen. The puzzle ball had been Kinn’s idea when Porsche couldn’t sit still after the first ten minutes.
Porsche also happens to be shirtless, which is much more distracting for Kinn than either the wooden clacking or the movie.
In fact, Porsche has been wandering around Kinn’s apartment shirtless for the better part of three days now, and the reason lies underneath his skin. The outline of a single open wing stretches across his right shoulder blade, shoulder, and arm. Some areas look pink to Kinn’s eyes, though it’s already showing improvement. He has more appointments scheduled for coloring in this wing and adding the other.
Porsche says it aches, and he doesn’t want to wear a shirt unless he has to. Kinn doesn’t mind.
On the screen, another musical number begins, something upbeat and fun. It draws Porsche’s attention, and the wooden clacking pauses as he watches the screen intently.
Kinn lays his tablet flat.
“You seem to like it?” he asks.
Porsche glances over his freshly outlined wing at Kinn. A little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s cute.” He looks at the screen again. “The color is so bright I feel like I need sunglasses, but this is good.”
Kinn could get used to evenings like this, just quietly working next to Porsche as he gets caught up on pop culture. The only real problem is that Kinn will have to make sure Tankhun — the family’s self-proclaimed King of Pop Culture — doesn’t get wind that this is happening without him, or there’ll be hell to pay.
“You know, this movie probably would have freaked me out when I was a kid,” Porsche says casually. He starts pulling apart the puzzle ball again. “I used to be scared of ghosts. And I mean really, really scared.”
Kinn snorts in amusement, picturing a little Porsche hiding under a blanket. “I think if a ghost came after you now, you could probably just beat it back into the afterlife.”
Porsche gives him another quick glance over his shoulder, a half-smile on his mouth. “Yeah, probably.”
Porsche goes back to his movie and his puzzle, and Kinn returns to his work, determined to wrap it up quickly. Then maybe he can focus on wrapping himself around Porsche.
Before he can get that far, though, the ding of a cell phone interrupts the peaceful atmosphere. It’s Porsche’s phone, though not the familiar and oft-heard sound of a text message from Porchay.
Porsche makes a surprised, wordless little sound. His hands are full, so after a moment of confusion he shoves the puzzle pieces he’s holding onto the coffee table. He takes out his phone and looks at it in confusion.
“What is it?” Kinn asks.
“Hm? I’m not sure. It wasn’t a text, but I don’t see anything,” Porsche says.
Kinn leans just slightly to glance over Porsche’s shoulder. “You have an email notification.”
“I do? Oh.”
Kinn relaxes back against the couch, leaving Porsche to poke around and find his own way on his phone. He needs some pointers sometimes, but he’s been picking up on tech quickly.
A few moments later, Porsche blindly gropes around on the coffee table for the TV remote, and he pauses the movie. When Kinn looks up, Porsche is frowning quietly at his phone.
“Something wrong?”
“It’s an email,” Porsche says. “It’s from Porchay’s foster mom. She… wants to meet.”
Kinn frowns, and scenarios start running through his mind. They’ve only just barely put the Davies incident behind them. Could one of Davies’s people be going through the foster mother to try to get revenge? Or could someone else have an interest in Porsche?
Kinn puts his tablet down on the couch. “Did she say why she wants to meet?”
Alerted by something in Kinn’s tone, Porsche straightens and looks at him, taking in his expression. Kinn has a feeling his face might be doing something scary, because Porsche hesitates before responding.
“You’re worried,” Porsche says. “She says she wants to apologize, though. Here.” Porsche offers his phone to Kinn, and he accepts it, turning it around to read the message.
Hello Porsche,
I realize you were likely not expecting to hear from me and perhaps did not want to. However, I hope you will hear me out.
Porchay has made me realize that I gravely misjudged you and your reasons for reaching out to him. I did not give you or your situation the benefit of the doubt. For that, I would like to apologize.
I would like, if you’re willing, to meet in person and apologize properly. I owe you that much at least both for your sake and Porchay’s.
You’re welcome to let me know when and where, and I will meet you there.
Sincerely,
Santichai Lertchuchot
“Chay went to have a talk with her a few days ago. That was before we did the second sitting for our tattoos,” Porsche says by way of explanation. “He wouldn’t tell me much about how it went, just said he’d have to wait and see.” Porsche pauses. “He still seemed upset.”
Kinn hands Porsche’s phone back to him. Porsche doesn’t look at the message again, just shuts it off and puts it on the coffee table amongst the pieces of the puzzle, which is partly reassembled.
“Do you want to meet her?” Kinn asks, taking off his reading glasses and setting them on his tablet. The fact that it’s up to Porsche to set up the meeting is some small comfort — and Kinn would have insisted on it one way or another — but he still doesn’t like the situation or the timing.
“Want to? No,” Porsche says. He picks up one of the wooden puzzle pieces and fiddles with it between his hands, running fingers over curved and angular edges. “The last time I met her, eh, it really didn’t go well. Not exactly a fond memory.”
“But?” Kinn prompts.
“But I think I probably should,” Porsche says. “For Porchay.”
Kinn was afraid he’d say that. “You can think about it if you want,” he suggests. “You don’t have to decide right now.”
Porsche presses his lips together and makes a small sound of disagreement. “No. Don’t want to think about it. Just want to get it over with.” He puts down the puzzle piece and reaches for the phone.
“Wait,” Kinn says, reaching to put a hand on Porsche’s bare arm. His mind is abuzz with all the ways this could go wrong. Aside from the woman potentially getting under Porsche’s skin again, this could be a setup. “Just wait. Before you agree to meet, talk to Arm first. Let him pick a time and location.”
“Huh?” Porsche gives Kinn a perplexed look, but then his eyes slowly widen. “Oh. You think she could be working with someone? I didn’t even think of that.”
Kinn shrugs subtly. It’s just an everyday reality of his life.
“That’s fine,” Porsche says as he puts his phone back on the coffee table. “I can talk to Arm in the morning then.”
Kinn smiles, pleased. He was worried Porsche would put up more of a resistance. “Good. He can make sure it’s a secure location, one our team is familiar with, and he’ll set up your detail.”
“My… detail,” Porsche says flatly. He looks at Kinn like he just grew antlers and pointy ears.
Ah, there’s the resistance Kinn was expecting. He stares at Porsche, trying to look wide-eyed and hopeful. It doesn’t seem to work.
“Kinn, are you really thinking of sending bodyguards to protect another bodyguard?” Porsche asks, his tone clearly indicating that he thinks Kinn has gone mad.
Kinn swallows and brushes at a wrinkle in his slacks. He takes a deep breath.
Now is as good a time as any to bring this up, he thinks, but even the convenient segue doesn’t make it any easier.
“You aren’t just any bodyguard, though,” Kinn says. “Your position was unique from the start. But… you don’t have to be if you don’t want. My bodyguard, that is.”
Porsche frowns and turns to face him on the couch. “What do you mean? Are you firing me?”
“I’m not— I’m not firing you. That’s not what this is.” Kinn says quickly, the words more harsh than he intended. He takes another breath and tries to continue more calmly. “Porsche, it’s a bodyguard’s job to jump in front of a bullet for me. And I’d really rather not see you do that, okay?” He reaches out to take Porsche’s nearest hand, and thankfully Porsche doesn’t shy away from his touch but instead allows him to link their fingers together. “So I’ve been thinking, maybe we could end the contract, and we continue on. You can stay here as long as you like, of course. I hope you’ll stay. And Porchay, too. He already comes and goes with Kim anyway.”
Porsche doesn’t respond right away, but he squeezes Kinn’s hand warmly as he thinks. He looks down at their joined hands, resting on his knee.
“I don’t… I’m not sure—” Porsche stumbles at first and then shakes his head. “I just got started, though. I’m still getting a handle on how to do this. And I think— I think I kind of like protecting you. I definitely liked that I could put Megat in his place in the Blue Room. I want to be able to be at your side. Can’t we keep things like they are? For now?”
Kinn swallows hard. It isn’t what he wanted to hear, but how can he say no to that? And still, the way Porsche added on “for now” gives Kinn some hope. Maybe with more time and some guidance, Porsche will find another opportunity, something else he wants to try his hand at.
“Okay. Okay,” Kinn agrees.
Porsche’s face lightens up, and he looks so relieved that Kinn can’t even regret agreeing to his demands. Porsche grins, and then suddenly he’s squirming around on the couch. He lifts Kinn’s arm and shuffles around until he can lie down on his left side, and he lays his head on Kinn’s lap, looking up at him with a smug little smile. Then Porsche puts Kinn’s hand on the side of his own head, clearly demanding pets.
Kinn hums in amusement and runs his thumb over Porsche’s temple, through the soft black hair. The scars are hidden under his palm, reduced to merely warm skin under his touch.
Kinn smiles bemusedly. “What is this? Is using me as a pillow turning into a thing for you?”
“Mmhm,” Porsche says.
“So spoiled,” Kinn says fondly. But then he frowns down at him. “I still want you to take a detail to the meeting. Just two guards is fine.” He’d prefer to send four, but he doesn’t think Porsche will stand for it.
Porsche whines. “Kinn.”
“Porsche,” Kinn whines back, gently mocking. “You aren’t just any bodyguard. You’re my companion bodyguard. Plus we just got past that whole shitstorm with Davies. So let me be a paranoid bastard, okay? Let me keep you safe.”
I need you safe. I don’t want to lose you, he thinks.
Kinn has many things he thinks and feels about Porsche that he doesn’t say aloud. He’s ready for everything. He wants nothing more than to just throw himself headlong into this man, to shout these feelings aloud. But Porsche isn’t ready. Kinn can read it in every movement and reaction, in his hesitations and nervous ticks.
It’s probably a good thing that Kinn has learned how to love loudly through his actions.
Kinn taps at Porsche’s eyebrow with his thumb, making the man blink. “You keep me safe, I keep you safe. Yeah? Deal?”
“Mmm, fine. Deal,” Porsche says. He holds Kinn’s wrist with one hand. “And thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Kinn says.
“Oh, hey, since you’re in such a giving mood, can you do something for me?” Porsche asks hopefully.
“What’s that?”
Porsche shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out a small tube. At first, Kinn perks up with interest thinking it’s lubricant, but it turns out to be the special moisturizing cream for Porsche’s tattoo.
“Shoulder?” Porsche asks hopefully.
Kinn gives a short, self-deprecating laugh. He’s been on lotion duty since this whole back tattoo situation started.
“Fine, give it to me.” He takes the little tube.
“I promise I’ll return the favor if you ever get a tattoo,” Porsche says, wide-eyed and cheeky.
“Not happening,” Kinn says firmly.
“Hm, guess I’ll have to find some other way to pay you back then.” Porsche settles himself more comfortably, rubbing his cheek against Kinn’s thigh.
“That’s fine. You can take your time,” Kinn assures him.
He traces a silent I love you into the raised lines of each individual feather.
The location for the meeting is a restaurant in an upscale hotel owned by the Lerttravinonts, close friends of the Theerapanyakul family.
“Stop twitching,” Mek says as they walk through the hall toward the restaurant. “You’re going to make me nervous, and I don’t do nervous.”
Porsche realizes he’s been fiddling with his fingers, so he shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks. He’s wearing a plain, lightweight black polo on top, one that doesn’t irritate his tattoo, which is starting to peel. He didn’t realize how nice this hotel was before he picked his outfit. Perhaps he should have worn something nicer.
“Is that it?” Porsche asks, pointing up ahead.
“Yes, Khun Porsche,” Mek says, his tone blatantly obnoxious. “Right this way, Khun Porsche.” The more senior bodyguard is dressed in street clothes rather than the standard bodyguard uniform, but the jacket he wears conceals his firearms.
Porsche grins sharply at Mek. “It’s going to be like that, huh?”
“I have no idea what you mean, Khun Porsche,” Mek says dryly.
Porsche lets out a little huff. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“I am but a lowly bodyguard who wouldn’t dare to speak out of turn, Khun Porsche.” The tilt to the corner of Mek’s mouth gives him away, though.
Mek has been an especially helpful senior to Porsche, often giving him tips about etiquette and expectations, the kinds of things no one else bothered to explain. He also hasn’t changed his attitude toward Porsche one iota since Porsche and Kinn fell into a relationship, for which Porsche is grateful.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re full of shit,” Porsche accuses.
Mek shrugs and pauses before they turn the corner to enter the restaurant. “You’re right, Khun Porsche, I am.” He holds out one hand toward the entrance. “After you, sir.”
The last “sir” is spoken with sincerity, all traces of teasing gone.
Porsche straightens his shoulders and walks into the restaurant. The hostess greets him with a wide, picture-perfect smile.
“Table for Kittisawat,” he says, and he almost doesn’t recognize his own voice. He sounds different, somehow. Perhaps he’s channeling just a little bit of Kinn.
“Right this way, sir,” says the hostess. “Your party member is already waiting for you.”
She leads him into the interior. The restaurant is tastefully decorated in a simple and modern style. The lunch rush is ending, so the place is not overly crowded. Porsche recognizes a familiar face as he passes by a table; it’s Ashing, dressed in street clothes. Mek will join Ashing momentarily.
The hostess guides Porsche to a small table where Santichai is sitting. He sees her from behind first. She wears a black dress with large gray flowers on the skirt. Her hands lie folded on the table, and she seems to be clutching them tightly. On the floor next to her feet, a large beige bag leans against the table leg — surely she didn’t just go on a shopping spree?
Porsche sits down across from her, and he experiences a strange sense of déjà vu, only it comes from the wrong perspective. He flashes back to the moment she unexpectedly sat down across from him when he was sitting in front of that tiny cafe.
The hostess murmurs something polite about a waiter coming to take care of them and then returns to her station.
Then Santichai looks at him with those stern, unyielding eyes of hers and says, “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I was doubtful about whether you’d come, and rightfully so after my previous actions.”
Porsche shrugs a little. The speech sounds rehearsed to him, and he isn’t quite sure what to expect from her, what she wants out of this talk.
“I had a feeling if I said ‘no’ you’d get persistent,” he says. She seemed to Porsche like the type of person who would set her mind on a task and then never waver.
Kind of like Chay.
Her eyes widen minutely at his response, and she shows the tiniest smile of bemusement. “You’d be right about that. I’d thought that when you declined, I might try writing a letter next.” She shakes her head slightly. “But it’s much better to talk in person, so I appreciate your taking the time.”
Porsche is saved from the awkwardness of responding to such politeness by the appearance of their waiter. The waiter sets a glass of water in front of Porsche, and he orders an iced tea. Santichai orders a coffee.
When the waiter leaves, the silence at the table quickly grows uncomfortable. Porsche spares a split-second glance over Santichai’s shoulder at the table where Mek and Ashing are sitting. They’re chatting quietly and keeping watch over Porsche; they’ll remain strictly under cover unless needed.
Eventually, Chay’s foster mother gives him a brittle smile and says, “You look as though you’ve been doing well.”
Porsche raises his eyebrows. “Yeah.” He lifts one hand to show her the back of it. “No busted knuckles this time, huh?” He puts his hand back down.
Santichai’s thin smile breaks and falls, but her reaction doesn’t give him the satisfaction that he thought it would. Instead it leaves him numb. The table is silent again until the waiter brings them their drinks.
“I have—” Santichai starts hesitantly, her eyes downcast. “I’ve thought quite a bit about how our first meeting went. Actually, I’ve been thinking about it since that same day it happened. And at first, I couldn’t see what I would have done differently.” Here she lifts her face to meet Porsche’s eyes. “I didn’t like any of my options, so I made what I thought was the most logical decision.”
Porsche shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Maybe coming here was a bad idea after all…
“Wait, please,” Santichai says, holding up a hand. “I’m not— especially good at this sort of thing. Please hear me out.”
Porsche reluctantly settles, reminds himself to relax. Just for something to do with his hands, he lifts his glass of tea and takes the barest of sips.
“Go on,” he finally says.
Santichai nods, looking satisfied as though she just won a valuable concession.
“More recently, after Porchay and I had our… discussion, I’ve been trying to visualize that first meeting from a different angle,” she says, every word heavy and full of effort. “I’ve tried to picture how it would have gone if Porchay had met you then. That’s when I realized that he would have listened to you. And that’s exactly what I didn’t do.”
It’s too much for Porsche. He takes a breath and looks away, unable to meet her eyes any longer. He stares off to his right, watching a waiter walking by with a tray for another table, and tries not to remember what it felt like to be deemed unworthy of meeting his own brother.
When he’s ready to look back at her, he shrugs and gives a quick, sharp shake of his head. “It worked out in the end. You were right. I wasn’t… safe… at the time. So,” he shrugs again, “it’s good Chay and I didn’t meet that day.”
Santichai’s mouth narrows into a thin line.
“That isn’t— I didn’t mean to bring that up,” she says, looking frustrated.
Porsche doesn’t feel as though he needs to do anything to ease her frustration. And that, in and of itself, is a novel feeling.
Santichai works through whatever it is she’s thinking before she speaks again.
“I apologize for my actions,” she says, meeting his eyes with conviction. “It was not well done of me.”
Porsche inhales sharply and looks away. He tries to look at her again but can’t get any words out, so instead he looks at an empty table near them and nods. “Mm,” he manages to get out. “It’s in the past.”
After all, he came here expressly to let her apologize and get it over with, for Chay’s sake if nothing else. Now that they’ve gotten that accomplished, they should be able to wrap this up quickly and leave, and he doesn’t have to see her again. Porsche takes a big drink of his tea to cover the silence.
Apparently his expectations are wrong, though, because Santichai has more to say. She opens her mouth, and Porsche braces himself.
“It may be in the past, but I believe there’s a need to… attempt to set things right.” She sets her hands on the table for a moment before she begins using her fingers to trace the simple designs on her coffee cup. “I thought about what I might be able to offer to show my sincerity, to try to make amends, but it wasn’t easy to come up with something.”
Porsche leans back in his seat. “There isn’t… I don’t need anything now. You don’t have to give me something.” In fact, he really doesn’t want anything from her. Plus, if he isn’t careful, Kinn is going to personally see to it that he has too many things.
“I realize that. So I’d like to offer you nine years, instead.”
“You… what?”
She smiles then, and it’s the first time he’s seen her smile genuinely. It softens the edges of her face. Then she reaches down into the beige bag at her side, and Porsche fears for a moment that she really did bring some sort of expensive gift.
But what she pulls from the bag turns out to be an album. It’s thick and heavy and lands on the table with a thud that’s startling enough to cause Mek and Ashing to tense up. Porsche gives a little gesture with his hand under the table to get them to calm down.
“Nine years of memories,” Santichai says again. She turns the album and slides it across the table, carefully avoiding the glasses. “Please, ask me anything you might like to know about.”
Porsche looks between the album and the woman. “You mean, ask about Chay? I can ask him myself.”
Santichai nods. “Yes, of course. But I can offer a different perspective. A parent’s perspective. Also, he was still quite young when he came home with me that first day. He’s told me before that he doesn’t remember those first couple of years very well.”
Porsche hesitantly touches the corner of the album.
“By all means, go ahead,” Santichai says, gesturing to it.
Porsche slides the album to the center of the table, moving his water and tea glasses aside, and he opens it.
The first page is dominated by a single photo of Chay. He stands before the gray door of what appears to be a nice house, small and wide-eyed like in Porsche’s memories. He clutches a bright, brand-new backpack against his chest, and he looks like he’s making the very barest effort to smile for the photo. Below the picture is a little piece of pale green paper with a handwritten date and a short note, “Back to school.”
Santichai leans forward as Porsche takes it in.
“That was his first day going back to school,” she says, beaming as she looks at the photo, which is upside-down from her vantage point. “When he first came home, his therapist and I agreed that it would be best to let him sit out the rest of that school year, but it was still so early in the term that he had to start it over again.” She sobers and sighs. “That was the day I realized I hadn’t been taking pictures since he arrived. It hadn’t even occurred to me, but even if it had, it wouldn’t have felt right to. I started taking quite a few pictures after that, but I’m afraid there’s a gap that first year.”
Porsche looks up at her but only briefly. He can hardly tear his eyes away from the picture. He stares at Chay and tries to see the signs of where and how he grew since the last time that Porsche saw Chay before he was taken, but it’s easier to compare him with the Chay he knows now.
He had every intention of leaving as fast as possible, but…
“What school?”
Santichai leans forward a little more. “A private school not far from home. I worked closely with his therapist early on. I was ready to drive him back to his old school, but since he was being held back a grade, Chay agreed that a fresh start seemed like a good idea. He still wasn’t speaking at the time, but he started talking again a few months after starting school.”
Slowly, gently, Porsche turns the stiff page of the album. The spread on the next page is covered with photos and handwritten notes.
Chay in pajamas in an unfamiliar room. Chay at a park. Chay praying at a temple, surrounded by orange flowers. Chay standing next to a boy his own age, their arms around each others’ backs, making peace signs at the camera. Chay clutching a familiar-looking toy motorcycle. Chay smiling.
Porsche feels his throat close.
“These should be yours,” Santichai says wistfully. “I’m just returning them. So, don’t hold back. Ask me anything.”
It takes a couple of tries to swallow past the lump in his throat.
And he asks question after question after question.
Chay watches as Kim and Kinn circle each other, both wary, both glaring with eyes that promise murder. Around him, a few bodyguards stand by, watching, unable to interfere.
Kim is bleeding from a split lip, and as for Kinn… Chay finally spots his weak point.
“Kim, he’s favoring his right!” Chay shouts from the side of the sparring ring. “Take him down, Kim! You’ve got this!”
Kim doesn’t so much as twitch to indicate that he heard Chay, but Kinn clicks his tongue in annoyance. It’s all the distraction Kim needs. He moves so fast that he’s a blur as he feints to one side and then weaves his way into Kinn’s guard, dodging what would have been a brutal sucker punch and delivering a quick one-two jab to Kinn’s exposed right side. Kinn however, is a powerhouse and takes the hits in stride, side-stepping and getting a grip on Kim’s arm and shoulder, and that’s all he needs to spin Kim around and send him ass-over-head to the floor of the sparring mat. Kim uses the momentum to roll right back to his feet, tumbling like an acrobat.
“I meant his right leg, not his right side!” Chay shouts. “Sorry!”
“You’re a terrible coach,” Kim shouts back without taking his eyes off Kinn.
“And you’ve gotten sloppy,” Kinn says, grinning wide, his eyes on fire like he’s having the time of his life.
“Oh yeah? Is that why you’re too chicken to ever make the first move, old man?” Kim taunts, holding up one gloved hand and making a “come at me” gesture.
Kinn sneers, but he still accepts the challenge, stepping in and sparring in earnest, and the two exchange a flurry of strikes and blocks, kicks and dodges.
The bodyguards cheer for Kinn, but Chay cheers for Kim even though he feels a little guilty about it. After all, this all started because Kinn offered to train with Chay and give him some pointers. He’d offered out of kindness when he saw how pent up and frustrated Chay was as he waited for Porsche. Chay is still dripping sweat from their much-less-murderous session, and he has a towel dangling over one shoulder.
The meeting between Porsche and Chay’s mom was going on for a ridiculously long time.
The bodyguards let out a resounding “ooh!” of an audience groaning in sympathy, and Chay realized he got distracted. He looks up to find Kim doubled-over, clutching at his side, and simultaneously Kinn is shaking his head as though to clear it.
“What’s going on here? Are they sparring or trying to kill each other?”
“Hia!” Chay exclaims, turning to find Porsche coming up behind him. “You’re back.”
Porsche looks cool and composed, none the worse for wear. He’s carrying a beige bag, which he sets down on the floor when he stops next to Chay.
“What’s that?” Chay asks. Did his mom give Porsche something?
Porsche smiles. “I’ll show you later. Not right now. Right now I wanna know what’s going on with that.” He points at the sparring ring.
In the center of the ring, Kim and Kinn are back at it, trading blow for blow. They’re an amazing matchup despite their very different fighting styles. Kinn is straightforward and brutal with his strikes, inclined toward grappling. Kim, meanwhile, is agile and vicious, frequently using his opponent's weight and momentum against him.
Porsche watches the sparring match, his eyes slowly widening as he stares.
Chay gives him a moment, but then he taps him on the arm. He feels like he’s being an impatient little brat, but he has to ask.
“Hey, you good? How’d it go? You were there for more than two hours.”
It takes visible effort for Porsche to tear his eyes off the match, but he manages it and looks at Chay. Something complicated runs across Porsche’s expression, and for a second Chay thinks he isn’t quite seeing him, but then his eyes soften. He smiles and ruffles Chay’s hair. Unfortunately for Porsche, Chay’s hair is a sweaty mess.
“Ugh.” Porsche wipes his hand on the towel hanging over Chay’s shoulder. “Gross. Anyway, it went fine. You can relax and stop being a mother hen.”
Chay frowns. “I’m not being a mother hen. I just want to know.”
“Mhm, sure. Hey, got any ideas for how to break this up before they kill each other?”
“What? Oh.” When Chay checks on Kinn and Kim, they’re both on the floor of the mat and locked in a grappling situation of mutually assured destruction. The bodyguards, meanwhile, are going wild, some of them cheering and others frantically calling for Kinn and Kim to let go.
“Hey, you two! Porsche is back!” Chay calls out, hands cupped around his mouth to make his voice louder.
That’s all it takes. The two pause and then, after a tense visual battle, release each other at the exact same moment. They get back to their feet as the bodyguards give a smattering of applause.
“I’d have had you,” Kim says flatly as they walk over.
“Sure you would have,” Kinn says, his voice dripping with the kind of condescension that only an older sibling can achieve. His smile is wide, reaching all the way to his eyes. “You’ve lost your edge. It’s supposed to be idol, not idle.”
“Ha fucking ha,” Kim sneers back. He approaches Chay and steals the towel from his shoulder to wipe the sweat off his brow. “I’m heading up and hitting the shower. You need to talk to Porsche?”
Chay steals a sideways glance at Porsche, but his brother only has eyes for Kinn right now.
“Maybe later,” Chay says.
They head back to Kim’s apartment. After taking individual showers (despite Chay angling for sharing a shower in the name of “water conservation”), Chay drags Kim to the living room couch with a first-aid kit in hand. He sits Kim down and gets to work checking him over. He starts by dabbing some wound cream on Kim’s busted lip, because he’s quite fond of that lip and wants it to heal well. Next he starts working on a blooming bruise on Kim’s arm.
“You seemed to have fun down there,” Chay says conversationally, not pausing in his work. “I mean, you looked spitting mad, but also like you were having fun.”
Kim huffs. “Yeah. I guess. We used to do that.”
Chay looks up at Kim, but Kim has his eyes fixed on Chay’s ongoing ministrations.
“You missed him,” Chay says. “Kinn. No, both of them, your brothers.”
Kim looks at Chay then, but he just shrugs and shakes his head. “I couldn’t stay. My father made that impossible. And Kinn was following in his footsteps. But things are different now, and…”
“And what?” Chay prompts.
“I’m a little older, I guess.” A wistful little smile turns up in the corner of his mouth. “I can take care of myself now.”
Chay smiles and gets back to work, dabbing cream on chafed skin. He switches to Kim’s hands; although he was using padded gloves, the knuckles may still ache, so Chay treats them and then gently massages the muscles. He likes Kim’s hands, too, for the way they play the guitar as well as many other, less pure reasons.
“What about you?” Kim asks. “You looked like you wanted to talk to Porsche.”
Chay really, really does want to talk to Porsche. He has a few dozen questions he wants to ask about how the meeting went.
“Mm,” Chay says. “It can wait, though.” As great as it would be to wrap Porsche up in bubble wrap and hide him away, it really isn’t a viable option.
“He seemed satisfied. Relaxed,” Kim offers.
“Yeah.” Chay can’t argue with that.
Chay isn’t ready to do something so generous as simply forgiving and forgetting such a stark betrayal of trust. However, seeing the way Porsche looked so content after returning from the meeting, Chay feels one of the many tangled, twisted knots in his heart loosen up and set itself straight. It’s a first step.
Chay stops massaging Kim’s hand and instead touches the tips of his fingers, where he has calluses from playing the guitar. His hands really are beautiful.
“Why are you helping me?” Chay asks.
Kim frowns, his brows knitting together and creating hard lines. He slowly draws his hand away. “You’ve already asked me that. Multiple times.”
Chay frowns back. “Yeah, and I think your answers are dodgy.” He gets Kim by the shoulders and pushes him to lie back on the couch, then rearranges himself to straddle Kim’s waist. To his surprise, Kim lets him do it. “So, why are you letting me do this? Out with it.”
Kim frowns more deeply and scrunches up his face. It’s probably supposed to look intimidating.
“I haven’t lied to you,” Kim says, looking mulish.
“Maybe not, but you aren’t telling me everything, either.” He braces his hands on Kim’s shoulders, leaning forward and putting a little weight into pinning him. “I’ll keep asking until you tell me the real answer. So. What is it? You like the sex? You want me to be a buffer between you and your family? You want to use me against your father? Just tell me. Whatever it is, I’m okay with it.”
“Sure. All of that is good.” Kim rolls his eyes.
Chay throws his head back and lets out a shout of frustration. “Oh my god, stop dodging and just tell me already!”
Kim lifts his head up off the couch and shouts back, “Figure it out for yourself!”
The shout travels through Chay’s nerves like a physical touch, and he looks down at Kim in confusion and shock. They both breathe deeply for a moment, both frowning. Kim’s eyes are sparkling, fiery instead of his usual cool detachment. His hair is still damp from the shower, starting to ruffle from humidity. He looks absolutely delectable.
Kim breaks eye contact first, turning his head to face the back of the couch.
His ear is bright red. A blush is slowly rising across the fair skin of his cheekbone.
That’s when the truth hits Chay like a ton of bricks.
“You like me?” he blurts out. “I mean, you LIKE like me?”
Kim’s eyes grow wide, and the blush spreads like wildfire.
“Holy shit, you do!” Chay says with wonder, and it gives him such a surge of delight that he can’t help the joyful laughter that escapes him.
That’s when Kim lets out an inarticulate, garbled cry of wordless, embarrassed fury. The next thing Chay knows, he’s being pushed back on the couch himself, and Kim starts trying to smother him with a pillow.
“Stop, stop, let me go!” Chay cries out between laughing and trying to fend off the pillow. “Even if you kill me, you still like me!” he taunts without a shred of mercy. Of course that only enrages Kim further, and he starts walloping on Chay with the pillow, growling all the while.
Chay needs to switch tactics, so he gives up defending his head and lets Kim start smothering him again, and instead he slips his arm around Kim’s waist. He gets both hands on Kim’s ass and surges with his hips to throw Kim off balance, hauling him forward. Kim falls forward onto Chay, and the pillow gets dislodged in the shuffle.
Chay ends up with an armful of flushed, angry Kim lying on top of him, and he happily beams up at him. Kim’s expression slowly fades from anger to uncertainty and hesitancy.
Chay gentles his smile. He lifts his head just far enough to bump the tip of his nose against Kim’s.
“Me too,” Chay whispers. He drops his head back down to the couch again so he can see Kim’s reaction properly.
All sorts of emotions flit through Kim’s eyes. Surprise. Awe. Doubt. Hope. Then his expression finally settles on determined, and he gets both hands in Chay’s hair and kisses, sharp and mean and demanding, until they’re both out of breath. When Kim pulls away, they both gasp, desperate for air.
Chay runs his hands over Kim’s back, his waist, his hips.
“I feel like I should warn you,” Chay says. “I’ve been told I fixate strongly on the people I care about. I can be pretty intense. Obsessive even.”
Kim’s eyes go impossibly wide, and Chay can feel it when Kim’s breath hitches in his chest. He’s panting.
“Okay,” Kim says.
He surges forward to kiss Chay again, even meaner about it this time.
And Chay thinks, I guess I really am going to marry him.
Porsche lies sprawled on his belly on Kinn’s bed, angled across it and facing the foot of the bed. In front of him, the thick album is wide open.
He’s about halfway through looking at it for the second time. On the left side of the current page spread, one picture shows young Chay sitting with a guitar in his lap, a wide grin spread across his face. There’s a bright red bow wrapped around the neck of the guitar. On the right side of the spread, the picture in the center of the page shows Santichai and Chay in front of an amusement park ride, both smiling, their arms around each other’s backs. Going by the date written under the pic, Chay was fourteen at the time.
As Porsche turns another page, Kinn re-enters the bedroom, freshly showered. He’s dressed in what he probably considers casual clothing, consisting of slacks and a burgundy button-down. The buttons on the shirt are being treated as mere suggestions, though.
Kinn vigorously towels his hair dry as he comes over to see what Porsche is looking at.
“Hey, hey, hey, watch the wet hair!” Porsche says, using his body to shield the album from any drops of water.
“Oops,” Kinn says, backing off to sit on the edge of the bed. Porsche scoots the album a little farther away from Kinn, and he pouts. “I didn’t get it wet.”
“Mhm,” Porsche agrees while eyeing him with suspicion. Who knows which way water might fly?
“This is nice,” Kinn says, pointing at the album. “Chay’s mom gave you that?”
“Yeah,” Porsche says. He runs a finger along the stiff edges of the album pages, enjoying the feel of them. “I think I’ll show Chay later tonight, but I want to look at it on my own for a bit.”
Kinn nods. “You enjoy that, then. I’ll go finish drying my hair.”
He starts to rise, but before he can get away, Porsche catches the fabric of his shirt, keeping him in place.
“I didn’t mean for you to go,” he says. Somehow when he said “on my own,” it didn’t even occur to him that being on his own would exclude Kinn. In his mind, being on his own still included Kinn being nearby, sharing the same space. “Stay?”
As Porsche watches Kinn, sees the slow dawning of happiness on his face, his heart does a flip-flop in his chest. It’s uncomfortable. It aches. It’s so much.
Porsche thinks he knows what he’s feeling. But at the same time, he doesn’t want to name it. He’s experienced countless feelings in the months since he met Kinn, very few of which he can put a name to.
Kinn settles on the bed again. He captures the hand Porsche is using to pinch his dress shirt and kisses the back of it, just like he did that night in the Blue Room. Then he places one large hand on the side of Porsche’s face.
“You know,” Kinn says conversationally, “I think there’s very little I wouldn’t give you if you asked me for it. Clothes. Cars. I think…” He pauses and runs his thumb across Porsche’s cheek slowly before continuing. “I think if we gave it a year or so to let the dust settle, let people forget and move on, I could set you up with a house somewhere secluded. Maybe with one bodyguard, for security. I could make it work for you. You shouldn’t have to be stuck here forever.”
Kinn says his little speech with conviction, but he looks like each word is painful to say.
Porsche’s heart does that flip-flop thing again. He turns his head so he can kiss Kinn’s palm, but then he puts his cheek right back in Kinn’s hand.
This man. He’s just too much, really.
“I don’t want to think about that right now,” Porsche says softly. “I’m still getting used to just being able to have things again. I’m trying to figure out how to get started with everything, and it’s… it’s a lot, okay? I don’t know that some secluded house would even be something I would want. And then there’s you, and I can’t—”
Can’t say the words.
“Hey, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, Porsche,” Kinn says urgently, and he puts his other hand on Porsche’s other cheek, and that’s when Porsche realizes he has tears on his face. “You’re alright. Hey, hey, there’s no rush. Okay, darling? No rush.” He kisses the top of Porsche’s head, and they stay like that, huddled together, and Kinn uses his thumbs to wipe the tears away.
Kinn gently rearranges them. He gently picks up the album and closes it, setting it aside on the floor, and then he coaxes Porsche to resettle on the bed so that he’s lying in it properly, his head on a pillow. Then Kinn stretches out behind Porsche and wraps his arms around him, good and tight.
All of the tension bleeds away in Kinn’s arms like this.
Warmth. Safety. Comfort.
After a few minutes of quiet cuddling, Porsche says wryly, “That is so effective it’s ridiculous. I feel like a kitten that just got scruffed.”
His statement startles a surprised laugh out of Kinn.
“I’m glad it helps,” he says, and he gives a small kiss to the side of Porsche’s neck.
Porsche goes quiet again, and he just lets his thoughts drift where they may.
He thinks about all the things he’s wanted and been able to get in such a short span of time.
Shelter, food, work.
Training. Education. Knowledge.
Community. People who have his back.
His brother, his own flesh and blood, alive and so fiercely bright.
Hope. A future that isn’t entirely out of his hands.
And…
Porsche places a hand over Kinn’s hand where it rests on his chest.
“Tighter,” Porsche requests.
“Okay.”
Kinn holds him tighter, and Porsche sighs into it, going even more boneless in Kinn’s arms.
“There is something,” he says at last. “It’s something I’ve been thinking I might want. I could try it, at least.”
Kinn lets out a little sigh and nuzzles at Porsche’s hair.
“Name it.”
Porsche squirms just a little, enjoying the tightness of Kinn’s arms.
Then he tells Kinn what he wants.
The big day is much like any other.
Porsche wakes up when Kinn gets out of bed, and he gets up after Kinn is done in the bathroom and fully dressed. Porsche keeps some of his own things in the bathroom now, so he goes about his business.
When he comes out of the bathroom, Kinn gives him a kiss.
“Good luck today,” Kinn says. “Call me afterward if you need to, okay?”
“Mhm,” Porsche agrees. “And good luck with that financial meeting.”
Kinn turns to leave, and Porsche gives him a little smack on his ass as he goes. Kinn gives him a cheeky smile for it.
He has breakfast in the cafeteria, like usual, and then he spends a couple of hours training, first in the gun range, then the pool.
After lunch, he gets a text from Chay.
Chay: ready when you are. In the main carport.
When he reaches the carport, Chay is straddling his motorcycle and leaning across the handles. He’s looking at Kim, who’s standing next to him, and the two of them are flirting shamelessly. The bodyguards at the entrance are all stoically looking anywhere but at Kim and Chay.
“Hia!” Chay exclaims when he sees him. He takes the spare helmet off the back seat and hands it over to Porsche. To Kim he says a cheeky, “Time for me to go,” with a flirty nod of his chin. “Don’t miss me too much.”
Kim rolls his eyes. “Won’t even know you’re gone,” he says, but he has to tear his eyes away from Chay to walk back inside the tower.
“You really don’t have to take me, Chay,” Porsche tries, yet again, to insist. “I could get another driver.”
Chay snorts. “Yeah, no, I got this. We specifically made sure this wasn’t during my classes so I could take you, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Porsche grumbles. He puts on the helmet and climbs on the back of the bike. Chay puts on his own helmet, and with an echoing roar of the engine in the cavernous carport, they’re off.
Porsche clings to Chay as they fly through the city. He’s already decided to start saving up for his own motorcycle. Kinn offered to get him one, but he wants to buy it for himself.
Some time later, they arrive at a tidy, smartly decorated office, and Porsche checks in at the reception. Then he sits next to Chay on a comfortable couch in the waiting room.
Chay already has his phone out and is typing away, working on a school assignment.
There’s no reason for Porsche to be nervous. But still, after just a couple minutes of waiting, his leg starts bouncing.
Chay stops typing and takes hold of Porsche’s hand. “I’ll be right out here the whole time,” Chay says.
Suddenly Porsche feels like he understands why Chay was so insistent on coming.
Around the corner in the short hallway, a door opens, and a man comes out. He’s middle-aged and wears a gray suit. Glasses perch precariously on the edge of his nose, and his tie has a smiling sun on it.
He walks up to Porsche and gives a wai, which he returns. The man’s smile is kind and welcoming. “Hello. You must be Mr. Pachara. I’m Dr. Prathumwan. I’m happy to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Porsche responds.
“And this is…?” Dr Prathumwan indicates Chay.
“I’m his nong,” Chay responds politely. To Porsche he says, “Have a good meet and greet.”
The doctor smiles. “Supportive family is a blessing. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Pachara.”
The doctor leads Porsche to a spacious office. It’s lined with bookshelves that are stuffed to overflowing, and the few bare spaces on the wall are covered with framed degrees and tranquil-looking art.
“Please, you’re welcome to have a seat,” the doctor says, indicating the chairs that face each other over a coffee table.
“Thanks,” he responds, sitting down. He’s still looking around the office, trying to take everything in.
The doctor ignores the desk and instead sits in the chair across from Porsche.
“I realize this is all new to you,” the doctor says, “so of course feel free to ask questions at any time. We’ll always go at your pace. But first, let me ask, what brings you here today?”
Porsche looks at the smiling sun on the man’s tie and thinks, This is a good place to start.
“I’m here for my first therapy appointment.”
Notes:
WARNINGS/SPOILERS
Santichai asks to meet Porsche, and Porsche decides to go, though he experiences some anxiety over it. When Kinn tries to talk to Porsche about the future, Porsche also experiences a stress response to that, and Kinn helps him with it.
END WARNINGS/SPOILERS
NOTE: The next chapter will be the epilogue.
Kinn has found his purpose in life: to be a weighted blanket.
Chapter 25: Epilogue: Free Day
Summary:
It's just an average Tuesday afternoon at The Red Onion.
Notes:
enbymoomin, thank you again from the bottom of my heart for raising a hand to beta and sticking with me all the way through to the end. 🙏 Let's keep going on adventures together!
Also, one more shout out to my early reading crew: nuwildcat, DrLemurr, and mortimerlatrice. You've helped in SO many ways. You rock.
There are no special warnings or spoilers for this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Afternoons at The Red Onion are social time, a time for chatting. The bar becomes quiet for a short while, and the few patrons that show up are mostly regulars, people who work along the street who are in need of a late lunch. Sometimes stray tourists come in during these quiet hours, exhausted and slightly lost and very hungry.
Dan likes to make sure everyone feels welcome at The Red Onion, but this is the time of day when he can give people special attention. He catches up on local gossip and shares some of his own. He’s been living here long enough that he’s an established presence.
“Hey, Navi, can I get some more naan?” Roj calls out.
“Sure thing, Roj,” Navi, the waitress, calls back. She reluctantly tears her gaze away from the TV screen and the football game that’s in progress.
Today is a Tuesday, even slower than usual, and Dan is just about finished tidying up his bar counter. Roj, the middle-aged guy who works at the electronics store, slowly eats his butter chicken as he reads something on his phone, and two other patrons are chatting at a table. Dan decides he’ll see whether Roj wants any company as soon as he finishes putting away the last of the cleaned glasses.
Just as Dan is drying the final glass and putting it away, the front door opens. A couple walks in, holding hands and talking with big grins on their faces. They’re both wearing large sunglasses that obscure their features, but they’re speaking Thai, which lets Dan know they aren’t tourists. The Red Onion gets a lot of visitors from all over the world, so language barriers can sometimes be challenging. Dan’s Thai has gotten very good over the years, though.
“Welcome to The Red Onion,” Navi greets them as she passes by. “Feel free to seat yourselves.”
Dan puts away the last glass, and as he does so, the new customers bypass the tables and come straight to the bar. The scrape of the bar stools on the floor contends with the low-volume banter of the football game announcers. Dan busies himself with more unnecessary tidying to give the two men a chance to settle in.
“This is a nice place,” he hears one of them say to the other. “Friendly, casual.”
His partner laughs teasingly. “Oh? Not too low brow for you, Mr. Fancy Pants?”
“Hey! I am a very casual guy.” A pause. “Somewhere deep in my heart. Maybe.”
The second guy snickers, and Dan smiles. They seem like they’ll be decent customers.
Dan gets two lunch menus and a drink menu and places them in front of the guests.
“Welcome to The Red Onion. My name’s Dan. You can let me know if you need anything,” he says, and he looks them over. One of them is fair skinned with unforgettable eyebrows, and the other—
“Wait, I know you,” Dan says. Now that they’ve taken off their sunglasses, Dan can’t help but notice the large, pale scar on the right side of the second man’s face. Dan raises his hand and points his finger, as if that’ll help him remember the guy faster. He knows that face.
“You remember me?” the guy says, smiling.
“Yeah, yeah, give me a second, it was—” Dan definitely knows that face, but he’s having trouble putting it together with a specific context. Then the guy’s smile relaxes, and his eyebrows rise in curiosity, making him look a bit like a lost and hopeful puppy. That’s when it clicks together for Dan. The last time this guy was here, he was really down on his luck and looking for work.
Dan snaps his fingers. “You’re that guy, the guy who went with Pravat and Ton to go poolside. Hey, how are you doing? You end up finding a job after all?”
The guy grins from ear to ear, and it’s a night-and-day difference from the last time Dan saw him. Back then he looked stressed and haunted but still somehow so determined.
The guy waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, I did. I got that sorted out.” He shoots a smile at his partner before speaking to Dan again. “But I really wanted to come back and say thank you. I really appreciated your help that night.”
Dan shakes his head. Help? Dan hardly lifted a finger, but this guy felt the need to come all this way to say thank you? “Nah, bro, I didn’t do anything. All I did was give you an intro to get into the pool. But hey, I’m glad to see you’re doing well, uh— you know, I didn’t get your name the first time.”
“It’s Phoenix. As for this guy here…” Phoenix pauses to look at his companion, and he moves one hand to put it on the back of the fair-skinned guy’s barstool possessively. Phoenix gives the eyebrows guy a silly little smile and then says to Dan, “This is Nik.”
Nik makes some sort of little noise, but Phoenix hushes him, and they get into a cute little back-and-forth battle, practically exuding “new couple” vibes and spilling them all over the place.
Dan has worked at The Red Onion for years and feels like he’s seen every stage a couple can go through. These two are clearly still in that phase where everything is new and they’re figuring each other out.
When they finish their exchange, Nik gives Dan a smile. “I’m Nik, his boyfriend. We’re taking a vacation day and pretending to be tourists, and Phoenix wanted to see whether you might be here.”
“Well, Phoenix and Nik, I’ll just give you two a chance to look over the menu then,” he says. “And our special today is khao soi.”
Dan walks away to give them a few minutes on their own so they can decide. There’s little for him to do at the moment, though, so he ends up watching the football game for a little while. Out of the corner of his eye, he takes surreptitious glances at his two customers. It’s a relief to see Phoenix looking so well. Dan had thought about him after he left, wondered how he got along. He wondered whether he should maybe have just given the guy some work for a day and kept it quiet, but there’s no keeping anything quiet in a bar this small. Then Pravat had come reporting that the guy had won his fight, boasting that he was the best fighter Pravat had ever seen at the pool, to the point that Dan thought Pravat was grossly exaggerating. However, knowing the guy got his hands on some cash relieved Dan’s mind, and eventually the encounter slipped his mind.
Eventually Phoenix waves him over. They order the khao soi and a plate of sweet and sour chicken, as well as drinks.
“Are the dinner menu items priced higher?” Nik asks.
Phoenix hisses at him to be quiet.
“What?” Nik says defensively, holding up his menu and pointing to the price column. “I just noticed how low the prices are and was wondering. They have to make enough to stay in business somehow.”
Dan smiles and shrugs. “We’re just a small-time family restaurant, nothing fancy. We get by just fine because we’re popular with tourists and locals alike. We hold lots of parties, too.”
“Are you the owner?” Nik asks as he hands over both his and Phoenix’s menus.
Dan shakes his head. “Nah.”
“Do you want to be?” Nik asks, and it almost sounds like a joke, except that there’s an intense sparkle in his eyes.
“What?” Dan asks, pausing in place with the menus in his hand.
“Nik,” Phoenix hisses, and he’s flustered. He puts one hand over Nik’s mouth briefly. “Would you not… Don’t mind him, please. That’s just his way of making conversation.”
“Right, got it,” Dan says, and somehow he keeps his smile in place. Weird guys. “I’ll have your food and drinks right up.”
He puts in the food order and gets to work making their drinks while Phoenix and Nik talk quietly, their soft conversation lost to him as he focuses on mixing perfect drinks. However, Dan still takes a few glances at them, this time paying more attention to Nik. They’re both dressed in ordinary clothes, a baby-blue button down for Nik and a long-sleeved dark-blue tee for Phoenix. Nik’s watch, meanwhile, gives him away. It seems plain at first glance, but it’s a high-end brand. Something about him screams money; he’s probably some sort of businessman. They seem an unlikely pair.
Dan serves them their meals. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask how they got together, but he knows when to mind his business. He generally tries to keep his chatty tendencies to his regulars.
“You need anything else?” he asks.
Dan thinks that’ll be it, and he’ll leave the lovebirds to chat over their meal in peace. However, Nik holds up a hand to stop him from going, and Dan braces himself for another weird question.
“What’s the rent like around here for a place like this?” Nik asks. “I’m not familiar with this area, but I’m looking into branching out.”
Definitely a businessman, then.
But the questions don’t stop there. Instead of sending him on his way, the two engage him in friendly conversation, flowing from business to neighborhood gossip to personal interests and goals. Phoenix apparently started working as a bodyguard, which makes sense given his skillset. Dan tells them where he’s from (England), and they tell them they’re from Bangkok (but have both traveled extensively). He misses the chance to catch up with Roj, but Roj will be back again in a few days.
Eventually, Dan feels comfortable enough to ask his burning question.
“So, you two… how did you meet?”
His question sparks a wordless conversation between the two of them, using eyebrows and little head nods to argue about who’s going to say something.
Eventually, Nik is the one to answer.
“I went to one of his fights and thought he was the most amazing man I’d ever seen enter the ring. I had to have him, so I stole him away.”
Dan watches as Nik makes heart eyes at Phoenix. But Nik’s choice of words confuses Dan. Maybe it’s some Thai phrase he’s unfamiliar with.
“You mean you stole his heart?” Dan asks.
Nik shrugs. “Pretty much. Eventually I got around to that, too.”
Phoenix, however, isn’t on board with Nik’s side of the story. “Oh, that’s so bullshit,” Phoenix says emphatically. “Is that really what you’re going with?”
“It’s true. That’s exactly what happened,” Nik insists, pouting.
“It is not.” Phoenix turns to Dan. “This guy was at my fight, bet against me, and then I decided he was my next meal ticket.”
Nik shrugs. “That’s true, too.”
Dan can’t help but laugh. Why are couples always like this?
The two of them get distracted and start arguing, and Dan decides it’s best to leave them to it. This sort of thing isn’t his forte.
“Be sure to let me know who’s right in the end,” he says, and he walks away to check on Navi and Dew, who wandered in a bit ago for an afternoon snack.
Eventually Nik calls him over to settle the bill. The credit card he hands to Dan is as black as night.
He checks them out and passes the card and receipt back to Nik.
“It was good seeing you again, Phoenix,” Dan says sincerely. “Really glad you landed on your feet.”
Something about that makes Phoenix turn shy, and he bobs his head with a funny little smile. “Thanks. And thanks again for your help.”
“Don’t mention it. I wish I could have done more,” Dan says. “And Nik, nice to meet you.”
Nik gives him a chin nod. “Likewise,” he says, getting up from his stool.
Dan collects their glasses and puts them in the bin for cleaning. The two guys are almost to the door when Dan reaches for Phoenix’s plate…
… only to find a thick wad of crisp baht tucked under it. Much too thick for a tip.
“Wait up, Phoenix!” Dan calls. And the two men stop and turn to look at him in unison. Thankfully the place has cleared out, so Dan isn’t distracting anyone. Dan holds up the cash. “This is a bit much for a tip. You sure about this, bro?”
Phoenix shakes his head. “That’s not a tip. That’s your earnings.”
Dan shakes his head, confused. “Earnings? From what?”
“The free meal,” Phoenix replies. “The dinner was your bet on my fight that night. And I won, so that’s your earnings.”
Dan glances at the cash. It’s way more than the pool pays out, especially for something as cheap as a dinner at The Red Onion. “It’s too much.”
Phoenix just shakes his head.
“Just think of it as…” he pauses, thinking about it for a moment, and then he gives Dan a beaming smile, “you made a good bet.”
Notes:
Kinn: Are you ever going to let that go?
Porsche: No, absolutely not.~~~
I want to say a very sincere and heartfelt word of gratitude to every single reader. Thank you for taking a chance on this fic! I most especially want to say thank you to the people who dug in deep and really just CHEWED into this story in a thoughtful way, exploring the themes and concepts. There are so many treasures tucked away in the comment section of this story. Even beyond the comment section, there have been many long discussions on Discord. I learned so much from the readers. 🙏
Also, a VERY special thanks to the magnificent artists who brought scenes from Bad Bet to life! DrLemurr, Khathastrophe, and Lady-Guts, I am kissing you all lovingly on the forehead. 🎨😘
The story as it ends here is complete. However, I know there's at least one person waiting in the wings to start asking questions (hi, punchlove!). So, just FYI, if you have any lingering questions or areas you just want me to meta-ramble about, please feel free to hit up my Tumblr Ask box: luckydragon10.
I also plan to share some Bad Bet meta on Tumblr about real-life Thailand locations that I used in the story. (I'll back link here in the notes when it's ready.)
💗💗💗💗💗🙏
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