Primitive Secrets (20 page)

On the street, the four paused to say goodbye. “Are you on the motorcycle?” Hamlin asked.

“We walked,” DeLario grinned. “My apartment's only a half-mile from here.”

“Good.” Hamlin looked at Storm. “We should take a cab. I'll get my car later.”

The cab driver was a Vietnamese immigrant who held the door and showed bigger holes in his grin than a six-year-old. Storm and Hamlin tumbled into the back seat, holding hands. Storm leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. “You know, I had a great time.” She peeked at him, then her watch. “Four hours and gallons of wine ago, I thought I'd be crawling home in tears.”

Hamlin pulled her closer. “I was pretty worried, too.”

“I've been thinking, though…”

“Uh oh.”

Storm punched his arm hard enough that he winced. “Come on. Remember that phone conversation you told me about? When Hamasaki was talking to Martin about stocks?”

“Yeah.”

“When was that?” she asked.

Hamlin looked out the window and frowned. “It was a couple of weeks before Hamasaki died. I'd had to rush from court to make the appointment with him and I was kind of glad to see him on the phone. You know, not waiting for me.”

“Hamasaki had plenty of time to get back to Martin,” Storm said.

“Yeah.” The car pulled to the curb in front of Storm's cottage.

“Hamasaki was known for his promptness.”

“Maybe he was checking on the stock.”

The cab driver stepped out and opened the back door. Hamlin helped Storm out. “Wait a minute,” he said to the cab driver. “I'll be right back.”

Storm leaned into the cab and handed the driver his fare and a tip. “It's okay, you can go.”

The cab driver showed that he didn't have many molars, either. Hamlin looked from Storm to the driver and back, then shrugged. The little man waved at their departing backs, then hopped back into his car and squealed away.

Storm looked up into Hamlin's face. “Don't you need a cup of coffee before you go?”

“Uh, sure,” he said. “That would hit the spot.”

Chapter 28

“So why did you wait so long to get your first pair of shoes?” Hamlin asked Storm. He breathed in the aroma from her coffeepot.

She got a couple of mugs out of the cupboard. “Like Martin said, twelve was early.” She poured coffee and handed him one of the mugs.

“Really? Kids in Honoka'a don't wear shoes until they graduate from high school?”

Storm shrugged. “It depends on what you mean by shoes. I got patent leather shoes to go to my mother's funeral.”

“She died when you were twelve?”

“Yeah.” Storm turned off the kitchen light and Hamlin followed her into the living room. “DeLario mentioned your brother, Neil. How come you never told me about him?”

Storm plopped onto the couch, but Hamlin remained on his feet and concentrated on his coffee mug.

“He died of AIDS when I was in college.” He sat down next to her, his eyes shadowed with sadness. “What happened to your mom?”

“She took about thirty Seconal.”

Hamlin's eyebrows popped up and he looked at her, but it was Storm's turn to inspect the surface of her coffee. “That must have been tough,” he said. “Neil used to have what I called his black furies.”

“He got depressed, too?”

“Yeah,” Hamlin said with a sigh.

“Because he was sick?”

“No, AIDS actually mellowed him. I guess it made him more philosophical. It definitely took the course of his life out of his hands. And DeLario helped him, too.” Hamlin took a sip of coffee. “My father had the furies, too, but his were directed outward.” The softness of Hamlin's voice did not hide the underlying resentment.

“Oh no.”

“Dad was harder on Neil than me. He must have suspected Neil's inclination.” Hamlin shook his head. “I was too frightened to intervene.” Storm saw the shine of tears in his eyes before he looked down at his mug.

“How much younger was Neil?”

“Not quite two years.”

“So Neil followed you to college?”

“Not exactly. Neil left for New York when I graduated from high school.”

“You told me your dad left, too. Do you know where he went?”

“No, but that was a relief.” Hamlin shrugged. “Neil got his GED in the city and started writing plays. One of them actually was performed off-Broadway. I was really proud of him, told him he could do even better if he went back to school, maybe got a degree under his belt.”

“And he came to Ann Arbor.”

Hamlin nodded. “He'd been taking some courses at a community college and doing well, so he decided to give the big U a go. By the time Neil came to Michigan, he had the virus. It was kind of a last shot at self-respect, I think.”

“What about treatment?”

“AZT and some of the better drugs weren't around yet.”

“He sounds like a brave guy.”

“I wish I'd told him that.” Hamlin kept his eyes down.

“I'll bet he knew how you felt.”

“Maybe, toward the end. But I wish I'd spent more time with him when he was healthy.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Storm's voice was sad.

Hamlin looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. “You were very young when your mom died.”

“And a combative little piss-ant.”

Hamlin half-smiled. “Listen to us, full of self-recriminations. Let's think of some of the good times, okay?” He took a deep breath. “You know that track meet DeLario was talking about? By then, the three of us were sharing an apartment. I had some of the best times of my life with those guys. I brought dates back that couldn't believe that I lived with two gay men. We'd laugh and party until the wee hours. There was so much talent packed into those rooms. Neil sang and acted, too. He and DeLario were an amazing duo.”

“My mom was a singer!” Storm grinned at him. “She tried to teach me, but my voice always cracked when I got nervous. The only tunes I could sing with confidence were limericks.”

Hamlin started to chuckle.

“You got it.” Storm laughed. “When we were alone, Mom and I used to do them in duets. If I got down in the dumps, she'd start the first line and I was supposed to make up the second. We'd fall down, we laughed so hard.”

“You were twelve?” Hamlin asked.

“Hey, I lived on a ranch. The facts of life were pretty obvious to anyone who had eyes. Come to think of it, there was a blind boy in fifth grade who told dirty jokes…”

“Did you ever tell your mother the jokes?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. She said it was okay if they were funnier than they were dirty and if I left out certain words.”

“Which of course you did.”

“Of course.” They both laughed.

“My brother told great jokes,” Hamlin said. Storm ran her finger down the side of his face, around the bushy mustache.

“Tell me one of them.”

Hamlin pulled the corners of his mouth up. “I can't remember any right now. What perfume are you wearing? Just the slightest hint of spice…”

“Volupte…I put it on hours ago…”

Their lips touched, warm, mustache prickly, coffee-rich. “I like it,” he murmured. “Oh, God. I've wanted to do this.”

“Me, too,” Storm whispered. She put her arm around one hard shoulder and pulled him closer.

He folded her in his arms. Storm ran the fingers of one hand through the fine hair over his ear and slid the other hand down the length of his back. He sighed and let his mouth melt into hers. They slipped lower into the couch cushions.

His shirt was untucked in back and Storm let her fingertips dance over the fine hairs at the base of his spine, just above his belt. Hamlin moaned and pressed closer.

Storm's skirt was riding up her thighs and she wanted to remove it, peel away the layers between his skin and hers. He kissed her lightly, then rubbed his nose against hers. His hand was at her back, just above the zipper. Caution and desire merged in his eyes.

“It's okay,” she whispered.

The warm aroma of his skin, the heat of his yearning, melted away her inhibitions. She stretched so that her entire body length pressed against him. A sob of desire caught in her throat and she pulled away from his lips so that she could look at him, the fervor in his green eyes, the tawny mustache hairs mixed with gray, the five-o'clock shadow. She wanted to inhale all of it, keep it, and slow this moment into eternity.

And a crash from the kitchen froze them both. Hamlin raised his head, his eyes icy and focused on the darkness beyond the cone of warm light that shone near them. The muscles in his right arm quivered against Storm's side. He slipped off her with the slightest hiss, friction between their clothing, and crouched, ready to spring. The void left by him chilled her. She shuddered, sat up slowly.

“It sounded like a dish,” she said.

“Did you lock the door?” Hamlin whispered.

“I don't think so.”

Hamlin crept toward the dark kitchen doorway. Storm picked up the only object she could use as a weapon, a flower vase from the coffee table, and followed him. So close that her legs moved in time with his, she tiptoed through the doorframe, ran her hand along the wall molding, and flicked on the wall switch to the overhead light. Both of them stared at the countertop next to the coffeepot.

There sat Fang, calmly licking her paws. She glanced at them, blinked her wide yellow eyes, and looked down at the shattered cream pitcher on the floor. She looked back up at the two pale-faced people, stood up and stretched. “Mrww,” she burped, and walked away with a cat-sigh of disappointment. All that waste, just because the cream pitcher wouldn't sit still.

Storm sagged against the countertop. “Jeez.” She set the vase down with a clunk.

Hamlin ran a hand over his face. His dress shirt, flawlessly pressed a few hours ago, hung partly out of his trousers. Buttons were askew, and his stocking feet were still splayed in a fight-or-flight stance.

She took two steps toward him and wrapped one arm around him. She used the other hand to turn off the bright ceiling light.

“That's my guard cat.”

“He's guarding your chastity?”

“He's a she. Just making sure I don't rush into anything. We gals have to watch out for each other.”

“Yeah?”

“Let's go back to where we were.” Storm kissed him. He enclosed her with his arms, let his lips brush hers lightly, then put one hand on the back of her neck and pressed his lips against hers as if he'd never let her go.

When he finally did, she gasped. “Hamlin…”

“Yeah?”

“Will you stay?”

Hamlin looked into her eyes. “If you call me Ian.”

With a grin, Storm turned and locked the front door. Then she led him to the bedroom, picked a pile of clothes off the bed, and threw them onto a rocking chair in the corner. Silvery moonlight flowed through the window, illuminating the two of them. Storm was suddenly shy. She turned toward her closet and undid a button of her blouse.

“Wait,” Hamlin said. He scooped her into his arms and deposited her onto the bed. He lay next to her, then kissed her neck gently, moving from under one ear, under her chin, to the soft skin under the other ear. His mustache tickled, enticed, made her yearn for his kisses on her lips, harder, faster. He slipped the blouse off her shoulders before she knew he'd unbuttoned it.

His body lay lean and hard next to hers, the warm sweet aroma from his skin blended with her own. They moved concurrently, gentle, warm, tingling, together.

Storm woke when morning's light caressed her face. She smiled, burrowed into the pillow, and smelled Hamlin on the sheets around her. She opened one eye. A note and a sprig of mock orange from the fragrant shrub in the garden lay on the pillow next to her. She raised her head. The warm lump lying along her leg was Fang. Damn.

She picked up the note. “Couldn't wear this shirt to court—might get confused with my client. Love, Ian. P.S. Love your pig.”

Storm snorted, then sat bolt upright. She laughed out loud and twisted around to regard the tattoo she'd told him he'd never see.

The light coming in the window was brighter than usual and the clock said seven fifteen, an hour later than her usual wake-up time. Thank God she didn't have any appointments, but Wang would be dropping in around eight, stacking file folders in her in box, wanting to check the status of the Certificate of Need for Unimed.

A half-hour later, Storm was fluffing her still-damp hair with the windows down in the VW and applying her mascara at the traffic lights along Kapi'olani Boulevard, thinking how much easier all this would be if she had an automatic transmission. Or if she'd not overslept. Or if she could wear shorts to work. And so on. Not that she would have passed up last night for anything.

It was quarter of eight and she would be pushing her luck if she stopped at Leila's bakery for goodies, but if she didn't, she'd be practically shaking with hunger in an hour, scavenging for stale donut crumbs or the petrified caramels that sat next to the office coffeepot in a Santa Claus jar. Maybe Bruce, Leila's baker, would put some of their fresh-squeezed orange juice into a paper cup to go.

That did it. She swerved into the alley, crawled around the delivery trucks, and blocked the back door to her friend's shop. Ten minutes later, she was holding the rolled rim of the paper cup in her teeth to turn the knob to the front door. The aroma of the sticky bun in her laptop briefcase made her salivate.

She turned on the office lights and set down the orange juice, her purse, and the heavy case and sighed. A stack of files sat on her desk, covered with little yellow notes. “Rats, he beat me,” she muttered under her breath.

“I'd like to see you before my afternoon appointment.” Wang's voice surprised her. She looked up to see him in the doorway.

“I have time now. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I have a meeting in five minutes.” He handed her a folder. “How about three o'clock? Meanwhile, I need you to look up some data at the university law library.” His eyes traveled over her.

Storm resisted the urge to check her zipper. “Shall I meet you in your office?” She looked him in the eye. When your knees are shaking, act like you know what's going on.

“Fine.”

Wang left. Storm waited a few seconds, then pulled out her purse compact and checked her face. A little puffy-eyed, but passable. The lipstick she had applied in the parking garage wasn't even on her front teeth. She smoothed her blouse front and skirt. A tiny run in her stocking was climbing above the heel of her shoe. Damn, but Wang couldn't have seen that.

She'd have to knock his socks off with her research. She also needed to buy a new pair of stockings before her lunch with Ray Tam, the union man. Storm downed her orange juice while she scanned the reference list Wang had given her. His lists were invariably incomplete; they were jumping-off points. He hadn't been in the university law library for years.

She'd better get going. As it was, she was going to have to return to the library after her lunch, jam for another hour, then dash back for her three o'clock appointment with Wang. Storm sighed, gathered her laptop, and hoped she could eat the sticky bun undetected in the library stacks, where no food was allowed.

On the way out the door, her direct line rang. Storm paused and glared at the phone. Few people had that number; most of her calls were routed through the front desk. It might be Martin, Leila, or Paul Andrews with a report on the coffee mug. She picked it up. The crackle of a long distance call greeted her.