Whoohoo. Now that Hiro and K are a couple, what could tear them apart may also bring them closer together…a continuation of the 'Luck' trilogy, and it's final instalment…read Bad Luck first, followed by Changing Luck to get the story thus far. You can also read Getting Lucky, but it is not essential to the story line.
Showers are nice in the morning, especially on these days in July that simply boil you in your skin both literally and figuratively speaking. The radio said to expect a high of 43 degrees Celsius, and that's not counting humidity. Typical day in a sub-tropical climate…my hair's all frizzy. Sometimes I think I should cut it off, go back to the way it was during the time I spent training for the secret service.
Scratch that. It'd bring back to many things I'm trying to forget.
I'm going to be late for work, and Touma can kiss my ass. But the client is, affluent, and thus I, as the manager of Bad Luck, need to be there to make sure that we don't get screwed over. I think I'll take a little extra heat with me to day, see if that will pressure this associate to see things my, err, in NG's point of view.
Another day and another moron to introduce to the end of a hand held firearm. If I didn't enjoy it so much, I'd hate my job.
Hiro's still asleep, so I give him a quick peck on the forehead and turn on the air conditioning before making my way to the nearest McD's for breakfast. Their burgers taste the same no matter what continent you're on.
--
The soft caress of lips roused me momentarily from the land of dreams to a reality of sweat soaked sheets, and not because of any activity in them but because of the weather. Strands of my hair cling to my neck despite the braid and bun I've put it into, and then a wave of cool air hits and I'm in heaven. I hear the front door close as K sneaks out to go to some god awful meeting that I'm so glad I don't have to participate in and let my head sink into the pillow.
Oh yuck. Smell city. I know that the water's gone so I need to wait for my shower, but that doesn't mean I need to wait on the laundry which so desperately needs to be done. Another few days and the pair of jeans in the corner could very well walk out on it's own. It's in the smells but not visibly dirty pile, which is next to the visibly dirty but not smelly pile, which is connected to the dirty and smelly pile. The wearable pile has diminished to the point where it consists of my grey sweatpants and K's old dress shirt that he normally sleeps in, but it's been too hot for clothes in bed, so it's still relatively wearable. Definitely laundry time.
I check my sugars and realize I'm going to need breakfast before I do anything else, draw up my insulin, and head to the kitchen. Digging through the fridge I decide that leftover boiled potatoes and orange juice it is. Orange juice with lots of ice. Lots of ice. I've just started to run the water to wash the dishes when the doorbell rings.
Crap. I look like a house wife with my hair mostly up and K's shirt over top of ratty sweats. But it might be important, so I have to at least answer it. Who could possibly be coming over at eight in the morning anyways? It's not exactly visiting hours. I know I'm grumpy in the morning, but this is ridiculous.
I open the door and no one's there. I hope I didn't take too long to answer…not. Probably a salesman or something, looking to unload a vaccum cleaner. I have the door nearly closed when a small voice asks in English.
"Are you my daddy's girlfriend?" I look down to see a kid in a t-shirt and jeans holding the handle of a suitcase and a letter. He's blond, and very obviously American, with Nike runners laced up neatly. He can't be more than seven years old, and no adult in sight.
"Where are your parents?" I ask, wishing not for the first time that I'd kept my English intelligible. The kid's face scrunches a bit.
"Mom needed to get going to the photo shoot. She said Dad was expecting me…is this the right apartment? I…I'm not sure about reading the address." The letter is held out for me to take. I do, it's the right address…or at least, the one on the envelope matches the one on the door. Chikusho…(damn it). What was K's kid called?
"You are Michael?" God, that name is torture to my tongue. The kid brightens.
"Yes! Um…hai! Do you know my Dad?" He asks, eyes the same shade as my lover's sparkling.
"Yesh. Ah… yes. I know your father well."
"Are you his girlfriend? You're very pretty." I feel my face heat a little, whether from anger or embarrassment I don't care to know.
"I'm a boy. You're Dad isn't home right now."
"Oh…" The kid deflates, I think he's going to cry. I can not deal with this before I wake up completely.
"C'mon inside. We'll wait for him to get back, okay?" I put on my best stage face, smiling for the boy who smiles back. I hold the door open for him as he drags his luggage behind and into the living room. I follow, with a series of questions screaming through my mind, the least of which is…
What the hell am I going to do with a kid who doesn't speak the same language for six hours until K gets back?
