Tracking the Tempest

“What happened to ‘This is Boston, Jane'?” I asked my demon lover through clenched teeth.



“It is Boston, Jane,” Ryu began as he embarked upon a complicated maneuver that involved seven lane changes, two milk trucks, an old VW van with every inch covered in SUPPORT OUR TROOPS stickers, and a few choice expletives.



My heart was in my throat. My stomach had retreated to my shoes.



“… and everyone in Boston drives like a fucking lunatic,” Ryu finally finished, just as he slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the car that had totally just cut us off while going about ninety miles per hour.



It was a black-and-white Boston Police squad car, lights off, just making the rounds.



I'd never been a very spiritual person, but at that moment, I learned to pray.



CHAPTER THREE



It wasn't until Ryu told me we were home that I opened my eyes. I'd shut them when we'd reached Storrow Drive and Ryu had bypassed Ridiculous and gone directly to Ludicrous Speed.



“Jane, darling, you all right?” The little shit leered at me.



“Smoke if you got 'em,” I mumbled as Ryu helped me out of the car.



“Huh?”



I shook my head. “Spaceballs. Never mind.”



“Ah. Anyway, welcome to my home.”



We were in Bay Village, looking at an adorable brick townhouse with a navy blue front door and navy blue shutters. It looked like a miniature version of one of the grand townhouses we'd seen on Beacon Hill.



“Ryu,” I breathed. “It's lovely.” And it was. The whole street was lovely. Small, tree-lined sidewalks meandered alongside other townhouses, all of which had doors and shutters painted different colors. Many had window boxes that I'm sure would be full of flowers come spring. Everything was small and perfect and neat; Bay Village offered a little oasis of order tucked into the middle of downtown Boston right up against the glorious chaos of Chinatown.



“I like it here,” he acceded, looking pleased. And predatory, I thought as he took my hand to lead me forward. “I'll get your suitcase later, unless you need it now.” I shook my head. After all, we couldn't fornicate until we'd gotten past that stately front door, and I was as eager to get inside as Ryu.



As we crossed the threshold it suddenly struck me that I was finally in Ryu's Boston. I couldn't believe that after having known my lover for months now on such an intimate basis, I had no idea how he lived.



Warm sunlight flooded into the townhouse: The wall opposite the door was made up entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows, interrupted only by glass French doors that led out into a courtyard shared by the neighboring townhouses. The walls of Ryu's home were a soft white, although I could see various accent walls in darker shades of dun or taupe. I could also see lots of leather and chrome, and tons o' technology. A flat-screen television took up almost an entire wall across from the Bauhaus-inspired sofa and chairs that dominated the sitting area to our left. In front of us was the dining area. Its glass-and-chrome dining table winked at me in the soft light. To our right was a gorgeous open-plan kitchen: all dark granite, shiny black-lacquer cabinets, and gleaming dark appliances. An enormous island of granite helped to divide the living space from the kitchen. All the warm sunlight made Ryu's home even more like that of a Hollywood movie set. Everything was perfect—tasteful, polished, and coordinated—with an overall effect that screamed money and masculine.



Ryu wrapped himself around me from behind, his lips finding my earlobe. He suckled gently, making me melt back against him, before he finally spoke.



“Do you like, Miss True?”



“It's gorgeous, Ryu,” I answered, tilting my head and raising my cheek a bit so that my ear brushed against his lips again. He obliged me with another little suckle and a nip of his teeth.



“Come in, make yourself at home,” he said, as he pulled away to walk toward his kitchen. I followed him, running a hand over the beautifully aged leather of the sofa. I realized it was probably not Bauhaus-inspired but Bauhaus-for-real.



Ryu pulled a bottle of champagne out of a built-in wine refrigerator next to the actual refrigerator. I excused myself to use the washroom that I could see lurking off the kitchen, tucked underneath the stairs that led upstairs. It was all marble and chrome, of course, with an unbelievably artsy toilet that made me giggle until it took me forever to figure out how to flush the damned thing.



I heard the pop of a cork as I washed my hands and I opened the bathroom door just as Ryu finished topping off two champagne flutes. A bowl of sex-red strawberries beckoned me from the island.



“To you, Jane, and to Valentine's Day. That most romantic of massacres,” Ryu said, after he'd passed me my flute. I raised my glass to his and we clinked.



“And to you, Ryu. Thank you for everything,” I added.



We drank, Ryu never taking his eyes off mine. The second we put our glasses down, he had me in his arms.



“I've imagined you here so many times,” he whispered as he kissed my cheek, my forehead, my eyelids. I relaxed into his hold, let him find my lips with his. Our kiss was slow, gentle, and—unlike the greedy need of our airport PDA session—it was a kiss of promise, a kiss that said we did have the whole weekend and that we needn't rush things.



A promise I blatantly ignored as I raised my hand between us to run my fingertips down the expensive fabric of his shirt to the slick steel of his belt buckle. But before I could get in a good crotch fondle, Ryu's phone blared out a ringtone that sounded like a siren.



“Shit,” Ryu said, pulling away. He looked down to where my hand hovered above his groin. “Fuck, and damn,” he added for good measure. “I have to take that; it's one of my deputies.”



I shrugged and let go of his belt. Ryu was the supernatural equivalent of a police detective, and I knew he had to do what he had to do.



“Yes?” Ryu demanded of his cell phone as he strode toward the door that led out of the kitchen. I got a brief glimpse of a cluttered office before the door shut firmly on my curiosity.



I quaffed the rest of my bubbly, which fizzled its way directly to my brain. While it was up there, the champagne reminded me that Ryu's inopportune phone call had given me the chance to do the other thing I really wanted to do the moment I saw Ryu's front door. I wanted to snoop. And so snoop I did, starting with the kitchen. Which was hilarious. Not because it wasn't as impressive as it had appeared from the front door. Everything was state of the art, but the reason it shone so was that it was almost entirely unused—he still had plastic coverings on the racks inside the oven. The wine refrigerator was full, but the actual refrigerator was empty except for beer, bananas, bacon, and bread.



B is for ‘bachelor'! my brain chortled as I started in on the kitchen drawers.



Again, everything was state of the art, expensive, and entirely unused. Really fancy knives sat in an expensive butcher's block, all but the largest still with their handles wrapped. A salad spinner sat in a box and a Le Creuset Dutch oven was fresh from the factory, still taped shut. Ryu did have a well-used microwave, espresso maker, blender, and toaster oven on the counter, but there were no other appliances. And except for dishes and glasses, the cupboards were practically empty, as were the drawers. One held cutlery, another dish towels, and a final drawer held about one hundred takeout menus.



I could hear Ryu arguing in a low, heated voice with someone. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but I didn't think the conversation was going to wrap up any time soon, so I went right ahead and made my way upstairs.



To the left of the landing, I found what had to be a guest bedroom. It looked like a luxurious hotel room—both inviting and impersonal. Then there was a guest bathroom that was small but, again, luxurious. Which left the last door, the closed one, to be Ryu's bedroom. I turned the handle slowly and let the door swing open.



There were no sex swings or stripper poles or mirrors on the ceiling. And yet, just like the man who made his home here, the room reeked of sensuality. The bed was huge, first of all. It was like a playing field, dominating the room. And, except for two nightstands, a low bureau, and a small armchair, there was nothing else in the bedroom. No television for late-night talk-show viewing or bookcase full of late-night reading. The furniture arrangement clearly stated that this room was about the bed and everything that occurred there.



Maybe the sex swing's in the closet, my libido hummed optimistically as I stuck my head between the two doors that led off the bedroom. The ridiculously organized walk-in closet served as a showcase for Ryu's impeccable taste, but there was no sex swing, much to my libido's disappointment. Meanwhile, the other door led into an amazing en suite wet room. Sex swing forgotten, the libido purred with anticipation at the granite shower with its plethora of spigots and jets and seating upon which to lounge. I wasn't all that surprised that in Ryu's world, even bathrooms became conducive for sex.



I shut the door on the wet room and returned to the bed. Standing before it, I giggled, for the bedding was all black satin. In A.S. Byatt's novel Possession, when the slightly repressed English heroine thinks of her louche former lover, Fergus Wolfe, she sees an unmade bed with sheets like “whipped egg-whites.” Inspired by Byatt, whenever I'd thought of Ryu, I'd thought of black satin sheets. And here they were, in all their playboy glory.