“Just the three of us.”
“Shan Dao is going to a cabaret?”
“You wouldn’t believe what this one’s into,” Tinseng said shamelessly, and was delighted to watch Jinzhao’s ears turn red. “But you wouldn’t like it.”
“If it’s the highlight of Spain, why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you have no taste.”
Cheuk-Kwan huffed. “If you don’t want me to go, just say that,” he said. He meant it as a throwaway, a stupid little thing said between brothers, but Tinseng seized the opportunity; he’d been taught to win.
“Great,” he said with a brittle smile, “I don’t want you to go.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Tinseng resolutely did not wince at the flicker of hurt that passed over his brother’s face.
“Fine. Fuck you too, then.” Cheuk-Kwan turned on his heel and stalked away. Chiboon hid his face in his hands, and Jinzhao merely looked at Tinseng. Tinseng threw up his hands.
“What was I supposed to do? Let him come? Some help you two were, by the way! ‘Uhhh,’” he mimicked Chiboon, then shook his head. “Useless.”
“You know I’m no good at confrontation! Anyway, I’m leaving at seven-thirty. I want to get dinner first, and I have to get dressed there.”
“Done. Meet you at the gangway?”
“Wait, wait, wait. This is a very important question for both of you. What will you wear?”
“Uh . . . this?” Tinseng gestured at his rumpled day suit. Chiboon wrinkled his nose.
“I’m disappointed in you, Tinseng. Give me your key; I’ll pick out an outfit for you. And you, Shan Dao?” Chiboon looked him up and down. “Actually, I might have something for you. Well, not me,” he said at their incredulous expressions: Chiboon stood a full head shorter than Jinzhao, “but a local friend of mine. We’re getting ready together there. He always brings extras, and I can always make him run home if he hasn’t. Hmm.” Chiboon tapped his chin while studying Jinzhao.
Tinseng tilted his head down, watching his friend closely. “You have an idea, don’t you?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Chiboon evaded, but he couldn’t hide his growing smile.
“Ahh, I’ve really missed you, Chiboon,” Tinseng said, tossing his room key to his old friend. “Let’s get into some trouble tonight, huh?”
That night, Tinseng had hoped for a few hours alone with Jinzhao in a picturesque Spanish town. But as they settled the bill for dinner, Chiboon informed Tinseng that he was taking Jinzhao for himself.
“Eh?” Tinseng looked up from throwing some pesetas on top of the bill.
“I need company, gege. It’s the west, we’re Chinese; who knows what will happen.”
Tinseng grimaced; Chiboon had a point. Jinzhao seemed to think so too: he straightened to his full height, which made his shoulders look just . . .
“Wow,” Chiboon murmured.
“I know, right?” Tinseng agreed, deeply gratified his friend appreciated the finer things in life. Then he turned and pouted, “But what am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know—go watch the sunset? I’ll take good care of Shan Dao, don’t worry. You’ll enjoy the results,” Chiboon leered. Tinseng smothered his laugh with his hand before remembering he’d learned that from Yukying. The laugh turned into a dopey smile. Jinzhao had no idea the danger he was in, which was exactly how Tinseng wanted him. Tonight would be out of his comfort zone in the best way, and for this kind of experience, there were no better hands to trust than Chiboon’s. Jinzhao deserved this; they all did.
On the sidewalk outside, Tinseng waved goodbye, calling out, “Good luck!” He turned away, cackling at Jinzhao’s confused blink.
With two hours to kill, he wandered the street and sat outside drinking cheap wine—though even cheap wine was incredible in Spain—making himself visible in the hopes he’d get a glimpse of Grodescu or the men he’d sent. But Marissa Grodescu must have been mistaken, because he didn’t see anyone, not even a shadow to jump at. He felt a little let down, honestly. He’d been geared up for danger, and now all he’d get was a dance.
At 10:00 p.m., he aimed himself toward the bar. He walked slowly to give Grodescu or his thugs one last chance to show themselves, but no one emerged to ruin his night. With a mental shrug, Tinseng followed the instructions Chiboon gave him for finding Fauna. When he found it, he recited the password, had his name checked by the intimidating bouncer, and slipped inside.
The moment he walked in, he understood why Chiboon insisted on choosing his clothes. It’d been lucky for all of them that every scrap of clothing Tinseng owned was currently with him; Chiboon had pawed through all his suitcases to unearth a clingy silk oxford shirt Tinseng hung on to for fancy dress parties. The scarlet of it curled around his neck, sliding down his chest where he’d been ordered to leave the top two buttons open. The suit over the shirt was a deep midnight blue that rippled black in the club’s low light. Once inside, he unbuttoned the blazer because even he could admit the high waist on these slacks showed off his waist nicely. He wouldn’t compare to the Spaniards who had their whole wardrobe at their disposal or the tourists who’d shown up to peacock, but Chiboon at least ensured he wouldn’t be an embarrassment.
There was no chance Chiboon would appear until at least an hour after opening, so Tinseng settled at the bar and ordered more wine. He ignored the attention of interested men and casually watched the exits. He’d spent plenty of time in the gay bars of France, but here the mood was clandestine and rebellious in equal measure. In Franco’s Spain, every whisper was a shout.
Tinseng remembered a similar mood in Hong Kong. The day Yukying had caught him, he had started planning his escape. It’d been very clear to him that he’d be caught eventually and bring the family down with him. He’d needed to neutralize himself. Once he’d known he’d be transferred to Paris, he’d begun imagining the freedom he thought it’d offer. Kissing a man on the street—how he longed for that one simple act. His daydreams had never extended beyond escaping a jail cell.
Then he’d actually arrived in Paris. He’d laughed at his old daydreams—how limited he’d been! There were so many ways to be hated, ones he’d almost forgotten about, but then again, he’d learned how many ways there were to love. And now here he sat with different goals, new daydreams that felt just as impossible. He was older but he felt the same as he had before.
He saw Chiboon and Jinzhao before they saw him. They entered from the door that led to the lounges and bathrooms, and murmurs spread as they made their entrance. Chiboon looked stunning, of course, drawing eyes as he—but no, Tinseng shied away from that here, in this place where things were more real, more like they should be—as they walked out in a floor-length green dress. Green wasn’t right, but Tinseng didn’t know the word, in any language; he thought of a forest in spring rain, or a flawless emerald in a gold setting. The verdant fabric against their skin made them look luminescent. The front of the dress hugged every curve, the neckline displaying Chiboon’s narrow chest. Beaded detailing in a pattern like long leaves extended on either side of their hips, calling attention to their sway as they walked through the crowd. The dress had a slit running up the left side, showing off endless leg and a deadly black heel.
Men called out, lavishing Chiboon with the attention they deserved. As they turned to flutter their eyelashes at a particularly handsome man, Tinseng saw the back of the dress and laughed into his drink. No wonder they were going wild: the dress was entirely backless, exposing a scandalous amount of skin even here in Europe. The cut ended right in the small of their back, drawing the eye and calling for a hand to rest there, to feel the scratch of the embroidery and the warmth of their skin in that soft, vulnerable spot. They’ve chosen not to wear a wig tonight, instead tussling their hair so it fell in their eyes. It made their features sharper, their eyes darker. Framed by the soft lines of the dress, the combination was devastating. They were a siren song, and they knew it. No one else in the room was so commanding, so alluring, so untouchable yet demanding to be touched.
It was easy to see why the man by their side would be overlooked.
But Mei Jinzhao was all Tinseng could see.
Chiboon had transformed him. It wasn’t garish; in fact, it was quite understated: just a black turtleneck, tight black slacks, and a black hat with his hair loose around his shoulders. A little makeup around the eyes, the hint of smoke. The impression it made was that of a single, ceaseless line down the neck, the chest, the waist, the legs . . . his entire body the stroke of a master calligrapher. Jinzhao always wore layers, buttoned up in more ways than one, and Tinseng was used to the bulk of a suit hiding Jinzhao’s real figure. Tinseng had never seen him wearing modern clothes meant to impress or fit. The turtleneck actually covered more skin than usual, but it clung to his chest; the way it hugged his long neck made Tinseng want to pull down and bite.
