Cole McGinnis 05 - Down and Dirty by Rhys Ford

Bad enough I got taken down by some kid who can’t even grow enough hair to shave.” Bobby rubbed his temple with his fingertips.
    “That beer isn’t going to help you with that headache—”
    “Seemed to help just fine before you showed up.”
    “Yeah, well not now.” Ichiro mimicked Bobby’s rolling grumble back at him. “Let me find something to grill the meat on, and I’ll help you.”
    “The ibu should kick in soon. There’s a grill thing that goes on top of the burners.” Bobby pointed at one of the cabinets. “But nah, I’m good.”
    “Found it. How about if I put the meat on later? It’ll cook faster than it’ll take me to soften that hard head of yours.”
    “I’m not sure I can take your hands on me right now,” Bobby grumbled. “This thing—you and I’ve got—”
    “We’ve got a thing? I thought we both agreed we’re assholes? Only civil to each other because you’re Cole’s best friend, and I’m his favorite younger brother.”
    “I don’t let assholes come into my house, get drunk, and tell me stories about their shitty childhoods.”
    “Ah, then I’m good still being an asshole, because I don’t think my childhood was shitty,” Ichi replied dryly. “Just my father. We can make things even. You can tell me your dad was shitty.”
    “Can’t. Didn’t really know him. He caught a bullet before I was really old enough to know who I’d be missing. A guy can’t really know his father until they’re both men, I don’t think.” Bobby’s face hardened again, and the tired stretched even further from his eyes, sinking into his expression. “My Uncle James—my dad’s brother—kind of stepped in. He’s a tough old goat but only if you’re a thug. Old-school kind of cop. Up until last year, he was still out on his lawn screaming at kids to pull up their pants. Now he’s at one of those senior apartment things, yelling at the staff because the rice pudding is too runny.”
    “Don’t think I’ve ever had rice pudding.” Ichi wrinkled his nose. “What’s it like?”
    “It’s like tapioca pudding. Sweet, creamy. Some people make it with nutmeg or cinnamon. It’s got… chewy stuff in it. You know, tapioca—but rice. You know rice, Sunshine.”
    “Yeah, but normally we pound the shit out of it until it’s gooey and then make it sweet. So the tapioca? It’s like boba ?”
    “Those little fish-eyeball things you guys get in your slushie drinks?”
    “Yeah, those.”
    “No, those are disgusting. This is edible and tiny. Like they should be,” Bobby retorted. “Now I’ve got to go to the store every week for rice pudding before I go see him, or there’s hell to pay. I give him one of those fish-eye things, and he’d use it in his nine-mil to aerate my butt.”
    “Head massage or pain?” Ichi leaned on the counter, slightly lost in the conversation’s traction. “It’s a thing-free offer. No strings. No puke. Just a head massage because you look like shit.”
    Bobby studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly, as if moving his head too quickly would break him apart. “Yeah, okay. Because hell, anything to take the edge off would help.”
    It was a short distance to the couch set in the near middle of the loft. Bookcases and screens portioned off a bedroom from the space, taking up the west-facing side of the end unit. The lower bank of tall windows were covered with heavy burgundy drapes, but the upper rows of broad louvers were left undressed, some partially cranked open to let out any built-up heat. The ceiling was painted black, as was the ductwork running above them, with wooden beams tucked in between industrial air-conditioning vents to support hanging pendulum lights.
    A bathroom was carved out of the space next to the kitchen, a high drywall enclosure that looked big enough to hold an orgy Caligula would have been proud of. Ichiro couldn’t imagine what Bobby had installed in it—and since he’d fled the loft without even taking a piss, he’d