Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Zo snapped his fingers. “See! Now that makes sense with what happened last night.”
“Oh shit, Zo. What happened?”
He leaned in, eyes gleaming behind his gold frames. “Takeshi slid up next to me and said. ‘I find your aesthetic... unapologetic.’”
“Unapologetic?”
“I hope you gave him the side-eye.”
“Nyomi, when you do side-eye, it’s a full exorcism. When I do it, people think I’m constipated.”
I chuckled. “Maybe it’s a DNA thing. White guys just can’t side-eye.”
“Here we go with your borderline racist theories.”
“I’m just saying! What if side-eye is generational? Something passed down like cheekbones and trauma. You can’t just learn it. You got to survive it.”
“This is like your theory that white people can’t season food.”
“I didn’t say all white people can’t season food. It’s mainly all you English folk.”
“Anglo-Saxon, thank you very much, or at least say Brits.”
“Whatever. Italians can season. Greeks too.”
“Oh my God, I’m not doing this with you.”
“It’s true!”
“The Brits can season.”
“Then why did y’all get on boats and colonize the entire damn planet just to steal spices?”
“You are fucking insane.”
“I am. Now back to the tea. Takeshi is up in your face like he hasn’t been hating on you for a whole year. Then, what?”
He grinned. “Oh yeah. So, he has this gift bag with him and hands it to me.”
“Gifts? Alright. What was in it?”
“Limited-edition sake. With gold flakes. And even crazier. . .it had my name engraved on the label.”
I covered my mouth. “Stop it!”
“And THEN—” Zo held up a finger, milking the drama. “He pulls a silk kimono out of the bag. A real one. Not fast fashion. Hand-dyed. And he says, ‘This is how I imagine you. . .in candlelight.’”
I shrieked. “You better stop lying to me! What kind of odd shit is this?”
“I know, but I was drunk so. . .you know what happened next?”
“No.” I stared at him in disbelief. “What the fuck happened next?”
“I let him suck me off in the bathroom.”
I stopped walking. “What?”
“Yeah. He wasn’t bad.”
“So. . .you’re bi now?”
Zo shrugged. “I’m fluid.”
“Alright.” I nodded. “So fluid as in. . .queer fluid? Sexually fluid? Emotionally fluid? Gender-fluid? Which boxes are you checking here?”
“Oh no. You’re being too mature and informative.” He shook his head with a grin. “I’m fluid-fluid.”
I started back walking. “What the hell is that, Zo?”
“Fluid-fluid is more like. . .if there’s liquid in me, and something wet and willing nearby, I’m down. If I’m drunk enough, I would fuck a plant.”
I slapped his arm. “Zo!”
“If I’m drunk and in someone’s living room and the ficus is thriving and giving me those bedroom leaves? Who am I to deny it my cock?”
“Wow.”
“Cumming is cumming in my book. And if a man can make me reach the mountaintop like a woman, then congratulations to him and his lineage.”
“You’re out of your damn mind.”
“And yet you love me.”
“Reluctantly.”
We rounded the corner and that was when we both stopped short at the sight.
Uh. . .what is going on?
Chapter nineteen
Brainstorming
Nyomi
There, standing beside the elevator, was a large, muscular man in a black suit so sharp it probably had its own sword license. He was death in couture—hands folded, chin tipped, and a faint smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes.
Yakuza.
We walked slowly forward.
He saw us, inclined his head and without a word pressed the elevator button for us.
Zo whispered. “That’s one of his men. The Dragon. . .”
“I’m aware.”
“Do I bow? Do I curtsey? Should I go back in the apartment to offer him the kimono?”
“Stop it.” I elbowed him, trying not to laugh again as the elevator dinged. “No one wants that kimono. Only God knows what’s on it.”
“Well, it did get dirty.”
We approached the elevator.
The man stared forward and didn’t look at us.
Zo whispered. “I feel like I’m about to get invited to a very exclusive funeral.”
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened.
We stepped inside.
So did the guard.
O-kayyyy. . .
The doors closed us three in and the elevator lowered.
The guard stood perfectly still, not speaking, not even blinking. He just remained in the elevator like an expensive statue that could kill.
Zo tried not to breathe.
I, on the other hand, was growing far too used to this level of Kenji’s absurdity.
Alright. Apparently, I now have a personal guard. Got it.
Once the doors opened at the bottom, we stepped out into the warm Tokyo sunlight. The air smelled of espresso, Chanel No. 5, and secondhand ambition.
Outside, the building pulsed with curated wealth. It was Tokyo’s indie elite doing what they do best.
On one balcony, a woman in oversized sunglasses exhaled smoke in slow motion, like it was part of her brand to be dope as fuck.
Across the street, two men debated minimalist fashion in matching Comme des Garçons blazers. Their laughter slipped between beats of lo-fi jazz leaking from another’s cracked window above.
On the sidewalk, a woman’s glossy yellow designer heels clicked against the pavement.