No Ordinary Love (19 page)

I finished my beer and put my phone up. She needed an answer, but not the one I would give her.

Friends? How funny, Little Tora.

If she thought she had options, she was wrong.

Three weeks? No way.

She had to extend her trip. Once she did, I’d convince her to stay for good. Granted, my life wasn’t the kind for her, but she would make it. There was always something in this city and my district to write about.

Maybe she can do another book or something about Tokyo. I’ll think of something.

I opened up a new beer.

“Patience,” Dad would say. “That’s how you catch the right woman. Patience and the proper rope.”

He’d been the one to teach me about erotic asphyxiation. He’d planted it in my head, given me some rope and a few books that he’d read. My father never thought of it as odd to tell his young child these things—about choking women while making love to them. To him, this was a prize that he was giving to his son, a way to live the most pleasure-filled life possible. We never did anything lewd. That wasn’t his way. He wasn’t a monster when it came to raising his sons, just evil in everything else.

Or was he a monster with us, too? Did he ever tell Takeo about choking women?

Numerous times he’d made sure to tell me that my mother or anyone else was never to know of these discussions. So I knew that something wasn’t quite right with those moments that we shared. At times I did my best to push those memories out of my head.

But, none of that mattered now. My father’s words were finally starting to make some sense. There were women in this world a man should take his time getting to know. The end game was always having her to himself, and that was what I hoped for with Tora. She had to be mine. The pussy was too good, and everything else about her, phenomenal.

Friends? No, but I won’t push too hard. Like Father said, be patient and always make sure you have the proper rope to catch one.

I took a chug of my beer.

“The right woman will be open to this sort of activity.” Father would twist the rope in his hand and grin. “That’s the one you should choose for your wife.” He’d pat my back. “But you have plenty of years for all of that. For now, have fun.”

“Yes, Father.”

My phone buzzed again.

Nyomi: Kenji?

Father stressed being patient, and I would try my best. However, there were some things that needed to be clear.

Me: No, I won’t call you my friend. What we did tonight isn’t something friends do. It’s too late for us to turn around. So, no. We cannot be just friends. What we are is something more and I won’t ignore it.

She didn’t say anything else. What ran through that smart head of hers? No doubt she had many questions and probably all of the answers, too.

Let’s just hope you don’t do anything too crazy.

Me: Goodnight, My Naughty Tora.

***

That night, I laid down in my bed for the first time in years, closed my eyes, thought of Tora, and slept. No more insomnia on the balcony, not with Tora in my life.

In the morning, my phone woke me up again. Groaning, I rolled over, grabbed it, and answered.

“It's Eito.”

Horror laced my heart. I sat up in bed. “Nothing! Not one thing had better have happened to her.”

“Nothing has, Sato-san.”

Tension left my shoulders. I fell back into the bed with a sigh. “Why are you calling?”

“Your father has heard about the … situation in the hallway last night between you and this woman—”

“Ms. Palmer.”

“I'm sorry. Your father has someone else watching her too. I don't know who it is. He just let me know that he's added some help in monitoring her, and if she … gets into your head again like last night, then we can kill her.”

“Find out who the other guy is immediately.”

“Yes, Sato-san.”

Someone has to do something about Father. I thought that if I took control of the family that I'd at least stop some of the violence, yet still he lays in his bed like a bored little kid, directing people to kill for his entertainment. Someone has to do something. The answer is around me. I just can't see the solution.

I closed my eyes and envisioned Tora at the hands of Eito or any other man that my father had ordered. Fire blazed in my chest. I formed my hands into fists.

Someone has to stop him, but is that someone me?

Anxiety bubbled in my gut.

Could I stop him? Could I hurt my own father?

Chapter 19

NYOMI

“So how do you like Tokyo?” Mom asked.

I could still feel Kenji’s lips pressed against mine, taking my breath away. I touched my own mouth and traced the outline of it with my fingers. “It’s interesting.”

“That’s so good, honey.”

Stop thinking about him. That’s the whole reason you’re on the damn phone. Stop it.

I bit my bottom lip.

He made me come in a way that no one could ever get me to try. What should I do about that?

Scenes played out in my head, delicious ones—his hands squeezing the curve of my ass as he thrust hard into my wet center. I dripped all over him, soaked, and thirsty for more. Kenji’s scent coated me. Even after showering at Zo’s place, I smelled him on me—that sweet fragrance of mimosas in a gentle breeze.

This shit wasn’t the norm. Guy’s colognes didn’t stick to me. I fucked them, left, washed them off, and went about my business. Not this one. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. When I closed my eyes, his face appeared, his full lips forming an O as he exploded inside me. When I listened to my music, songs meant more, especially the love ones. I got excited and unconsciously began relating them to Kenji and me. When I rubbed my thighs against each other, sparks came and I craved Kenji’s fingers.

I cleared my throat and did my best to focus on Mom. “Yes, this trip has been very interesting.”

There was a thirteen-hour time difference between Tokyo and New York; I’d called my mother in the middle of the night my time, which meant she sat on her balcony having afternoon tea.

I didn’t call much. My mother’s moods went up and down. Some days she giggled with excitement from cool crafts that she’d learned about. She would even spend the whole phone call going into exhaustive detail about a food festival she’d visited. Other days she held a gloomy tone and wasted long minutes, updating me on her communications with my dad.

In the courtroom, he sat on top of his bench as if it were a royal throne and needed nothing more. Once the bribes appeared in the news and he was jailed, the model dropped him within seconds, the judgeship was stripped from his shivering hands, and everyone he knew kept as much space between them and him as possible. He’d been labeled bad news. Toxic, even. Besides a distant cousin or two, no one else wrote him in jail but my mom.

“How long will you be there?” Mom asked. “I’ve always wanted to go. Why didn’t you tell me you were visiting Tokyo?”

I stifled my annoyed groan. “This is work and my budget is pretty crappy. My whole focus was getting here, and I wasn’t entirely sure if I’d have the money to even stay in a hotel the whole trip. Luckily, Zo is here. I’ve been sleeping on his futon. If you would’ve come it would’ve been difficult for us to stay for three weeks.”

“Hmmm.”

“What?” I asked.

“You’re staying with Zo?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

She hated Zo. It didn't matter that I was eighteen at the time we dated. She saw him as an older guy taking advantage of a young girl. She might've had a point. The problem was, I’d seduced him—had my clothes off as I lay on his couch waiting for him to get home to an apartment he'd kindly let me crash in for a few weeks. He'd been just as surprised, considering me more of a kid sister than an attractive woman.

He'd lost his baby sister to leukemia a year before ever meeting me. That was probably why he'd attached himself to me long ago. And me being me, I had to shake up the waters, had to fuck with our friendship and see if sex with him would be interesting.

Well, it hadn't been.

For someone who had so much sex, his strokes came too quick, his breathing too loud, and the sweat, I can't even elaborate on the sweat without wanting to vomit. Additionally, I was sure I possessed way too many curves for him. When we shifted to doggy style, he'd stared at my voluptuous behind in an odd way as if my ass should have come with a navigation device or at least some sort of instruction manual.

I was shocked we lasted three weeks instead of three hours.

“Well,” Mom sighed. “I'm so happy you're with Zo.”

“Just because I'm in Tokyo doesn't mean I can't hear the sarcasm.”

“He's a sick man that preys on women. He has serious problems.”

“We all do.”

“And how is the Anxiety King doing these days, still walking down that dark journey of sexual addiction?” she asked.

“I hate when you call him that.”

“Sorry, dear. I forgot.”

No, you didn’t.

“Have you checked out any of those classes I emailed you on ikebana? It’s such a beautiful thing to see, the art of flower arrangement. The Japanese really know how to reimagine things.”

“I haven’t had the chance.”

And I could care less about arranging flowers.

“They’re so disciplined,” she said.

“Who?” I asked.

“The Japanese. They’re just so disciplined and smart. I think it’s because of their eyes. It helps them see the world different.”

And now we have inappropriate comment number five.

Counting the times my mother insulted someone, or even a group of people, was a game I liked to play in my head. It helped me find humor in the craziness that was my situation, and also helped the phone calls go by quickly.

“I don’t think that makes any sense, Mom.”

“Trust me. It does. Ask one of them.”

“I’m not going to ask a Japanese person whether they see the world differently because of their eyes. I sort of like not being punched in my face.”

“They wouldn’t punch you for that. They’re all calm and childish.”

And now we have inappropriate comment number six. Will she break the record this evening, ladies and gentlemen? Will she hit number ten?

“People think they’re so smart and they are, but they’re also a comical bunch, like elves,” she continued.

Seven.

“Okay, Mom. Let’s get off of it.”

“Why?”

“It’s insulting.”

“Oh, here we go. Mommy, you’re so insulting,” she mocked me. “All I do is be honest with my daughter, the only person on this earth that still loves me, and even then I don’t measure up to your standards.”

I buried my face in my hand. “I’m not saying that you didn’t measure up. You know I love you. It’s just—”

“No wonder I’m so alone.”

And now the emotional breakdown.

I rubbed my eyes. A headache sparked near my temples and then began to boom in my ears. This hadn’t been the soothing conversation I’d hoped for. I needed a distraction from Kenji. After seeing Kenji last night and having the odd text conversation with him, I just wanted to hear a sound that came from home, something that was the norm. He’d freaked me out with the texts, nothing too alarming, but the words just seemed possessive, or maybe it was just me being anxious.

Maybe I’m feeling this way from hanging around Zo so much. He’s making me second-guess everything. Kenji said we couldn’t just be friends. Odd. Most guys were cool with a nice sexual fling just visiting the country. What is his game? Oh, stop thinking about this. Focus on Mom.

Too bad the conversation with her wasn’t helping. I could’ve checked on a few girlfriends of mine in New York, women that I called up to go to a club or hang with at a concert. None of them were close confidants, not like Zo. Nevertheless, I’d perused my phone list to hear the sounds of home, trying to figure out who I should phone. Mom had been the one I chose.
The fact that I had to choose her was depressing on many levels. First, it was that realization that I'd closed myself off from the world so much, that all I had was Zo and Mom to keep me company. Second, I should've been excited to talk to my mom, joyous even. Didn't every daughter in the world love the shit out of her mom? What was wrong with me? I did my best to push against disliking her, if only for the fact that I didn't want to be like Dad, who was so tired of her by the end of the marriage that he'd left like a complete douche bag. No. She was my mom, a good woman that didn't deserve to be treated that way, and my dad, well, he was a monster.

“I'm so lonely and no one cares,” Mom whined.

Next time I miss the States I'm just going to pop in a damn hip-hop tape or look at an American show online.

“So tell me about ikebana.” I checked my watch. Five more minutes of this mess and I could bow out of the phone call without making her cry or breakdown.

“Just like your father, dismissing my feelings,” she spit out, and I sighed.

“Sorry, Mom. I love you so much. You're not alone. I'm here forever.”

How many times had I been forced to say that crap while my dad, the one who caused the heartbreak, fucked his new young wife? I had to pick up the pieces, and he had the nerve to send shitty letters from jail like I was the one that did something wrong.

“Thank you, Ny. Oh, I love you, too. Okay.” She cleared her throat. “The ikebana is amazing. They’re different than the flower arrangements here. Americans like beauty.”

Eighth inappropriate comment. Of course. Because the Japanese clearly do not like beauty, right?

“The Japanese focus on the stems, leaves, and branches. They see something deeper than the rest of us. They’re like tiny little magical creatures—”

“Oh God,” I blurted out.