No Ordinary Love (34 page)

“Yes.” He chuckled to himself. “Yes, that’s what I’m trying to say—‘Hey, buddy. Don’t get me killed, or yourself.’”

I mock saluted even though he wasn’t here. “I’ll do my best. Lucky for you, I won’t be back in Tokyo for a long time. We’ll have to meet in New York or at my next assignment.”

Quiet passed on the line, which was odd for Zo. Talking about anything and everything ranked number two under fashion.

“Nyomi, have you talked to Kenji?” he asked.

My heart paused for a slight second just at the mention of his name. “No.”

“Did you know that his father is dead?”

I dropped the phone. It crashed to the ground. Zo’s muffled words soared from the device, but I was already heading back to my computer screen and typed in Kenji’s name. Dozens of news articles appeared. Instead of focusing on the words, I stared at the photos.

Images showed Kenji standing in the rain, under an umbrella and dressed in all black—from his suit to his shirt, glasses, and tie. An older woman stood next to him, wearing a black kimono. The next photo was of Kenji’s father as he lay in a casket, clothed in a white kimono.

“Wow.”

The man was the spitting image of Kenji, yet an older version with a few wrinkles and gray hair. But, even in his old age, he was as gorgeous as his son. No one would’ve ever guessed how sick of a man he was, just from his looks alone. I scrolled through more images, forgetting about poor Zo on the line, who’d probably hung up by then.

Tons of photos littered my screen. A photographer got a shot of Kenji sitting on a bench in some park. That red journal lay on the bench next to his leg. A pen sat on top. With a tight-lipped frown and dark eyes, Kenji stared off somewhere in the distance, giving no attention to his haikus.

“Kenji? What happened that day? You couldn’t even write it down?” I don’t know how long I stared at that image. Grief rained down on me, cold dread that swiveled through any of the emotional progress I’d made. I hated that he hurt, wished I’d known about his father’s death and not stood him up.

Wait a minute. Why didn’t he tell me?

Something had changed on that evening. He’d been missing that night and when he finally messaged me back, he’d only answered to Dragon.

Fuck! Why didn’t I notice that?

When I said “Kenji” no reply came, but typing in “Dragon” got me his attention. And this was from a man who’d hoped that I would never call him that. He’d tried to stray away from that image.

But not that night. Not the evening your father died.

I went back to an earlier article that explained that his father died from a collapsed lung.

Could be true, but why would Kenji be so heartbroken? Well, it was his father, but
…
I’m missing something.

Kenji had leveled an area in the district that provided his gang with a lot of money—yen that came from women’s grotesque deaths. I’d gotten the impression that his father would definitely not be pleased. It was a huge coincidence that now his father was dead and that whole problem was conveniently solved.

For God’s sake, Kenji ignored all of his father’s phone calls.

I considered the facts again. If his father had died from a collapsed lung, would Kenji have still been so weird with me? Grief would’ve consumed him, but to the point that he fell into himself and changed into the Dragon?

No. I don’t know a lot about him, but one thing I understand. He hated the monster he’d become. He was trying to leave that. The only way I can see him
…
owning the reputation
…
was if his hand was forced. Who pushed you to be the Dragon? Was it your father?

I clicked on his father’s image. “I wish you could talk to me, buddy. After I curse you out for traumatizing Kenji, maybe you could answer a few questions.”

Wait. Shit. Trauma.

I went back to the photo of Kenji sitting on the bench with distant eyes, his journal no longer capturing his attention. “Something happened and now Kenji is lost. It doesn’t even matter what happened.”

Rubbing my weary eyes, I picked up my phone off the floor and dialed Zo’s number.

“I was wondering when you would call me back,” Zo said.

“Sorry. The news hit me hard.” I jumped off the bed and adjusted my smelly jogging pants. “I have a few questions.”

“Will this put me in any danger?” Zo joked.

I paused in my hallway, leading to the bathroom. “It may, but I doubt it.”

“Oh, wait. Are you serious?”

“Hmmm … I don’t know. Do I still have an invitation to sleep on your futon?”

“Dear God, you’re not coming back here, right?” He probably blurted that out before sugarcoating his stress. “I mean … Why are you coming back?”

“I have to do something.”

“What?”

“The less you know, the better.” I giggled and headed for my kitchen. My calendar hung on the wall. Every assignment and appointment was scrawled on there. I had to figure out what day I could arrive in Tokyo without messing up my ability to pay bills.

“Nyomi?”

“What? I’m just joking. I was thinking about bringing Kenji flowers. Something to help him mourn. Are there any specific ones you give to a Japanese person who has had a death in their family?”

“White chrysanthemums, but you can just have them delivered.”

“Wouldn’t that be seen as rude?”

“Not if the guy kills people for fun. It would be seen as a logical option for a woman who is already in New York and far away from danger.”

I halted in my kitchen’s doorway. “So are you giving me a vote of nay for returning?”

“I’m doing more than that. I’m going to call your mother.”

“Oh really? You hate her.”

“I don’t hate her.”

“Yes, you do.”

Someone knocked on the door.

Yes, pizza!

“Look, it will be a quick visit.” I hurried over to my front door and began to open it. “I just want to give Kenji my respects, and … ”

“What?” Zo asked, after I didn't say anything else.

I froze. A boy stood in front of me with blazing orange hair. Last time, it had been purple. Before, if I could remember further back, it might have been blue.

“Why didn’t you go pink?” I asked.

“He advised against it, like you said.”

There was no need to say who he was. There was no forgetting the Dragon.

I glanced behind him. “Where is he?”

“Outside in the car.”

I dropped my mouth open. “In front of my brownstone?”

The boy nodded, and his orange strands swung back and forth with the movement.

“Nyomi? Nyomi, who are you talking to?” Zo said on the other end of the line.

“Um … let me call you right back.” I hung up the phone. At this rate, Zo would never have a phone conversation with me again. “Why is he outside?”

The boy shrugged, his attention darting to the huge autographed Muhammad Ali picture above my mantel. In the image, the greatest of all time glared back at the viewer with his gloved hands ready to brawl and sweat dripping over his muscled chest.

“He was a good boxer?” the boy asked.

“The best. My dad loved him. That’s actually one of my dad's most prized possessions.”

“And he gave it to you?”

I grinned. “Something like that. I’m sort of … keeping it for him.”

I've been keeping it
from
him is more like it.

I’d finally decided that I would just send the damn photo sometime soon in the future and several other things to my father’s sister for safekeeping until he was released. Being in Japan had taught me many things about love and pain. I’d seen what living with grief could do to a person. Kenji walked in darkness and hate for his father, so much that … he might’ve killed him. That was too dark for me to even understand. Nothing would grow from my hate for my father. Not one thing would prosper from my anger with him, and so I was forced to just let it all go and forgive him for once. Besides, he’d left Mom and me, but that didn’t mean I had to change into something ugly.

It didn’t mean that I couldn’t grow or love again.

It didn’t mean that I had to stop living and rush into danger, just because Daddy wasn’t as good as the ones on TV. It was time to grow up and move on.

“Mr. Sato would like you to come outside to the car.” The boy shifted his view to the huge pile of old hip-hop records stacked next to the couch. “Do you DJ?”

He’s quite the curious and perceptive one.

“Umm. I used to DJ a long, long time ago. It was my dream before writing.” I raked my fingers through my messy curls and sniffed at the funk that had been growing under my arms. “I’ll have to wash up and get dressed. Do you want to come in?”

He snapped his attention back to me. “No. No way. I mean … I should stay in front of your door.”

“Alrighty.” I got ready to close the door and stopped. “Wait a minute. Why is Kenji in New York?”

Stop being stupid. You know why he’s here. At least you’re hoping it’s you.

“He told me that we were going to get some beer, and to get my passport.”

“Please let our beer geek know that I will be downstairs in ten minutes.” I shut the door behind me. Within my core, so many emotions rioted. This man may have killed. Who was I kidding? He’d killed long before I met him. Newspapers suggested that. Zo proclaimed it. Kenji basically confessed it.

So why am I excited to see him? Because you love him? No. Infatuation? Yes.

My body hummed with energy.

Maybe it’s more than infatuation. Maybe this is a chance for both of us to
…
I don’t know. Finally live.
 

Chapter 38

NYOMI

Ten minutes turned into thirty minutes as I rushed around my bedroom, searching for the only matching outfit that wasn’t dirty. Next came the shower. Due to the muck coating my scalp, I had to lather my whole body from head to toe in bubbles. To say I’d stopped the upkeep of myself due to heartbreak over Kenji was an understatement. I hadn’t even stepped in the shower since I’d been home.

How was I able to live with myself all week? Yuck!

By the time I got out of the shower, I was a bundle of anticipation.

I’m not going to think about what this means or what he’s done. Not now. First, I’ll hold him. That’s it. Then I’ll take everything moment by moment.

Noise sounded from my living room.

What the fuck?

Rushing, I pulled my huge robe on and tied the belt around it. “Hello?”

More noise came, as if someone had closed my fridge door.

Didn’t I close the front door and lock it?

I walked down the hallway. “Kenji?”

“No.” His voice came out dark and venomous. It was my Dragon, but not the one I was accustomed to. He’d become something more. I should’ve been scared out of my mind. But he’d trained me well. He’d taught me not to fear him, no matter what whispers swarmed around him. Not one time did he hurt me or cause physical pain. Well, besides the fact that he’d broken my heart.

Are you here to fix that?

I entered the kitchen and stopped five feet in front of him as he held a bottle of beer in his hand.

“You’re in my kitchen,” I said.

He didn’t say anything at all. His black glasses shielded me from his gaze. He wore dark pants and a white, button-down shirt that formed around his sleek body, a frame I’d still not seen without all of its clothes.

“I’ve never seen you naked,” I blurted out.

He set the beer on the counter and dropped his hands to his sides. “Take off your robe.”

No, sweetheart. It won’t be that easy. Have you forgotten about the animal you named me after?

I pointed to the brown bottle on the counter. “What is the name of that beer?”

“Rochefort Trappistes 10.”

“Is it good?”

“Yes.”

“What does it taste like?”

“Beer.”

“That’s as good as my beer geek can do?” I took a step closer. “What did your app say?”

“Dark color. Impressive taste. Strong plumand black currant palate.” He frowned. “Take off your robe.”

I wagged my finger at him. “We’re in my city now. Here, customs and traditions still have to be followed. In Brooklyn, you don’t come into a woman’s home … wait a minute. Didn’t I lock the door?” I checked over the counter and through the opening to my door. A huge gaping hole represented the place where my doorknob used to be. “Where’s my doorknob?”

“On the coffee table.”

“In Brooklyn, you don’t break into a woman’s home. You could get your ass kicked that way.” I shrugged. “Is that what you came here for, an ass whipping?”

“No.” He took a step forward, too.

Everything inside me froze, yet I stood my ground. He was hurt. How much, I didn’t know, but … my Dragon swam in pain and it was up to me to extend my hand and help him out of that dreary water.

“So then why did you come?” I asked.

“To fuck you.”

Disgust didn’t slam into my core, heat did. Lusty flames that lapped at my insides. “That’s a pretty long flight just to have sex with someone. Don’t you have a district for that?”

“Take off your robe.”

“Fix your request.”

He tilted his head to the side as if analyzing me through those sunglasses.

“This is Brooklyn, baby.”

“I’m aware of that,” he muttered.

“We don’t get down like that here.” I laid my accent on thick and pointed to the black and white tiled floor. “There are intricate and ancient traditions involved when it comes to having sex with a woman like me. First, dinner and a movie is the minimum. Respect is a must. Then we have—”

“I didn’t come to talk.”

I smirked. “I’m aware of that.”

“I just need this.” He gestured toward my closed robe. “One more time.”

“And then what?”

“Does it matter?”

We both stopped talking. He wasn’t ready for the answer, and I damn sure didn’t have one. So we stood there for several quiet seconds.