Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22496 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22496 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Reading me, Ryoichi replies, “This is for you, bijin. Come willingly.”
“No-no, it's not.”
“I beg your pardon, bijin?”
“I-I don't want you to call me beautiful anymore. I don't want you to se-see me,” I mutter. See me? What the hell, Ry? But that’s how I feel. I spent all my grade school years fidgeting at the thought of someone staring at me. Shyness was and still is a physical pain for me. My brain helps by telling me that people find fault in everything I am and everything I do.
Essence has tried for years to break through the lies my brain tells me. The thoughts that someone is criticizing this about me or that about me. My shyness is likely nature, but truth be told, my inadequacy issues probably stem from a nurturing father with every letter in the alphabet behind his name. PhD, blah, blah, blah. The kind of father who wants the best for you but leaves you hyperventilating because he overwhelms you, trying to pry you from your shell. And there’s my snort-laughter, which still makes me so self-conscious even at forty-two years old. Awkard sums me up.
But as Ryoichi and I embrace in the middle of the opulent hotel, I mutter, “Stop seeing me. Just leave me alone.”
“Can't.” His lips brush over one of my eyes and then the other. “All I see is you.”
I lift my foot, bringing it down on his shiny, expensive loafers.
“Still see you, Ry.” His murmur melts over my skin like warm butter.
“I hate you.”
“I cannot wait to wake up with you in the morning. Walk with you beneath the cherry blossoms on my compound.” His eyes move away from me as if seeing our lives together. “Watch the sakura whisper over your shoulder, or better yet, pluck one of the blossoms from your hair.”
“You don't talk about a Black woman's hair.”
He laughs.
“I'm not joking, Ryoichi.” I squeak as he holds me tighter still. The practical part of my brain screams that I should literally scream. I stare into Ryoichi's obsidian gaze, hypnotized. Finally, I stutter, “I wasn't hit by someone I'm dating, Ryo. I'm not in a relationship.”
“Then whom?”
“A kid did it. A student in my physics class.”
He offers a pensive groan as if pondering my outlandish statement. He arches a brow, followed by snapping his fingers. In a moment, two rows of Japanese men have flanked me—at least a dozen of them.
“It's true,” I say. “Ryoichi, listen to me. You stubborn mule!”
“Umito?” he asks another man. Ryoichi and the other dude engage in a short exchange—I assume is about Umito—as I attempt to gather his attention.
“Ryo, I can prove it to you. The . . .” My voice trails off as Ryoichi smiles at me.
“Ah, you're learning to fend for yourself, Ryann. Perfect.”
“You’re referring to Umito?”
“Precisely, bijin. Now, we must leave. I’ve already used the app on your phone to check out.” Across the lobby, I glimpse lovers floating in and out of the massive open areas. Some sip fruity umbrella drinks while others drink the taste from each other’s mouths. Funny how I never came down here or to any of the hotels in any of the cities I just left. I told Essence that I wanted to live, and I just was waiting for the bruise to fade. Something tells me, though, that my life just started mere moments ago, at the hands of Ryoichi Ziatso . . . a yakuza boss. For the sake of all these people, I’ll go with him willingly, but if he doesn’t believe I have more self-respect for myself. I’ll drop him, one way or another.
Either way, I’m living my life now. Good thing I’m still forty-years young.
Chapter
Six
Ryoichi
Japan
I spared no expense on tradition, building my home around a small river. Elevated wooden walkways fan out from the center of my compound. Each winding bridge extends from one structure to the next. At the center of my property are traditional Japanese gardens, koi ponds, and my prized bonsai tree.
Friends often brag, saying my home is too vast. They say I could be entertaining uninvited guests and never know it, but I’d be fully aware. You cannot come from where I did, a one-room tenement with a mother who spent most of her time on her knees to an ungrateful stepfather, and not know.
Upon returning home, I tended to my mother’s grave for the first time in weeks, showered, and now, I’m glancing at my cellphone.
Three missed calls.
All from an old friend of mine. No, an enemy I’ve tolerated for more than half my life.
I settle on the edge of my bed and return the call of the person who helped me escape my past years ago. Michie of the Yamazaki family had wealth, affluence, and education. He had a father who consumed literature and imparted wisdom to his sons. I could only dream of attending the same school as the Yamazaki children. Michie often tossed his literature to me.