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)
“Ye-yes! Essence is my friend.” I focus on how Ryoichi might not want to harm me because of Essence. “That’s my friend who’s going to call. She’ll call the consulate if I don’t answer.”
“You shall answer your friend, Ry.” Delight finds its way into his tone. “You will be permitted to speak with your friends once you’ve ascertained a few things.”
“Wh-what?” I scoff, still at a loss for what the hell just occurred. Did I witness my first murder? In all my years in Los Angeles, I leave the country and . . . What the hell! “Ryoichi, what do you mean ‘ascertained a few things’?”
“You will learn how to respect yourself, bijin. No one is to harm you, not even me.”
Chapter
Five
Ryann
“No one is to harm you, not even me.” Ryoichi's words have spun through my psyche on repeat like a DJ spinning. And the psycho had the nerve to appear mildly slighted when I declined his offer to shower with me before we leave.
We leave.
“This is not happening” is on repeat in my thoughts as I shakily slide into a pair of dark-wash jeans.
We are leaving tonight?
Bad people prefer the night.
Um-hmm, that's right. And you once were good peoples, Ry Pie. Now, you’re an accessory to murder. But are you still an accessory if you’re being held under duress? God forgive me. I’m so confused. Help! I hope God hears my silent prayer and forgives me. If I get out of this, there will be no more, don’t ask for permission now and beg forgiveness later.
I grind my teeth, ceasing the uninvited thoughts of self-loathing. Once I've shrugged into a gray cable-knit sweater and tennis shoes, I stroll toward the suite telephone for another attempt.
Hand clutching the receiver on its antique cradle, I tremble out a prayer. Seconds later, I try it. Silence.
“Awww, Lord, I took a vacay, so you took a vacay. But I need—”
There's a tiny rasp on the bedroom door. I march over and yank it open.
With my lips jerked into a snarl, I ask, “Yes?”
I'm at eye level with one of Ryoichi's thugs. He bends into a respectful bow, then pulls back up to offer a humble smile. “Ms. Ryann, shall we?”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I-I don't want to go with you people. I want to forget that this night happened. Yes,” I lick my lips pensively, “I'll forget what happened. Give me something to sign that says I'll never speak of Ryo—of what's his name. Never. Ever.”
The man stares at me. “I'm Umito. Ryoichi Ziatso's—”
“Why are you saying his entire name?” I let out a tiny croak. I know the man's name. My only endeavor is to forget his name.
And the way his fingers moved feather-light over my skin while binding me.
And the way his lips fit perfectly over my . . .
I tune back in.
“Have you packed?” Umito asks.
“Yes.” But nothing I own is worth more than my ass. I loop my traveling purse over my shoulder and bend to grab the handle of my hard-side luggage when Umito says, “Allow me.”
“Alright, uh, since you're so talkative, what should I know about Ryoichi?”
“He will treat you good,” Umito says, strapping a duffle bag over his shoulder and tugging the suitcase. “Very, very good.”
“Uh-huh.” I stroll into the empty living room. Not a single inch of the five-star hotel tells a story. Every elegant touch is perfectly arranged. There's a wealth of silk throw pillows, so nobody's gonna miss the one blown to smithereens. Unless there is a stickler of a housekeeper who jots down the friggen missing pillow that was an accessory to murder, and then I'm charged, and I won’t get a chance to explain. I won't be granted the chance to pay.
I'll have bad credit! Girl, forget that. What about your Tatsun?
I suffer a glance where the Book Boyfriend Extraordinaire took his last breath.
Dang, the coastal-area rug's missing.
Yup. Tatsun died, and I owe at least a thousand dollars in incidentals.
“Where's the rest of the gang?” I snort. The yakuza, Ryann. The proper term's yakuza, girl.
“Gang? We are no such thing,” Umito utters in perfect English. “We are a family.”
“Brothers from the same mother? Different fathers?”
He mutters under his breath about Ryoichi's stepfather as we walk toward the door.
“I didn't hear . . .” I step closer to Umito, head tilted in genuine curiosity.
“I was saying it was regrettable. Ryoichi took the life of his stepfath—”
In a split second, I react like one of the actresses in one of Essence’s and my guilty pleasures—a friggen Lifetime movie. My knee launches up, targeting the man's privates. Umito tumbles between the luggage, writhing in the fetal position. I lift a milk glass vase. His eyes go wide the same way my ancient Sunday school teacher’s had when I dropped baby Jesus and scurried off the stage during a church play.