Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(33)

I’m still in shock. “What are you doing here? How’d you find me?” I say, eyes wide—but there’s no time for him to answer. The dumpsters still smell like rotten fish and I’ve definitely eaten and drank way over my stomach’s limit. Really, I have no choice in the matter. The landlord has nailed an eviction sign to my stomach. Rent is overdue. Everybody out. I lurch forward. Just like that, I throw up.





13


I’m in an imperial vehicle, complete with chauffeur and tinted windows. In the backseat, I wait for Akio, who’s popped into a convenience store. We’re on a quiet street. A crumpled newspaper lies on the sidewalk. It has my face on it. I open the car door, reach out, and swipe it up at the same time Akio reappears, black plastic bag in hand.

I scoot back in the car and he follows me in.

“I told you to stay in the car.” Then he knocks on the partition, signaling the driver to go. The car starts and we pull away.

My mouth is dry and I might have dragon breath, but still I speak. “Does that usually work for you? Telling people what do and expecting them to blindly obey?”

“Yes,” he states unequivocally.

“That’s ridiculous,” I huff, shivering. The heat is on, but I can’t seem to get warm.

Akio snorts, then moves, slipping off his sweatshirt. The white T-shirt he wears underneath bunches up and I catch a glimpse of his abdomen, watching his muscles flex and pull. Our eyes connect. He pulls down his shirt. I flush. “Here.” He hands me his sweatshirt.

“I’m fine.” I stick up my chin, cross my arms.

“Fine. I’ll use it to clean the vomit from my pants.” I wince. There are little speckles of barf on his jeans. What did I eat that was orange?

When he puts it that way, it seems like a waste of a perfectly good piece of clothing. No need to punish the sweatshirt and reduce its existence to a barf rag. I’m sure it would much prefer me. I slip on the hoodie, and it smells nice. Not like cologne but clean, like detergent. It contrasts the scent of my hair, which has picked up and carried the fried snail odor from the izakaya. So much yuck.

The black bag crinkles and Akio draws out a bottle of clear liquid with a blue label. “Drink.”

It’s cool in my hands and the label reads … “Pocari Sweat?”

“It’s a sports drink. Contains electrolytes.”

I unscrew the lid, sniff and take a sip. It’s good, with a grapefruit aftertaste. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. In no time, I’ve drained half the bottle. Akio pulls out a triangle-shaped package wrapped in plastic. Inside is sticky rice wrapped around ginger. “You should eat something, too.”

One look at the food and my stomach rolls—it’s not ready yet, maybe never. “No thanks.”

Akio shrugs and puts it back in the bag. We sit in silence. I drink the rest of the Pocari Sweat and watch the neon lights of the city catch Akio’s face and soften it.

“How did you find me?” I ask.

“You were never lost. At least not to me,” says Akio. Cryptic much? I rub my eyes. The night has caught up to me. I am sober, tired, and in no mood for riddles. He goes on. “I put a tracker on you.”

My mouth hangs open. I bolt upright. “You put a tracker on me?”

He nods casually. My outrage grows even more.

“Where?” I ask, voice climbing in volume.

His eyes glitter. “Your phone.”

I drop my phone like a hot potato. Then I pick it up and thrust it at him. “Remove it.”

He casts the ceiling a pained glance. “It’s standard protocol.”

“Remove it. Right now.” I shake my hand in front of him.

Taking the phone, he snaps the case off. He fishes a little tool of some sort from his pocket and uses it to jimmy the phone open. He extracts a small metal disk from the guts of my phone, snaps the case back on, and holds it out to me. He arches a brow.

I yank it from his fingers. “Not okay. Line crossed,” I say, my words sharp. “Any more trackers?”

“None I’m aware of.”

My phone buzzes. Yoshi is texting.

Yoshi

Where’d you go?

Yoshi

Please tell me you’re okay.

Yoshi

I knew I should’ve gone to the restroom with you.

Yoshi

My God, did you fall into the toilet?

I tap out a response along the lines of It’s all good and I’ll see you tomorrow, then finish with thanking him for an awesome night. No need to get into the story of dumpster cage and my imperial rescue. I’d rather not relive the humiliation again just yet.

I stare at Akio for a moment. Anger still burning bright and hot, I say, “You know, maybe a tracker wasn’t enough for me. Might I suggest a shock collar?” Horrible, horrible inventions. “Might make things easier. That way you can just press a button and zap me whenever you think I’m doing something wrong.”

He grinds his teeth.

“Well?” I ask.

“You’re actually waiting for an answer. I thought that was a rhetorical question.” We glare at each other. Oh man, if my eyes could shoot laser beams. Then he runs an aggravated hand over his head. “I’m sorry.”

I blink and wait for the earth to swallow me whole, for strange shadows to streak across the sky signaling the end times. Did Akio just apologize? It takes a moment to register. He did.