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Annika and I had plans for some late-night hangouts later. But when she’s completely MIA, and when Kenzo isalsoMIA, I can add two and two together and get “fucking each other’s brains out”. I’m smart like that.
So instead, I end up on one of the patios, aimlessly doom-scrolling Instagram. It’s a bad habit—one that both Annika and Hana constantly tease me about. But sometimes it’s easier to get lost in other people’s lives than deal with your own.
I pause when I see a new post from Takeshi.
Dammit.
I’ve been fastidiouslynotgoing back to that particular photo of Mal at the club with Tak, because it pisses me off in a way that confuses me. The mere thought ofthat fucking girlsittingon his lap is enough to drive my internal temperature up in a supremely stabby way.
And that’s confusing.
I mean for one, what Mal and I have isn’t a “relationship”. It’s an arrangement. Or I guess itwasan arrangement—one based on a blackmail threat. Now it’s just…a differentkindof arrangement? One based on me being addicted to fucking him? But also having feelings for him I can’t, or am scared, to put into words?
Pretty much.
Either way, it’s just now hitting me that we never had any sort of conversation about exclusivity. And yet, Mal’s behavior—i.e.,flying back to the US from fucking Japanand beating up a guy for me—would suggest otherwise.
Like I said: it’s confusing. It’s also why I’ve tried to not look at the goddamn picture again.
So much for that.
I flick to Tak’s profile, scroll through a bunch of newer posts involving motorcycles and parties, and finally find the rage-inducing post itself.
I glare at the somewhat blurry pic again, grinding my teeth as I look past Takeshi to where Mal is sitting withthat fucking girlon?—
I frown, stiffening as I take a better look at the skank on his lap.
What the FUCK?
My stomach twists. I take a screenshot of the post, then go into my gallery and zoom in.
Holy shit.
It’sMia,the household help that Kir fired back in New York for constantly flirting with him.
Just to be sure, I do a reverse image search on the zoomed-in photo. Sure enough, it comes back with a link toherInstagram.
I stare at the profile, incredulous, then glance back at the photo of her on Mal’s lap.
What thefuckis Mia doing in Kyoto? And what the fuckingfuckis she doing sitting on Mal’s lap like she belongs there?
A tidal wave of jealousy and anger crashes over me as I scroll through her profile. Mia’s most recent posts show that sheis, in fact, living in Kyoto now, working at a hostess club as a cocktail waitress.
There’s nowaythis is a coincidence.
I need answers.
The neon lightsof Shimogyo Ward flash above me, the bike I borrowed from Takeshi rumbling to a stop beneath me as I cut the engine. The city hums around me, the air thick with the smell of sweat, smoke, food, and alcohol.
I glance up at the blinking neon sign for Club Heartbreaker, a high-end, exclusive “Hostess Club”.
Japan is full of these. The guests are male, with female staff, although there’s clubs going in the opposite direction cropping up too these days. Basically, businessmen-types can come in andsit and drink with gorgeous, younger women who are great at conversation, or have specialized knowledge on certain subjects, or are just good at making their clients feel like rock stars.
They’renotbrothels. There’s no touching or anything like that, and nobody’s stripping. They’re literally just places to go and pay someone to be your friend for the night.
Japan has a serious loneliness problem.
My heart pounds as I push open the club’s door, the dim lighting and upbeat jazz music washing over me. I scan the room, searching for Mia.
