Chapter 11

Cain

Convincing Margot to do this had taken more time than I’d expected.

Fuck it, I’d never had to convince anyone of anything in my life. I spoke and people did what they were told—that or they fucked off and I got someone else to do it. That was how it’d always been.

But she was different. I’d do what it took to convince her. And that made me… uncomfortable.

I stood in the bathroom of the luxury suite in the Tokyo Station Hotel, Japan, and admired my reflection in the mirror above the marble-topped sink.

I’d chosen my usual outfit for today’s little trip—a white cotton shirt tight enough to make Margot’s mouth water, and a pair of jeans that would probably be unforgiving if she wore anything remotely revealing today.

She wouldn’t, of course. Margot was the consummate professional.

And Japan? It was her obsession, behind tattooing, the shop, and giving me grief every minute of her waking life, whether intentionally or not.

I shrugged off the thoughts and made my way out of the hotel room and down to the lobby to meet the entourage. Camera guy, producer, and Margot. A small team, and I only gave a shit about one of them.

I reached the lobby and strode across the blocky carpeted floor, beneath chandeliers, past travelers who turned to stare. Men loathed me, women wanted me—the usual effect I had wherever I went.

Apparently, being Cain knew no boundaries, country borders included.

Margot and the two mouth-breathers stood near the reception desk.

She turned, and I caught my first view of her full-on. The lobby blurred—the colors and lights, the view from the front doors out into the street beyond, the people. All of it mushed into a long streak of nothingness with Margot at its center.

Look at her. You’re in trouble now, dickwad. You’re falling for her. You’re going to take her and break her if you keep doing this.

I couldn’t leave. I was here for a reason. For my mother’s charity. For the hole in my chest.

She’ll fill that hole, and then you’ll pull her out and fuck her up. Another one bites the dust.

I clenched my fists.

Margot’s full, pouted lips parted as if she wanted to say something, or maybe she was as shocked by my presence as I was by hers. It was the same every time I saw her. Each time was the first time.

Her blonde hair fastened back in a professional bun, her skin pale, almost makeup free—though her lips were glossy, her eyelashes darker than they normally would be.

She’d chosen a summery dress, covered in plump peaches. For fuck’s sake. It was ridiculous. It was adorable. It was so fucking Margot it made my eyes water.

It brought me right back to middle school when we’d first met, and she’d tied her hair with peach-colored bow. I’d pulled it out and refused to give it back until she’d socked me in the stomach and told me she’d make me hurt worse.

Fuck, my stomach?

She’d socked me in the heart. Back when I’d had one.

“Are you coming or not?” Margot called out.

“Just reevaluating my entire existence.”

“You’ve got another five seconds,” she replied. “You should be done by then, right?”

I chuckled but kept my voice low. Japanese culture was deeply entrenched in respect, and every time I’d visited the country I’d played by the rules. I was an impulsive prick, but not a supremely disrespectful one.

I walked over to Margot and reached for her, but she stepped back, plastering up a smile and nodding to Camera Guy and Producer Man. “This is Ben and this is Jerry.”

“You’re fucking with me,” I replied.

The men exchanged a confused glance.

“Ben and Jerry?” I quirked an eyebrow.

“What?” Margot asked, but those blue eyes twinkled with mirth. “So, Cain, where are you taking us today? You’ve been closed-lipped ever since we arrived.”

“Follow me, gorgeous,” I replied.

She colored at the term of endearment, and I internally “d’oh”ed like Homer Simpson about it. I wasn’t here to push her. I was here to help her. And maybe to get into those lacy panties again.

Fuck, had she chosen panties? Could I bend her over right now, lift her skirt, and—

I shook the bullshit from my head and made for the door, held it open for her. We stepped out into Tokyo, into another world, where the smells of the city were different from Chicago but somehow the same.

Cities were living, breathing entities. They had personalities, their own special brands of cologne. This one was no different.

We caught a taxi, and once again, I held the door open for her, then gave the driver a business card with an address on it. I slipped in beside her, pressed myself to her side.

“Cain,” she whispered.

But the ice cream duo got in too, and her complaints cut off. She couldn’t blame me for squishing up against her when there was a camera guy and his gear squashed into the space beside us, the producer in the front seat.

The drive took way longer than I’d anticipated—yeah, this was impulsive too—but I didn’t regret a fucking second of it. I spent each moment inhaling Margot, breathing down the side of her neck, watching as goose bumps rose there, as her chest hitched.

She avoided my gaze, gripped her skirt in her lap, and exposed the pale skin on her thigh.

It’s just sex. Just your little fantasy to fuck your friend, your enemy. Whatever the hell she was. That’s fucking all. It’s nothing more.

But I couldn’t persuade myself no matter how hard I tried.

Ha, another person who couldn’t be convinced easily.

My focus was glued to Margot. The fact that we were sandwiched together with two other dudes and a driver who didn’t speak a word of English made no difference to me.

Margot had been so open throughout middle school and high school. Fuck it, she’d been readable and sweet. A little innocent, yeah, but still gutsy. The woman next to me now, she was closed off.

She was stuck in her comfort zone, though I’d managed to pull her out of it last week, and then only for a night.

What had happened to her?

Who’d fucked with her bad enough to make her like this? It couldn’t just be grief from her father’s passing. There was more to her story than that, and I would find out what it was.

The taxi slowed, and I lifted my gaze from her to the window and the buildings beyond. Tokyo was a marvel of sound and color, of people in business suits or crazy outfits, others with masks covering their faces.

The area we’d stopped in was no different. A narrow street between buildings, somewhat empty of pedestrians, and marked in kanji characters. The shop front had potted plants beside the door, and there was a vending machine that dispensed hot and cold drinks beside it.

This was the same place I’d gotten my back tattoo a couple years ago. The memorial to my mother. “This is the place,” I said, and elbowed one of the ice cream boys beside me. Ben or Jerry? Who the fuck could tell?

Margot opened her car door and slipped out, and I paid the driver, then followed.

“What is this place?” she asked, and took a couple steps toward the glass front door.

Inside, skulls—plastic, not real—decorated the top of a wooden counter, and the wallpaper was somewhat garish, but in a way that seemed styled rather than tasteless.

“Robin Art Tattoos,” I said. “This is an appointment-only tattoo parlor, and we’re here today to learn about Wabori tattooing.”

Margot’s jaw dropped. Noises came from her throat, but nothing I could decipher as an actual sentence.

Score one for Cain. Fuck yeah, I’d been sure she’d love coming to Japan. She’d always loved the culture, from anime to those cute Sanrio characters, and this was exactly up her alley.

“This is so cool, dude,” said one of the ice cream crew. “I’m going to get a shot of the front of the shop.”

“Good. It took a lot of string-pulling to get this appointment with Tomo Hinshu, and he’s not going to let you film the actual tattooing part, only parts of our conversations and the interior of the store.”

The two guys hung back and discussed it, how they’d frame the shots and make this work, and I took hold of Margot’s elbow and walked her toward the front of the store. “Is this good for you?” I asked, under my breath.

“Are you kidding?” She whispered back. “Cain, this is too much. I—I’ve dreamed about learning about this tattoo style. It’s traditional Japanese—I—you know.”

“I know,” I said. “This is for you, Margot. I want you to know how serious I am about doing the right thing for the shop.” And for me. Definitely for me. “And for you.”

Margot glowed from the inside out, the wind whipping the frills of her dress, at her shoulders, and the skirt—the peaches danced and so did her hair. I caught a couple strands and tucked them behind her ear, traced a finger over the piercing there.

“Cain.” There wasn’t any power in the warning. Like she knew she couldn’t resist my touch. But I didn’t take it further, regardless. She wanted professionalism, and she’d get it. For now. While I could still cling to a semblance of it.

“Come to dinner with me tonight,” I said. “After all of this. We can talk about what we learned. We can talk about the future of the shop.”

Margot pressed those full, glossed-up lips together then rolled them outward. “I’d like that. I think.”

“Don’t think. Know.”

The door to Robin Art Tattoos swung outward and Tomo Hinshu stepped out, wearing a pair of slacks and a loose shirt. His wrists were tattooed, his neck as well, but, noticeably, not his arms.

He gave us a small bow of the head and shoulders. “Ohayo gozaimasu, Cain-san,” he said.

“Ohayo gozaimasu, Hinshu-san,” I replied, and gave the appropriate bow in return.

Margot’s jaw dropped all over again, and she gaped up at me.

Hinshu’s lips quirked up at the corners.

“Forgive me, Hinshu-san. May I introduce to you my esteemed business partner, Margot Reed?” I gestured toward her.

“Hi,” Margot said, and raised a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Hinshu-san.” She didn’t stumble over the honorific, and I swelled with pride, even though it wasn’t my place to be proud. Fuck, she was beautiful and smart. And respectful.

“The honor is mine, Margot-kun” Hinshu said, in perfect English. “Welcome to my shop.”

Margot wandered forward, and I admired her from behind, taking the moment because I wouldn’t have much time in there. Whatever happened on this trip, man, it would have to stay here in Japan, because if I let this infatuation grow anymore, it would fucking consume me.

And nothing consumed me.

It was always the opposite.