Carli
As usual, I rise, they rise. I tell them off, they bow and smile.
Fuckers.
Walking out of the room, I don’t have to turn to know that my bodyguard is hot on my heels. I can’t go anywhere without him. He’s always right there! Even at public washrooms.
Entering first, checking that there’s no one hiding in the stall, he then clears the room and stands guard outside the door. A couple times, I’ve tricked his ass. Screaming there was a snake in the toilet, or that there was a ninja descending from the ceiling tiles. That one was fun. Well, it was fun until a whole fucking cadre of men showed up and ushered me out of there like Obama when a car backfires. Then it wasn’t fun. The look on the poor girl who’d waited on me in the Gucci store almost peed herself when he wanted her to strip in the middle of the store. He thought she was wearing the outfit under this season’s sarong. Awful, I tell ya. After that, we set ground rules. He stays his distance unless I expressly state I need him. At least fifty paces back, or I’m allowed to have him castrated with dull spoons.
Walking into Mioshi’s—this crazy upscale, guarded more than the president kind of restaurant—I find my sisters waiting for me. Mioshi’s has vegan and off the wall delicacies, so of course it attracts seriously posh clientele.
Noticing the girls’ guards, Hiro and Muki, who I call Dumb and Dumber, I nod my hello. Hiro is an expensive coat hook, but there he is, holding the twins’ purses. Muki smiles at me when I arrive, pulling out my chair with a greeting of, “Obayun.”
When he says it, I honestly don’t mind. It’s not like Kato, who says it with dirt in his mouth as it disgusts him. Also, Muki and Hiro are nice, not stuck up, pompous assholes.
Watching all eyes of the restaurant track me as I enter, the formal and totally unnecessary bows are just that—unnecessary.
I didn’t want this job. I didn’t ask for it. But I’ll damn well make sure it works to our advantage, even if I am leaving the sexiest man I’ve ever met behind.
Definitely not wanting to think about him today, I turn my attention to my runway model sisters. Yeah, I’m pretty, and I can rock couture, but they have something special about how they swish into a room.
“Kaori!” Jumping out of her seat, she yells my name so loud, I think even the kitchen staff heard, Kano leaps to give me a hug.
Wrapping her arms around me, wrinkling any chance I had of my outfit looking freakin’ great today, I hug her back. We’re the same height, but with my blue eyes and thinner framed face, and her chocolate eyes with a rounder look, it’s easy to see that we’re related. But I’m not her twin.
“Hey, Mono.” Oh yeah, the other part of Kano, she’s deaf in one ear. Everyone saw it as a defect when she was younger, but I think it makes her even more special.
Letting me go, sitting back in her chair, Kano smiles up at Muki as he ushers her chair back into the table for her. Oh, I’m so working on those two. Matchmaker me is on the hunt. They’re definitely in need of a hook up.
“So, what’s good today? What’s the special?” I ask my sisters, but before either can answer, a short, middle age waiter pops up like one of those hedgehogs, or whatever those things are in the whack-a-mole game.
“Today is fresh trout on a bed of toasted kale, with sweet potato ginger mash, Obayun.”
Fuck. Does everyone in Osaka know I’m the head now?
“My name is Carli. Please, no boss here, okay?” It exhausts me daily to hear I’m the boss of anything. All I want is for Kato to say he’ll take the job, and I can go back to my real life in LA and Indy. I miss the shit out of it.
Nodding, and offering an apologetic bow, the waiter shakes. I know my father ruled with an iron fist, and that his bidding was done immediately—hence, why I left—but I’m not my father. I have no care for subservient beings to kiss my feet and wipe my arse. I want respect for being Carli, not some boss of the Ryu Yakuza.
“If you say it’s good, I’ll give it a go. No fish.” Nodding again, he turns to my sisters. Each of them rhyme off their wants, and I watch them. The way they move, shift, and complement each other in movements is astonishing. They really are mirrors of each other. The worst part, I missed most of their teenage years, running away from our father. I guess the fates have decided I needed to be here now, instead of where I’ve made a home, friends, and finally…
Yeah, not going there.
Once the waiter has taken all of our orders, he spins at light speed, flying into the kitchen.
“Kaori, I heard you might have a way to deal with Chen?” Miori says deadpan.
Narrowing my gaze, I’m flabbergasted. “And you know this how? I drove straight here after the meeting, so how do you know?”
My little sisters are sneaky fuckers.
Lifting her glass of water and taking a sip, Miori is prolonging the suspense of her knowledge. Setting the drink down, she says, “Kato. Who else?”
Sneaky and underhanded Miori. Color me impressed. I wonder what she’s done to get an answer out of a closed-door meeting from Kato, but I’ll work on that later. For now, she thinks she’s the smart one knowing things, but now I know it means I can leverage her to plant ideas with Kato.
“You know, I had an idea for one of the shipping channels. Soaking the bamboo hats we transport to Hong Kong, then out to New York for Bustamante. Less stringent inspections that way. Truly high fashion.” I don’t worry about saying anything I shouldn’t here, as we own it, and anyone who enters knows who we are. They’d be idiots to cross or mess with a soul in this place.
With expedience, our waiter returns laden down with salads, drinks, and an assortment of hors d’œuvres. “With compliments from the chefs. They hope you enjoy your meal, Ms. Carli.” Shaking my head as he’s leaving with the same speed again, I wonder what’s so scary about me? Yeah, I’m a bitch. Yeah, I can put people in their place if it’s deserved, but he hasn’t garnered any reason yet to see my bad side or fear me.
I want to go home. I want to click my heels, wish on a star, and hope against all hope that I could go back.
I’ve said that already, dammit.
Shit, I really want to go back to where I call home.
Looking over the full table, it all screams to me. Decidedly, I didn’t eat much this morning, and now, with at least a gallon of coffee coursing through me, I better stuff something in this gut of mine. For the past few weeks, my stomach has argued with almost everything, except crackers. Looking at the cucumber sweet salad, I pull a forkful to my mouth. It tastes scrumptious. Honestly, anything would taste five star with the extent of my measly meals lately. And as long as it doesn’t look for a repeat performance, then I’m good. Delving into it further, seeing that nothing feels to be coming back to haunt me, I tear into the mango salad, the wonton wrapped fried pickles, the lime and ginger coated crusty tofu, and the drink the waiter brought.
“Hungry?” Kano jests.
“When you throw up for three weeks straight, don’t eat anything other than crackers and finally feel like eating, then come tease me,” I huff, munching down on a warm chunk of tofu. It tastes like heaven.
Giggling, Kano turns to Miori. Whispering in her ear, both break out in further laughs and stares. At me.
“What?” I mouth around my meal.
Smirking devilishly, they say in unison, “Nothing.”
Swallowing the morsel and dabbing the corners of my mouth, I turn to the two of them. “Don’t leave me out of the joke you two. I still know where you hide your porno mags and dildos. Want me saying it loud enough for everyone to hear?”
Faking that I’m about to voice it, Miori pipes up.
“Fine. We think you…” She pauses for dramatics. I’m really starting to hate her habit.
Frustrated with the wait, I say, “Miori, say it.”
Opening her mouth first, though, Kano blurts out loudly, “Your pregnant!” Of course, with her half deaf, her voice carries a heck of a lot farther than she thinks. The room silences, and I feel like a two-year-old being tattled on, taking in all the odd stares.
Ignoring her idea, I get back to my food. “I’m always careful. I love sex as much as the next person, but I don’t strip down for anyone without a plastic-coated hammer.”
Except Jamieson.
Forking in another wonton pickle, cutting it in half and chewing it, I mentally count the dates. I flew to Japan that day...that was….that was…
Shit.
“Excuse me,” I say, rising from the table.