VICTOR: Her Ruthless Crush (Ruthless Triad, Book 1)
50 Loving States, Rhode Island
Theodora Taylor
ADVANCED READER COPY
VICTOR: HER RUTHLESS CRUSH
by Theodora Taylor
Love and typo notes:
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Copyright © 2021 by Theodora Taylor
First E-book Publication: March 2021
Cover Design: Qambar Design & Media
Editing: Authors Designs
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
FALL
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
WINTER
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
SPRING
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
SUMMER
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Also by Theodora Taylor
About the Author
1
DAWN
I should've known my life was about to change as soon as I spotted my dad standing outside the gates of Tokyo Progressive, our international high school. We'd been living in Tokyo for three years, and our father had never picked us up from school. Not once.
"Shit," Byron signed when he saw Dad. "Think coach called him about the fight?"
My heart swelled with pity for Byron. I hated that Jake Nakamura and his friends ganged up on him today after basketball practice. Again. But I knew he still wasn't ready to tell dad why.
"Don't say anything to him about what happened," Byron signed as if confirming my conclusion.
"I won't," I signed back.
"Promise me," he insisted.
"I promise!" I put extra emphasis on the sign for PROMISE to reassure him.
Then we both stopped signing because we were getting too close to the gates. Dad's signing wasn't the best. Weirdly, he’d picked up Japanese much faster. Half the time, he depended on my mother saying everything she signed out loud.
But just in case, we didn't want to risk him seeing our conversation. If dad knew what was going on with Jake Nakamura, he'd insist on solving it. And Byron didn't want that.
My brother ducked his chin as if tilting his head at just the right angle would keep dad from seeing the purple and yellow bruise already developing over his left eye.
It didn't.
"What happened to your eye, Ronny?" Dad demanded as soon as we walked out of the school gates.
"Basketball game," Byron mumbled. "Caught an elbow."
Dad took Byron by the chin, his expression concerned but skeptical. "You want me to talk to your coach? Back in my day, laps were the only way to get guys to stop throwing them elbows."
Byron let out a weak chuckle. Dad had rigid, sky-high expectations for both of us. But he was also nice and pretty funny in a dad way. Neither of us ever wanted to disappoint him. Especially Byron.
"What are you doing here? Is everything okay?" I asked to save my brother from answering Dad's question about calling the basketball coach.
Dad let go of Byron's chin. "You okay with going on the subway by yourself today? I've got to take your sister somewhere."
Okay, vague. A weird prickle of foreboding popped off in the back of my head. But I guess Byron wasn't nearly as loyal to me as I was to him. He took dad's question as the perfect chance to escape.
"Okay, see you at home," he said in a rush. And then he was out of there. So fast, I imagined animated cartoon plumes of smoke coming off his feet as he headed toward the station that would take him back to Adachi-ku, the ward where we lived.
Dad started walking with me in the opposite direction.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"The Roppongi district," Dad answered. "What happened to your brother's eye?"
I shrugged. "It was like that when he came outside."
"And you didn't ask him about it?"
God, I wanted to tell my dad the truth. Maybe Jake would stop terrorizing Byron if I just told him everything. But I promised Byron I wouldn't, and the fallout would be huge if I did. It could totally upend our lives.
"No," I decided to reply.
That answer was true if you stood on your tippy-toes and stretched a little. I hadn't asked Byron what happened because I knew what went down as soon as he met me in the hallway outside the gym.
Dad went quiet. For so long, I thought for sure he was thinking of ways to grill me even harder.
But then he said, "You're good at keeping secrets. That might come in handy. I need you to do me a favor. Actually, it's a favor for one of Mr. Nakamura’s associates.”
Mr. Nakamura was Jake's grandfather and Dad's boss. I'd learned early in my childhood never to ask questions about what Dad actually did for his bosses. But when we lived back in New Jersey, he worked for a bunch of Italians with a lot of tattoos who always wore suits. And now that we’re living here in Tokyo, he worked for a bunch of Japanese men with a lot of tattoos who always wore suits.
I wouldn't say Mr. Nakamura was yakuza—especially not out loud. But I wouldn't not say it either.
"A favor,” I repeated, my voice as careful as careful could be.
Why did I have a feeling this had something to do with last weekend when Byron and I accidentally ran into Dad at that club in the Roppongi district?
He'd been in full guard mode, coming down the steps from the VIP section in front of Mr. Nakamura and a few other Asian guys dressed in suits. Dad was one of those guys who was always scanning, especially when he was on the job. So he’d spotted us before we’d even had a chance to think about trying to turn away and hide.
We’d given him a guilty wave. But he hadn’t waved back, just stared at us both angrily, “like what the hell?”
Technically, the club was only for people over twenty, Japan’s legal drinking age. We probably wouldn't have gotten in if Byron weren't so tall. He also had that cool, vaguely brown foreigner look that was always in demand inside Tokyo's hottest nightclubs. Byron was so good-looking; it almost made up for him dragging his decidedly uncool, dumpling of a sister into the venue behind him.
Dad took a step toward us. And I braced myself for him to come over and ask what the hell we were doing there, sipping on alcoholic drinks.
I didn’t mind getting caught. Clubbing with Byron had been more fun than I’d anticipated. We’d gotten tipsy on Grasshoppers and danced ourselves silly before Dad showed up. I’d figured getting grounded for at least a month wasn’t so bad a price to pay for the awesome night we had.
I liked staying home most Saturday nights anyway. My mom pressed me so hard about my schoolwork, it was usually the only chance I got during the week, outside of art club, to dedicate some serious time to making art.
I'd only come out with Byron that night to help him feel better about having to return to Tokyo Progressive—or ToProg as all the students called it—for a second term after what happened with Jake toward the end of the first one. And the truth was, I was getting tired. I wouldn’t have m
inded if Dad told us right then and there that it was time to call it a night.
But before he could come towards us, one of the older guys coming down the stairs beckoned Dad over.
He looked to be around the same age as my dad but with a lot more salt in his otherwise ink black hair. I had a feeling he wasn’t one of Mr. Nakamura’s guys. He came off a lot more intimidating than a minion, and he had a lot more visible tattoos. They crawled above the closed collar of his shirt and over the hand he’d beckoned my father with for what looked like a short conference.
I probably should have chosen that moment to leave. Byron had been tugging on my arm, clearly ready to ghost. But something had kept me there, rooted to the spot. I’d had this weird feeling that they were talking about me.
A feeling that had been semi-confirmed when Dad glanced back at me, then nodded at the super-tatted Asian guy who’d been doing most of the talking.
And then…
Well, nothing. In the end, Dad had just walked out with his group.
He never confronted us. And to our relief, he didn't bring it up to our mom, who would've lost her shit if she'd known we’d been out clubbing, not studying with mutual friends like we’d told her.
That was five days ago. And now, here was Dad saying he needed a favor for an associate of Mr. Nakamura’s who lived in the same expensive district where he’d caught us underage clubbing.
As we walked toward a station with trains that only went in the opposite direction of our apartment in one of Tokyo’s less expensive wards, I had to ask, "What would a friend of Mr. Nakamura’s want from me?"
"It's the son of Mr. Nakamura’s associate, actually,” Dad answered as we stepped onto the station’s down escalator. “He needs some ASL tutoring."
"Tutoring?" I repeated. "Is he Japanese?"
That would sort of make sense. Back when Byron was still popular, the other kids in his Deaf Studies track were always asking him to teach them bits of American sign language.
"No, he's a Chinese boy, hoping to go to college in America someday. He already has a private tutor for everything else, but his guy can't teach him ASL.”
"Why ASL? Is he hard of hearing like Byron and mom?"
Dad made an agitated sound like I was asking him too many questions. "He doesn't talk. That's all I know."
Okay…like Alice said in that Lewis Carroll book I’d had to read last year for English class, “curiouser and curiouser.”
"So, you actually met this kid?" I asked my dad.
"Briefly," he answered.
One terse word.
He wanted me to let this go. I could tell. Dad never talked about work. Ever. But I had to ask, "Shouldn't Byron teach him since he's a boy too?"
"This is an important associate of Mr. Nakamura’s. Byron wouldn't be a good fit. I need somebody who would take the job seriously."
I guess Dad had a point. Byron was the one who would eventually lose most of his hearing to the same genetic condition as Mom, but he believed that science would magically work everything out for him. He barely kept up with his special deaf classes at school since he figured he wouldn’t need JSL after leaving Japan. And he had absolutely no interest in learning how to read lips. He probably wouldn’t have retained his ASL as well as he had if not for us signing with Mom every day. The truth was, I took ASL way more seriously than he did.
The train whooshed into the station soon after Dad and I stepped onto the platform for the line headed toward the Roppongi district. Dad hustled me inside. He was no longer in the Army, but he always acted like grabbing a seat was some kind of special-ops mission.
I guess there weren't too many people headed toward one of Tokyo’s most popular nightlife destinations this early in the day, though. We easily found two seats right by the door.
"I'm a little worried about teaching a kid," I admitted to my father after we sat down. "I've never tutored anybody before. And I don't want to embarrass your boss."
"Don't worry too much about it. This is just a meet-and-greet to see if the boy likes you. If he doesn't want you to be his teacher, that's okay. The point is, we have to try because it's a special request from Mr. Nakamura’s associate. But you know, if the boy says anything to you. Anything I should know. Then make sure to tell me."
Well, that took some of the pressure off. But I had to wonder, "Anything like what?"
That agitated look came over Dad's face again. "Just take the meeting. Probably won’t anything come of it. Sometimes guys in my business like to demand things just because they can."
I opened my mouth to put another question to him, but before I could, Dad asked, "You sure you don't want to tell me what's really going on with your brother?"
Dad's tone was genial enough, but I knew this was him changing the subject to something I didn’t want to talk about, so I’d stop asking him questions about something he didn’t want to talk about.
Message received.
It was early September. Still warm outside.
But suddenly I felt cold. Maybe it was because of the train's AC, or maybe it was because of the conversation. Either way, I tried to button up my dark blue uniform jacket—only to remember that wasn’t an option for me anymore.
I'd discovered the past Monday that my jacket no longer fit over my chest. I'd gained even more weight over the summer break and a couple of bra sizes.
"What's going on there?" Dad asked when I gave up on buttoning my jacket.
My cheeks warmed. Explaining that your school uniform jacket no longer fit because your breasts were too big wasn't a conversation any teenage girl wanted to have with her father.
"It's fine," I answered.
Dad regarded me with the same concerned but skeptical look he gave Byron earlier. "Tell you what, how about if I take that jacket of yours to the tailor while you're meeting with the Chinese boy? I know a place near our house that can get it turned around for you in a couple of hours. Just give it to me now, so I don’t forget."
My heart filled with relief. This is what I loved about my dad. My mom would have lectured me forever about needing to lose weight, but Dad just offered to get my jacket taken out. No questions asked. Real soldier.
"Thanks, Dad," I said, taking off the jacket and handing it to him.
We spent the rest of the train ride talking about innocuous things like what mom might be making for dinner and my first week back at school for the second term of my last year in Japanese high school.
About twenty minutes later, we walked up to the front doors of a sleek Roppongi high rise. Dad told the doorman that the tenant on the top floor was expecting us in Japanese. We were waved right inside to an opulent lobby filled with modern furniture and giant chandeliers. Another doorman escorted us to a bank of elevators, inserted a card, and pushed a code on the elevator's number panel before wishing us a good day in English.
The higher the elevator rose, the more nervous I felt. It didn't even ding when we reached our destination. The doors just slid open, revealing a hallway lined in gorgeous black and gold brocaded wallpaper.
At the end of it, there was a single door with a man almost as broad as my father standing outside. He looked to be about Dad's age. Maybe a little older. He wore a shiny suit with an open-collar shirt, and I noticed a colorful tattoo proudly displayed on his chest as we approached.
My dad automatically spread his arms out when we stopped in front of the guard. And when his pat-down was done, Dad indicated I should do the same?
Okay, what kind of tutoring job required a weapons check? I did as Dad said, but faint alarm bells were going off in the back of my head.
My pat-down went a lot faster than Dad’s. Just three perfunctory claps down my sides.
Afterward, the guard smiled and introduced himself in Japanese as Donny.
“My daughter’s got DON in her name, too,” my dad told him, voice affable like they were already old friends. “But it’s spelled D-A-W-N,”
“Oh, we are twins!” Donny answered with a
laugh.
I discovered then that my Japanese listening comprehension had gotten way better over the years since we’d moved to Tokyo. Even though Donny and Dad spoke way faster than my classroom teachers, I laughed, understanding what they said. And I could even tell that the guard spoke with a foreign accent.
Chinese, maybe. Like the boy I would be tutoring, the one who wanted to learn ASL so that he could go to college in the USA someday.
Donny opened the door for us just like the doorman downstairs. But this time, my dad hung back.
"I'm going to go take care of your jacket. See you at home, okay?" He gave me a significant look as he said this, one I easily translated: “Be cool.”
Wait. My father was really going to leave me alone here? With these weapon-checking strangers? I wanted to call after him. Beg him to stay with me like I did my mom the first day of kindergarten.
But he was already halfway back to the elevator. And I didn't want to embarrass him. Or myself.
Taking a deep breath, I walked through the door that Donny was holding open for me.
My first sight of the apartment replaced the alarm bells with utter amazement.
This place had to be at least ten times as big as the one I shared with my family in Adachi-Ku. The living room alone looked like it could fit our entire apartment inside it. The same gorgeous wallpaper from the hallway covered the walls. And I was no interior design expert, but all the furniture looked expensive and ultra-modern. It was all sparkling white with sharp edges.
"Right this way," Donny said, interrupting my gawk fest. He led me down another hallway, but this one wasn't wallpapered. In fact, it was completely bare.
Victor: Her Ruthless Crush Page 1
