by Sable Jordan
July 30th
Tokyo, Japan
Waiting was the unglamorous side of being an agent, and the part Kizzie hated most. The accommodations at present—the tenth or so such location today—was in a music store across from Ink-Scribed. Better than some of her usual hidey-holes, but the 3 Ws were exactly the same: Wait, watch, “wepeat.” The only break in the sequence came when she inserted an annoyed huff.
Day two of surveillance and they’d been sitting on the tattoo parlor since it opened at noon. Through a live-link from Phil’s phone to Xander’s display, she and Xander were able to watch the lack of activity at the shop’s rear door. Almost 7 hours later, not a single Sumi-sighting. Not even a near Sumi-sighting. A shot in the dark from the moment Koji had it literally squeezed out of him. That kid had better hope something came from this monumental waste of her time or he could forget about threats from Xander and Phil. Kizzie would break the punk’s arms herself.
She unlocked her phone and dialed a number. The automated recording for Dornwell Holdings started up and she keyed in the code.
The second ring went by…the third…
Jane Doe just rocketed to the top of their list of options; the sole link to finding Sumi and her Mistress. Not good odds in a city of 13 million people. She needed some help.
Ring number 5…. 6…. 7….
Xander returned from yet another pass-by of the parlor. “There a problem?” he asked, eyeing her phone.
For the fourth time today Fletch didn’t answer. Fletch should have answered. Problem? There’d better not be a problem. Disconnecting the call, Kizzie shook her head. “No.”
“Let’s go.”
Her brow shot up. Go meant movement—the antithesis of ‘wait’ and therefore earned her vote every time. Go was good. But go where? “Go?”
“In.” Xander jerked his head in the general direction of the tattoo shop. He took her hand and pulled her to standing. He did that a lot, and she wasn’t sure what to do about it.
“Waste of time.” But they were already moving past a bargain bin overflowing with CDs. “Not sure how familiar you are with humans, X, but most people don’t have a ‘get involved’ attitude. You mind your business, especially when outsiders come through interrogating.”
Crickets.
Xander opened the door to the music shop, the noisy street traffic and the smells of Tokyo hitting Kizzie all at once. “Did you hear me?”
“I did.”
The dominant ‘because-I-said-so’ stance really wasn’t Kizzie’s style. They zigzagged through the horde of people on the street. “Your plan?”
“Do you always need a plan?”
“In my world, plans keep things nice and tidy. And since I’m pretty fond of breathing…” her head bobbed enthusiastically, “I’d say I’m kinda partial to ‘em.” Whether she actually followed them or not was neither here nor there.
“You could just trust me.”
“Worst plan ever.”
Hand on the knob, Xander expelled a harsh breath. “Here’s the plan. Wing it—”
“Nice and specific. Thanks for that.”
“Use your secret-agent magic. Worst-case no one talks. Frankly, I’m hungry, and could have stayed at the hotel if I wanted to sit around all day.” He opened the door. Hand at the small of her back, he ushered her into the parlor.
Armed with a double shot of pessimism, Kizzie stepped into the ultra-chill atmosphere of Ink-scribed, Xander on her heels. The place was deeper than it was wide. Beyond the receptionist’s desk were six tattoo stations, four of them occupied. Instead of the J-pop she’d heard so much of since being in Tokyo, or the death metal she expected to come blaring at her—as that’s what Kizzie associated with tattoo parlors—American hip-hop floated through the speakers. The few patrons inside rhymed along with the timelessness of Tupac and the artists, fully engrossed in pushing ink into their client’s skin, nodded to the beat.
A short, deeply tanned Japanese girl sat at the front desk, black and blond cornrows in her hair. Ears pin-cushioned with studs and lobes dangling huge gold hoops weren’t the only piercings; there was a little one in her nose, a small hoop in her lower lip, and a gold stud in the space above her sternal notch.
One shoulder of her pink and black top had slipped down to mid-bicep, revealing intricately detailed flowers that stretched from her collar bone to wherever they ended on her back. She glanced up from her fashion magazine, all huge black eyes and wide smile. “Your jeans are fly.”
So not what Kizzie expected. She quirked a grin, looked down at the distressed denim on her legs. They got the holes honest, the largest courtesy of a barbed-wire fence that decided to get cute when Kizzie scaled it. Plus it took a couple washings to get the grass stains out after one job or other giving the jeans a threadbare look that was on trend at present. If this woman wanted to bond over a pair of frayed and faded Levis, maybe this would go smoothly.
“Thanks. So’s your shirt,” Kizzie added, to which the girl popped her collar. “I take it you speak English?”
A nod. “More tourists are coming to get real Japanese tattoos,” she rolled her eyes, “but none of the artists are fluent. I’m in school in the States, just here for the summer to help my brother out.” She tipped her head toward the back and then extended her hand. “Aimee.”
“Gigi.”
“So, what ‘real’ Japanese tattoo can I get for you? Koi fish? Dragon? Ninja star? Nah, you look like a tiger kinda girl…Tramp stamp… Or maybe the shoulder.” Still firing suggestions about the details of Kizzie’s impending tattoo, Aimee looked to the open appointment book on the countertop. A neon pink nail scrolled down the list. “It’s kind of late, but I might be able to squeeze you in wiiiiith—”
Kizzie placed her hand on the page, fighting a shiver. A glance at Xander—needles of any sort were definitely a hard limit. “Not here for ink. Actually, I’m wondering if maybe you could help me out? I’m looking for someone.”
Aimee’s mouth formed a soundless O and she bobbed her head like they shared a secret. “Toru! There’s another woman here to see you.” Her gaze roamed over Kizzie. “You’re much prettier than the last few.”
The artist named Toru looked up from the exposed flank of the woman he was working on. 30 pounds lighter and he’d make weight for a professional Sumo team. He smacked his customer’s rump and she giggled, turned back to flash him a smile and issue an empty threat. Another man, much thinner and holding a broom, watched the scene and then went back to sweeping.
Toru lumbered his gelatinous mass from the stool. Kizzie waved him off.
“Not what I meant. I’m with him.” She jerked her head toward Xander, who scanned the artwork on the walls. “I’m looking for a friend, heard she had some work done here not long ago.”
A brow rose from the other side of the glass counter, suspicion clouding Aimee’s eyes.
“Please,” Kizzie said, her voice hushed and urgent. “I…I think she might be in some kind of trouble. I just want to know she’s safe. I don’t have many pictures…they’re all back home, and my phone,” she yanked the device from her pocket, holding it in a tight grip while speaking fast and going all panicky, “this stupid phone…erased all of my contacts and pics. But I have….”
Sniffing, Kizzie reached into another pocket and retrieved the printed photo of the dead girl’s shoulder as well as a page she’d sketched the tattoo on; slid both over.
“Her name’s Kasumi, Sumi for short.” She waited for recognition, saw only hesitation, and continued lying. “She hasn’t answered her phone, Aimee, and I haven’t heard from her in weeks. We talk every day, so this silence isn’t like her. I just know something’s wrong. So I got on the first flight from the U.S.”
On cue, Xander came over and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, tugging her against his chest. Leaning into him, Kizzie swallowed hard, summoning quivery voice and watery eyes on command—no easy feat for a woman not prone to emotion. Then she pressed her hand to her heart. �
�She’s…She’s my best friend… Her parents and family…we’re worried sick. Please, Aimee…just…ask around for me?”
Aimee took the page, head bobbing in short little jerks, gold hoops swinging. “I’ll go see.”
And the award for best bullshitter goes to… “Thank you.” Kizzie curled into Xander’s embrace, hiding her face against his neck, shifting her shoulders and throwing in a little hiccup for good measure. He held her tightly, smoothed a hand up and down her back.
And for best supporting bullshitter…
“I almost believed you,” Xander whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. Hand stroking lazily, he shifted a bit, giving Kizzie a clear view of Aimee. She’d reached the first tattoo artist, waiting for him to finish a line or shade before relaying the inquiry.
The external source of warmth reminded her where she was. Reluctantly, Kizzie cleared her throat and stepped out of Xander’s hold, glancing up at him sheepishly. He looked…different. Not quite relaxed but less…intense. A study in black from his ball cap to his shoes, his deep brown orbs were clear, focused on the people in the back. Watchful, but not so much as to bring attention.
Head bobbing slightly, Xander’s mouth moved in time with the lyrics coming through the speakers.
Kizzie breathed a laugh through her nose and he looked down and smiled, slow and easy. “What? Pac had skills.”
“Didn’t take you for a hip-hop head.”
“Why’s that?”
She flicked her gaze over to Aimee, looked at Xander again. “You just seem too…composed most of the time. And all the novels say you Doms are the serious ones. Gregorian chants and chamber music. Moody, moving classical. The reflective stuff.”
“Chamber music and classical…”
“Naturally, since you’re expert pianists. Baby Grands in all of your mansions,” she said offhandedly. “I’ll be so disappointed if you don’t play a mean piano, Xander.”
“I’m a beast on the spoons.” He chuckled. “What else do you need to unlearn about Doms?”
“Oh, you’re Mary-freakin’-Poppins—‘Practically perfect in every way,’” Kizzie sing-songed, even threw in a little Brit for good measure.
Her focus shifted from Aimee to the man pushing the broom. Mid- to late-twenties, rail thin in stonewashed jeans two sizes too large and an oversized white tee. He worked near the station where Aimee stood, an ear tilted toward the conversation, making sweeping motions but clearly distracted. He snuck a peek at the pages in Aimee’s hand, another, and then moved away, going to clean around a different station.
“You’re all handsome and rich— Are there any poor Doms? Never read about a broke Dom…” she mumbled thoughtfully. “Hung…Amazing in bed.”
Xander brushed wisps of hair from her shoulder, knuckles softly grazing her neck. She shivered. “And the important parts? A Dom’s duties…? A sub’s obedience…? Trust? If you have questions about submission, ask.”
It was her turn to snort. “Not much to figure out. Follow a bunch of rules, get spanked, fall in love by page fifty-four.” Kizzie gave a dreamy sigh and tilted her head up, batting her lashes. “Or sixty-five if she’s really stubborn.”
Xander cocked his head, the intensity in his gaze back full force. It seemed he always looked at her that way, as though he were absorbing her. Osmosis by eyesight.
“What page are you on, Kizzie?”
She blinked, one corner of her mouth quirked. “Sorry, slick. We’re not even in the same bookstore. Zero submissive bones in my body.”
“Doesn’t mean you won’t submit.” He cupped her cheek in his palm, thumb caressing the apple. “It’s not in the bones, Princess, it’s in the brain. Headspace. You already know what you want, just haven’t decided when you want me to give it to you. Stop running and I’ll show you…” His gaze fell to her mouth and he thumbed over her lips. “You have no idea how bad I want to show you.”
Hand still on her chin, his fingers clenched just to the edge of pain, the move so quick Kizzie sucked in a startled breath. Xander leaned forward, tone darkening. “Quit calling me ‘slick,’ Kizzie, or I’ll show you right here.”
Was it possible to have the oxygen sucked from her lungs and fire in her veins? His hand moved; Kizzie worked her jaw, half confused, half aroused. The impulse to mouth off died right where impulses to mouth off originate, and she twisted toward the back of the shop, working to ignore the man standing beside her.
Aimee left the second tattoo artist, heading for Toru. He scowled at being interrupted again, spared a glance toward them. Setting down his machine, he pushed his big body from the chair and snatched the pages from Aimee’s hands.
Angry was an understatement—eyes narrowed, wormy lips curled in a snarl. Every slow step conveyed his annoyance with the foreigners in his shop. His voice boomed when he spoke, directing all eyes toward the receptionist’s desk. Toru turned back to a visibly frightened Aimee, barking at her to make the translation.
Kizzie glanced at Xander to see how much he understood, yet he appeared unaffected by the man’s words—most of which weren’t favorable at all—or the escalating situation.
Toru turned to Aimee again, hands gesticulating, the force of his hammy, tattooed arms rippling his belly beneath the short-sleeved shirt. Hair and hoops swung as Aimee nodded. Cheeks pinked, she altered Toru’s words to soften the harshness.
From the back of the shop, the man with the broom looked up, his eyes locking with Kizzie’s. He didn’t look away until becoming the focus of Toru’s ire, the heavier man ordering the “stupid prick” to leave for the day. A flicker of pain crossed the man’s face. He slunk over to return the broom to a nearby closet, grabbed his coat.
Toru ranted and Kizzie jerked back to avoid the spittle flying from his mouth. He shoved the pages at her, hand on a collision course with her chest. “…kono kuso ama…”
And that’s when she knew Xander understood every word.
His arm shot out—the rest was a blur. By the time Kizzie’s vision caught up with the time warp, Toru’s wrist was bent back in a most unfortunate position. The mouth of the Technicolor woman tattooed on his forearm gaped wide, screaming from the strain. Aimee’s eyes bulged, braids stone-still.
No one in the shop moved.
Pac rhymed on…
“Apologize,” Xander said, voice full of sand. He increased the torque, forcing another high-pitched squeal incongruent with Toru’s large body. “You disrespect her, you disrespect me.”
Toru resisted, swinging his free arm in a wide arc. Xander dodged it easily, slipped behind the man and delivered a sharp kick to the back of Toru’s leg. Toru dropped like an overstuffed sack right at Kizzie’s feet, arm still wrenched behind him. Xander’s grip tightened to the point Kizzie swore she heard the bones grind.
Movement to her side; someone wanted in on the action.
Kizzie liked action.
“He moves again, I break it,” Xander said, bringing her fun to a swift and decisive end. Spoilsport.
The unnatural turn in his wrist made Toru’s face flush. He muttered a few words and the other tattoo artist backed off.
“Apologize. Now.”
Through puffing cheeks and squinting eyes, Toru grit his teeth, eked out the world’s softest “Sorry.”
Xander didn’t relent. “Have you seen the woman or not?”
“No, never,” Toru said from the floor, face red and damp with perspiration. Xander kept going and Toru screeched. “No!”
“That’s all I needed to know. But you had to go and be an asshole about it and make me embarrass you in front of your friends. Now, while you’re down there, be a doll and pick those up for me.” Working blind, Toru groped along the floor with his other hand, grimacing anew with each subtle shift. He snatched the pages up and held them out. “To her,” Xander ordered.
The broom boy patted his pockets, slid his gaze to Kizzie’s once more, and then disappeared through the rear exit. Kizzie took the two pages from Toru.
Xa
nder met her gaze. “Show that around,”—to the other artists in Japanese—“Anybody know who did this tattoo might want to speak up. Quickly.”
How much time had passed? Thirty seconds? More?
Kizzie flashed the picture to the artists, who gave it more than a cursory glance now that Toru’s hand was held hostage. The final artist confirmed it was a negative.
“Now please…” Toru whispered, “out of my shop.”
Xander wasn’t quite appeased. Kizzie placed her hand on his back. The coiled muscles were ready to unload. “Let’s go.”
Xander dropped the meaty arm sans breaks and Toru cradled the injured paw to his sizable belly. The poor woman with half-an-ass tatt would probably have to get that finished up another day…
They made it to the street without further incident, Xander’s mood still lethal. Sweet as it was for him to stick up for her—though she could take care of herself—Kizzie needed to ditch Protective Dom and fast. And she didn’t have time to explain. Better to ask forgiveness than permission—not that she needed to ask Xander for either.
Tamping down the urge to include him in her plan Kizzie muttered, “Be right back,” and then darted away, getting lost in the crowd.
* * * *
After several deep breaths Xander shrugged off the quick surge of anger. The incident might go down as a wave; a ripple, at the very least, but even that could be a problem. They’d have to find Sumi before all of these waves reached the shore.
The crowd separated around him, a river around a rock. Xander headed against the current, grinning at Kizzie’s absence. He knew exactly what she was doing. She didn’t know he knew; didn’t know he was testing her and she’d aced the exam.
He’d tagged the broom boy on one of the many trips past the parlor’s glass front. The thin man floated from station to station, always watchful while himself trying to go unseen. He looked uncomfortable in his skin, wearing clothes so big he drowned in them. Even his motions with the broom were careful, timid. Soft. He might have been intimidated talking to either Xander or Phil.
