Trouble

by Kira Blakely

  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.

  Chapter 12

  Margot

  This entire day had been a treat. It had been everything I’d ever dreamed of and more. I never thought I’d ever have the opportunity to jet off to Japan, to travel and explore, and the fact that this had happened brought tears to my eyes.

  I stood in front of Cain’s hotel room door in the Tokyo Station Hotel and swallowed the lump in my throat. It didn’t budge.

  This was ridiculous.

  Why did he do this? Why did he fly us out here?

  I’d struggled to say yes to his proposition simply because I couldn’t fathom it. Was it some ploy to seize more control in the business? Or did he remember just how much I loved the culture of this country?

  “Get it together, Margot,” I muttered, then looked down at my dress, checked for any spills from dinner.

  We’d gone to Gonpachi, the restaurant where the infamous bloody scene in Kill Bill had been filmed. One of my favorite movies.

  Stop delaying the inevitable and knock, for heaven’s sake!

  I rapped my knuckles on the door twice, then tucked my hands behind my back and clasped them together, rocked back onto my kitten heels and forward again. Ridiculous, of course. I wasn’t some teenager on a date, so why did I feel like one?

  Years ago, I’d fantasized about a date with Cain, even when I’d despised him.

  Footsteps thumped on the other side of the door, followed by the click of the lock. I straightened and slapped my arms to my sides, lifted my chin, dragged my shoulders back.

  I was here for one thing.

  One thing.

  No big deal.

  The door opened and the breath in my lungs just… disappeared. Evaporated. Or left my lung tissue through osmosis.

  Cain leaned his forearm on the jamb, his shirt off, his chest covered in tattoos, and his stomach bare of them, revealing abs he’d clearly spent time crafting, and a V that led toward the zipper of his jeans.

  He dripped sweat, and he wore a pair of leather gloves for weight lifting. Had he brought weights all the way to Tokyo? I wouldn’t put it past him.

  Cain stroked his hairline and looked at me from under his brows, towering, powerful as always.

  My mouth dried up. All memories of tears or emotion or gratefulness dissolved.

  There was only lust and me and him and the pesky space between us.

  “I’ll get a camera,” Cain said.

  “Huh?”

  “So you can take a picture. It’ll last longer.” He offered me another of those infamous Cain Foster winks, then stepped back and allowed for a tiny gap between the jamb and himself. “Are you coming inside, Margot? Or are you going to stay out there all day gaping at me like I’m a piece of art?”

  The girly side of me howled that he was a piece of art.

  The normal, Margot side forced a derisive snort that came out a lot lamer than I’d intended. “Right, I—sure, I’ll come in, I guess.”

  “Well, I assume you want to,” he said. “You did knock on my door. And I’m pretty sure I heard you shuffle down the hall a good five minutes ago.” He leaned forward again and looked up and down the corridor, with its printed carpets and deep navy walls. The scent of him, all musky man with a hint of light, citrusy cologne, almost bowled me over. “Unless you were waiting for someone else?”

  “No,” I managed.

  “Then come on in, Margot. Let’s talk.”

  I squeezed past him and bit the inside of my cheek to keep from making a noise in the process. My bare arm brushed his chest. God, it was as hot and hard as I remembered.

  Don’t do it. You’ll regret it. You don’t want this.

  The door snapped shut, and I walked to the armchair nearest to me, right across from a stunning view of the buildings in Tokyo, all lit up now that night had fallen.

  Cain strode past me and took up a position right in my line of sight. He lifted a weight and did a bicep curl. “You don’t mind if I continue, do you? I’m usually like clockwork about this shit.”

  “No,” I said. Even though it would make it more difficult to focus on what I’d come to say.

  “What can I do for you, Margot?” A deep rumble.

  I crossed my legs. “I wanted to thank you for everything that happened today, Cain. I appreciate it more than you know. I’ve been fascinated with Japanese culture for a long time.” I touched the tattoo behind my ear with a small smile. “As I’m sure you must’ve remembered.”

  “I did,” he said. “And I figured that starting off the show with a business trip like this would peak interest.”

  “I think you were right.” A mixture of relief and disappointment zipped through me. So, he’d done it for the business. That was good. He was serious about making it work then, and surely, that meant he wouldn’t go picking any fights or walking in on filming drunk and butt-naked.

  The memory of that sent a flush up my neck and to my cheeks.

  Cain put down his weight, then lifted one of the chairs and set it aside. He dropped and did a set of twenty push-ups, and I watched. What else could I do? He was magnificent.

  The muscles on either side of his spine rippled, and his strong shoulders tightened up, corded, relaxed. Sweat beaded on his skin and trickled down that hollow between his shoulder blades.

  This is bad. Get out! Get out before you do something you’ll regret.

  Like having another life-altering night with this man.

  “Anyway, I can see you’re busy and this isn’t the time to discuss anything business related, so I’ll leave. I just wanted to thank you for taking all of this seriously, Cain. I appreciate that more than you’ll ever know.”

  “Stay,” he said, and switched to one-handed push-ups.

  Oh my god. Torture!

  “Tell me why you think I’ll never know how much you appreciate it,” he said, his voice only slightly strained from the exertion.

  I licked my lips and focused on the window above him instead of his back and the marks I’d leave there given half the chance. No!

  “Because I’d never have gotten the chance to come here, otherwise.”

  “That’s not true,” he said, and quit the push-ups, at last. He stood, dripping sweat now, tan and pumped-up from the exercise.

  It was impossible not to stare. “It is.”

  “Margot, you’re an independent woman who owns her own business. You’d be able to afford it someday, even if it’s not now.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” I replied.

  “How?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to talk to him about this, did I? He was Cain. He wasn’t the caring, sweet type, or he hadn’t been since high school. He was sex and chaos combined.

  “You don’t want to tell me?” he asked.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that it’s not relevant. It’s not your problem.”

  “What if I tell you something personal about myself first? And not that I have a m
assive cock,” he said and flashed me a white-toothed grin. “Since I guess you already know that, huh?”

  “Cain,” I groaned. He couldn’t be serious for a second.

  “You know my mother died,” he said.

  The change in topic caught me so by surprise I jerked a little in my seat. “Yes,” I said, as gently as I could manage.

  We’d never spoken about it. His mother had been ill for a while, and my father had been supportive of him during that time. Afterward, Cain had gone missing for a long time. He’d missed months of high school and came back tattooed and reeking of booze.

  “I’ve never told you about it,” he said and grabbed a towel off the back of the sofa. He rubbed it down his back and front but didn’t take a seat.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “She was—special, to me.” He forced the words out, stripped off the gloves he’d worn, and tossed them aside. “My mother was the only person who cared, and when she died, she took—ha, this is fucked up. I can’t even talk about it.”

  I lurched out of my seat and hurried to him, took hold of his hands, still hot and moist from the exercise. “It’s OK,” I said. “Seriously, you don’t have to tell me anything. I don’t need to know, if you can’t—”

  “What kind of man am I, if I can’t?” He asked, then forced a laugh. “What a question. Don’t answer it.” He cleared his throat and squeezed my fingers, lightly. “When she died she took the only good part of me with her. I had nothing left to give. Nothing left to be. And this is what I became. This is who I am now, and I can’t go back. Do you understand that, Margot? I’m never going to change. I want you to hear that now and never forget it, because that’s the goddamn truth. I’m never going to change.”

  “Who said you had to?” I asked, guilt curling through me.

  His smile told me everything I needed to know. That I’d shown him I wanted him to change, for the business, yes, but in other ways too. “That’s my sob story,” he replied, and he laughed again.

  I hated this. I hated the pain in him and the fact that he kept it under wraps. It wasn’t healthy.