“At the club? Yeah. There were some before, you know, my time in high school and college.” I clenched my teeth when I saw the disappointment in his eyes. Like he was embarrassed for me. Acid rose in my stomach. “And what’s your number?”
“Less.”
Obviously less. He hadn’t had any in the last year, during which I’d been a professional. “Don’t put that fucking double-standard on me. Do you know how many guys go trolling the bars for a new girl every weekend? Why is it okay for you guys to rack up numbers, but I’m not allowed to do the same?”
His eyebrows pulled together and he looked like there was a struggle raging inside him. Maybe he knew what I was saying was true, but he still didn’t like it. Oh, well.
“I’m not going to be embarrassed about it. At least I’ve never paid for sex.”
There was that sparkling Payton personality. His back snapped straight and he scowled. I’d hurt him, but he didn’t get to have it both ways.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but you don’t get to judge me for working at the club when you’re the one who walked through the door.”
He blinked oh-so-slowly, and the hurt from his eyes faded. It came out unsteady and hushed. “You’re right.”
That wasn’t what I expected. Most people got angry and defensive when they were called out. All he did was consider my statement, and then accept it. Perhaps with a bit of reluctance, but he accepted it anyway.
“Like you, I didn’t keep count, but I’d guess my number is somewhere around fifty. And not to sound like a cocky piece of shit, but it would be higher if I wasn’t in Tokyo.”
I couldn’t help it. My eyes raked over his body. Oh, yeah.
“Someone mentioned to me once,” he said, his eyes warming a shade, “that I could walk into a bar and women would be willing to drop their panties for me. I’m not sure if I believe her, though. She may or may not be a vampire.”
How did he do that? How did he readjust his emotions so easily? I was worked up, expecting an argument, and he just dissipated everything. Another sign I was in trouble with this one.
Shit, Dominic was dangerous.
chapter
ELEVEN
It was four in the afternoon Tokyo time when we landed, but i
t felt like two in the morning to me. My eyes were heavy and burning for more sleep, but otherwise I was charged and excited. We’d each gotten a decent nap in during the flight.
Japan. I knew nothing of it other than the glamorized version from movies and TV. It was supposed to be the mecca of the cutting edge, fashion and technology. But Dominic said that wasn’t quite true. Parts of Japan had less technology than rural, small-town America did. Cash was still king, not plastic. ATMs were inside the banks, which closed at six. Fax machines were preferred over email.
The airport was beautiful, modern, and bustling with travelers, and after we got through customs and immigration and claimed our luggage, Dominic led me to the counter and bought us train passes.
The station was mostly empty. Beneath our feet, glossy white tiles looked clean enough to eat off of. We waited behind a glass wall for the train. Chicago and Amsterdam’s public transit was nothing like this. The seats on the equally clean rail car were a deep red, stain-free, and plush.
“You tired?” Dominic asked as we rode through a tunnel. The darkness made me yawn.
“A little, but I’m all right. How far is your place?”
“Fifteen minutes on the rail, then a ten minute walk.”
He didn’t seem too tired, either. I wondered if he’d asked because he was working out his ‘lesson plan’ in his head. Halfway through the flight I’d made a mile-high club joke, and he responded by telling me to keep it in my pants until we landed.
The train approached the station, and I got my first look of Tokyo from the ground. The sun had set not long ago, but the lights were on. Gleaming steel buildings stretched to the sky. To be honest, it wasn’t so different from Chicago. Busy and corporate, with taxis and cars pushed up together while trying to navigate the streets, and pedestrians with heads down, buried in their cell phones.
But the signage. Everywhere, and the characters were unrecognizable to my American eyes. Once we stepped off the train and made our way from the impressive station, I began to feel like an alien. We looked like no one else, and the conversations that passed by were shocking. The European languages have some sort of familiarity to English, but not this.
As Dominic approached a set of double glass doors, a doorman nodded and pulled it open.
“Konnichiwa,” Dominic said, and the doorman echoed it back, a pleasant expression on his face. The lobby of the apartment building was elegant but generic. We paused at the desk for Dominic to pick up his mail, and then rode an elevator up.
“I’m in Japan,” I said out loud.