ChapterOne
Ryoichi
Until the age of fourteen,my palate consisted of rice and the occasional egg that I was fortunate enough to save from falling off the back of a farmer’s truck as they traveled to the street market. All the rarer was fish. For someone who resided in a small mountain town, the taste of fish paste was rare and extraordinary. My first taste of fish was yellowtail, and it was heaven.
Though my stomach often screamed in protest for more nourishment, I had ventured to foreign countries and domestic cities between the pages of secondhand literature.
That was then—a tarnished upbringing, not suitable for a futuresaiko komonto Osaka Tatchan. Every hardship prepared me for this.
Now, nothing but the best touches my body. The best hand-sewn yukata. Tailored suits crafted from vicuña wool. And only the finest geishas, the most beautiful creatures.
Even while vindicating forgotten Tatchan bylaws, as blood pours over my skin like warm summer rain, I wear the best.
At age forty-seven, I take orders out of respect and obligation. I do not toe the line between light and darkness.Good and bad.
The House of Tatchan is the central pillar of the community. No orders are carried out without Osaka Tatchan’s blessing. Not until . . . today.
ChapterTwo
Ryann
Santorini, Greece
As I stand at the diamond-framed window of my suite in a five-star hotel, I stare at the softest tissues that have ever touched my skin and contemplate stuffing my bra. I know that seems like child’s play, especially after I’ve spent over one hundred grand of my 401(k). I splurged for the first time, all because of a flyaway punch.
A flyaway punch from a Black kid with so many infractions against him. Suspensions from school. Hated because of his skin tone and size. I didn’t put much thought into stopping the fight between him and another boy—a boy who called him out of his name. I just stepped up as I had done so many times before.
That single hit sealed my eye shut and awakened something in me.
Something that hungered for a different life than the physics teacher who donated every lunch hour to struggling kids for the last twelve years. Hell, I even had AP and Honors physics kids knocking at my door, saying they heard through the grapevine I had a way of teaching.
I’m forty-two years old, luckily but barely, not a virgin, and ready to start the rest of my life. So, I dropped cash on the vacation of a lifetime.
Australia.
Jamaica.
New Zealand.
The list goes on. An entire month of vacation will end at an anime convention in Tokyo. But before I get to my precious obsession, I will indulge in my book-boyfriend fetish. I’ve waited two weeks into the holiday for this. Though I’ve splurged on every night, this one, in particular, is the most important. I’ll meet my book boyfriend tonight through the exclusive online company BB Extraordinaire.
All in all, the price tag and their excessive questionnaire seemed legit. Plus, the reviews from confidential, satisfied customers were everything.
Yessss!Tonight is my night for absolute indulgence.
I stop the self-condemnation of having a small rack, and a smile tips my lips as I glance over my first designer garb—a sleek, black mini dress with a built-in tummy trimmer and ass lifter.
“Nah. No tissue. We probably won’t even—” I bite my lip, smoothing down my dress and sliding one foot into a six-inch stiletto. A second later, I’m discarding said stiletto.
Damn, should’ve gotten the push-up bra and left these heels at the checkout.
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter, pulling on cubic zirconia flip-flops. “I didn’t pay for a male gigolo. I dropped cold, hard cash for a professional to pretend to be Tatsun Tanaka, the yakuza dude from my favorite manga,The Red Dragon.”
Butterflies charge through my abdomen as I climb into the glass elevator, which overlooks chandeliers dripping twinkling lights over a sparkly hotel atrium. Per the contract I signed, my book boyfriend will have researchedThe Red Dragonand will follow Tatsun’s mannerisms.
I’d chosen Santorini, a Greek island, where Tatsun, “The Red Dragon,” caught up with a sellout who had traded information on the yakuza. I’d been in class, sneaking in manga reading time, when tea sprayed from my lips. The eleventh graders had looked up from their physics exams in confusion as I’d turned the page. Tatsun had spilled the traitor’s guts across the white sandy beaches in Santorini. Yeah, that’s all the action I needed at that time. And I wasn’t embarrassed. Hell no.
I swagger into the hotel’s lounge, confident that the honey-colored concealer covers what’s now a half-moon of darkness beneath my eye. As I head into the hotel bar, a pianist, eyes shut and lost in the mood, plays with quick, nimble fingers. I pass velvety turquoise seats and white-linen tables, searching for my Tatsun. The company, Book Boyfriend Extraordinaire, assured me that he’d wear a crisp black suit and a redtsubaki—a Japanese camellia. A representative shared that they’d take special care of the small touches for an additional fee. Thetsubakiappears on Tatsun’s lapel for the first forty chapters of the series, so I forked over more cash.