Nigel Jackson
Headmaster
My vision dims for a moment, and I stare at the email, unable to process it. Is this some kind of cosmic joke?
When Nigel and I had tea together with Mr. Liu, both the men were sweet and complimentary. What changed? What “new information” is he talking about?
Maybe the same thing Kouchou-sensei grilled me about this morning…?
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, my arm dropping limply to my side. I assumed Mishima-sensei was behind Kouchou-sensei finding out about my living situation, but maybe I was wrong. Mishima-sensei may be a busybody, but she probably has better things to do than follow me around looking for lapses in moral rectitude.
I’ll give you until tomorrow.
I got that note from Lucas on Monday…and today’s Wednesday.
I start shaking from head to toe. Every cell in my body is vibrating with tension and searing fury. He has no right! No right to screw up my life. The first time our orbits crossed, he crushed my heart. This time he’s destroying my ability to be self-sufficient and independent. He’s trying to demolish my pride, reduce me to a hole he can stick his cock in whenever he’s bored or horny.
I’ll kill him first.
I hail a cab. The driver stops and opens the door with the automatic lever thing all Japanese taxis have. I slide in and give him the name of the hotel where Lucas was staying earlier. If my guess is correct, he won’t have left the country yet. No, he’s too busy pulling strings to ruin my life.
My phone beeps with another new email alert. I jump for it, hoping and praying that the school in Thailand changed its mind.
But the new message is from Google. It’s about my dad’s “other” family. The real one.
Elle—the daughter who counts—is engaged to some lawyer she met in Boston where she works as a financial analyst. They look so happy in the photos she posted on her blog. Her fiancé grins at her with a soft gaze full of love, his arms around her waist. Elle is blond like me, although her eyes are green like her mother’s. She looks into the camera with a confident smile.
Well, why not? People apparently adore her. Most likely nobody’s trying to wreck her life. And her fiancé is looking at her like she’s his dream come true.
Though we aren’t close—hell, she wishes I didn’t exist—we are half-sisters. My vision starts to blur. What does she have that I don’t? Why does she have everything while I can’t even try to make something of myself without someone pulling the rug out from under me?
A lone, slightly startling drop of moisture lands on my phone.
I dry it off and put it back into my purse. Then I wipe away the rest of the tears on my face. Lucas is not worth this. I am not giving my enemies the satisfaction of seeing me suffer.
I pull out my compact and travel-sized tissue packs. I’m not going to face Lucas with smeared mascara and eyeliner, either. I repair the makeup as well as I can and put more powder on my nose to hide the redness there. Except for slightly red-rimmed eyes, I don’t look awful. I apply a fresh layer of blush.
When the taxi stops in front of the hotel, I pay the fare and get out. The doorman bows with a polite greeting, and I nod and trot to the elevator. I remember exactly which suite belongs to Lucas.
A “Do Not Disturb” sign hangs outside the double doors, clear evidence that he’s still in town. Not that many people spend thousands of dollars a night on a suite like this.
Fucking bastard.
I knock loudly and wait. When nobody answers, I bang with a fist, and press my ear to the door.
Did Lucas already check out?
But that doesn’t make any sense. He’s gone this far to get what he wants. He isn’t going to leave before he’s achieved his objective of dragging me back to America to be his exclusive whore.
“Don’t you fucking play games with me!” I pound on the doors with enough force to make them shake.
Suddenly they open, revealing Lucas in nothing but a white bath towel around his trim waist. His hair is damp and slicked back, revealing both eyes and the scar on his unfairly handsome, freshly shaven face. A drop of water clings to his chest, just above his left nipple, which is pierced. I used to play with the silver ring there, making him shudder in reaction. I loved the way he responded helplessly then, the flesh between my legs going slick every time.
The memory makes my breath catch, and my own reaction intensifies my fury. I should be finding him disgusting, contemptible for what he’s done to me, all because he’s horny. Why me? Why doesn’t he just go fuck someone else?
He has an insatiable appetite. He’s probably not alone.
The thought sends blithering jealousy through me, and suddenly I can’t control myself anymore. If he wants to fuck me, he should at least have the decency to keep his dick in his pants around other women. Or maybe it doesn’t matter. He only cares about what he wants, not my feelings.