Now hold up!
Don’t give me that look. Don’t even mutter to yourself that I would ever in a million years be untrue to the woman I intend to make my wife one day. I’ve never cheated on her and I don’t intend to. Kathryn is more than enough woman for this bozo, which is probably why the image of three beautiful women coming straight for me with sex on their faces is not something I’m into anymore. Three years ago this would’ve been one of the best nights of my life, but now? No way. I can’t even imagine keeping up with all three of them now!
“Drinks are fine.” I cross my legs and contort my torso so one woman can’t graze my ear with her fingers. Damn, are they working overtime? Did the Isoyas pay extra for these women to go hard on me? Or did their manager promise them I was a billionaire looking for a Tokyo girlfriend? “Just drinks, thanks.”
They go away, pouting. Another woman in a bright pink dress enters with a plate of carefully crafted sushi that she brings to the three men in the room. Sure, I’ll take some gourmet sushi while I’m at it. Booze, food… maybe look at the hot women? Hey, Kathryn and I have established that looking is more than fine. It’s the touching that rankles the both of us.
Because the thought of her being surrounded by men like I am by women right now? Testing me.
These thoughts spur me to pull out my phone and attempt to text my girlfriend while simultaneously eating sushi.
“This party is nuts. There are half naked women everywhere. Just FYI, there are half naked women all around me. None of them are as beautiful as you.”
I expect any type of response beyond the one I actually do get.
“I need God to intervene right now because I think I am partying with two of the biggest perverts in the country.”
Wait, what? I need more details than that. So why isn’t Kathryn replying to me anymore. One, two hours later, I’m still waiting to hear back from her ass that is probably already drunk. Which wouldn’t be a problem if she weren’t apparently in the hands of two of Japan’s biggest perverts… whatever the fuck that means!
I think this is going to be a long night. Hell, it might be a long trip depending on whether or not that rumbling in my stomach is from this food or from whatever Valerie might have given me earlier. Either way, I’m probably fucked.
Chapter 3
KATHRYN
I’ve been to some pretty crazy after-parties around the world. We’re talking men getting fellated at the bar and women twirling around naked with their nipples on fire. (Not kidding. Actual nipple fire.) So much cocaine you’d think it was snowing inside. Men and women tonguing one another before the husbands switch wives for the night (and then pretend it never happened in the morning.)
This party? Well, it’s not the craziest I’ve ever been to, since the Japanese are so opposed to drugs, but it is up there, and totally unexpected.
I knew with the likes of Fujiko Isoya it was not going to be dowdy party. The brief background check my assistant did on her revealed she’s basically the Pacific version of my future mother-in-law: middle-aged, rich as shit, and not afraid to date a string of boy-toys from here to Rio de Janiero. In fact, based on what I heard from multiple sources, both Fujiko and Caroline Grant-Mathers have probably dated the same male models over the years.
Still has not prepared me.
We take a cab to nearby Shinjuku to get wasted on booze and half naked men. I knew about the booze part beforehand. For every drug they detest, no matter how benign, Japanese businesspeople will get absolutely fucked up on some of the hardest alcohol you’ve ever burned your throat on.
Nobody prepared me for the men.
It wasn’t a strip club. Those are barely available even for the straight men. For straight women? The best even the rich can accomplish are what they call “host clubs.” Hostesses are infamous throughout the world, but their male counterparts? I admit I had never seen anything like it in my life, and I had seen some pretty shady shit in parts of Europe and Southeast Asia.
Not a single guy – all of whom are either Japanese or Russian – speaks a lick of English outside of some stock phrases. They all, however, attempt to kiss my blond ass the moment I step through the narrow door with one of the biggest sugar mamas around. Fujiko Isoya air-kisses half the men in the room and smacks one on the ass. These men, in their dapper and sometimes ill-fitting suits, treat this like it is the best payday of the month.
“Is it okay?” the younger Junri Isoya asks me. I’m standing near the entrance, drinking in the sight of all these good looking young men with different hairstyles and mannerisms, wondering how the hell I’m going to get through the night when we don’t even speak the same language. Hell, Ian would take this better than I am. He’d find it hilarious and probably try to buy me a lap dance so he can take a picture of my mortified face.