Reckoning - Chapter 17

A

n hour later Ryo finally made it back home, skin still sticky and itchy with salt, clothes and hair caked with it, the thick folder tucked underneath his arm.

He’d refused to stay at Cat’s Eye, despite the offer of Umi’s hearty soup, preferring to walk home, trying to come to terms with what exactly had happened in the second half of the night and in the morning.

The police just let them go, returned all their weapons, and offered them a ride, no questions asked—besides those asked right after they’d been taken into custody. Because it was supposedly the least they could do? Or however the hell the tall, gray-suited guy had expressed himself.

He had no idea what that meant. The least they could do for what exactly? Was there something else afoot? Kaori’s story might’ve sounded plausible, the Saeba Ryo file seemingly legit and thorough, but it was all bullshit.

Ryo knew the gray-suited man knew it—he’d handed him the file, calling him a lucky son of a bitch—and he also suspected the other two brassed honchos at least suspected, if not downright knew, the file; all Kaori said was bullshit.

Which begged the question, why did they go along with it? Did Kaori have something on them? 

And why did she do it? At least he knew what she was doing while they were arrested. Conjuring up a whole, legit-looking file, fabricating an Interpol report… Was it truly because she loved him—as she said and the others kept insisting on—or was it out of a misguided sense of guilt? Was she trying to make amends for her and Hideyuki deceiving him?

The more he thought about it, the less he knew and the worse his headache got. Not to mention the pain in his heart. Because it must’ve been the guilt, nothing else. She didn’t love him. She couldn’t love him. No one loved him. Not really. How could they?

He was so caught up in his brooding, he didn’t notice the envelope in front of his door until he kicked it.

He picked it up with a grunt and turned it round and round. It was sealed, but there was nothing written on it: no address, no postal stamp. It must’ve been a personal delivery.

He walked into his empty apartment—he’d forgotten just how empty it could be without her in it—and threw the file on the coffee table and the envelope on the sofa. Whatever it was, it could wait until he had a long-overdue shower.

 

Feeling more human, Ryo pulled on a clean T-shirt and pair of jeans and padded barefoot back into the living room. He dropped down onto his back on the sofa with a grunt, closing his eyes tiredly.

Yet sleep wouldn’t come; he was too wired, his mind replaying last night and this morning over and over again. Kaibara’s trap, the duel, the kiss, the escape, the belief she betrayed them, the kiss, her confrontation with her superior, the realization she didn’t betray them, the look of her in those tight clothes, her smile, the kiss…

Damn, it had felt good holding her in his arms, feeling her press tightly against him, kissing her deeply, thoroughly…

That kiss had rocked his world more than any explosion could.

He opened his eyes on a sigh and stared at the thick folder on the coffee table. What was he to make of it all? Was he supposed to keep it? Use it? Destroy it?

What he needed was a distraction.

He lifted himself up, grabbed the still-unopened envelope, tore it open, shook the contents out… And cursed softly under his breath as he looked at a My Number card, driver’s license, passport, National Health Insurance card, and an employee certificate for Saeba Inc. are all in his name. Where did she get an ID-compliant photo of him, anyway?

Because there was no mistaking who sent him the IDs, even without the unmistakable handwriting on a small piece of paper tucked into the passport.

Whether you use any of it or not is up to you.

And no complaining about the age; no matter how much you protest, you’re not twenty.

He scoffed. She made him forty years old, keeping the birthday date she’d set for him. And she’d given him an existence, an opportunity to lead a semi-normal life. Why? How?

Why?

“I wish for a woman to have such hots for me as your redhead has for you.” Mick’s words reverberated in his mind.

“These files, all the information on you, disappeared on purpose. She hid it for a reason,” Saeko had claimed.

“She’s protecting you,” Umibozu had declared.

Even then, he thought she was doing it out of guilt.

“Oh, come on,” Mary had insisted. “She told you.”

“I love you, too.” He remembered those words. They’d thrown him then; they still made him reel now. “I love you, too, Ryo.”

“Jesus,” he breathed. Could he believe it? Dare he believe it?

He needed to talk to her. Ask her, demand answers, and demand the truth. But he had no means of contacting her.

“I don’t have your number.” There’d been a chime… “You do now.”

He reached for his phone, still in the corner of the sofa. There was only one notification. A text message from an unknown number containing an address and a six-digit number.

X Y Z

The sun had already set, and Kaori was spending her favorite time of day lounging on the extremely comfortable patio sofa on the terrace of her rental, her legs propped onto the low, oval table.

Dusk.

She absolutely loved it. It was a time when everything quieted down—as much as it was possible in the middle of a bustling metropolis—the light slowly faded, the shadows deepened and elongated, and the sky turned a vibrant mixture of deep blues and purples.

It was usually a perfect time for relaxation and reflection, but she felt far from relaxed, refusing to reflect or contemplate the last couple of days.

She’d done all that she could, called in old favors, promised some of her own… All to create an identity and past that would pass even the deepest of dives for the man she loved.

Everybody deserved a second chance, after all.

She just hoped he’d use it, but knowing him, he would probably burn the file and IDs just to be spiteful.

Because to him, such things were transactional. Nothing was given freely; there was always a catch. God only knew what catch he envisioned lay behind her offering. He’d probably laugh in her face if she mentioned love.

It was just as well; he didn’t bother to ask why she did it.

Ito had given him the file after they’d released him, and she’d delivered the IDs immediately afterward. It’s been hours and not a peep. No calls, no texts, and god forbid a visit.

She had her answer, didn’t she? No matter what he felt for her, he’d never act on it. Because he thought he wasn’t worthy.

“You’re an idiot, Makimura,” she mumbled, staring up at the darkened sky.

She didn’t regret a thing, though.

The sound of the doorbell pulled her away from the mental abyss. Who could be at this time of day? She hadn’t been in the building long enough for her neighbors to come ask for a cup of sugar, Ito would’ve called first, Hideyuki was still in the hospital, and besides, you had to use the access code to get into the building.

Her heart skipped a beat. Could it be? She shook her head, refusing to let her hopes up. It was probably just her neighbor. At least they would be introduced.

She checked her reflection in the glass terrace door. She was wearing a T-shirt gone buttery soft by years of wear and wash, barely held together by threadbare stitching, so stretched at the collar, it fell down one shoulder. At least it was long enough to hit her mid-thigh, covering her boyshorts.

She shrugged—she was completely presentable; this was her home attire; if her neighbor had an apoplexy, that was their problem—and went to open the door.

But it wasn’t her yet-unknown neighbor at the door. It was Saeba Ryo, dressed from head to toe in black, hair obviously combed by impatient fingers, and he hadn’t bothered to shave.

He never looked more sexy or delectable, she thought as they stared at each other for what seemed like hours…

 

Ryo had absolutely no idea how he’d gotten to the tall, fancy building in the elite part of Shibuya, but he was there, looking up at the building with apprehension, before he took the three stairs to the main door, eyeing the numeric keypad beside it.

He didn’t have to look at his phone, at her text; he’d committed the six numbers to memory.

Fingers trembling, he inputted them, heard the snick of an opening lock, and, heart in his throat, entered the building, strode toward the elevator, and pressed the P button.

The doors opened almost silently on the upper floor, the sound of his steps swallowed by the plush wall-to-wall carpet. As directed in the text message, he turned right, toward penthouse number 1, and, fingers suddenly incredibly steady, rang the bell.

The wait seemed interminable, but the door finally opened… And there she was.

Makimura Kaori, wearing only a stretched T-shirt falling down one bare shoulder—no bra strap in sight, he noticed, swallowing convulsively—her shapely long legs and dainty feet bare.

Words failed him. Questions gone before they could even be formed.

She was looking at him with such longing, eyes languid, mouth slightly parted, with so much love, he didn’t need to know more.

And suddenly—he had no idea who moved first; he didn’t care who moved first—she was in his arms, clinging to him, opening his mouth to his devouring kiss, tongues brushing, tangling, dancing, and breaths mixing and merging.

He took the back of her head in one palm, holding her at the perfect angle, the other hand on her butt, pulling her closer, up into him. He walked her backwards, not breaking the kiss, and kicked her front door closed behind his back.

The End