Page 50 of The Dragon 1
Nyomi’s beautiful face flashed in my mind—brown skin with full lips.
Tora.
Stunning.
Reckless.
Unclaimed.
The kind of woman who didn’t bow to kings or monsters. The kind of woman who made even dragons burn.
Mmmm. Let’s see what you’re doing this evening.
Chapter eight
Lychee and Looming Death
Nyomi
Zo’s entire place was one-fourth the size of my apartment back home in Brooklyn and consisted of a kitchenette, micro-hotel sized bathroom, living room that held no space when the futon was spread out, and a bedroom that most westerners would call a walk-in closet.
Everything was divided by sliding doors and decorated in a white-on-white palette—cream-colored carpet, vanilla walls, ivory fixtures, and milky toned furniture that cost more than a month’s worth of my royalties.
A set of abstract white canvases hung above the futon, and they were barely distinguishable from the walls unless the light caught them just right. They were minimalist, super expensive, and probably done by some dead artist Zo worshipped.
That being said, I loved his apartment more than my own.
The only thing I didn’t like about his spot was that he paid over three thousand dollars a month due to its location.
It was in Omotesando, the fashion district of Tokyo. All the top designers, modeling agencies, and foreign brands had offices here. Therefore, Omotesando wasn’t just stylish—it wasstrategically idealfor networking and being seen.
Think paparazzi, client meetings, afterparties, and international brand visibility.
Being that Zo made his living as a fashion critic and freelance stylist for the rich, location won out over size. His neighbor on the left was a retired pop star. On the right, a designer who’d dressed Beyoncé for two different tours, and right across from his door, a woman who owned part of the Chanel brand.
From his window in the morning, I could always see a parade of Tokyo’s elite—actors, models, fashion editors, tourists with too much money—strutting down the tree-lined boulevard like it was a catwalk.
Basically, his spot was the kind where stress felt like it should be left outside the door.
Too bad, Zo hadn’t gotten the memo this evening.
“We’re going to die!” Zo paced back and forth in his tiny living room, barely stepping five feet before having to turn around.
I sighed. “I wonder how I’m going to get my recorder back.”
He paused and scowled at me. “Really? That’s the only thing that’s on your mind? Word of advice? You needed a new one anyway.”
“I don’t need a new one.”
“Kenji is going to punish you for what you did.”
Oh God.
“I don’t think so,” I shook my head. “I believe that if he was going to do anything, he would have already done it.”
“Or he’s taking his time thinking of a proper torture plan.”
“Please, relax.” I flexed my bare toes and sipped my drink.
