Page 5 of Pragma
I’m his bodyguard. My sole duty is to protect him. The hardest damn job in the whole damn world and one that fell on my shoulders the day we decimated the Apollo Gang nine years ago.
I tuck a blond lock of hair which escaped the half ponytail behind my right ear, leaving the strands on the left side down to cover the scars on my face. I usually show them if I want to be intimidating. The rough, uneven, disturbing skin over part of my face, neck, arm, and body makes most people recoil while the rest turn wary. They think twice before engaging in a fight with me—if my size didn’t scare them off first.
We’ll see how tonight goes. I have some pent-up energy to vent.
I enter the restaurant, followed by Aki, and after taking a look at the entrance, I let him go ahead. The hostess is all smiles as she asks us to wait a moment.
“What kind of restaurant is this?” he asks me when she leaves.
I checked it on the internet before coming here. “Asian fusion.”
Aki stares at me, blinking a couple of times. “Are you fucking with me? Why do white people pull this kind of shit?”
“The owner is Filipino,” I let him know. “And I’m one of those white people.”
“Ugh. You’re not white. I Japanized you. You even have a Japanese name.” He makes an intolerable popping sound with the gum between his teeth.
Shit, but he’s ridiculously irritating. “A name you supposedly gave me.”
“I went to the city hall back in LA and did all the paper shit needed. It’s your middle name now.”
I really can’t tell if he’s screwing with me or if he actually did it. “Fuck.”
“What? Ichigo is a cute name.”
“Do I look like a strawberry to you?” Ichigo means strawberry in Japanese. But I’m not entirely sure about the meaning since it all depends on thekanjiAkira chose when he wrote the name. There are a couple of possibilities.
“You look more like a bunny.” He smirks, then glances around until he finds a small paper basket and drops the chewing gum into it. “Do you remember Ichigo Ichie?”
“The Japanese idiom?” It emphasizes the importance of treasuring each moment, as it is unique and unrepeatable.
“Made me think of you,” he says, tossing another piece of gum in his mouth.
Of me? What does he mean by that?
The hostess comes back, halting my thoughts. I need to focus on our surroundings, not on the meaning of a middle name that I may or may not have.
Ling Wang hates Aki’s guts ever since he got stabbed in a night club four months ago. He’s a nasty motherfucker, who’s been trying to repay the favor multiple times. His failures only galvanize him into more action. The invitation is under the pretense of helping us with Hebikawa’s construction company. What is he actually scheming now? He killed the last spy Aki sent into his crew, so I have no idea what he’s planning.
The ominous sensation rises in my guts once again as we walk the long corridor paved with round stones. My hand is close to the gun on my side as we pass several private rooms on each side, all empty—theshojisliding doors with lightweight dark wood frames and translucent paper are open. The hostess stops in front of the last one. I give a quick look inside before we take our shoes off and then climb the two steps to get in. The room is a mix of Asian cultures. Chinese red lanterns hanging from the low ceiling, a traditional Thai painting on the wall, Japanesetatamion the floor, and Korean K-Pop music playing softly in the air.
I sit on the square purple cushion on the floor next to Aki. He takes his time to look at the menu then orders a bottle of sakeand a plate of sashimi. The hostess bows and then leaves, closing the door behind her.
I frown at him. He doesn’t like sashimi. “You said you were famished.”
He waves his hand at me in a dismissive move. “Where the shit is Fuckchill?”
We arrived ten minutes late, but Ling Wang is not here. Aki is never punctual, though, and everyone in the criminal business knows it. Still, not coming after an invitation is a very disrespectful move. But I wonder if Ling Wang is bold enough to do it, since this is personal to him.
“If he stands me up, his hand won’t be the target for my stabbing this time.” I know he means every threatening word he hisses. He hates waiting. The smacking, squelching sound he’s making with his chewing gum and the drumming of his fingers on the shiny black surface of the low table are clear signs of it.
I take a deep breath, the soft, lush grass smell from thetatamimats fills my lungs, gifting me a moment of tranquility. Which disappears in the blink of an eye as Aki curses again.
“He’s fucking with me with this whole burying-the-hatchet act, like inviting us to a fucking Asian fusion restaurant will help with the war going on between us.” He snorts.
A waitress slides open the door, holding a tray. She kneels on the floor to set the sake bottle with two glasses and the sashimi plate in front of us. “Feel free to push the bell on the table if you need anything else,” she says before leaving again.
“You ran a knife through his hand,” I return to our earlier conversation, opening the bottle of sake and pouring some for him. “That’s pretty hard to forgive.”
