Chapter 5
chapter five
Kai
"Where to, Mr. Kobayashi?" the driver asks as I slide into the car with Miss Stone, the new assistant. I'm not in charge of the schedule. That's her job.
"Ask my assistant." I got three hours of sleep last night; I'm going to take a five minute nap in the car on our way to the meditation studio. I slide my sunglasses over my eyes and shut them, leaning back against the seat with a sigh.
"Here's the address," Denali says as she leans forward and talks to the driver. "Thank you, Roger."
Roger. That must be my driver's name. I don't know why, but until now, I've never even bothered to ask him for his name. Now, I know it.
I'll make a mental note to call him by it at least once a day now. I can be a decent human.
Despite what my mother thinks.
If I had stayed a day longer, she would have had me married off within the week. It's apparently unfathomable that I wouldn't want to settle down when I'm earning more than I've ever made in my life, and am at the top of my game.
I listen to the steady sound of her nails tapping on the screen of that tablet in her hands as I drift off, expecting to only float on the surface of sleep and rest my eyes.
Before I know it, though, I'm out cold.
"Mr. Kobayashi, we're here." Soft hands grip my shoulders and shake me gently, rousing me from a sleep deeper than I intended to go. "Maybe I should start putting sleep on your schedule, so you'll get more of it."
"I get enough," I grumble, stepping out of the car with a wince as the sun hits me square in the face.
Wait.
That's not right. The meditation studio faces west. The sun shouldn't be on this side of the building yet.
"Where are we?"
"Grass-Fed," Denali says simply, as if that explains everything. "Come on; we're going to put some food in you."
"Excuse me?" I don't remember putting a reservation for a little corner cafe in my schedule this week at all. I check my phone, but right there on the screen is the notification for the lunch break, just titled Fucking Eat Something—how crass. "I didn't authorize this."
"I did," she says happily, her pasted-on smile too bright. "You don't have a gap in your schedule for food, so I made one. You can't run this hectic kind of work life and not eat. You'll run yourself into an early grave—"
"I'll thank you to not worry about my food intake," I say rather rudely, scowling down at her with all the intimidation I can muster. "I'm aware of my limits. You're not responsible for knowing those."
She taps her little tablet and scowls right back at me.
"Says in here I'm responsible for making sure your daily schedule covers everything you need.
Last time I checked, humans need food to survive.
" She leans down like she's not already shorter than me by a whole head, and tips her head over to look up at me like a specimen in a petri dish. "You are human, aren't you?"
"We're only on day one, and you're already too comfortable in your position," I tell her, not bothering to argue with her any longer.
I am hungry, and we are already here. It's not like we can make it to the meditation studio in time to attend the class I usually do, so I might as well make the most of this situation.
"Since we're here, and you've ruined the chance for me to partake in my meditation period, I suppose just this one time, I'll indulge your mistake. "
The little eatery is busy, for a weekday, though I have no idea what busy looks like to them.
Still, there are quite a few people milling about, tables everywhere dotted with customers in the middle of a meal or just chatting with one another.
Several tables along the back house people who shovel food into their mouths while they type away endlessly on computers or tablets, working in their spare time while they meet their basic needs.
It's lively. Cramped. But Denali sails in like she owns the place, waving and calling out to the girl behind the counter with a smile on her face.
It's the first time all day I think I've seen a genuine smile on those lips.
Makes her look a little prettier, when she smiles with her eyes.
I shake that thought and follow behind her, clearly meant to stick close in a place like this. When we reach the counter, she urges me out of the way as several people slide in front of us and begin ordering rapid-fire style. Clearly, they know what they want.
"Their menu is on the wall," she says, her hand gesturing to a blackboard where the words are hand-written with prices to the right. "If you have any questions, you can ask me. I come here a lot—when I'm making good money."
I wonder if that's a slight on her proposed salary. "Do you often make not enough money to afford a little restaurant like this?"
Her shrug is dismissive, but I don't like it. "Lots of jobs pay just enough to survive. Even more don't pay enough to do that. But sometimes, I have good jobs that mean I can afford to eat out once or twice a week."
I can't remember the last time I ate at home, or cooked myself food. "Once or twice? That's it?"
Her brows raise as she regards me. I can sense the ire, the contempt in that cool glare.
"We can't all be rich superstars, Mr. Kobayashi.
Most of us have to bust our asses to meet the basic needs for survival.
At one time, I worked three jobs so I could afford to buy a car that ran when mine broke down. "
Is this how everyone in this country lives? "Where I'm from, when the jobs don't pay enough to live, the government steps in and helps."
Her laughter is harsh, barking, and cynical.
"Oh, lord, that would be nice, wouldn't it?
Our government is content to line its own pockets and let their people starve.
" She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye and sucks in a deep breath, chuckling at my expense.
"Well, shit, let's order something, I guess. "
I make a mental note to find out if the salary they're paying her is enough to live on, and then turn my attention to the menu.
There's so much it's dizzying. The place clearly specializes in salads and wraps, though there's a lot of vegan, vegetarian, and keto options on the board to choose from.
I wonder briefly if she's one of those special diet people, and then shake my head.
She doesn't strike me as the type of person to buy into fad diets.
But what do I know about what people look like and don't look like?
I haven't had time to stop and watch people just to watch them in years.
When the line is gone, we step into place at the counter and Denali clears her throat, rattling off a salad order that sounds honestly delicious. It sounds better than what I'm planning to order, so I do something I'm not used to doing, and I tell them—
"I'll have one of what she's having, thanks."
She stares at me, but says nothing, and when she steps up to pay, I watch her pull out the tablet and pay with the company card.
Is that something the company covers? I suppose if it's not, I'll cover it for her. It's her first day on the job. The company should pay for her meal during the shift.
We take a little metal placard from the girl at the register, and then we're off, looking for anywhere with enough room to seat two of us.
"Quick, over there! There's an empty set of chairs at the barstools."
I don't even have a second to think before she grabs me by the hand and drags me to a far wall, where we cram into a row of people sitting against a bar that faces a window. Currently the window is open, and it has turned the bar area into outdoor seating.
It's quaint, like street vendors, with class. I'm not happy that I have to sit so close to a stranger, but I've done worse for less. She won't hear any complaint from my lips.
My fingers drum on the surface of the counter while I wait, pretending that being idle like this quite pointlessly, does exactly nothing for me but raise my blood pressure and my anxiety. I need to be moving, need to be doing, and I'm not.
Denali's eyes flit over to focus on my hands and their nervous behavior, and she sighs. "You alright there, cowboy?"
"Cowboy?" I stare at her like she's an alien. "What—"
"Figure of speech," she mutters, rolling her eyes. "Don't worry about it. Is there something wrong?"
I take a moment to think about that, because I'm not sure if I'm just being irritated for the sake of the argument, the sake of saying this was a bad idea, or if I'm truly perturbed. "I'm not used to sitting still like this," I say honestly, but she surprises me with her observational skills now.
"What's your normal activity during this time?" She waits patiently for an answer, and I know I have to give her one. It's just—
"Meditation," I admit, which means that quite literally, all I usually do during this time is sit still, and practice deep breathing. "But it's different—"
"It's not. You're sitting, are you not? When you meditate, and now." She takes a sip of the bottle of water she bought at the register, and I realize I didn't grab a drink while I was there. "You can practice deep breathing here, too. You just want a reason to complain."
She tips the bottle back, licks her lips, and I swallow thickly, wondering if meditation in a crowded restaurant is really possible. "I don't think—"
"Actually, you think too much," she points out, standing up behind me. "Close your eyes."
"This is pointless—"
Her hands cover my eyes, and though I grip her wrists, she doesn't move them.
"Hold still and just listen to me. If you're really that put-out about missing your meditation session, then you'll take advantage of the one I'm giving you on the move.
" Her tongue clicks in her mouth, and the sigh that leaves her mouth is nothing short of frustration of the highest order.
"Now, shut your mouth, take a deep breath, hold it for ten while you count in your head. "
This is so unorthodox, so ridiculous—but I listen, because I realize at this point I was just complaining to complain, and she's showing me, in her own rude way, how stupid I'm being.
How whiny. How much of a man-baby she thinks I am.
Which is unfair, really, because it's not my fault I have a routine, and I like it.
I thrive on an organized schedule and routine.
This little interruption holds the potential to derail the whole day—
"Breathe," she growls, smacking the back of my head lightly with her palm. "I'll count for you, if you're incapable."
"I'm an idol, not an invalid," I growl, taking a deep breath in through my nose. I count to ten, then let it out through my mouth while counting back down from ten—
"Again," she commands, and I do it all over again. "One more."
She's getting on my nerves with her bossiness, but I do it one last time, and realize that the sounds of the busy, bustling crowd doesn't feel anywhere near as oppressive as it did before I participated in her moment of meditation and deep breathing.
She uncovers my eyes, and I wait until I can feel her take her seat next to me again before I open my eyes.
She leans in, propping her chin in her hand as she leans on her elbow on the bar. "Better?"
"It's no meditation session," I grumble, looking for anything to complain about to make myself justified in my unwarranted irritation at the detour and change of plans, "but it'll do."
A waitress shows up with our order, takes away the metal placard, and leaves us to eat in peaceful silence.
Well, not silence, but—
I stare down at my salad and frown. "What the hell is this thing called?"
Denali looks up with a bite of hers on the end of her fork, three inches from her mouth. "A deconstructed BLT," she mumbles, sliding the fork into her mouth.
And now I'm sexualizing my new assistant's eating habits as she licks her lips to capture the dressing that lingers on the edge of her mouth.
Get ahold of yourself, you idiot.
Finding women in this city is easy. Hell, I can stick my hand out the window, wink, and end up stuck to twenty for the night.
But I haven't bothered in at least a week, so I'm a little needy right now.
That's the only explanation I have for why I'm suddenly salivating over this brand new assistant of mine like I'm starving and she's a steak.
"Sounds delicious," I say, shoving my fork aggressively into the salad like that'll solve my problems. I shove a bite into my mouth, and immediately, my body remembers what I've been denying it this whole time, and revolts against my plans to continue to feed it a water and protein bar diet.
And now, Denali Stone has ruined me, with nothing more than a simple lunchtime salad and the insinuation that I don't know what's best for myself.
I'll never recover.