BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE: The Unforgettable Billionaires: The Complete Collection Boxed Set 1-12 (Young Adult Rich Alpha Male Billionaire Romance) (Alpha Bad Boy Billionaire Romance) (65 page)
Authors: Violet Walker
Dragon Romance: Rising Inferno
I
didn’t realize I’d had fallen asleep until a long, shrill scream pierced the air.
I set up quickly and stared around. My room still reeked of disinfectant after the hours I’d spent cleaning that afternoon – I’d only just gotten my new apartment up to livable standards before I’d collapsed, exhausted, into bed.
I heard the scream again and shoved my blankets off of my legs before running to the window. I’d taken down the curtains earlier, and now there was a dirty yellow glow coming through from the streetlights outside. The sky had grown dark since I’d collapsed into bed. At first, all I could see in the window was my freckled cheeks and pointed chin. I pressed my cheek to the cold glass so that I could see down into the alley next to my building.
There was a woman wearing a short skirt and her hair loose lying sprawled on the ground next to a puddle. She was still screaming. I could see the glint of her many necklaces in the dirty streetlight. A heavy-set guy stalked towards her with his face cast in shadow. I wanted to turn around, grab my phone and call 911, but I couldn’t move. I felt my heart clench as I stared, frozen in horror, at the scene outside my window.
Mama and Daddy had nothing but dire warnings when I’d told them I wanted to move to New York City. They were small town folk who’d never even left Round Table, and they’d done everything they could to persuade me to follow in their footsteps.
“Now you listen to me, Skye Louise –” Mama had said while she’d stirred her latest batch of jam. “I ain’t having no daughter of mine living in that city of sin just so she can throw her life away on painting.”
Mama thought every town with a population higher than 25,000 was a city of sin.
I got my way in the end. I’d been dreaming of the New York Art Institute since Daddy had bought me my first watercolor kit. No matter how many newspaper clippings about shootings and drugs Mama had waved under my nose, I’d made my decision. I was going to New York. Sure, my apartment was dingy and gross, but I hadn’t been able to afford anything better. I’d wanted to get a roommate – and a bigger, cleaner apartment – but my parents had insisted on me getting my own place after they’d watched a documentary about small town girls who’d been corrupted by drugs and alcohol while rooming with party girls. Now, looking down at the menacing man outside my apartment, I was starting to wish I’d dug my heels in about finding someone to live with.
My window had fogged up as I watched the two people in the alley. He stalked towards the woman like a hunting dog towards a hog. Something glinted in his hands and I felt my fingers go numb – he had a knife!
Before I could even consider running downstairs to help her, a black shadow flashed across the alleyway. I felt my heart thudding in my chest as another person – a man, I realized, with a black bandana stretched across his mouth – came out of nowhere and slammed his fist into the mugger’s temple.
“Oh!” I gasped as the masked man sent the mugger staggering away. The woman took her chance to run, shrieking, towards the mouth of the alleyway and into the night.
Watching her go seemed to knock some sense into me. I lurched towards my bedside table, grabbed my phone, and quickly unlocked it as I hurried back to the window to see what was happening.
The mugger had found his balance and tried to punch the masked man, but his fist met air. The masked man moved so fast that I could barely see him. I pressed my hand to the cold glass and watched as he rained punches and kicks down on the mugger, knocking him to the ground and kicking him so hard in the side that I heard him grunting in pain. I winced at the sound. Then the mugger grabbed the masked man by the ankles and slammed him down onto the ground.
I gasped as the mugger rolled onto the masked man, straddled his hips, and wrapped his hands around the other man’s throat. I felt as though there were a hand gripping my own throat. I couldn’t breathe as I watched the masked man struggle, trying to calculate how long it would take me to run down there, grab a trashcan lid, and smash it over the mugger’s head. My phone hung limp and forgotten in my hand.
Flames burst out of the masked man’s hands. I reeled backwards in shock as the masked man shoved his hands into the mugger’s face.
His screams set my blood curdling, and I found myself screaming with him. I dropped my phone and heard the tinkle of glass shattering as the mugger threw himself away from the masked man and shoved his face into one of the puddles.
The masked man rolled over onto his hands and knees, his back heaving, as the mugger scrambled to his feet and sprinted away.
My quick, panting breaths had fogged up the window. I wiped it hastily with my sleeve and watched as the masked man slowly rose to his feet. He shook his head like a dog, rubbed his throat, and followed the mugger calmly out of the alley.
“Oh my God,” I said, running my fingers through my long, brunette hair. I couldn’t – I just – oh, I’d never been so glad that Mama and Daddy weren’t there. They would’ve dragged me kicking and screaming back to Round Table if they’d seen that. My heart was beating so fast it was practically humming. A mugger! A masked vigilante! I thought those things only happened in comic books.
My flannel pajamas were suddenly too tight and heavy, and I pulled them off eagerly until I was standing dazed in my underwear. I picked my phone up and winced at the shattered screen. I’d have to save up to get it fixed – or else, explain to Mama and Daddy why I’d dropped it. I climbed back into bed with my mind reeling over the masked man’s flaming hands.
I
’d almost forgotten about the masked, flaming vigilante by lunchtime the next day. By lunchtime, I could barely remember my own name – never mind why I’d uprooted my whole life to move to Manhattan. I was close to tears by the time I stumbled into a restaurant that was open for lunch, taking a seat at the very back and running my hands nervously over the folds of my skirt. I swallowed the ball of emotion rising in my throat. Mama was right: I was stupid to leave Round Table. I didn’t know anything about the real world.
“Welcome,” a cheerful, accented voice said beside me.
I looked up to see an elderly Asian man with short white hair standing next to my table. He had an apron on and a notepad in his hand. I glanced around and realized that I was in a Japanese restaurant. It was empty, save for myself and the old man. I’d never tried Japanese food before. I groped for the menu in front of me, but I didn’t recognize any of the food on it.
Of course, I was too naïve to even know how to order Japanese! I felt tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.
“Hey!” the old man said quickly. I tried to cover up my face, but my hands were shaking. “Don’t cry – the food is good!”
I didn’t feel like laughing, but I forced myself to giggle weakly. “I’m so sorry –”
He put his hand on my shoulder and rubbed reassuringly. He pulled a seat from another table to sit beside me, rubbing my shoulder the whole time. “It’s alright now,” he said. “It’s alright.”
Hearing his soothing, kind voice after the day I’d had just made it harder to hold in my tears. Pretty soon, I was gasping and crying into my hands while the old man kept rubbing my shoulder and telling me that it would be alright. When I’d finally calmed down, I looked up to find a handkerchief held in front of my face. The old man smiled encouragingly when I took it.
“Thank you very much,” I said, because my Mama taught me manners even if she’d never taught me how to not cry in public.
“You are very welcome,” the old man said.
His kind eyes and the soft, rubbing motion on my shoulder broke the last of my defenses. I found myself telling the old man everything. How I’d slept through my alarm that morning, and then run to class in a plain white blouse and plaid skirt. I was well aware that my outfit would make me look like I’d just come in off the prairie, but Mama had some very specific ideas about how her daughter should dress and I hadn’t had the chance to go shopping for new clothes yet.
“I mean, just look at me!” I said, gesturing to my clothes. “I look like I walked out of a bad country music video. All the girls in class had colored hair and more piercings than I have fingers. I looked like I’d come from another planet! And – oh – the professor! My art teacher in high school was so nice, I thought they were all like that.”
The old man didn’t say anything.
I told him about how the professor had actually paused the lecture to tell me off for being late. How the students had snickered and smirked before ignoring me completely. I told him about the way the professor had thrown around technical terms about design software like we were all supposed to know what he meant. How he’d told us that painting and sketching – the things I loved – were obsolete, and that no serious student of art would waste their time on them.
“The so-called ‘art’ of painting and sculpture is dead,” he’d said, looking around the room and daring anyone to disagree with him. “To create anything worth looking at, all you need is a decent MacBook and the right software.”
The other students had nodded along like this wasn’t news to them while I’d felt my heart sink into my shoes. Then he’d sent us to a computer lab so that we could learn Photoshop.
“I just felt like such a fool. It was as if everything I’ve ever thought about art had been a stupid pipedream. I worked so hard to convince my parents to let me come to New York! And for what? I obviously didn’t have the faintest idea what the Institute really is. I spent more time typing and fiddling with a mouse that morning than I spent thinking creating art.” The old man nodded along sympathetically as I finally finished. “– I just wasn’t – I mean, I knew that it would be different… but I didn’t expect this. I don’t even know why I came here. I’m not cut out for this… I should have stayed in Texas.” My voice cracked on the last sentence, and I buried my face in my hands again.
The old man rubbed my back soothingly. “Daiki!” he called over his shoulder. “Bring some water! Now,” he said, turning back to me. “Would you like to talk about what is bothering you?”
I hesitated. “I – I don’t want to bother –”
“It is no bother,” the old man said. “This city can be shocking, I know. It is a challenge. But challenges make us great, in the end.”
Footsteps distracted me from whatever I’d planned to say. I looked up and saw a younger man – he couldn’t have been more than two or three years older than me – walking towards us with a glass of water in his hand. He had an apron on as well, but it was stretched tightly across his chest. His short sleeved shirt showed off his toned arms, and I found myself tracing the lines of his face with my eyes. His eyes were dark and almond-shaped; his eyelashes were thick and long, framing them wonderfully. He was beautiful.
I wanted to reach into my bag for a stick of charcoal and my sketch book. I wanted to spend hours capturing the way his apron hugged his hips, the way his long legs bent and flexed as he walked, and the way his eyes seemed to bore into me when they finally met mine.
I quickly looked away. I must have looked like an awful mess, sitting there with my eyes all red and puffy.
The man – Daiki, the old man had called him – set the glass he was holding down in front of me. I kept my eyes on the table and muttered a quiet, “Thank you,”
“This is my grandson,” the old man said. “Daiki. And my name is Ichiru,” he added. I felt a jolt of disbelief. I’d shared every horrible thing that had happened to me that day, and I didn’t even knowing his name!
I raised my hand to shake. “Skye,” I said. I remembered at the last moment to drop the ‘Louise’ because no one in New York cared what my middle name was.
Ichiru shook my hand warmly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Skye,”
I finally raised my eyes to Daiki’s face. He was looking down at me curiously, like I was the weirdly shaped pumpernickel in a garden full of perfectly round cabbages. I offered my hand to him and he took it.
A short bolt of electricity seemed to shoot through my arm, traveling all the way up to my neck and into my throat. I muffled a gasp as Daiki’s eyes went wide. He pulled away as soon as it was polite to do so. I saw him rub his hand surreptitiously on his apron. “Pleasure,” he said gruffly. His voice was lightly accented and felt like warm porridge on a cold day.
“The special, Daiki,” Ichiru said. He didn’t seem to have noticed that anything was wrong. “A nice, big helping.”
“Oh, I – uh,” I glanced back at the menu and tried not to let my eyes linger on Daiki’s tight jeans as he retreated to the back of the restaurant. “I’ve never tried Japanese food before.”
Ichiru’s smile went impossibly wide. “Then it is lucky the special is so good!” he said. “I made it myself.”
I smiled gratefully. New York might not be everything I’d dreamed of, but it was nice to know that good people did exist here. While we waited for Daiki to bring out the special, he told me about the Hokkaido prefecture where he was from.
“Every year, sakura all over. It is very beautiful. I think you would like it.”
“What is sakura?” I asked.
“They are… cherry blossoms,” he said, stumbling over the translation.
Daiki came and set down a heavenly-smelling plate of noodles and chicken, avoiding my eyes as he nodded to his grandfather and returned to the kitchen. Ichiru patiently showed me how to use chopsticks – which I’d seen before, but never used – and how to slurp the noodles so that the hot broth didn’t burn my tongue. It tasted delicious.
Ichiru kept talking while I ate.
“We came to America when Daiki was very small. I learned English in Chicago, at my first job. I think New York is a good challenge for Daiki and me.”
I liked that idea – that New York was a challenge to be conquered, and not a dream to be enjoyed. By the time the meal was over, I felt better. I thanked Ichiru and pulled out my wallet but he waved me off.
“From one traveler to another,” he said, ignoring my protests. “If you come back, you can try other dishes, yes? The teriyaki bento is very good.”
I promised him I would, thanked him over and over again, and left the restaurant feeling lighter and more cheerful than I could have imagined.
I walked the short distance back to the Institute, concentrating hard on dodging the foot traffic and wishing I could have seen Daiki one last time so that I could memorize the way his cheekbones had framed his eyes. I’d had a few steady boyfriends in high school (Mama still thought I was a virgin and I didn’t have the guts to correct her assumption) but I’d never felt such a strong reaction to a stranger. I was still thinking about how his apron had done little to hide his ab muscles when I arrived at the Institute. The taste of Ichiru’s chicken and noodles was still lingering on my lips, and it gave me the courage to go inside. I still felt like a fool for thinking that art in New York would be the same as art in Round Table, but I wouldn’t let it stop me from learning everything I could.
The sky was dark by the time I left the Institute that night. I’d stayed behind to ask the professor some questions, and then I’d spent the rest of the afternoon messing around with the programs he’d shown us. The rest of the class had cleared out to attend a gallery opening, or something. I hadn’t been invited.
I’d made some notes for myself about which programs to install on my laptop, packed up my bags and saw myself out. The Institute was eerily quiet and my footsteps echoed through the hallway. There was a security guard at the exit who grunted when I said goodnight to him. I shrugged internally and told myself that not every New Yorker could be as kind as Ichiru had been.
The street outside the Institute was deserted. I tried to hail a cab, but the cars just drove past me as if I weren’t even there. Even though I’d promised Mama and Daddy that I would never go out after dark, after half an hour of trying to attract a cab I decided to just start walking. My apartment was too close to the Institute to fuss about a cab, anyway.
As I walked, a cold evening breeze blew into my hair and sent a shiver down my back. I crossed my arms and tried to tuck my head down, but the wind got to me anyway. By the time I’d reached the alley outside my apartment I was shivering. I was concentrating so hard on putting one foot in front of the other, distracted by thoughts of my warm bed, that I didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind me.
A heavy hand latched onto my arm and jerked me around. I felt the cold steel of a blade against my throat before I’d even had the chance to scream. The man who’d grabbed me had a hoodie pulled low over his eyes, but I could see the pale skin of his cheeks and some brown stubble on his chin as he snarled at me.
“Don’t move, bitch,”
I felt my muscles quiver as adrenaline pumped through my veins. My breath caught in my throat. I was getting mugged. My second night in New York, and I was getting mugged. The thought sent a surge of anger through me and, without thinking, I lashed out. My boot – steel-toed, for farm work – caught him square in the shin and he jumped back, yelping. The knife moved swiftly across my throat, but I jerked backwards to avoid getting cut. Then I remembered the mugger who’d been burned by the masked man the night before.
I drew a lungful of air and screamed as loud as I could. I felt my lungs burn with it. I screamed until my belly started to ache. Then I turned and ran for the entrance to the alley.
The mugger was on me in seconds, grabbing me by the hair and pulling me sharply back. Pain exploded in my scalp and neck as I fell backwards, tripping over my long skirt, and landed hard on my tailbone. Before I could even blink he suddenly reeled backwards. A tall, black-clad man with a bandana across his mouth and nose had the mugger by the back of the neck.
“Run!” the masked man shouted. His eyes were cast in shadow, but his voice triggered a whisper of recognition in the back of my mind.
Before I could react, the mugger had turned in the masked man’s grip and grabbed at his face. The masked man pulled away, shoving the mugger’s arm down, but the bandana was knocked loose – exposing the masked man’s high cheekbones and lips. It was Daiki, Ichiru’s grandson. He pulled the mugger closer and head-butted him, letting the mugger fall to the ground when he went limp.
Silence fell. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears along with Daiki’s panting breaths. The mugger was out cold but his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
Daiki’s eyes met mine. A brief flash of panic passed over his face. Without a word, he turned and ran for the mouth of the alleyway.
“Wait!”
I scrambled to my feet, pushing through the pain in my tailbone, and followed. I heard Daiki’s footsteps suddenly stop, and I thought for a moment that he had waited after all, but when I stepped onto the street and stared around I couldn’t see him. He’d vanished completely.
My legs and arms felt weak, as if they’d been replaced by the soft noodles Ichiru had given me at lunchtime. My heart was still humming and my throat burned with the ghosts of my screams. I turned to look back at the mugger’s prone body illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlight, and noticed that there was blood dripping out of his nose and down his cheek. I looked away as a wave of nausea rippled through my belly. I could hear sirens in the distance, and decided I was too tired and confused to answer questions or deal with police.
