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To your deepest, darkest fantasies.
Dear Naomi, I’m your new friend. Or at least, I hope to be.
One, you have a beautiful smile that reminds me of peach blossoms and falling snow.
Two, you’re so real that if anyone attempted to get inside you, they’d probably drown from how deep you are.
I’m Akira and I was born in Japan. Tokyo, to be exact.
In Kanji, Akira is written with the characters for ‘sun’ and ‘moon,’ so I’m sort of like the whole package, having both sunlight and moonlight.
Everyone harbors a secret. Some are mundane; others are downright twisted. Apparently, my whole existence falls under the latter, because my mom is keeping it hidden like it’s some sort of national intelligence.
Honestly, I may have never let anyone walk all over me before, but it’s these people and their constant bullying that’s made me a bitch just like them.
I have this perfect poker face that no one is able to read behind.
So even when a whirlwind of emotions swirls inside me, no one can figure anything out by observing the outside. Not even the one person I actually notice on the football team.
The one with sandy hair and sharp features and hard, glistening abs that could very well be used as a weapon. The one who doesn’t know half the campus exists, while everyone is taught his name the moment they step into Blackwood.
It’s just a crush…if a crush can go on for this long. No. I’m sure it’s only a crush and only physical, because everything else is a big no.
Sharp tangs of loneliness flood the base of my stomach and leave a bitter aftertaste at the back of my throat. And it scares me. The fact that I have no one and am all alone terrifies the shit out of me. But no more so than the idea of actually reaching out to people and being vulnerable just so they can hurt me. Both are horrifying monsters I think of every day.
Ever since the day I trusted someone and they violated my innocence.
But instead of the ball, a flash of movement catches in my peripheral vision before a hard body slams into mine. And not just any body. The body of the football player whose existence I’ve spent years trying to ignore. And failing.
Sebastian Weaver. Star quarterback. A former senator’s grandson. And dangerous.
He could be the most beautiful man God has created. Okay, in the top five.
His eyes, though, tell a completely different story. It’s not solely about their light green color that resembles the shade of a tropical sea that I’ve only seen in pictures. But what’s most striking about them is the fading light in their depths, almost as if he’s mad with the supremacy he was given. Or maybe he considers it a burden.
But that’s not what I first noticed about Sebastian. It was neither who his family was, what he played, nor even what he looked like. It was always his eyes. The way they’re muted, like right now, as if he’s falling into a role.
“Are you a fucking animal?” “Monster, to be more specific.” The way he emphasizes the word ‘monster’ sends a chill down my spine and it’s with effort that I manage to hold on to my agitation.
“Get off me.” “Shhh. I’m not done.” “Done with what?” “With you.”
I get out Akira’s letter and smile as I open it. I even pause my core metal playlist. What? It means the letter is that important. Juggling the rest of the mail in one hand and my bag on my shoulder, I open the letter from my pen pal.
I still know next to nothing about Akira, but it’s not like I’m telling him my deepest secrets or anything. It’s just something that I look forward to every week. And maybe that’s because I’m pathetic and he’s one of just two people I have as friends.
Do you ever feel like you understand nothing and when you finally do, the doors are closed? It’s like you arrive at life too late.
If that happens, don’t worry, you can always be my Yuki-Onna. Or maybe I’m yours. Sincerely, Akira
He calls me Yuki-Onna because, according to him, I resemble her with my pale skin, rosy lips, and Asian eyes that are so dark, they’re nearly black. He says I have the beauty of the snow woman, a ghost who roamed the mountains on stormy winter days to lure mortals and kill them. And since then, it’s kind of become our inside joke.
My whole existence has been mapped out ever since I was born as the senator’s grandson and have had to play the role that goes with it. Maybe that’s why I’m often tempted to allow my rebellious side to get the better of me. Why I sometimes let it rear its head and show the world the turbulent side of me. You know, basic rich kid problems.
People in Blackwood expect one thing from me—to be efficient. It comes with the Weaver name. Those who belong to my family need to bring something to the table, whether it’s grades, victories, a senatorial position, or a hotshot lawyer role like my uncle. At any rate, I need to have something to offer.
I have no intention of being trapped in my head. That’s not a very comfortable place, last I checked.
“Is that really your grand dare? Fuck someone?” “Not just anyone.” Her smile slowly vanishes, allowing a shadow to creep in. “Naomi.”
The only image that comes to mind is that of a beautiful petite woman who’ll be destroyed to pieces by the end of this bet. And if anyone’s going to be doing the destroying, it’s only fair that it’s me. I won’t take it far. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin, meeting all their gazes. “I’ll do it. I’ll fuck Naomi.”
Okay, this isn’t the time for Sebastian fantasies. Wait. No. They’re not fantasies. Just unwanted thoughts.
“Because it doesn’t. The less you care, the less you’re attached and the freer your mind is.”
I sure as hell don’t keep a journal. Unless my letters to Akira can be considered one?
I wipe them with the back of my hand, because if anyone accuses me of crying, I’ll throat-stab them.
One moment, I’m walking, and the next, Sebastian turns around, grabs me by the waist, and tugs me against him. “The reason is her,” he says, and then his lips meet mine.
Sebastian is kissing me. As in, his lips are on mine. His mouth is mashed to my agape one.
He kisses like he plays, razing through my defenses, seizing the opportunity and scoring, over and over. He doesn’t only kiss, he’s out to devour me. To paint black stars in the midst of the bright white lights.
I’ve never been touched like this, as if I could be swallowed whole any second. As if his large strong hands could hold my face—and other parts of me—hostage. As if his body could easily overpower mine and force me to submit.
His tropical eyes cage me for the second time tonight, only this time, the mask he always wears doesn’t hide the fire in them. Like fireworks. Or maybe a volcano.
I slam both hands on his chest to push him away, but he might as well be a buffalo. A dangerous one with boundary issues, because he takes that as an invitation to step further into my space.
“Who said I want any relationship with you?” “You should. I recommend it.”
“I’d rather ask you. Dinner tomorrow?” “In the funeral home before they cremate you?”
“Now I know what you truly are,” he says. “And what is that?” “Tsundere.” “What?” “It means someone who’s hot and cold. Violent on the outside, despite being soft on the inside.”
I’m shallow, too, for actually allowing him to prick my black heart once upon a time. It was a single prick, you know, like a needle that you barely feel, but just like a needle, it’s already spread a chemical inside and now, I can’t purge him out of my bloodstream.
I swerve the car to the other lane, and sure enough, the van follows. Okay, kidnapper dudes. I’m not one to be messed with. If they knew me even a little, they wouldn’t dare to come near me. I’d fight to the death. Or at least, that’s the pep talk I give myself.
“Should I call you Mr. Collins?” “That would make me feel like an old man. Kai is fine.”
How do you write Kai in Kanji?” “The character of ocean.” “That’s so cool. Mine is written with the characters of honest and beautiful.”
A trembling smile curves my lips. Does this mean I can finally meet the mystery man who contributed to my existence?
