MidReal Story
Prologue A man of few words, Jack Thompson is a quiet, hardworking ex-con who guards his identity closely. But when he meets small-town librarian Charlie Kenyon, he’s immediately drawn to her. Sure, Charlie is the opposite of the shallow, womanizer Jack usually goes for, but he’s tired of telling everyone else what they want to hear. As he gets to know Charlie, so does she. She’s everything he’s ever wanted, but he knows his rep will ruin everything. On the outside, she’s a vibrant, exciting girl, but Charlie has her own quiet insecurities. When she’s around Jack, she can be herself, and her honesty makes him ache for the love he keeps hidden. But can a such a damaged man ever let go of the ways he’s tried to protect himself and open his heart completely? A provocative and powerful story of longing, temptation, and ultimate redemption. Chapter One “Will you tell me your name?” I ask, even though I know it won’t be true. He never tells me their names. “Will you tell me yours?” he asks in return. I shake my head and look down. I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve been dreading it. His hands touch the buttons on my jacket. I shrug out of it obediently, then lift my hair so he can unfasten the clasp of my necklace. He sets it on the table next to my purse and walks away. I don’t turn to watch him go; I know what’s coming next. I sit at the table with my hands in my lap and wait. It’s always like this. I feel like I’m in a dream where I can see everything happening around me but I can’t react or speak or interact in any way. All I can do is wait for him. Eventually, he returns and stands in front of me with his hands on his hips. He surveys me for a moment before he speaks. “Stand up,” he orders.
Scenario: A widowed caucasian single father living in Japan travels to Tokyo to go to a brothel to try and forget the pain of the death of his Japanese wife and struggles raisng their daighter alone.
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Prologue
A man of few words, Jack Thompson is a quiet, hardworking ex-con who guards his identity closely. But when he meets small-town librarian Charlie Kenyon, he’s immediately drawn to her. Sure, Charlie is the opposite of the shallow, womanizer Jack usually goes for, but he’s tired of telling everyone else what they want to hear. As he gets to know Charlie, so does she. She’s everything he’s ever wanted, but he knows his rep will ruin everything.
On the outside, she’s a vibrant, exciting girl, but Charlie has her own quiet insecurities. When she’s around Jack, she can be herself, and her honesty makes him ache for the love he keeps hidden. But can a such a damaged man ever let go of the ways he’s tried to protect himself and open his heart completely?
A provocative and powerful story of longing, temptation, and ultimate redemption.
Chapter One
“Will you tell me your name?” I ask, even though I know it won’t be true. He never tells me their names.
“Will you tell me yours?” he asks in return.
I shake my head and look down. I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve been dreading it.
His hands touch the buttons on my jacket. I shrug out of it obediently, then lift my hair so he can unfasten the clasp of my necklace.
He sets it on the table next to my purse and walks away. I don’t turn to watch him go; I know what’s coming next.
I sit at the table with my hands in my lap and wait. It’s always like this. I feel like I’m in a dream where I can see everything happening around me but I can’t react or speak or interact in any way. All I can do is wait for him.
Eventually, he returns and stands in front of me with his hands on his hips. He surveys me for a moment before he speaks.
“Stand up,” he orders.
I stand up slowly and lower my head. I’m wearing a bra and panties, and nothing else. I have no makeup on. My hair is tied back in a simple ponytail, no braid or other fancy styling. I got dressed in the dark so I wouldn’t wake my daughter, and I left my apartment as soon as she was settled back to sleep. I didn’t even look in the mirror before I left.
I stand with my hands in front of me, my head down, and I wait for him to look at me. I wait for his hands on my body, his mouth on mine. I wait for him to tell me what to do next. I’m a willing, obedient girl. I’m a good girl.
But he’s not touching me. He’s not speaking. He’s just looking at me, and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m in a room with a man who is a stranger to me in every way. A stranger who has paid a lot of money for the right to do anything he wants to me.
I’m a prostitute, and this man is my client.
If I follow the rules, I’ll get paid extra tonight. That’s what the madam told me when she assigned me to this client. Follow his instructions without question, and you’ll be well compensated.
I don’t know what the rules are, but I know the most important one: Don’t talk about the other girls.
Every client is different, and it’s not about sex. It’s about whatever the client needs from me that night. A girlfriend experience, a therapist, a dominatrix, a mother…whatever it is, it’s not about sex. So we don’t compare notes on our clients. We don’t talk about what they like or what they need. We don’t talk about how much they pay us or how much time they spend with us.
We don’t talk about how they treat us or how they make us feel.
We don’t talk about whether or not it’s about sex.
It doesn’t matter if it is or isn’t. It doesn’t matter if he does or doesn’t.
It doesn’t matter if he is or isn’t.
It doesn’t matter if I want him to be my first client—it would change everything, and I would never see him again, anyway—it doesn’t matter if I want him to take me out and buy me dinner and sleep with me because he likes me.
It doesn’t matter if I want him to be my second client because he doesn’t like me at all—it would change everything, and I would never see him again, anyway—it doesn’t matter if I want him to take me out and buy me dinner and sleep with me because he needs me.
It doesn’t matter if I want him to be my second client because he hates himself so much he will never be able to convince himself he deserves good sex or love or even comfort.
It doesn’t matter if I want him to take whatever he needs from me and then go away because there’s nothing left of him to want anything else from me.
It doesn’t matter because he is my first client, and he will be my last client.
He’s still looking at me, his eyes wide as if he’s trying to make sense of something. My heart pounds in my chest as I wonder what I’ve done wrong.
“Don’t talk,” he says. “Just…let me look at you.” He walks around the table slowly, as if he’s seeing something that isn’t really there—a ghost, maybe—something that makes him feel something but isn’t real.
I shiver as his hands move over my body. He’s not touching me in a sexual way; he’s just…touching me. It makes me feel more naked than I’ve ever felt before. My eyes burn with tears, and I squeeze them shut in an effort to keep them from spilling over.
“Tell me your name.”
My eyes fly open. That’s against the rules! I swallow hard and whisper, “Aiko.”
He takes a step back and looks at me as if he can see me for the first time. “Aiko,” he says slowly, as if trying it out on his tongue. “Like…morning child?”
I nod. “My parents are very traditional.”
“Your parents…” He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “I can’t believe…” He looks at me as if he’s never seen me before, and then he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. You’re very lovely, but this was a mistake.”
He picks up my necklace and holds it out to me. His hands are shaking, but his voice is firm as he says, “I’ve changed my mind. You can go now.”
I take the necklace and slip it on, my hands shaking almost as much as his. What did I do wrong? What did I do to make him send me away like this?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Did I do something wrong?”
He shakes his head and looks away, pain flashing across his face for just an instant before it disappears as if it were never there. “No,” he says firmly. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” He walks to the door and opens it, holding it for me. “You should go now.”
My cheeks are burning, but I stand up slowly and walk to the door. When I reach it, he’s standing in front of me with one hand on either side of my head. He’s so close that his breath tickles my lips when he speaks. “Aiko,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” His hands move to my shoulders, and then he pulls me against him and kisses me. His mouth is warm and soft, and his tongue is hot and wet as it slides between my lips.
“Wait!”
It’s against the rules, but I don’t care. I have to know. I put my hands on his chest and push back from him. I look up into his eyes, and there’s something there—something I can’t quite identify, something that feels like recognition or realization or…or maybe I’m just imagining it. I can’t tell.
“Who are you?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head and steps back, his face a cold mask once more. “No one.”
“You’re someone,” I insist. “You were here before—you came here to see her.” Anger and hurt both surge up inside me, but I try to keep my voice calm and steady as I ask, “Are you her husband?”
He looks away, his jaw clenched tight, and then finally nods, still not able to meet my eyes. “You should go.”
My throat is so tight I can hardly speak, but I force the words out anyway. “Your wife is dead.”
He nods again, still looking away from me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” He finally turns to look at me, his eyes cold and empty.
I want to say something else—something that will make him feel something, anything, other than this blankness—but there’s nothing I can say that will make a difference.
I slide the door open and step out into the hallway, grabbing my clothes from the chair as I go by and quickly slipping them on. I don’t wait for the manager to come back; I know he’ll just take his cut out of my pay anyway. Instead, I hurry down the stairs and through the narrow alleyways of Kabuki-cho until I reach the main street, where I stop long enough to get my heels back on before hurrying on through the crowded streets of Shinjuku in search of another train station, one farther away from where I live, where no one will recognize me.
It takes me an hour to walk to the next station, and then another hour on the train to get back home, but I don’t mind. I like walking through Tokyo at night, when the streets are quiet and the city is all mine.
When I walk through the door of our tiny apartment, I’m careful not to wake my father. I don’t want him to see how much of my take tonight has gone to waste on this dress, which is ruined now that it’s been ripped in half and stained with semen and blood—and on these heels, which are probably ruined as well since they’re missing a heel and one of the straps is broken beyond repair—and on this necklace, which . . .
I stop short as I realize that I’m still wearing the necklace.
I don’t know why I put it back on after he took it off me.
I don’t know why I didn’t sell it afterward, or just throw it away.
But when I try to take it off now, I find that I can’t.
It’s like a brand or a scar.
I didn’t want his money but I accepted his gift.
It’s like a mark that says you belong to me.
I belong to no one.
And yet—
I run my fingers over the pendant. It’s a scarlet crystal wrapped in silver, heavy in my hand. A memory of a night that changed everything.
When Aiko finally emerged from the train station, she found Yumi waiting for her. The driver was already gone. It was late, but not so late that Aiko couldn’t catch a taxi. Still, Yumi had prepared for her to walk home. Aiko had no idea how long Yumi would have been willing to wait there in the cold. She was just glad she hadn’t made her friend wait longer than necessary.
“Sorry,” Aiko said as she approached. “I missed my train.”
Yumi looked at her with worry in her eyes. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” Aiko said, even though she felt anything but. She’d been in the hotel for a little over an hour, but it felt like much longer. Still, the longer she was away from Jack Thompson, the better. She didn’t want to think about what might happen if he ever found out who she really was.
“Are you sure?” Yumi asked. “You just got back from seeing your mother, right? You must be tired.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Aiko said. “Thanks for waiting for me, Yumi. Let’s get going.”
Aiko knew Yumi would keep asking questions if she didn’t change the subject, but at the same time, she didn’t know how to broach the subject of what had happened in the hotel. The man who’d called himself Johnny had mentioned their employer. Did he mean Mr. Thompson? If he did, then the man who’d just forced himself on her—
