My feet are wobbly as I head to the parking lot. The chaos and the endless sounds from the stadium buzz at the back of my head with the continuity of a humming earthquake.
I slouch against the door of my car, hand trembling as I open it. Once I’m inside, I clutch the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, my blank stare projected on the half-empty parking lot.
Did that…just happen? With Sebastian, no less?
Yeah, fine, so I kind of had some sort of an unhealthy fixation on him for as long as I’ve known him. I blame my younger, immature teenage hormones.
But I’ve never acted on it, never looked at him—at least, not when he was paying attention—flirted with him, or showed my interest. Because unlike the idiot teenager I was, I now realize someone like Sebastian Weaver isn’t meant for me. It’s not that he’s out of my league, but he’s the shallow type—hello, quarterback and rich and comes from a line of politicians?
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.
Actually, I can.
I was waiting for the end of college so we could take different routes in life. He’ll be the successor in a line of politicians or get drafted into the NFL, and I’ll move to Japan to bug the hell out of Akira, then convince him to come here so we can plot chaos.
Point is, Sebastian was never supposed to notice me, not when he has countless girls—cheerleaders included—making voodoo dolls to gain a sliver of his attention.
But he didn’t kiss them on TV. He didn’t grab them and restrain them and imprison them against his weapon of a body.
I glide the pads of my fingers over the bruised plush of my lips and a sudden shiver jolts my spine.
Crashing images invade my mind. Images of his naked torso flattening against mine as his tongue claimed me and his strong hands drew me closer—
My phone buzzes in my bag and I release my lips with a start, then sigh when I find a text from my best friend.
Lucy: Want to hang out with us at Reina’s?
Naomi: I’d rather worship at Satan’s actual altar.
Lucy: Come on, Nao. Everyone will be there to celebrate the win.
Everyone including Sebastian?
I shake my head. Why does that matter?
Naomi: One more reason why I shouldn’t be there.
Lucy: But it’ll be fun.
Naomi: My idea of fun is ruining theirs, so I doubt they want me there. Go party and flirt with Prescott, Luce.
She sends back a Japanese crying emoji and I grin. Ever since I exposed my nerdy side and introduced her to them, they’re all she uses now.
I’m about to hide my phone when it lights up with a call from an unknown number. My hand trembles even though I have a clue of who it could be.
Sucking in a deep breath, I answer, “Hello.”
“Ms. Naomi Chester?”
“That’s me.”
“This is Private Investigator Collins. You called my assistant earlier today to schedule an appointment.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have time now?”
“Now?”
“If that’s not possible, we can meet on Monday. But from what you told my assistant, it’s urgent.”
“It is.” I look at my watch, then sigh. “Let’s meet now. I’d rather not go to your agency.” And leave a trail that Mom can follow.
“I understand. Do you know the diner called Tracy’s that’s located opposite the gas station?”
“Yes. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“See you then, Ms. Chester.”
The line goes dead, but it takes me a few seconds to lower my hand.
Reaching into my bag, I pull out an oversized hoodie, then put it on so that it covers my cheer uniform. It still has the Black Devils’ logo on the front, but it’s better than going out to meet a PI, dressed like a high school girl with a crush on the most popular guy.
With a sigh, I blast Rammstein from my car stereo and start driving to the intended location. Several vehicles honk and college students dance around campus in celebration of the win. So I opt to take a different route. One that’s more deserted.
That’s when I notice something’s wrong.
I’ve taken this road several times before, mainly when there are busy events at campus like tonight. But this is the first time that it’s been almost completely dark, except for a few lights scattered far apart. I’m mainly relying on my headlights as I drive down the road parallel to Blackwood’s famous forest.
One where mobsters meet and bodies are found. They’re mostly rumors, but I believe the shit out of them in this pitch-blackness that resembles a scene from one of my favorite true crime shows.
A faint light catches my attention in the rearview mirror and I squint. It’s not as strong as my headlights and the driver of what looks like a dark-colored van isn’t attempting to change lanes, even though I’m driving slow and there’s an empty lane on my left.
It could be the darkness or the forest surrounding me from both sides, but my level of paranoia shoots up like a vengeful bitch.
I step on the gas to speed up and the van behind me matches my pace.
Holy Jesus and all the angels.
They’re following me.
This isn’t me actually losing my mind and being overdramatic. There’s a dark van with dim headlights matching my speed and not changing lanes.
I reason with my mind that it could be an older person who’s not familiar with Blackwood’s roads. But in what world do old people drive black vans that are made for sinister purposes?
My head fills with images of kidnapped girls and sex trafficking and, holy shit, I think I’m going to throw up.
The high volume of the music drums in my head in sync with my beating heart and I put it on pause. I really don’t want my beloved metal associated with the moment of my kidnapping.
I hit the gas, propelling the car to a maddening speed, not caring that my vision is restricted and I could slam into anything. 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. The actual reality, though? I might not be able to get a chance to fight.
I keep stealing a look at the van every now and then, my heart thundering and my hands sweaty. My legs shake and I force them to remain still or I’ll cause my own demise.
It doesn’t take me long to arrive at the gas station, across from which there’s an old diner. The car is still on my tail, and now that there’s more light, I notice that it’s all black. Even its windows are tinted, blocking my view of who’s inside.
They’re really kidnappers.
My gaze strays to my surroundings, trying to find anyone to ask for help. The police station is far from here and if I drive there, I have a feeling they’ll make their move before I can reach it.
In my frantic search, my eyes lock on a man exiting his car in front of the diner.
The PI.
I signal at him with my lights and he turns around. Though I can’t make out his features, he’s tall, sporting a black shirt and slacks to perfection.
He nods at me and I rev the vehicle toward him in my hasty attempt to reach him. I pull my car to a screeching halt behind his and stare at the rearview mirror, my lips parting.
There’s no one.
The van that followed me through the forest road to here isn’t there.
I blink a few times, and sure enough, it’s really not there and has vanished as if it never existed.
A knock sounds on my window and I flinch before recognizing the PI’s build.
With a deep breath, I pull myself together, gather my bag with a shaking hand, and step out of the car.
I get my first good look at the PI and he’s nothing like I expected. First of all, he’s Asian like me and has strong, charismatic features. His eyes are black and piercing and his double eyelids, a quality rare to those of us of Western Asian heritage, add a drooping quality to his stare.
His face is harsh and cut with a nose that’s as naturally high as his cheekbones. Not only that, but he has long, thick hair the color of ink. It’s currently tied in a low ponytail, but if it were loose, it’d reach his shoulders.
He sounded young on the phone, but I never thought he’d be this young. I expected someone in his forties or fifties, but he barely looks thirty.
“Ms. Chester?” he asks with a flawless American accent as he offers his hand.
I shake it firmly. “Uh…yeah.”
Stop ogling the man, Nao.
It must be the chase from earlier that messed with my mind.
He motions at the diner’s door. “Are you coming in?”
“Sure.” I breathe deeply before I follow him inside.
Tracy’s barely has any patrons, despite it being a Friday night. Partly because this town’s football crazies celebrate at The Grill and partly because this restaurant barely functions.
Its decor is reminiscent of the nineties pictures I’ve seen in Mom’s albums, and the black leather of the booths is chapped in places. The tables have some doodling like what’s found on high school desks and the lighting is hardly there.
The waitress, a middle-aged woman with killer eyebrows, leads us to a booth at the back.
The PI orders omurice without checking the menu. Ha. They have that here? That dish reminds me of my childhood when Mom used to cook it for us all the time.
“Just soda for me,” I tell the waitress.
“Right away, hon,” she hums, the sound echoing in the distance as she walks away.
“I see why you were reluctant about meeting tonight,” the PI says, and at my bemused expression, he motions at my hoodie. “Black Devils.”
“No, believe me. I don’t care about those douchefaces. I just wear their hoodies because we get them for free on campus.” You sure as hell cared when Sebastian scored tonight.
Get out of my head!
I take a sip of my water and smile at the PI. “Should I call you Mr. Collins?”
“That would make me feel like an old man. Kai is fine.”
Jeez. Beautiful people’s names are as mesmerizing as they are. “Nice to meet you, Kai. Is that Japanese?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. What a coincidence. I’m of Japanese heritage, too. At least, from my mom’s side. 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.”
His onyx eyes soften with a smile. “So what did you want to talk about, Ms. Chester?”
“Just Naomi.” Ms. Chester is Mom in my head.
“What’s your request for me, Naomi?”
I interlink my fingers, then release them and swallow more water, letting the cool liquid soothe my throat. Talking to a complete stranger about this is harder than I thought.
“I…uh…I want to find my father,” I blurt the last part.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I’ve never seen him.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I was born to a single mother and never met my father.”
The confession hangs between us in the thick air. But before Kai can say anything, the waitress returns with our orders. I clear my throat to release the knot that’s formed there. I always feel like the rejected little girl on Father’s Day at school whenever I talk or think about my father.
Stupidly, I know he could be way worse than what I painted him to be in my girlhood dreams, but the need to find him has never lessened. In fact, it kept growing over the years until I could no longer ignore it.
The waitress disappears with another smile.
Kai cuts his omurice in half and starts eating with leisurely finesse. The way he picks portions and chews is so refined and elegant that I feel a strange satisfaction just watching him swallow his food. “What do you know about your father?”
“Mom refuses to tell me anything except that we’re better off without him.”
“I assume you disagree?”
“Of course, I do. Or else I wouldn’t be here.”
He swallows another bite and meets my gaze. He never speaks with food in his mouth and I appreciate that. “Wouldn’t it be easier to ask your mother about his whereabouts instead of wasting your money on me?”
“If that were an option, I would’ve done it. Are you going to help me or should I search for someone else to give my money to?”
“Very well.” He places his utensils on the table and wipes his mouth, and that’s when I notice he’s finished his entire meal. “I need something to start with. Was he married to your mother?”
“No.”
“Is he American? Japanese?”
“I don’t know. But I think American.”
“Why?”
“Because Mom insisted on giving birth to me here.”
“She could have left him behind in Japan.”
I rummage through my bag and retrieve a picture I stole from Mom’s secret drawer. The only picture she has of my father. My fingers are unsteady as I slide it across the table.
Kai’s inquisitive eyes study it carefully. The date on the back is a few years before I was born. It’s one of the few times I’ve seen Mom laughing with so much freedom, her head tipped back as she holds on to a man’s arm.
Her hair was longer at the time, and her pink dress with provocative lace at the top.
The man is in a striped suit and has his arm around her waist, but his most important feature, his face, has been burned with a cigarette, leaving a hole in the picture.
After I found this frozen memento a few weeks ago, I had to do something about it. There’s no way I can keep entertaining the fantasy of finding my father without taking action.
Kai’s attention slides from the picture to me. “Why do you believe this person to be your father?”
“Mom kept all her pictures of her old friends, whether male or female, intact except for this one. She also hid it in a secret box that she shoved in the attic.”
“What makes you think he’s American?”
I tap the background of the picture. They’re leaning against a bar, but behind them, through the hazy window, there’s a Las Vegas sign and a blurred license plate. “That.”
“You’re merely speculating.”
“No, I’m not. Mom wouldn’t have come to the States or kept his picture for no reason.”
“Burned picture.”
“It still counts. The fact that she burned it means it has value, even if it’s negative.”
“I’ll see what I can find.”
I perk up, shoulders straightening. “You can find him?”
“If there’s anyone who can do that, it’s me.”
A trembling smile curves my lips. Does this mean I can finally meet the mystery man who contributed to my existence?
