Take Me

Chapter Sixteen: Battlefield

Katana combined modern Japanese cuisine with a more traditional dining experience. Instead of tables and chairs, the dining space was divided into several washitsu with sliding doors, low square tables, and zabuton intended for use on tatami mats. Milo had always wanted to try the place since it opened. Reservations were tough to get and he had one for lunch. Regardless of what Kenji wanted to talk about, he was grateful to get a chance to try the top-notch cuisine foodies had been raving about.

A hostess in a black kimono with a red obi greeted him with a bow and the traditional “irasshaimase” used to welcome a customer into an establishment. She had her hair in an elaborate shimada, which was similar to a chignon where the hair was gathered together at the crown of the head and a small portion of the bun was sectioned off to point outward.

Admiring the cherry blossom pin she wore to keep the strands in place, he returned the greeting and gave his name, mentioning that he was meeting Kenji Suzuki for lunch. She nodded and indicated with a delicate tilt of her head for him to follow.

Servers wearing kimonos in red with black obis carried trays laden with food into several of the washitsu. It seemed Katana’s reputation preceded itself. Lunch on a weekday and it was as busy as if it were a Friday night.

Milo adjusted his tie. It dawned on him that he was about to sit down with one of the top designers creating a name for himself in the industry. Depending on how the meeting went, it was a milestone in his career. The contacts he made that day would help in his bid to become the next editor-in-chief of Rebel. The gravity of the situation sunk in as the hostess slid aside the vertical rectangular fusuma.

In the room sat Kenji wearing an indigo kimono with a deep blue chrysanthemum design embroidered into the rich silk. In such dark fabric, his skin looked paler than usual. His rich burgundy lipstick stood out as he smiled up at Milo.

“Thank you, Akaya,” he said to the hostess. “Please ask them to serve.”

She nodded and slid the fusuma closed.

“Dozo.” Kenji indicated the cushion across from him by stretching his arm out toward it, palm facing the ceiling.

But for Japanese calligraphy on the walls and a bamboo plant in a corner, the room was left bare. The simplicity of the design reminded Milo so much of his days in Japan. The idea of using his saved up vacation days to visit appealed to him more and more as he folded his legs underneath his thighs while resting his buttocks on his heels. It had been a while since he sat in the seiza-style. He shifted so his ankles were turned outward, silently praying his feet wouldn’t fall asleep during however long the lunch would take or he wouldn’t be able to walk for the rest of the day.

“Thank you for inviting me here, Suzuki-san,” he said with a bow. “I’ve always wanted to try this place.”

“My pleasure,” he replied with a soft smile and tilt of his head. “Please, call me Kenji. Like Yuki-kun mentioned, we’re not in Japan.” He reached for the bulbous white ceramic flask with a narrow neck on the table. “Sake?”

Milo nodded. To refuse would be the height of rudeness even if he didn’t like drinking during the day. But since sake wasn’t as potent as other forms of alcohol, he could make an exception. This was a business meeting. He needed to follow etiquette or risk offending his host. As a guest, he needed to go with the flow.

Kenji tipped the flask’s clear liquid into a small white ceramic cup, making sure he touched his free hand to his pouring arm. He handed the cup to Milo, which he accepted with both hands and a slight bow. Then Kenji raised his own cup.

“Kanpai,” he said, tilting his cup.

Milo touched his cup with Kenji’s, but he made sure the rim of his was below Kenji’s as a sign of respect. The head tilt from his host showed he had done the right thing as they took sips of the warm rice wine.

He savored the acidity—like a mellower version of vinegar. It brought back memories of winter days at an onsen in Hokkaido with stunning mountainside views. He ignored the twinge of hurt that accompanied anything that had to do with Celeste. He promised himself that one day he would be able to look back at that time in his life with fondness. Then images of Kaz and that delectable body of his in a roten-buro assailed him, remembering his fondness for outdoor hot springs. Milo’s cheeks heated almost immediately.

“Too much?” Kenji asked.

“I’m sorry?” he asked back, blinking.

The designer lifted his sake cup. “I chose the more delicate fermentation considering we’re still in the middle of the day. Wouldn’t want you stumbling back into the office drunk. Cassandra wouldn’t forgive me.”

“Oh.” Milo admonished himself for letting his imagination get the better of him. He took another sip just to prove his point. “It’s actually really good. I was just remembering a time I spent in Hokkaido.”

Kenji touched his cheek, a dreamy expression on his feminine features. “Ah, it’s been a while since I’ve taken a bath in an onsen. Their roten-buros are the best.”

“Soaking on a cold night with a flask of sake . . .”

They both shared a sigh of longing.

“Then you must accompany me some time. I know the best place where the spring is actually located up the mountain.”

Kenji moved to refill his cup, but following etiquette, Milo reached for the flask and said, “Let me.”

“Thank you.” Kenji nodded, nudging his cup toward him.

He poured and spoke. “I would love that. Maybe when we have more time. It’s been crazy with the fashion weeks back to back.”

Once the cup was full he picked it up and handed it to his host. The lavender-haired designer thanked him with a slight nod. The delicate dance of their exchange continued. Milo got the impression that none of them wanted to make a misstep. Both were circling around something. He was waiting for the real reason why he was invited out for lunch to come to light. What Kenji was waiting for, he could only hazard a guess. And jumping to conclusions would be a fatal mistake. So he prayed for patience.

“Yes.” Kenji sighed. “I barely had time to squeeze this meeting with you today into my schedule. My staff and I are busy preparing for Paris.”

“I understand.” He shifted to alleviate some of the pressure on his legs. The limbs prickled beneath him. "Putting together an haute couture show is no joke. Let me be bold by saying we at Rebel are looking forward to that show the most.”

His compliment was met with the pursing of lips. “Are you saying you speak for Cassandra as well?”

Milo was taken aback by the question. “Of course. As her assistant, I believe I’m free to express her opinion on the matter of your designs. She’s quite taken with your ingenuity using hemp as your primary fabric. The sustainability alone is astonishing.”

Crossing his arms, Kenji cradled his chin in one hand and nibbled on the long fingernail—sharpened to a point—of his pinky. The move emphasized his dark lips even further. Milo swallowed, unsure if he had overstepped his bounds.

He replayed their conversation so far.

Cassandra trusted him with her opinions. He had worked with her long enough to know when she was interested in fostering a certain designer. This year it was Kenji. She had raved about his designs, giving countless interviews about them. But before Milo could ask if he had spoken out of turn, the sliding door opened to admit a server balancing a tray in one hand.

The tension in the air dissipated some, and Kenji’s seriousness softened when he said, “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of ordering for us.”

“Not at all,” he replied with a cordial smile as the server placed a round plate at the center of the square table. On its black surface was laid out white paper thin slices of fish in the sashimi style. The cuts were artfully arranged to resemble a blooming flower with a spiraling petal pattern. Like the chrysanthemum embroidery on Kenji’s kimono. It was breathtaking.

When the server left, Milo picked up his chopsticks and pulled out one of the slices of fish and dipped it lightly on a rectangle dish of soy sauce provided. The second he placed the bite into his mouth and began chewing, Kenji spoke again.

“They say when prepared wrong, fugu can be quite poisonous.”

The moment Milo’s brain processed what had been said, he stopped chewing. He froze, unable to decide if he should swallow or spit out the sashimi.

Fugu was the Japanese word for blowfish. It could be lethally poisonous due to its tetrodotoxin. It had to be carefully prepared to remove the toxic parts to avoid contaminating the meat. Not even the most experienced sushi makers in Japan attempted its preparation because one mistake could mean the death of a consumer. From what Milo had heard the toxin paralyzed the muscles while the victim stayed fully conscious until he was unable to breathe, eventually dying from asphyxiation. A cold sweat dotted his brow.

As if noticing all the blood leaving Milo’s face, a particularly evil smirk crossed Kenji’s features. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand and laughed breathily. It was as if the designer intentionally waited until he began eating before mentioning what they were having for lunch. If Milo survived he vowed to always ask what they were eating before taking a bite.

Unable to take it any longer, he picked up the napkin beside his plate and spit out the masticated fish. He had swallowed some, so if the blowfish was indeed toxic he already had some of the poison in his system. He glared at Kenji. Screw etiquette. Trying to poison someone was crossing a really fat line. He picked up his sake and downed the entire cup in an effort to wash away . . . what? The poison? It was all going to the same place.

“Why the hell would you do that?” he blurted out after swallowing. He used the back of his hand to wipe at the sake that trickled down the side of his mouth.

The laughter stopped, replaced by the seriousness that Kenji treated him to earlier. “Don’t worry. Takashi is the best sushi chef on this side of the world. Fugu happens to be one of his specialties. You will not die today.”

Regardless of the relief he felt, he couldn’t shake the fact that the man across from him served a potentially lethal delicacy for a reason. His heart wouldn’t stop pounding, and his gut screamed at him to leave. But he couldn’t do that until he found out the truth. So he called on what little calm he had left to reign in his emotions.

When he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake, he asked, “Why did you invite me to lunch, Kenji?”

He intentionally used the designer’s first name. Formalities left the building the second he thought he was going to die.

Kenji shifted so he balanced all his weight on his hands as he leaned back on them. He arched an eyebrow and said, “Whatever you have going on with Kazuhiko, I want it to stop.”

“Excuse me?” Milo arched his own eyebrow.

A sneer answered his challenge. “You don’t know him like I do. He deserves better than some editor’s assistant.”

Clarity came on swift wings. He didn’t know why he was in this situation because there really wasn’t anything between him and Kaz yet. But it seemed someone was marking territory and wasn’t afraid to use underhanded tactics to do it.

“And you think you’re the one for him?” Milo asked.

“I’m certainly better than you.”

“And yet you’re here trying to poison me when you should be convincing him.”

The statement had Kenji sitting up and scowling. “Kazuhiko has a lot to deal with. The last thing he needs is a distraction.”

“Who is to say I’m not the one he’s distracting?” Milo asked defensively. The claws were out. “I have a job too. One that I love and have worked hard to cultivate. I didn’t ask for Kaz to enter my life, but he did. Forced himself in even.”

“If that’s the case then it shouldn’t be difficult for you to end it.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’m pulling my feature from Rebel. There are many other magazines out there that are clamoring for an exclusive.”

“What?” Milo leaned forward in shock. “That’s not possible.”

"Of course, it is." Kenji rested his arm on the table’s lip. “After Paris Fashion Week, I will have solidified my presences in the fashion industry that I won’t need Rebel. In fact, Rebel will be the one needing me.”

He made the mental calculations in his head. Despite what Cassandra had said Kenji’s agreement with the magazine hinged upon the results of his haute couture show. If the show wasn’t well received then Kenji’s feature would be downgraded. But, considering the success of his line during Mercedes-Benz, Paris was a foregone conclusion. For a second Milo wished the fugu was indeed poisonous. His heart sank when the reality of the threat hit him.

“Consider this your only warning,” Kenji added, studying his painted fingernails before pinning Milo with a cutting glare. “Give up on Kazuhiko or I will do more than ruin your career. Am I making myself clear?”