1943. Shanghai. A soldier of the Japanese Army happens by a club one night purely out of boredom. What he expects to find are uncouth drunks. He actually meets a beautiful African-American performer by the name of Beatrice. Throughout the next three...
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hachi
eight
He was unable to sleep and after tossing and turning for hours, decided to get up. She laid across from him in another bunk, her back facing the wall. Her arms wrapped around herself and at the smallest movement, they popped open. They stared at one another in the darkness. She watched him get up and go to his desk, her eyes on him as he lit a cigarette.
"I told you I wouldn't harm you. Go to sleep."
"Go to hell." Flipping on a small desk light, he turned to lean back against his desk, eyes surveying her. With a huff, she sat up on her bed.
"How the hell did we end up like this?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." He replied, blowing out smoke. Sighing, he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"All those times my brother warned me to stay away from you...I never listened."
"That makes two of us." She sighed and covered her face with her palms.
"Even now, we're not listening."
"In here, you have a choice. I'm giving you an opportunity to decide your fate."
"You want me to thank you?"
"No. I want you to choose wisely Beatrice." It had been so long since she'd heard his voice. Cold then, now it was frigid and biting. The way he said her name, with a smooth powerful rasp sent chills down her spine. The feelings she thought had disappeared for him slammed back into her with an aggressive force. She watched him smash the butt of the cigarette into an ashtray and run fingertips through what appeared to be freshly buzzed hair.
"I expect you to answer by morning." As he came around to sit on the edge of the bed, she blurted out a question without thinking.
"What happened to you?" Those intensely irresistible eyes of his lifted and once again, they were in a staring match. For the briefest of moments, the memory of being in her dressing room played in her head like a moving picture. He'd looked at her with those bewitching eyes of his the same as now. Though mostly silent, he had this uncanny ability to command the room. She'd be lying if she said his masculine energy hadn't excited her both in heart and body. It had been the way he had easily made her feel so small as he towered over her, leaning in to take what he wanted. A kiss, her first kiss, and it had tasted like heaven. Surprisingly soft, his lips. Smooth and silky, his tongue. He'd had more than one drink that night. Citrus, spice, and brine from the vodka. Sweeter vanilla, oak, and caramel from bourbon. All of it had tasted so good.
He broke the eye contact at once and she struggled to swallow, damning her watering mouth.
"I left boyhood behind." She was quiet as he continued,
