“Right this way!” She crows. She totters in traditional wooden sandals over to the bar, seating us at two stools. She’s quick with the drinks – two cups of bitter, yet refreshing green tea. She hands us the menus and pats my back, black eyes gleaming into mine.

“Please enjoy.”

“I will. Um. Thank you.”

Jack peruses the menu in silence. The Asian couple next to us eats and laughs, talking with their sushi chef in Japanese.

“How did you find this place?” I whisper.

“Fujiwara’s daughter was a client of mine,” He says. “She took me here once. It’s got the best sushi in Ohio.”

“And…what about the client?”

“She left. Got married, actually, to an American businessman, and went back to Japan.” He opens his wallet and pulls out a picture of a fat, happy Japanese baby in a Santa hat, showing it to me. “She sends me pictures of their son.”

“Do they all do that?”

He puts the photo back. “No. Yukiko was special. She...understood me more than most do. She was the only client of mine who was held my interest for more than five seconds. So we keep in touch.”

“That’s actually pretty cool, that you got to meet so many different people.”

He shrugs. The sushi chef says something to him in Japanese, and he talks back in surprisingly smooth-sounding Japanese. He looks to me.

“Do you know what you want?”

“This thing.” I stab at the menu. “Whatever that is, I want two of it.”

He snickers and says something to the chef, who nods and starts chopping fish and taking out rice. We watch him work, since I don’t know what to say and Jack is quiet.

“They spend years washing rice,” He says finally.

“What?”

“To be a sushi chef, you spend years washing rice. Two, at cheap sushi places. Ten at the expensive, traditional ones.”

I suck in air. “Jesus! Just making rice? The entire ten years?”

He nods. I look at the rice with a newfound admiration. It’s gotta be some damn good rice.

I sip tea and nervously realize I’m on a date with Jack Hunter. I gulp tea and scald my voice box. I gasp, and Jack cordially hits me on the back a few times to make sure I’m not choking. The chef gives me a concerned look, but Jack waves it off.

“Why?” I gasp.

“Why what?” Jack looks to me, icy eyes piercing.

“Why did you take me here?”

“You’ve never been on a date.” He says it like a fact, not a question. I glower.

“Duh.”

“So. This is your first date. Consider it a learning experience.”

“What am I supposed to do? Talk about my hair? Ask you about your job? My hair is flawless and I already know what your job is!”

“Normally, a male and a female on a date will talk about whatever comes up naturally.”

“Uh, right, but you and I ain’t exactly natural.”

“An immovable object meeting an unstoppable force,” Jack says lightly.

“Two unstoppable forces crashing and careening off a cliff to their untimely deaths,” I correct.

“Oil and water.”

“Oil and firebombs.”

He raises an eyebrow in partial agreement and takes a sip of his tea. The sushi arrives, and octopus and eel and tuna melts in my mouth. Everything is so fresh and delicious I can barely stand it. I wiggle my butt and make contented humming noises. Jack looks at me.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m happy! It tastes awesome.”

“So you squirm and make tuneless little noises when you’re happy?”

I frown and become conscious of it. I eat with more decorum, but Jack scoffs.

“I didn’t mean – it’s fine. It’s just…interesting of you. Almost cute.”

I feel an electric surge crawl up my spine and settle in my brain, buzzing. Cute. Cute. Jack just called me –

“In a deranged puppy way.” He adds. The electricity leaves and I realize how stupid I was for thinking anyone would willingly call me cute. I’m not cute. Loud, sure. Rude, yup. Not cute. Never cute.

The sushi goes quickly, so we order seconds and wait.

“So, I mean,” I start. “How did you get into, um. You know.”

Jack sips tea thoughtfully, then puts the cup down.

“There’s a surgery. It’s expensive, and experimental. But it’s got a decent success rate and it would give Sophia years to live. Maybe even get rid of the thing for good. I’ve been taking on double shifts to make the down payment on it, and I’ve almost got enough. The two hundred you gave me for Kayla will put a nice dent in what’s left.”

“That’s…great. That’s really great news.”

He sighs and leans back. “I used to work tables. Waiting at a French restaurant in Columbus. It was good money, and it kept her bills afloat, but then Sophia started getting worse. The surgery came from Sweden. My money was good, but not enough to pay for that. And then one night, I waited the table of the founder of the Rose Club. Blanche Morailles. She gave me a much better option, with higher pay. High enough to make the money for the surgery in a year and a half. I didn’t know if Sophia would last that long, so I –”

Jack shakes his head. “She’s been doing well so far. I’ve got another month to go, and then I’ll have enough. She just has to hold on for another month.”

I stir my drink, and Jack frowns.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Doubtful,” I say.

“You think I shouldn’t escort. You think it’s bad, or unlawful, or whatever.”

“You…you have to sleep with people –”

“Sleeping with people is easy,” He says tersely. “It means nothing. It’s a simple, mechanical action. It requires nothing of me I am hesitant to give. The women are usually considerate, and well-spoken, and gracious. Sometimes they’re difficult, or into darker things, but I adapt.”

“They use you.”

“And I agree to it. So they don’t really use me. If anything, I am using them equally. It’s not all one-sided. It’s a mutual agreement. And as far as escorting businesses go, it’s a good one. No men. Blanche doesn’t make me take male clients, and for that I’m grateful. It’s a good deal. A good, easy job that can save Sophia. So I’ll keep doing it, for however long it takes.”

His voice finishes with a hard, determined edge. Our next round of sushi arrives. We eat in total silence.

“Are…are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” He says, face icily passive.

“Yes, well, it’s a little hard to tell considering I’ve seen constipated rocks display more emotion.”

“I don’t need a moron asking how I feel.”

“I’m just trying to be nice! You’re such a fat doodoo shitbaby!”

“Occasionally I have fantasies of intellectual conversation,” He sighs. I’m so angry I start up from my stool only to bump into Fujiwara, who’s behind me carrying a tray of tea. Boiling tea. It spills all over me, drenching my jacket. I yelp and unzip it quickly, throwing it to the ground.