The woman was seated on the hood of the car like she was posing for a photo shoot.
Kazuo Tanaka, for all his glam-rock narcissism, didn’t have the best luck with the so-called fairer sex. He kept his hands jammed into the pockets of his coat—jingling his chains like a ghost from a fairy tale—and wondered, not for the first time, what in hell he thought he was doing.
“. . . Fancy’s one word for it,” he said.
The woman adjusted her pose, ready for the next shot. “Listen, Kaze—do you mind if I call you Kaze, actually?”
Kazuo shrugged. “Wish more people would, you want the honest-to-goodness. Look, I don’t know what I’m doin’ here. I don’t know what you’re doin’ here. Can we skip this part? I suck at small talk.” He waited a beat. “You got a name you like?”
The woman smiled. “The name would be Aurelia, darling.”
“All right, then. Aurelia.”
Kazuo’s hands came out of their impromptu holsters.
He tried his best to stop himself from clenching them into fists, but didn’t succeed.
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