Page 12 of Perfect Martinis
“Shh,” I whisper, kissing her face as I keep moving inside her. “Let me erase all the evidence of those fuckers.”
Nodding, she keeps her hazy eyes on me until her body takes over, sensation winning out over exhaustion, and she comes with soft, quiet cries.
I follow her over the edge a moment later, filling her with my seed, claiming her.
“Mine,” I rasp in her ear and she makes a tiny sound of agreement. Gently rolling off of her, I pull her to me and she buries her face in my chest.
“You’re safe,” I assure her. “I’ve got you.”
“Do you?” she wonders, her voice wet with tears and hesitant.
“I do. And I promise I will never let go.”
Chapter Seven
Moriah
“I promise I will never let go.”
Jeong-Ki’s words ring in my mind as he goes out on the balcony to have a cigarette. I can’t quite believe them, but my heart tells me to try. To trust one more time. Sure, he lied to me at first. Maybe he’s not the gentlest. But even so, I’d like him to be mine.
If we survive all this, that is.
Even through the closed glass door that leads to the balcony, I can’t miss his shouted cursing and the sharp thud that hits the wall nearest me.
It wasn’t a gunshot, but my heart leaps into my throat anyway and I rush over to the doors. There’s something … is that an arrow? Someone shot a damn arrow at him?
I open the door to ask and he keeps shaking his head, staring at it.
“It’s turning into Lord of the damn Rings in here,” he says, putting the cigarette out in an ashtray he has hidden by some bushes that line all the balconies, even ones this high up. “Get me some gloves, please. Top dresser drawer in the walk-in closet. The dresser is closest to the door.”
I go back into the bedroom and go into the closet, which is massive. It could fit my whole Chicago apartment inside I think. No wonder he had to specify which dresser, as there are four, plus two shoe racks, and the rails on which hang suits, shirts, tees, jackets, and more. All designer.
I find the gloves quickly and bring them to him so he can pick the arrow up.
There’s something attached to it. Paper. He places the arrow carefully next to the ashtray and unrolls the paper.
“It’s in Korean, but whoever wrote this isn’t a native with Hangul, or they want us to think they’re not,” he muses. “The handwriting is stiff.”
I lean over his shoulder to look at it and even my fairly meh Hangul is more natural than this. Was it deliberate to throw us off a scent, or is the person who sent it not Korean?
“They’re using English grammar,” I comment.
Jeong-Ki shakes his head. “I can’t read this. Can you?”
I take the paper from him, holding it with the edge of his shirt I’m still wearing, and read this butchery of the Korean language.
“You thought you escaped to another country, what you didn’t realize was you played right into our plans.
“Time is ticking, and your ex-idol boyfriend can’t save your pathetic ass, no matter how tough he thinks he is now. He’s still just a pathetic child.”
I pause after I’m done reading, confused. Why does this letter sound like whoever sent this is actually after Jeong-Ki? I look up at him to ask when I see his big eyes grow even wider as gears turn in his head.
“They’re not after me,” I say quietly. “This whole thing with the kkangpae … It has nothing to do with me.”
He shakes his head, not in disagreement but as if he wants to clear it. Black bangs move like a dog shaking off rain.
“He used to call me that,” Jeong-Ki whispers, more to himself than to me.
