Page 18 of Perfect Martinis
But I am also angry as Hell.
And he will regret what he’s done.
Jeong-Ki’s gentle touch grasps my upper arms. “Jagiya… Have you ever killed anyone before?”
I shake my head a third time, eyes squeezed shut.
“You may be going into shock.”
“No. He deserved it. I knew what I was doing,” I assure him. “It’s Phil. I can’t… He was supposed to be my friend!” Hot tears slip down my face.
“He was supposed to be mine too,” Jeong-Ki whispers, kissing my temple. “I’m sorry he hurt you too, even if he never touched you himself.”
The only thing my mind will do now is repeat one simple phrase: “Kill him slow.”
* * *
The bar, what I call the fake Sweet Cock-Tails now, is hopping. It looks like the elite of the city are in attendance. It’s no longer the dive it was when I was here. I guess my money helped, since he was nearly penniless when the group disbanded.
“Do we wait until they close?” JK asks me.
I purse my lips and shake my head. “Phil loved playing the victim. But he also loved playing hero, taking care of me after work. If he doesn’t know I know what he’s done, I can work with his hero complex better than the victim one.”
JK nods and gives me a tiny fist bump. “Where do you need me?”
I gesture with my chin to the gangway. “Service entrance. I’ll let you in.”
Leaning in, he kisses me once before walking away.
Meanwhile, I bypass the line and, as security tries to stop me, I quickly move and get lost in the throng of Chicago’s elite.
The bar attire has also been elevated, and my jeans and sweater do not fit the dress code, earning me vicious looks from the patrons.
Good, let them stare. They’ll stare even harder when I leave here covered in my ex-best friend’s blood.
Phil is laughing and chatting up a good looking couple while mixing their drinks. He looks more like the idol he used to be, with his styled and dyed blond hair and Dior blouse.
How did I never see the wickedness inside him? How did he fool me all this time?
And most important: why did he do it? What does he get out of this? Besides a few hundred thousand dollars; but he didn’t know I’d be rich.
Was it truly because he just likes seeing people hurt?
Time to start behaving like I’m in a drama as I let a few tears squeeze down my cheeks and approach the bar.
For a split second, Phil’s carefully molded mask of beauty fades to shock when he sees me, a hint of panic. It’s gone, and carefully contrived worry molds to his perfect skin.
“Mori?” he says, over the din. “Are you okay? What are you doing here?”
“I needed my friend,” I say, trying to sound pitiful. Trying to sound like him. “I see how busy you are but … please? Can we talk? Privately?”
He nods and says apologies to the couple before he leads me where I knew he would: the storeroom that has the door to the gangway.
“Hey, what happened? Did something go wrong in Seoul?” He puts his hands on my shoulders and his face uncomfortably close to mine. To see if I lie, maybe?
I nod and the sob I let out is half-real, just not for the reason he thinks. “Remember the deal I had to take? They— They—”
He pats my back. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”
