Page 19 of Perfect Martinis
You’re not.
I wipe my eyes and go in for the kill. “And there was this guy … I thought he was into me but it turned out he was only pretending so he could arrest me. That’s why the kkangpae attacked me and I just … I needed home.”
“A guy? You mean he was a cop?” Phil asks, and I nod. “Give him up to the kkangpae. Let them have him in exchange for your safety.”
You’d love that, wouldn’t you?
I take a breath. “Can I open the back door? I need air.”
“Yeah, of course, noona.”
I do so, peeking to see JK, who nods at me. I pretend to take a deep breath while signaling for him to wait and listen.
“Better?” Phil asks when I turn back.
“Yeah, I just need it open.” I wipe my eyes more. My makeup is a fucking mess.
“So, this asshole guy, you really should get the kkangpae to fuck him up. They will love it if you give him up and probably leave you alone,” Phil continues, his face lighting up like a kid at Christmas. “I mean, he deserves it.”
“Who deserves what, now?”
Phil’s head whips around at the phrase, said in Korean, and he turns three shades lighter than normal.
JK shuts the door behind himself as he saunters in, gun cocked. “What’s up, hyung? Miss me?”
Phil stammers. “How… Did you trick me?” That is said to me, eyes hard and accusatory. “Don’t believe anything he says! He’s always been jealous—”
“Will you shut the fuck up for once in your life? You annoyed me with your singing and now you’re annoying me when you speak,” JK comments.
Phil stammers, his face turning red from anger. He’s so focused on JK, the punch I land to the side of his face comes at a total shock, sending him barreling into a case of expensive whiskey.
It tumbles down, bottle shattering under his weight.
The stench of liquor permeates the air, and Phil yelps in pain as the alcohol seeps into his brand new wounds from broken glass. He tries to push himself up, only embedding the glass deep into his palms as he cries.
“Poor baby. That’s what you get for touching people when they don’t want you to,” JK sneers. He saunters over, looking like an actor in a drama with a tiny, pleased smile on his face. “I’ve never been a violent man. But you? You bring it out in me. I guess that’s your talent. We couldn’t find one when you were a trainee, but look. Now we have it.”
Every time Phil tries to move, glass embeds itself somewhere, and the clothes he's wearing don’t even dull the sting like they would if he had on something thicker, like jeans and a sweater.
He’s trapped, and we didn’t even try.
I watch as JK squats down and picks up a big, sharp piece of glass. He holds it up so it shines in the thin bulb’s light we have back here. Whiskey drips off of it, and he licks it with a smirk.
Fuck, that was hot.
“You shouldn’t touch what isn’t yours,” he whispers right before he plunges the glass into whatever Phil has that passes for a cock.
The scream is ear-shattering, but the music in the bar is so loud, likely no one heard him. His face contorts in agony, tears running down his silicone-enhanced cheeks.
JK stands, and blood pools between Phil’s legs.
“Oh, that was a long time coming,” he comments, then gestures to me. “He’s all yours, jagiya.”
Watching my best friend for years sob and try and get up only to make himself bleed more should make me sick. Should make me feel guilty.
All I feel is regret that he’s not suffering more.
I want to drag this on. I want him to know what it’s like to be violated by more than a piece of glass to the balls.
