Chapter Ten Monika
Chapter Ten
Monika
Taranis stares down at his phone like every bone in his body is regretting coming with me tonight.
Somehow that helps.
I don’t want to be sitting next to you, either, Arschloch, I want to tell him, but that would mostly be a lie.
Taranis looks so fucking good right now I thought I was having a stroke when the elevator doors opened and I first saw him.
I forgot my own name. I forgot how to speak Korean.
My German and English brains also went night night.
And then he’d accused me of being late, and all of it—especially how good he looks—just came together to piss me off.
I thought Taranis in a baby-blue bodysuit was the apex of attraction.
Turns out, that was only because I’d never seen him in a tux.
Schei?e. The matte black of the fabric contrasted against the silk of the .
. . the . . . what’s the jacket part that folds back?
Whatever that part is, it folds back to reveal a differently textured, darker black vest beneath.
And there’s a silver chain clipped to one of the vest buttons that disappears into a vest pocket?
Like . . . What? Is this sexy-ass Black man carrying a pocketwatch?
His shoes, his tie, his hair, his purple eyes . . . Fuck me. Fuck him.
The worst part is . . . I’m starting to really consider it.
My neck is hot, and I’m getting increasingly more pissed as I notice more and more attractive things about him, while this dress didn’t stir even the slightest reaction out of him.
Virtually none at all. For a second, I thought I saw his face tense and a vein in his forehead pop, but that was just because he accused me of being late—I wasn’t.
And I know I look good.
This dress is sensational. It’s by a Korean designer based out of New York.
I had it custom fitted to my measurements, but the clever, talented bitch made the bust an inch too small.
My tits are fully spilling out of the top.
If I don’t end the night with a nip slip—or by pissing Taranis off so much my insides end up on the outside—I’ll count the evening as a win. Forget about the 007 shit entirely.
My dress is made out of silk, which means it leaves nothing to the imagination, and I’m not wearing SPANX underneath. I’m not wearing anything underneath. I worry that maybe my rolls are too . . . rolly, and for a moment I feel a thread of self-doubt I don’t usually feel. Do I look . . . bad?
The soft black fabric has a shimmery finish and a slit up the side that goes nearly all the way up my thigh, and the top is low, barely held up by the thin straps that go over my shoulders and then crisscross all the way up the exposed back.
My favorite part of the dress, though, are the designs stitched against it in deep purple.
Dragons lunging over waves make up the bulk of the stitching, meant to symbolize the 3,800 Korean soldiers who fought off 20,000 Japanese troops during the Imjin War, preventing them from crossing the Namgang River.
That’s the origin of the Jinju Namgang Yudeung Festival, and even though I’m a third culture kid who’s lived outside South Korea for most of her life, honoring my heritage is still really important to me.
So if Taranis doesn’t like my dress, my body, my face—he can suck it, I tell myself. At least, I try.
I take a few shaky breaths while the driver peels away from the curb.
She’s a blond woman dressed in a boxy, slim-fitting suit, who must sense my anxiety, because her voice filters through speakers overhead: “There’s a refreshment bar on the right-hand side of the car. Just lift that black panel there.”
I look up and realize the car is a limo.
We make eye contact in the rearview mirror.
The divider separating her seat and the passenger seat is down.
“Thanks.” I smile at her a little less shakily and shuffle along the bench seat until I can reach the minibar.
There’s a bottle of champagne—looks fancy, and ya girl never said no to expensive bubbles.
I down a glass, then pour myself a second before taking a seat on the bench directly across from the bar.
“Apologies if I’m being too forward, but I just wanted to tell you, your work is incredible,” the woman says.
I perk up, surprised she recognizes me or knows who I am. “Thank you.”
And then she goes on to surprise me even more when she says, “I don’t just mean your celebrity pics either.
I, uh . . . sorry. I’m not supposed to fangirl over clients, but I saw your last exhibit at the Morrison and haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.
The untold stories of Black America? That photo you got of Aomawa Shields, the astrophysicist?
I just . . . stunning. Your work is haunting—in a good way,” she quickly adds.
Her blond bob is the same length as mine, and I feel a blush creep over my chest as we make eye contact.
“I . . . Wow. I don’t meet folks who know about my gallery work very often. I’m seriously touched.”
She smiles more widely and it transforms her face.
She’s probably my age, and reminds me of the first girl I ever seriously dated.
It was short and we weren’t a good fit, but she was still only one of two people I’ve ever been with that gave me what I liked—tried to, anyway—and between her and my most recent ex-boyfriend, she’d definitely been closest to getting it right.
That was back in Berlin, but the way her lips felt against mine is still fresh. My blush deepens.
“I opened my own gallery last year. I try to showcase photographers from marginalized communities, but I am doing my first solo exhibit in February. It’s more superhero-y, but I’m hoping it’ll be more of a cross between my commercial stuff and some of what you saw at the Morrison.
If you want, I’d be happy to get you tickets to the event? ”
“Oh my gosh, I would be absolutely—” But midsentence, the divider rolls up between us.
I jerk back, confused, and open my mouth before I feel the pressure of eyes on the side of my face. I glance over at Taranis. He’s staring at me in a way I don’t like. Not even a little bit.
His purple eyes blaze a little redder than usual, and his mouth is tight. “You don’t need to make chitchat with the help.”
Wow. “I am the help.”
His lips turn down at the corners, and he slides along the seat until he can reach the bottle of bubbles. He pours himself a glass. “Are you drunk? This is almost empty. Is that why you’re flirting in front of me?”
“What?” I glance down at my glass. “This is my second glass. And I’m not flirting,” I lie.
“Do I look blind?”
“You look like someone trying to get their teeth knocked in.” Oh my God. What the fuck did I just say to this sociopath?
Taranis’s left eyelid twitches. I gape at him. He glares right back. “I’m your date. You flirt with her again, I will fire her. You flirt with anyone at this event, I will electrocute you both. You will not embarrass me.”
Anyone might have thought he was jealous. I know Taranis better than that, and what he is, is a narcissist.
I roll my eyes and drain my glass, refilling it more out of petulance than my true desire for a third.
Time passes. This car ride is the longest of my life. Then, out of nowhere, Taranis says, “I didn’t know you were a lesbian.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
He glares, lightning crackling across the back of the hand holding his champagne flute. “My team did their due diligence. I knew you were single when I asked you out. I wouldn’t have asked to be your date if you were with someone.”
I smirk. “Of course not. I doubt you’d do very well being rejected.”
“You wouldn’t have rejected me. And I don’t care enough about you to ruin your relationship.”
“Wow,” I say aloud. “You are . . .” I shake my head, chuckling a little bit. “You are a sensational actor. I can’t believe I fell for it.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. You’re human. Humans aren’t that smart.”
I scoff again, smiling this time. “Incredible.” I take a sip. “And I’m not a lesbian, by the way. I like boys too.” Not that I date ever anyway. “Aliens, though?” I suck in air between my teeth. “Not my type.”
He snorts, and out of the corner of my eye I swear I saw his mouth twitch just a little bit. “I’m everyone’s type.”
“Until you open your mouth.”
“If I open this mouth to tell you to drop your top, show me your tits, lift your hips, and show me that pussy, you wouldn’t hesitate.”
My body turns to fire. He might as well have electrocuted me.
Our gazes lock, and despite tugging and pulling at the crackling tension between us, I can’t look away.
He isn’t smiling at me, either, and the lack of a smug smirk makes me nervous.
A little more than nervous, I admit, and I can’t let him rile me like that.
I’m not wearing underwear and don’t need to leave the limo with a wet spot on my silk dress.
I clear my throat. “Fat chance.” I look away, but I can still feel every place his gaze canvases my profile, searching for clues, which is odd because I’m not a riddle.
I don’t plan on speaking to him again on the car ride, or at the event, or anywhere else outside of a professional setting if I can help it. But surprising me again, Taranis breaks the silence. “The pictures you took of me in that tunnel were good.”
Good. It’s not what I’m used to hearing about my photos, but I get the impression this isn’t an employer who doles out compliments to his employees easily. I take it with a grimace that I try to pass as a terse smile. “Thanks.” Ssi-bal. So much for not speaking to him.
“You got my email?” He’s frowning again. It’s a clipped, tight expression. I wonder for a moment what this guy looks like when he relaxes. If he ever even does that.
“Yes.”
His mouth pulls together, his full lips shriveling. “You didn’t reply.”
“Yes, I did. Did you not get it?”