Chapter 7
chapter seven
Kai
Something is wrong with my assistant. I have no idea what happened, but one moment, she was fine, if a little sleep-deprived, and the next, she's got a sharp object to my throat, and a wild look in her eyes that seem not to recognize me when I say her name.
That was three days ago, and she's still not improving.
I'm worried for her, and for myself. Sure, things haven't fallen apart yet, but it's only a matter of time before her deteriorating mental state affects her job, and by extension, my life.
Every night when she prepares to go home, it's like she's on the edge of a razorblade, nervous, stressed, and shaken.
I've seen that look on battered women before.
My neighbor growing up, Yuri, used to babysit me when her husband wasn't home and my foster parents needed a moment to breathe or go do adult things.
I saw her husband beat her on several occasions when she thought I wasn't around, or in their backyard, when he thought nobody could see.
She wore that same expression of constant disconnect and vague fear whenever the clock would chime close to his return home.
Is someone at home hurting her? Is she being threatened?
All questions I don't have answers to. I could ask Arista, but I doubt she has those answers, either. She's as much as admitted to me that Denali was a pity hire because she saw a kindred suffering soul at a girls' night out at the local dive bar a few months back.
She's a social media manager, not an assistant, but damned if she hasn't taken to the role quite swimmingly. I don't want to lose her over something like this. And to be quite honest, I actually enjoy having her around.
So I reach out to a friend I know might be able to help.
While Denali is in the cafeteria today during dance practice, I call for a five minute break, which Donato is quick and eager to give me, since I drive him harder with my desire for perfection than he drives me.
And then, when he's also out of the studio, I pick up my phone, block my outgoing number, and dial a contact I know by heart.
He picks up on the second ring, hangs up, and then I dial again, waiting until the third ring, when—
"Choi."
My lips spread into a grin. Some things never change. "Jake, you sassy sonofabitch, I can't believe you're still using that old habit of answering twice before you talk to me."
It's a code he uses to distinguish people he knows from people he doesn't. If you're a new contact, you go to voicemail, so he can screen you. If you're a repeat, you know the rules.
Jake Choi laughs, the sound of too-loud video games slowly decreasing in the background as he turns his attention to me. "Kobayashi, it's been awhile. What do you need now, you randy fuck?"
Jake's done some good work for me in the past—he made a scandal or two disappear before they even started online, he dug up dirt on an ex-member to help me and the others in our debut group push him out to save our image as a whole (not that it helped, but it kept us from going down with him when the truth came out), and on more than one occasion, he's scrubbed things from the internet for me on an as-needed basis.
He's damn good at what his nerdy ass does, and today, I need his skills for something right up his alley.
"You still take the same payments as usual? Same rates?"
He pauses for a moment, contemplating the possibility of earning more money from me. "Yeah, same rates. Why? What kind of work do you need now?"
"I need to know what the hell my assistant is hiding."
"You know the details I'll need, and where to send them. I should have what you need in three days, providing you get me her info in the next, oh, hour or so?"
He's not kidding, either. Jake works fast, and he's got a high success rate. There's not a thing he can't find out, through legal channels or otherwise, and I appreciate his work.
I type up the details I know about my little assistant—her name, date of birth, the headshot the company used for her ID, and her address that's on file with us, and send them over via encrypted email to his burner account. "Done."
"So," he says, typing furiously on the other side of the call, no doubt already getting to work. "What's with this girl, huh? She mean something to you?"
"She's my assistant." Nothing more.
"Bullshit," Choi says with a little huff. "You've never once cared this damn much about an employee before. There's something more here."
"You're full of shit." Deny, deny, deny. Because if he thinks there's something more there, he might charge me double for shits and giggles.
Not because I'm actually feeling things for her, or anything like that.
"I'll be in touch. Send the payment tonight, and the rest when you get the intel you're looking for."
He hangs up, and now I'm alone again.
Not for long, though, because Donato never leaves me alone for long.
He could take an hour break for himself and I wouldn't notice, because all he does now is watch me run through the routine and torment myself over a misstep here, a second of tardiness there.
But he's dedicated, and he doesn't want me to out-work him, so we go back at it like dance is going out of style and we're trying to single-handedly save it.
Before I know it, we've danced right past lunch, and dinner, too, and Donato is waving his hands at me to stop as the music cuts off.
"Enough, enough, Kaito. You've got the dance down. I don't understand why you think you need me still."
The little Spanish man takes a seat against the wall and pants through his exhaustion, staring up at me like I'm supposed to commiserate. But I can't.
He's wrong.
"I'm a second too late on my half-spin going into the chorus," I point out, hands on my hips as I think over all the errors I know I'm making.
"My arm could use some work when I extend it for the end stanza.
The opening catches me off-guard every time.
I need to work on a better way to get my cues for the starting notes. "
"All things that are minor and do not concern me, Kai.
" I help him to his feet and he dusts off his pants, buying himself time as I watch him make his decision.
He's done with me. Nothing I can say to him will change that.
"Listen. I know you're worried, and that's normal.
But if a handful of my clients had your natural talent and skill and work ethic, I would be making far less money overall.
Just—just relax, and let it come to you. You don't have to be perfect—"
"But I do," I growl, slamming my fist into the wall to my left.
I'm not violent, and I don't even make a dent, but he flinches nonetheless.
"This company has put their trust in me, and I'm making damn good money to make sure my launch is a success.
Until their star singer comes back, I'm all they've got.
And I have to make sure that when my time is up, if I want to stay, I have that option.
So yes, I need it to be perfect, Donato.
" My foot nudges the boom box on the floor, and I stare at him pointedly as I wait for him to pick up the hint. "Again. From the top."
A knock at the door saves me from repeating myself when Donato suddenly grows a backbone.
It's Denali, and though she still looks rough, she's wearing a hesitant smile, and holding a bag of what I'll bet any amount of money is food. She insists on feeding me every day, even when I tell her I'm fine, that I don't need her to baby me.
I don't mind it as much as I pretend I do. It's not unhealthy food, and though I've put on a few pounds, it's nothing I can't cut down with a few days of extreme dieting, or tone up with a new gym membership.
"You guys ready for a break? I brought some food."
"Actually," Donato says with a huff, "I'm ready to go home. Maybe you can convince your boss to leave at a decent hour today."
As if. Nobody can convince me to leave if I don't want to. "I'm not leaving until I've nailed the entry and figured out why my arm won't do what yours does when I come out of the half spin."
Donato looks at me like he wants to cut that offending arm off. "It's because you're pushing too hard. You have to get out of your own way. And expecting perfection is a recipe for disaster."
"I will not change who I am simply because you want to go home early and stick your thumb in your ass." I turn back to the mirrors and kick the boom box until the music comes on, and lock in. "You can leave my food by the wall, Denali. I'm not ready to eat—"
"Go home, Donato," she says to my choreographer, patting his shoulder. "I'll deal with him."
"Donato, remember who pays your salary," I warn him, eyes locking in on his in the reflection of the mirror. "You walk out now, we're done."
"Honestly, Kaito, I was going to fire myself tonight. There's nothing more I can do for you. I'll reach out to the manager tomorrow and ask what needs to be done to complete my contract."
Donato slips out of the room with a muttered good luck to my assistant, and just like that, I'm down a dance instructor.
Great.
As if I wasn't already flagging behind already, let's just add one more mishap to the list of things I have to deal with now.
My ire, however, finds a new target as I spin on the beat and extend my arm, once again failing to make the clean arc that Donato intended for the choreography. "Dammit! Why won't it work?"
Denali walks across the room, but I'm paying her no mind, because all my focus is on getting this right. I have to get this right, dammit. There's no other option—
The music cuts off just as I move in to repeat the move, and I overcorrect in my confusion and spin right into Denali herself, who is standing behind me with the power cord to the damn music machine in her hand. Dangling, unplugged.
I manage to stay upright, and not knock her over at the same time, but it's a feat.
"Denali, for fuck's sake, what are you doing?"
She stares at me like a lioness might stare down her dinner on the savannah in Africa.
"It's time you ate something. You're going to fall over dead if you don't. And then you won't have to worry about nailing the spin or not, because you'll be too far underground to do more than let a few worms spin around in your coffin wood. "
A morbid image, to be sure. "You have a fucked-up sense of humor, woman."
"And you have the stubborn bull-headedness of an ass. My cat acts better than you, and he's a rescue."
"You know, you're pretty ballsy for being an assistant." I wonder if she's ever really just been my assistant. She acts more like a helicopter parent, honestly. Or—
Or a girlfriend.
"Yeah, well, you don't have many friends, from what I can see. I figure the least I can do is give you someone to talk back to, right?" She grins, and I roll my eyes, and it feels so natural it's eerie. "Besides, if you wanted a regular, normal assistant, you wouldn't have taken me on."
"Fair and valid," I say, parroting one of her little motivational podcast's sayings back to her. She doesn't think I'm listening when we're in the car and I'm 'napping,' but I am. I pay more attention to her than she thinks. "But here we are."
We're at a standstill, she and I. I don't want to stop to eat, but as much as it pains me to admit it, she has a point. I haven't eaten all day. My body can only take so much abuse. Perhaps I've hit my limit for the day.
"What did you bring me?" My voice is impressively calm compared to two minutes ago. "Hopefully something healthy—"
"I brought you a greasy trio of tacos from the street vendor outside, topped with a million pounds of vegetables, doused in hot sauce and sour cream that is guaranteed to clog your arteries if you make it a habit.
" Her eyes soften as she looks at me, like she pities what she finds before her.
"Which you won't. But once in a blue moon won't hurt you, and you could use the calories. "
"Agruably, I don't need that many calories," I insist, but when she picks up the bag, I follow, because the scent of the food inside it is insanely enticing.
And I'm not an idiot. If this is what she brought me, like she said, as long as I don't make it a habit, I'll be fine.
"But since you already bought it, I suppose I can humor you this once. "
She nods to herself as a small smile crosses her lips. "Good, because I can't eat it all myself. You think tacos will go to your waist, you should see how fast they go to a woman's hips."
I look at her hips and grin. They're not bad, as far as hips go. If she weren't my assistant—
"Did you get me something to drink, too?"
We sit down along the far wall, windows looking out over the city skyline.
She hands me a bottle of sparkling water, the brand I like, in silence.
And just like that, I stop moving long enough to realize I am tired.
I am hungry. And I need to thank her for making me see what I refused to look at too closely.
"Thank you," I mutter under my breath, popping the cap of my bottle of water. In one gulp, it's nearly half finished. "I needed that."
The smile on her lips is still haunted, but it's an improvement.
"Yeah. I know." She looks at me out of the corner of her eyes, and I see something there in the depths of that gaze that make me worried.
She's not all here with me, a part of her is focused on something I can't see.
And that could mean very bad things for my schedule, and her mental stability.
I can't afford to lose her right now. She's doing so well, and I really like having her around. She'e unlike anyone who's ever worked for me before, and I think I like that. But something still bothers her, and until I find out what it is, there's nothing else I can do.
So I take the tacos she offers me and eat next to her in companionable silence, until the only thing left at the bottom of the styrofoam container is excess grease and a few chunks of lettuce. And then without a word, I pack up, take her hand, and lead her to the waiting car.
I make Roger wait outside her apartment until she's safely inside, like always. But tonight, something feels different.
It stays with me even after I've crawled into my own bed two hours later, with a hottie on my arm and a condom in my pocket.
And Denali on my mind.