15. Jin
I wake from some of the best sleep I’ve had in years, only to discover Monroe is gone. My hand slides across the space where her body should be. Rather than touching the dip of her waist or the swell of her hips, I grab a handful of rumpled sheets.
I sit up slowly and cast a sleepy eye next to me. I’m an extremely light sleeper. Most noises disturb me enough to pull me from even deeper sleeps. If Monroe was able to not only get out of bed but slip out of the room, I slept even better than I realized.
She was never supposed to be in my bed in the first place. I should be relieved she removed herself.
Yet as the pale light of early morning filters into the room, my neck prickles with awareness. She chose to remove herself, which only means it wasn’t somewhere she wanted to be in the first place.
Things between us reached a boiling point last night. When I hunted her down in the village, I had no intention of… doing what I did. I pressed the knife to her throat and pinned her against the side of the building to intimidate her.
Then I lost control.
Her sweet perfume enveloped me, rising off her soft skin in temptation. My lips grazed her ear and I felt her body quake within my arms.
I’m a disciplined man. But I’m still a man. I lost my way, driven by the dangerous desire she brings out of me.
There’s no describing how good it felt to kiss her and run my hands over the curves of her body. As I penetrated her with the handle of my knife, it was like an extension of myself. My favorite blade was now inside her, a prized possession I carry at all times.
I would always have a piece of her now. Right in my pocket.
I’d grip the handle and remember the time her slick little pussy swallowed it right up.
She was a sight to behold in that moment—grinding back against me, panting for air, begging for more.
My cock begged too. It was throbbing painfully, needing to be inside her. The moment I did pin her against the wall and slide into her pussy was life-changing. The sky might as well have parted to allow the heavens to emerge.
She felt so good clenched around me from all angles.
Warm, wet, tight perfection.
All discipline left my body. I became a man desperate to feel the woman he desired in every way possible.
I was so unlike myself, I kept Monroe with me. Allowed her to sleep in my bed like a lover.
It seems the morning has brought clarity to us both. Otherwise, why else would she leave the bed?
I swing my legs over the side and plant my feet on the floorboards. I’m about to head to the bathroom when I hear the soft, faint noise of… someone in the other room.
Obviously Monroe. But it’s the sound itself that’s unfamiliar. My ear strains, listening more closely.
Sniffling.
Monroe is in the next room sniffling.
I move as subtly and silently as a shadow to the door, cracking it open only slightly. As suspected, she’s curled up on the futon with her hands covering her face. Her breaths come shallow and uneven. Her shoulders are slightly hunched.
She’s… crying.
As quietly, as soundlessly as she can. Likely because she doesn’t want to wake me. She doesn’t want me to know that she is.
I should walk away. I’ve never known what to do with tears. Emotions in general are a foreign concept. There’s often little logic or rationale to emotion, which makes it impossible to track or understand.
Just a few hours ago, she was in my bed begging to be pounded. She moaned and told me how good my cock felt in her pussy.
Now here she is, sobbing silent tears.
It’s probably regret. She hates what happened between us last night. I can’t say that surprises me considering she tried to run away in the first place.
I step back and intentionally knock my elbow on the wardrobe, producing a dull thud. A noise loud enough to startle her and make her realize I’m awake.
I pick up on her rustling. She’s trying to compose herself before I appear.
I wait another couple seconds, then drag the door open and step out like nothing happened.
“You’re awake,” I say plainly, voice still hoarse from sleep. “I assumed you’d sleep in until later.”
Monroe says nothing, merely giving a glum nod. Her eyes are puffy and red and she avoids a direct look at me.
Uncertain how else to handle the situation, I do the first thing that comes to mind.
“I’m going to make breakfast,” I declare flatly, crossing into the kitchen. “This is the first time I’ve touched a pan in months, so it should be interesting. But good or bad—you’re eating every bite.”
Her brows slant in confusion, like she’s unsure if I’m serious.
“This is why I don’t joke often,” I mutter as I open the refrigerator. “No one ever understands them.”
That gets me a quiet huff of a laugh. Not much, but it’s something.
I dig through what little food I have on hand—eggs, some green onions, some kimchi, and soy sauce. Enough to make a simple Korean breakfast.
Monroe finally gets up off the futon and drifts closer. I feel her eyes on me while I cook, curious but cautious.
“You really never cook?” she asks.
“Very rarely,” I answer, cracking an egg into the pan. “You’re the first person to make me use this stove for something other than boiling water.”
“Don’t I feel special.”
“You should. It’s an accomplishment.”
She almost smirks, then fights it off with a shake of her head.
We fall silent to the sounds of cooking in the kitchen. The sizzle of the oil and the clink of utensils. I split the food between two bowls and set hers in front of her at the barstools. She stares at it like she wasn’t expecting anything remotely edible.
“You were expecting slop?” I ask.
“Well, you didn’t exactly sell your cooking skills.”
“That’s true. Only because there’re few things I hate more than cooking. But I learned how from a young age,” I admit. I slide onto the stool next to hers. “At the orphanage I grew up in, each child had an assigned chore. Mine was the kitchens.”
“I… didn’t know you grew up in an orphanage.”
“I don’t mention it often. It’s irrelevant.”
“Most people say their childhood is quite relevant,” she counters smartly, scooping up some of the rice and fried egg. “It helps shape who we become.”
“Most people focus too heavily on the past. I’m not one of those people.”
An awkward silence develops between us as her spoon clangs against the bowl and we eat the breakfast I’ve prepared in silence. By the furrow of her brows, I can tell Monroe doesn’t agree with what I’ve said; she’s simply decided to drop it.
But it’s obvious she’s still upset by something. Her mood is duller than usual.
I’m not sure why I should care, yet I find myself compelled to keep her talking. Strike up another conversation.
“You teach at Suyeong Academy, right?”
She pauses mid-bite, startled. “How did you know that?”
“I made it my business to know many things about you.”
“Oh yeah. Right. You stalked me for a couple of weeks as you plotted to kill me.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds very bad,” I say dryly.
She casts me a scrutinous look. “Is that another one of your jokes no one gets?”
“Actually… yes.” At her eye roll and shake of her head, I pivot back to the topic I’d chosen. “You really enjoy working with children, or is it just for the money?”
“No one becomes a teacher for the money. Absolutely no one.”
“Fair point.”
“Why wouldn’t I like working with children?”
I shrug. “They’re loud. Sticky-fingered. Irritating and restless.”
“Don’t you remember what it was like to be a kid?” she asks, laughing softly. “Or was the dangerous, deadly, tattooed criminal gangster Jin never really a child? Were you a seven-year-old gangster hitting up kids for their milk money?”
“Now who is joking?” I ask in return, lifting a brow. Almost grinning at her. Which is about as much of a grin as I ever do. “I was a child. I remember it vividly. It was hell. There’s no time in your life where you’re more helpless than childhood.”
Her brows knit and she forgets about her food. “That’s true, which is why I look at it differently. I think kids should be treasured and protected because they’re helpless. They don’t know anything yet. They’re still figuring out who they are and the world is a scary place.”
I let her answer linger between us, simply watching as she picks up her spoon and starts eating again.
There’s no calculation on her face. No pretense or grandstanding layered in her voice. She means every word she’s said.
That soft, stubborn goodness of hers is a splinter under my skin. We fundamentally look at the world in a different manner. I would call myself a realist, though some would say my outlook is so dark, it’s more on the side of pessimism.
By contrast, Monroe is bright. She’s an eternal optimist. She’s pure enough to choose a noble profession like a schoolteacher, and she volunteers her time at orphanages.
This is a woman who lost a fiancé, and from what I gathered by her interactions with her mother, still mourns him two years later.
I take a slow bite of my kimchi. “Your students are lucky. Not all kids have adults like you around. Ones who actually care.”
“Did you?” she asks gently.
“I told you I grew up in an orphanage. Adults like you were few and far between.”
Her pity is unspoken, but visceral. It’s written on her face as she frowns.
“Don’t feel bad for me,” I say before she can decide how to respond. “Just keep doing what you’ve done. Be a good presence for your students.”
It’s the end of our conversation during breakfast, but her mood seems to lighten. I’ve possibly made her feel better.
There’s a first time for everything.
The Claw Lounge stinks of sweat, liquor, and cheap perfume.
I’ve just come off a collection run in Gwangan-dong. My knuckles ache from pounding in some idiot’s jaw. I’m returning the ammo my men and I borrowed when a gruff voice calls out to me from the end of the lounge floor.
“Ya, Jin-tae! You’re just in time! Come drink with us!”