Chapter 10
Young-gi
My laptop warms my legs, the cursor blinking over an empty cell on the spreadsheet; numbers stack up in orderly lines across my screen.
Some of them are from my legitimate businesses, others are baked in after being laundered somewhere else.
I’ve got some massaging to do on these accounts so they won’t raise suspicion, and to make sure no one’s fucking stealing from me again.
But, instead of thinking about thieves and rats, I’m letting my cursor blink, blink, blink until the screen goes dark because I can’t stop watching Tommy.
He and Kira are curled up together on the sofa, the jet’s engine a soft roar that forces them to turn the volume on their movie a little louder than I prefer. I almost ask them to turn it down several times, but then I look at Tommy…
Fucking Tommy, who’s not at all romantically involved with Kira.
Tommy, who’s watching Forrest Gump like it’s a cinematic masterpiece the likes of which he’s never seen.
He’s got a habit of scrunching his nose and tilting his head when he laughs, a startled sound like he’s not expecting to find the movie funny.
And when he hears a line he likes, he mouths it silently to himself, like he’s trying to commit it to memory.
Tommy. Tommy.
The last time I felt this way, my sister had just died.
Wait, no, that’s not quite right.
That was grief. This is… something else.
But whatever emotion is having its way with me right now feels the same as that moment.
How? Well, both feelings left me reeling, like someone just plucked something from my head and now I’m trying to remember what it was, but it’s gone. Like I’m grasping at thin air.
No, that’s not right either.
Ah, wait, I think I know now. Both feelings brought me up short and made me ask myself… Well fuck, what do I do now?
Which is ridiculous, because I already know what to do about Tommy being Kira’s fake, gay boyfriend.
And the solution is basically the same as before–the ‘real’ fiancé just becomes the ‘fake’ fiancé, and the engagement won’t end with a wedding but instead will eventually fade from public interest and quietly dissolve.
In the end, this plan will still keep Tommy from the Vandmorson’s clutches, Kira will have another friend at her side to defend her, and I’ll get to keep Tommy close until I can figure out why the fuck I think about him so often.
Until I can figure out why he makes me think about art.
I watch as the icy awkwardness between him and Kira slowly begins to thaw.
When he bites his lip and swallows hard at Forrest’s mother’s death, Kira notices, and she pats his hand.
When he actually sheds a tear at Lieutenant Dan’s death, she laughingly gets him some tissues, and sits a little closer to him than before.
She curls her legs under her, leaning on his arm, and watches the movie while texting her friends, but she glances up at Tommy more often, now.
His hints of emotion–his unabashed, unashamed, self-deprecating tears when Forrest asks Jenny about their son–serves to endear him to Kira.
By the time the credits roll, she’s relaxed enough that she’s fallen asleep, curled up in a little ball beside him, her chin tucked down against her chest.
Tommy, unblinking, watches the credits with his mouth hanging slightly open, like he can’t believe it’s over, or maybe like he’s trying to process what he watched.
I’ve seen the film. Multiple times, because Kira enjoys it.
But I’ve never felt any particular way about it, until just now, by watching Tommy watch the movie.
Just like before, when he made me understand art, I think I finally understand why Kira likes this goddamn film so much.
I haven’t done any work this entire time.
“Did you pay any attention to the movie?” Tommy’s sudden question, his voice quiet enough not to wake Kira, makes my heart speed up, and every synapse in my brain fires.
I sift rapidly through my memories, trying to place this emotion.
It feels like racing. Like running, but angrier.
No, like chasing something. It feels like that time I caught a mole in my brotherhood, when I neatly trapped him in a net of lies. Like I’ve caught something.
Like I’ve gotten exactly what I wanted.
“Some. I’m trying to work.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve been staring at me the whole time.” He looks over at me, his eyes half-lidded, those tear-tracks on his cheeks dry now but I remember them. I fucking remember them.
“Yes.” No use denying it.
“Enjoying yourself?” His dark eyes shouldn’t be able to burn the way they do. His eyebrow raises. He’s challenging me.
You have no idea. “Just keeping an eye on things.”
He rolls his eyes. The TV screen goes black once the credits are over, and he glances at it, startled by the sudden darkness.
Biting his lip, he checks on Kira and finds her passed out, snoring with her hands clutched together against her chest. I watch him as he scowls to himself. Pouts, more like.
He does that pretty often, I’ve noticed, but only when it comes to me. Which means he’s thinking about me right now. That feeling I have–that chasing, catching feeling–intensifies.
He wants something, but Kira’s asleep, so he’ll have to ask me, and that upsets him for some reason. When I’m around, he acts prickly and defensive and angry. Which is strange, because once I look closer and get him to sit still, he seems to open up and calm down.
Ask me. I mentally compel him. Ask me.
“Can we–” Tommy stops and clears his throat, trying to buff out some vulnerable tightness and his pouty, high-pitch tone. “Can we watch it again?”
I shut my laptop with a quiet snap and stand to get the remote from the table in front of him. Thumbing through the main menu, I’m aware of his gaze on my back. The jet rumbles through some gentle turbulence while I get the movie restarted, and I check my watch.
“We have just enough time for you to watch it all again.” I turn, expecting him to be staring at the screen already, but stop when I realize he’s looking at me.
And I wonder how he feels when he looks at me.
I mentally go over the times I’ve caught him studying me and try to reframe those looks with what I know about him, now.
He isn’t a rich boy who knows my name and fears me, or who is trying to impress me to get with Kira, or who is hiding something from me so I don’t run him off and deny him access to her.
He’s not Tommy Claremont, he’s just Tommy, and he’s just looking at me because he wants to.
And maybe it’s as simple as that. He just wants to.
He’s gay, I remind myself. I know I’m handsome, and I’ve never really cared, just content to understand that it makes my life easier.
Easier to find a quick fuck when I really need one.
But the way Tommy’s looking at me now–the way he’s always looked at me, I realize as I flip through my memories–gives me a new appreciation for my lucky genetics.
I don’t know why I like the idea of him finding me attractive, it shouldn’t matter to me at all, but I want him to.
His eyes slide from my shoes, up my legs, to my waist and stomach, to my shoulders, then finally my face. He jolts when he realizes I’ve been watching him ogle me.
“Enjoying yourself?” I ask him, using the same question he asked me earlier.
“Just keeping an eye on things,” he returns. The callback is unexpectedly funny, and I grin. He jolts again, his eyes going wide, and then he’s beaming at me, like my smile makes him happy.
We smile at each other for no apparent reason, all kinds of strange feelings running around inside me, none of them meaning anything to me or able to name themselves, all of them trying to pull on memories to give me a frame of reference.
And then I go back to my chair, content to rewatch the movie through him.
And he settles in, but this time, every few minutes, he turns his head toward me ever so slightly, like he’s trying to subtly, sneakily glimpse me through his peripherals. He’s not very good at being sneaky.
Although, there’s a lot about himself he kept hidden. Surprising things. So maybe he’s sneakier than I give him credit for. Seeing him on top of Brian was like seeing an entirely new person. And it begs the question–
“How many men have you killed, Tommy?”
He flinches, and the change that overcomes him is aggressive and angry. His posture stiffens, his expression wavers between cold distance and a grimace.
He stands abruptly and storms over to me, so I stand, too, and we stare at each other from inches away. His eyeline is level with my chin, and I like the way he looks up at me; the way I loom over him a little.
“Why are you asking me that?” he demands, his voice low. He checks over his shoulder, looking at Kira, making sure she’s still asleep. She is.
“I want to know.”
“Why do you think I’ve killed anyone at all?”
I just raise an eyebrow at him. He huffs, scowls, crosses his arms at me. I can’t tell if he’s trying to make himself look bigger, or if he’s trying to make himself feel bigger. “Three.”
Three. I had no expectations, but I knew it would be more than one.
“Why?”
“Why?” He sneers at me, getting bratty again, the way he always seems to when I’m around. “Does it matter?”
I don’t like to repeat myself, and I think asking the question in the first place indicates that it does, in fact, matter. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have asked. So I wait him out. It’s been a winning tactic before, and it is again.
He chews on his answer for a while, then looks away. Stiffly, almost robotically, he finally answers me. “I found out they kidnapped and raped a child.”
“So you killed them.”
“Yeah.”
I hum thoughtfully, and lean forward just a millimeter, maybe even less. I shift my weight so slightly I’m not sure he notices, but I feel the need to get closer. My voice lowers, and I barely recognize the gruff tone of it.
“Good.”