Chapter 17 #2
“Shit,” Tommy breathes, sliding a half-step closer to me. And that unintentional action warms me, and I have to resist the urge to slide my arm around him and pull him even closer. I settle for moving a half-step in his direction, too, so we’re almost shoulder-to-shoulder.
“What is all this?” He elbows me like there’s a chance in hell I’m not paying attention to him. “Young-gi, dude, what the fuck is this super-spy, behind the accounting office wall bullshit? Holy shit.”
“The war room. Silly name, really, but–” I shrug. The name just kind of stuck around and I don’t care enough to change it. I lead him to a meeting room behind a frosted pane of glass, giving us some privacy from the rest of the room.
“The war room?” he repeats emphatically. “You have a place called the war room? What the fuck do you talk about in here?”
“Business. News. Just keeping connected. Usually, I have some decisions to make. It’s been a while since I got updated reports from my seconds in command, the team leaders, so that’s what’s happening today.
It’s going to be boring, I promise. Numbers, mostly, and maybe some transport lines that need approval. That kind of thing.”
“Transport lines?” He eyes the table like it might bite him, like he is considering not sitting there at all.
“Yes.” I pull out a chair for him, the one beside mine. “Sit.”
This time, he’s the one waiting me out, staring with increasing exasperation and impatience until I get the hint, and explain. “One large part of my operation is smuggling people out of North Korea. Sit, Tommy.”
“Wait, really?” My answer must be acceptable to him, because he hustles to the chair, obeying so well. Good boy.
“Why? Because of your mom?”
“In part,” I agree, sitting beside him. “She was a defector, so it meant something to her. She asked me to keep doing it before she passed. But mostly I do it because I know it would piss off my father for any part of the business to not be making money. I break even in North Korea, at best. It pleases me to imagine his ghost, if there are such things, infuriated beyond measure but powerless to stop me.”
Tommy stares again, but this time I get the feeling that he isn’t waiting me out; he’s just trying to figure out how to say something. Finally, he shakes out a little laugh. “And I thought I had daddy issues.”
“You do.” I lean on the arm of his chair, crowding his space.
He freezes solid, but not like a deer in headlights, unable to flee.
More like a cautious predator that’s decided, against its better judgement based on a lifetime of disappointment, to allow someone to pet it.
He wants me in his space, he just isn’t sure if he wants to want it.
My voice is almost a purr as I continue.
“But that’s alright, Tommy. I don’t mind a boy with Daddy issues.”
“Oh shit,” he whispers, shivering hard, gripping the arms of his chair until the leather creaks. “Don’t say shit like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it– because we– Because I-” he stutters, then shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s… whatever.”
I hear some voices echo from the other side of the glass as my attendees start to trickle in through the secret hallway. The meeting will start soon.
“Yosef,” I call, and my bodyguard appears at my elbow. “Did you bring what I asked for?”
“Yes, sir,” he murmurs.
He holds out a blue folder, bulky with its contents, and I slip it straight from his hands to Tommy’s. “Here.”
He stares at it like there’s a snake in it, and I watch with bemusement as he peeks inside it suspiciously.
Then, once he gets a glimpse of what lays within, he flips it open with wide eyes, and a dropped jaw.
A slim sketchpad, a few pens, and some charcoal pencils lay tucked in the pockets of the folder, and I mentally approve of the choices. That should work.
Will he draw me again? Even if he doesn’t, I wonder what he’ll choose to illustrate.
“Young-gi…” he croaks, then sniffles, then coughs and clears his throat, a pouty scowl in place.
Without another word, he unpacks the items and opens the sketchpad to the first blank page.
With a reverence I don’t expect, he runs the tips of his fingers delicately along the surface of the paper, along the creased binding, and along the pencils and pens.
“Do you like it?” I ask, not meaning to, not planning to.
He nods, silent, refusing to look at me but he picks out a pencil to use and that’s good enough for me.
“Bring them in,” I tell Yosef. “Let’s get this started.”
I’m hoping to get this all done quickly, to be decisive, but I can already tell that I’m going to be distracted and of two minds for the duration of the meeting. How could I not be? Tommy bends over his paper, earnest and focused, and makes his first pen stroke.
And as my men file in, taking their seats, my eyes don’t leave his page. Anticipation? Yes, that’s the feeling. Pride? Perhaps. Something similar.
It takes a throat clearing awkwardly for me to finally snap out of it, and start the meeting.
************
Tommy
Young-gi was right, this meeting is boring as fuck. Granted, it doesn’t help that everyone is speaking Russian. Needless to say, I don’t know any Russian, so I’m completely lost.
Although, something about Young-gi speaking it is kinda scary-hot.
Then again, when is he not scary-hot?
I mentally roll my eyes, but keep myself bent over my new sketchpad. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here, but the page is full of half-finished doodles: bits of larger illustrations all smashed together, none of them completed but somehow looking good together.
I’ve never splurged on a real sketchpad before.
Usually, it’s napkins, the backs of bills, whatever scrap I can find.
So something about having this entire book all fresh and new?
It’s giving me an excited, greedy feeling.
I’ve got an army of doodles on this page, like I want to draw everything but save the other pages for later at the same time.
I’m working on a tiny Young-gi in the corner when suddenly everyone is speaking English.
“Say it,” Young-gi barks, his tone more aggressive than it’s been all day. I snap out of my doodle-induced hypnosis and freeze, wary and ready for anything.
Young-gi’s posture hasn’t changed–he’s still leaning back in his chair, appearing at ease with his power–but only an idiot would miss the shift in the atmosphere.
Something’s going down. When no one responds, he leans forward, pinning one particular man in place with a heavy stare.
And the thing about Young-gi’s stare is that there’s very little anger in his expression, but that blankness is so cold and terrifying.
He tilts his head like a hawk spotting prey. “You want to get something off your chest, Andrey? Go ahead.”
I follow his gaze. There are seven men sitting at the table, and all of them look pretty badass and tough, grizzled and older, like they’ve been around the block a few times.
But right now, not one of them looks confident.
Two of them are visibly shrinking back, and everyone is leaning away from one guy in particular, who is flushing red.
That’s the one Young-gi’s singling out. Andrey.
His eyes dart to me and away again, and I tense, wondering what the hell that look was about.
He swallows hard, and starts saying something in Russian.
“English,” Young-gi interrupts. “You want to talk about him? Then you’ll say it in a way he can understand, like a man.”
The realization that this is about me hits me like a train, because that was not on my bingo card. They’re talking about… me? Why? What did I even do?
I make an aggrieved, annoyed sound in the back of my throat. “What the fuck is the problem? You got something you want to say to me?”
“I don’t–” the man mutters, then loses steam.
His red cheeks get darker as he transitions from embarrassment to anger, and he blusters while he works up his courage.
“I-I just, I don’t understand why we have an outsider here.
It takes years of vetting to be at this table. We’ve earned it. Who is this boy?”
I slide my eyes to Young-gi, wondering what he’s going to say.
He gestures for me to speak for myself, and I scowl at him because fuck him for thinking I need permission to speak, and fuck me for looking for it in the first place.
Defiance flashes in me, along with a healthy dose of curiosity and excitement, and bitterness and neediness, and ugh–it’s just a lot. And fuck him for doing this to me.
And so I get an idea.
Knowing it will annoy him, and maybe wanting to provoke him, wanting to see what he’ll do about it, I shrug. “I’m his prostitute.”
Yosef coughs hard into his cup of coffee, and one of the computer-hacker-spy guys knocks over a flask that hits the ground like a fucking bomb going off. I smirk, pleased at the reaction.
Will Young-gi care if they think he’s gay for me? It can’t hurt to plant the idea, right? Maybe he’ll give it some thought. Because honestly? If he fucked me with a little of that Daddy-ish discipline, I’d definitely get hard. Maybe even finish. God, it’s been so long.
I’m feeling pretty cocky, but I’m humbled immediately when Young-gi’s hand lands on the back of my neck. I can feel the rebuke and the warning in the stern grip, the way he presses down on me so I have to bend under his hand.
I push back, but not that hard, and he’s fucking strong. I bet I look like an idiot, straining like a kid in an arm wrestling match as he just keeps pushing on me. And that embarrassing thought, that image, is nasty hot, which is tripping me out.
Although I could do without an audience.
I put my hands on the table, but I’m not at a good angle to shove myself up.