Chapter 11
I’d love to say I forgot that voice and the person it belongs to. I’d love even more to say I ignored it and kept up my foot-related exploratory activities.
But I can’t.
Because the second that nasally voice hits my eardrums, I freeze. What was therapy for again? Hello, Dr. Useless? I want my money back.
Fucking Reginald Sinclair III.
I should’ve known from the name alone he was a walking red flag. But past Morgan was blind, in love, and dumb as shit, apparently.
My eyes flick to his, my foot quickly sliding from Jiho’s crotch and back into my shoe.
Reginald looks exactly the same. Tall-ish, skinny, light-brown hair. Clothes that scream mommy and daddy’s money.
God, past Morgan, what did you ever see in this guy?
Now, however, he’s got a new accessory on his arm—a way-too-young and way-too-pretty blonde.
I try to remember Dr. Useless’s tips on confidence. Chin high, shoulders back, superhero pose.
I almost laugh. Standing on the table as Wonder Woman might actually send Reginald scuttling away like the cockroach he is, too prideful to endure secondhand embarrassment.
Maybe Jiho would fan my hair with the menu for dramatic effect.
“Morgan Asterman, right?” Reginald asks again.
Hearing my full name on his lips kills any flicker of humor, and I shrink like I used to, trying to disappear.
“H-hi, Reginald,” I manage, my voice as small as I feel. But Jiho’s silence is large and loud as his gaze burns into me.
Shit.
What if Reginald says something that makes Jiho rethink us? Couples usually reveal their skeletons slowly, one bone at a time. But not me, apparently. My singular skeleton just waltzed up in a polo, khakis, and boat shoes.
Reginald smirks, that same one that used to haunt my sleep. “Fuck, that is you. Haven’t seen you in a while. What the hell happened?”
My nails dig into my palms. All the memories—all the narcissistic abuse—come rushing back.
“Who the fuck is this?” Jiho’s voice cuts in, low and warning.
I force myself to look at Jiho’s face, but avoid his eyes. If Reginald says the wrong thing, Jiho might walk. To Reginald, I was always a crazy, needy, selfish problem. A fuck-up girlfriend who ruined his life.
What if Jiho starts to believe it, too?
My chest tightens painfully at the thought, and the restaurant suddenly feels ten degrees hotter. But a soft tap on the table halts the rising panic.
“Morgan, look at me,” Jiho says gently.
I lift my eyes to his, and something in them steadies me. His gaze quickly flicks to Reginald, assessing him like he’s nothing more than a dead fruit fly in his wine.
His eyes back on mine, he nods in Reginald’s direction. “Who is this, baby?”
Reginald scoffs. “If you wait for her to answer, it’s going to take all fucking day, man. I’m—”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jiho interrupts, holding up a finger and waiting patiently for me to answer.
Un-fucking-willingly, I glance at Reginald, then at the girl clinging to his arm. Running into your boyfriend’s ex is awkward enough, so I speak for her sake—and to hopefully keep Jiho from bolting.
“He’s an old friend,” I mumble, hating how small I still sound.
Jiho leans forward, resting on an elbow. “Friend, huh? Then why’s he talking to you like you personally shoved a sharp stick up his ass?”
Reginald shrugs the girl off. “Because we’re not old friends. We’re exes. We dated for three years, and the second I started looking for a ring, she bailed.”
His murky, blue eyes rake over me, and I want to peel off my skin. Thank God for Michelle and Elaine. If they hadn’t shown up—Elaine with a bat and Michelle with a surgical scalpel—I might still be trapped with this man.
Reginald snickers. “Guess I should count my blessings. Had I proposed, I’d be chained to a fat bitch.”
His words shouldn’t hurt anymore. Sticks and stones and all that shit, right? So why are tears pricking my eyes?
No, no, no. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
Jiho smiles softly, perhaps his way of comforting me from across the table, and it somehow silences everything. My head. My emotions. Fucking Reginald’s words and mouth breathing.
The old, stagnant fear gives way to something new—a desire to be braver for myself and for the man sitting across from me.
I plan to display my newfound bravery with a touch of class, but then Reginald laughs. At his own fucking joke.
Remember that moment some days ago when my sanity went poof into thin air? Well, it’s happening again. Am I scared of Reginald? Definitely yes. After—what he kindly reminded me was—three whole years of being scared shitless, I’ll always have that fear. But damn, does it breed resentment. There’s a reason for that saying about scorned women.
I tear my eyes from Jiho’s handsome face, scowling when they settle on Reginald’s butt-ugly one.
“Better to be chained to a fat bitch than a pissant with a shriveled raisin dick,” I say, confident and clear, then turn to the girl. “I know. It’s not very satisfying, is it?”
“You cunt,” Reginald growls, his hand flexing the way it used to before he…
Jiho stands then, calm and tall and built like a Korean-American Superman. It only makes sense if I’m Wonder Woman.
“Woah, man,” Reginald mutters, hands flying up as the girl steps back. “I was just playing around.”
I don’t know what I expect Jiho to do, but it certainly isn’t smiling and extending his right hand to him. “I understand. I’m Jiho, Morgan’s boyfriend. Nice to meet you.”
I blink. What the actual fuck?
Reginald hesitates, then takes it. “You too, man. Can you believe this bitch? Better run while—”
Before he can finish such profound poetry, Jiho yanks him forward and punches him square between the eyes.
Reginald hits the floor, entirely knocked out.
His arm candy gasps.
And I…wish I had recorded the whole thing, dammit.
“A name and a face,” Jiho mutters, shaking out his left hand before turning to me. On his way over, he accidentally clips Reginald’s cheek with his shoe.
“We’re taking off, Al. Put it on my tab,” Jiho calls out, pulling me to my feet.
Al shouts from the kitchen, “If that prick bleeds on anything, you pay extra. And take your lady for gelato, yeah? She earned it after putting up with your ass.”
“Yeah, yeah. Love you, too, Al,” Jiho replies, waving as we walk out the door.
The warm summer air hits my skin, soothing the tremble in my body. I take a deep breath, hoping it also steadies my heart, but it’s Jiho’s touch that does the trick.
His hands cup my face, and he kisses me intently, pulling me back to the present. Back to him.
“What do you say, baby?” he murmurs against my mouth. “Want some gelato?”
I shake my head because the last thing I want is gelato. I want to go somewhere where I can escape Reginald in every form. My duplex is not that place.
No, Reginald Sinclair III is unfortunately all over it, like the stench of cat piss that seeps through my neighboring wall during the dog days of summer.
Jiho kisses my mouth again, his diligent tongue drawing out a moan despite myself. Ah, this perfect man. I want to go to a place full of Jiho Park and no one else.
Cupping my hands over his, I break our kiss, his forehead resting against mine. “No, I want to go home…to your place.”
His grin tells me I said the exact right thing. Letting go of my face, he takes my hand, and starts walking us to the car.
By the time we’re on the road, Jiho’s hand is on my thigh, his thumb tracing slow circles. “I’m proud of you, baby.”
It must be National Surprise Morgan Asterman Day because… What?
I scoff. “I didn’t do anything to be proud of. I sat there like a coward. Three years of therapy, and the second I see him, I’m back in survival mode. I just sat there and took it. Again.”
His grip tightens slightly. “That’s a fucking lie. Pissant with a shriveled raisin dick? Baby, that was genius.”
“Well, if it wasn’t for you, he would’ve hit me again after saying it.”
I probably should have kept that part to myself and just taken his compliment because less than a second later, Jiho swerves onto the shoulder and slams on the brakes.
His busted, red knuckles go white around the steering wheel. “That motherfucker hit you, Morgan?” he asks, wide-eyed.
“Just twice,” I stammer. “And he was drunk. And they were just slaps. They didn’t even leave a mark.”
Jesus Christ, someone shut me up.
A muscle ticks in his jaw as his eyes search my face, like he’s trying to see if what I said checks out and not a single scar or mark lingers.
He runs a thumb over my bottom lip, and just as I think he’s about to kiss me again—nope. Both hands go to the wheel, his lungs taking one heaving breath. Then another.
“Just slaps?” he says through gritted teeth.
“R-really, baby. It’s okay. It’s in the past,” I say, desperate to placate, regretting saying anything to begin with.
Jiho considers me—my words. “You’re right, it is in the past. But fuck it being okay, Morgan. No one hits a woman. Especially mine.”
The words barrel out of him, and I know what he’s planning to do before we move again, tires meeting pavement in the direction of Al’s. He’s so angry, but not at me. And now I want to placate for a different reason—for his sake, not mine.
Reaching out, I cautiously place a hand on his shoulder. Reginald would’ve flinched and snapped and yelled at me for smothering him.
But Jiho relaxes at my touch. It really is National Surprise Morgan Asterman Day.
Clearing my throat, I say calmly, “Baby, you can’t retaliate. He’ll most likely sue.”
“Good. I hope he fucking does.”
“But he’s rich. And his dad has lawyers—”
Jiho barks out a laugh, cutting me off. “Whatever his daddy has, guarantee I’ve got more.”
Oh. Well, alrighty then.
Seconds later, we whip back into Al’s parking lot, and Jiho’s out of the car just as Reginald, in pure male fragility, limps out of the restaurant, a napkin over his bleeding nose.
I scramble out of the car after Jiho and watch in amazement as he grabs Reginald by the collar of his stupid pink polo shirt.
“What the fuck, man?” Reginald yells in a heightened, nasally pitch. “Brittany, call the goddamn cops.”
I watch in further amazement as little blonde Brittany pulls out her phone and holds it to her ear without dialing a damn thing. Then she winks at me. I love a girl’s girl.
Jiho glances over his shoulder. “You said two slaps, right, baby?”
I nod.
“You bitch,” Reginald starts. “I’m going to sue the fu—”
Bubble gum, bubble gum, in a dish. How many punches do you wish?
Zero?
Too bad, Reggie. You get four—quid pro quo, plus interest. And I would be the biggest liar if I said that it didn’t make me incredibly happy to have a front-row seat to the big event.
Jiho throws four rapid-fire, dominant-handed punches, landing all in the same spot. No hesitation. God, he’s sexy.
Jiho Park: two.
Reginald Sinclair III: still zero.
Morgan Asterman: extremely turned on.
Jiho lowers a once-again unconscious Reginald to the pavement, sitting him up against the brick of the restaurant.
Brittany finally ends her fake phone call, looking from me to Reginald and back again. Nose scrunching, she asks, “So, does he really have a shriveled raisin dick?”
“Yeah,” I deadpan. “But with this guy, his micropenis is the least of your worries.”
“Ew,” she mutters, lip curling. “I should’ve known. I mean, he doesn’t even look like his Tinder photo.” She angles toward her car, glancing at Jiho. “Will he, like, be okay?”
“He’ll be fine,” Jiho says, rubbing his right hand. I can already see the blood, but no idea whose. “Didn’t hit him that hard. He’s just weak as fuck.”
Brittany shrugs. “Sucks to be him. Well, thanks for the heads up about the asshole. Hope y’all have an amazing night.”
“You, too,” I chirp, and by the time she pulls out of the parking lot, Jiho’s by my side.
Running an angry-looking hand up and down my arm, he says, “Go wait in the car, baby. I have one more thing to do.”
At this point, I don’t argue, even buckling my seatbelt just in case we need to make a quick getaway. From the passenger seat, I watch Jiho crouch next to Reginald and pat his swollen face until he startles awake. Then, he flicks what looks like a business card at his chest, saying something I obviously can’t hear. Once his mouth stops moving, he stands and saunters back to the car without a care in the world.
My eyes trace every muscle moving under his clothes like they’re a once-in-a-lifetime, award-winning movie premiere I can’t afford to miss. I really, really want to go to his place now to watch the X-rated version. Because, sweet Jesus, do I love this man…’s body.
Phew, that was close.
But seriously, can we go now?
As if right on cue, Jiho’s door opens, and he slides in with a sigh, securing his seatbelt. Reaching over, I circle a teasing finger on the nape of his neck.
“What did you say to him?” I ask.
“I gave him my lawyer’s info. But told him if he sues, the whole world will know he can’t even take a punch. Men like him don’t want to look weak. He won’t do shit.” He nuzzles my palm when my hand shifts to his cheek. “You ready to go, baby?”
A slow smile spreads across my face. “Thought you’d never ask.”
He doesn’t waste another second before we’re on the road again to his house. We talk about little things, and I know he’s trying to keep my mind busy. But he doesn’t have to…
Watching him knock out Reginald—twice—did more for my mental health than three years of therapy.
Okay, maybe it was less the punching and more the fact that a good, true man stood up for me for once. Seeing that flipped a switch inside my brain.
And I can say without a doubt that Reginald Sinclair III is now officially fucking irrelevant.
My head falls back against the headrest, the tension finally draining from my body. I feel free. I feel safe…with him. Always safe with Jiho.
It’s on that sweet thought I let myself linger, happily listening to my wonderful boyfriend explain the etymology of the word dumbbell as my eyes take in the passing city.
Soon, the cityscape fades behind us, replaced by suburbia, SUVs, and soccer moms, and then winding roads, trees, and hills. The farther we go, the more it feels like I’m leaving the world I know behind.
Jiho’s little Supra winds up a seemingly endless spiral almost to the top of a hill, until we finally slow and turn into a driveway, only to be met by a black, barred gate.
I chuckle, asking, “Are you trying to keep someone in or out?”
He clicks a button on the remote clipped to his visor, and the gate groans to life so slowly that I’m tempted to get out and push it.
“Neither,” he says, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Every house in the neighborhood has to have one. HOA rule.”
“Mr. Fancy Pants,” I mutter, eyeing him sideways.
With a flash of his teeth, he says, “You should know by now, Morgan. It’s what’s inside the pants that counts.”
My eyes roll intolerably, earning a panty-dampening laugh from Jiho as we wait for the gate—seriously, so freaking slow.
Finally, it opens enough for Jiho’s car to slip through, revealing a sleek, modern house with sharp lines, windows galore, and a balcony that juts out over the hillside. Aside from the breathtaking view off the back, trees wrap it entirely in privacy.
If I didn’t just come from downtown, I’d feel like I’m on the edge of the world. Or in another K-drama, especially when the interior checks all the boxes too.
A short hallway leads into a wide, open space with the back wall made entirely of glass, framing that insane balcony view. The kitchen is massive, the furniture looks like it costs more than my car and house combined, and the TV puts my brand-spanking-new one to sad, little shame.
I take that back—everything in here puts everything I own to shame, and this is just one floor. There are two more, with staircases branching up and down from the main level.
At least I have my personality.
Jiho wraps his solid arms around me from behind, gently rocking us side to side. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” I muse, letting my hands hang loosely from his forearms. If he held me like this forever, I could die perfectly happy.
He kisses the top of my head. “Only because you’re here.”
“Sweet-talker,” I croon, too scared to admit how at home I feel. Sure, I’m standing in an unfamiliar house, but the arms wrapped around me are quite the opposite.
Strange…
Is this the power of a good man? Making a woman feel safe and home within a matter of days?
Jiho chuckles, and the sound warms my heart. “I’m serious, baby. Take a closer look. It’s pretty… sparse in here.”
“Really?” I ask, my eyes darting around the space again, noting the bare walls this time. Bare and gorgeous, but maybe a little cold. “I guess it is pretty minimalistic. But it’s got potential to reach beautiful status.”
His deep laugh ripples through his chest and into my back, an immediate dopamine hit straight to the base of my spine.
“Well then, baby,” he purrs in my ear, “would you like a tour of my potential-filled, minimalistic house?”
I open my mouth to say yes, but then I spot his busted knuckles again, skin raw and screaming for attention. Even louder than the very clear erection pressed into my lower back.
Maybe I’ll throw some nurse-patient role-play in for him. Two birds, one very hard stone.
I kiss one of his wrists, saying, “The tour can wait. I need to take care of you first.”