Chapter 29
As my father always says, no good deed goes unpunished. For the first time in my life, I believe him. Jiho and I went to the yoga studio to help Jina, and we left, roped into babysitting twenty-somethings at a nightclub for her twenty-fourth birthday.
Babysitters—not designated drivers. For our sake of survival, Jiho hired a limo for the night as Jina’s birthday present. She quite literally squealed, jumped on him, and called him the best brother in the world. The smile that lit up his face was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
But babysitting quickly turned into herding cats. Five of them, to be exact.
Aside from the birthday girl, there’s Brittany, a sweet, down-to-earth blonde who looks like she can deadlift a bull. Twins, Robin and Raven, two of the coolest women with the most stunning ebony skin imaginable. And Damien, the chicest, prettiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. A stunning group of besties—all ten freaking sheets to the wind.
And to be fair, John, Jiho, and I aren’t that far behind.
Nope—all of us are a certain sheet count to the wind. All except Damien, that is, Jina and Jiho’s long-term hair-dresser-barber-combo man. He doesn’t drink but still manages to be the life and instigator of the party.
The group cheers as Brittany lets a strange, equally drunk man take a shot from her cleavage, and I can only sigh, wishing I were anywhere but here.
It’s not that I think I’m too good for clubs—I’m just too old. At thirty-four, my dream night involves pajamas, a couch, Jiho, and a glass of my favorite red. Maybe a true crime documentary, but definitely no strobe lights.
But I said yes for Jina—I really need to learn how to say no to her—and Jiho said yes for John. It didn’t take long for me to understand why, considering his invitation relied solely on a no-cockblocking clause. And it’s proving extremely difficult for poor John to maintain.
He’s been brooding since the limo and sneering since we got to the club. Music blares, bodies grind, alcohol flows like water—and John sits at the far end of the leather VIP couch, radiating a distinct, disgruntled possessiveness.
He scoffs when men approach Jina, downs his drink like it’s poison when one flirts with her, and tenses like someone shoved a metal pole up his ass the second one touches her.
When a hunky Hispanic man buys her a drink, John clenches his glass in a way that looks downright painful.
I tilt my head up to Jiho. “Is John okay? He looks severely put off.”
Jiho smirks, voice low against my ear. “Yeah, he’s fine. This is just another one of the stupid games he and Jina play in their mutual fucking denial. Making each other jealous, hoping the other cracks first and admits they have feelings for the other.”
“Call me old school, but shouldn’t John just man up and tell her already?”
“He’s tried. Jina dodges it every time. Now he just… Whatever the fuck that is.” Jiho flippantly gestures to his friend, probably wishing to throw actual daggers at the handsy Hispanic man instead of with his eyeballs.
Laughing, the sound shifts Jiho’s gaze to me, raking up my body. Starting at my stilettos, his intense, dark eyes glide over my bare, freshly shaven legs and the tight red dress clinging to my curves. They climb higher, lingering on the deep plunge of my cleavage, trailing up the hollow of my neck, brushing over my mouth, and finally meeting my eyes.
“I don’t want to talk about John and Jina anymore,” he purrs in my ear, pulling my far leg over his lap and sliding a firm, calloused hand up my thigh.
“Oh? What would you like to do instead?” Instinctively, my fingers find his bare skin, revealed to the world by the three undone buttons at the top of his shirt.
Damn, he looks hot tonight.
Jiho’s normally in gym clothes or naked, a baseline, mouthwatering sight. But in his all-black dress ensemble, topped off with rolled-up sleeves and pants tight enough to show off his toned thighs and bulge, the word vaginawatering more so comes to mind.
He looks toward the back corner of the room, then waggles his eyebrows. “Dirty club bathroom sex, round two? It’s been a fantasy of mine for so long, I want to make sure it wasn’t a dream.”
I nip at the skin of his neck, ringing a sweet wince from his mouth and a twitch from his picture-perfect bulge.
“See? Not a dream,” I say as his fingers inch higher, dipping below the short hem of my dress, but I catch him by the wrist. “As much as I’d love to assure you further, we’re supposed to be babysitting. Not baby making.”
His eyes flash with hunger, accompanied by a deep-rooted growl. “Jesus, Morgan. The thought of putting a baby in you makes me so fucking hard.”
I pull back, eyebrows raised. “I need to stop unlocking these fantasies of yours.”
“Not a fantasy, baby,” he rasps, tangling his fingers in my hair and tugging until my neck’s exposed, his breath hot against my skin. “One day, I’m going to put a baby inside you. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not even a year from now when you finally come back home to me—but it’s going to fucking happen.”
My thighs clench as I moan into his ear, and my ovaries light up with actual fireworks. A little Jiho running around while a little Morgan clings to her shirtless daddy? Yes, please.
A throat clears to the side of me, and a wild Damien appears, plopping onto the sofa. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you may have scared John off.”
I glance over my shoulder, and sure enough, John’s gone, one more cat to herd. “And yet, here you are,” I say cheerfully, peeling my leg off Jiho’s lap.
Damien purses his lips, circling a prim finger at the two of us. “Honey, it takes a lot more than dry-humping to scare me off. Besides…” He eyes Jiho’s lap, then pours a glass of water from one of the carafes. “I’m thirsty.”
My delicious boyfriend squirms, pulling one of the velvet throw pillows onto his lap and bringing his glass of whiskey to his lips.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Park,” Damien chuckles, “I know when I’m outmatched. Seriously, Morgan, you’re absolutely stunning.” His eyes flick to my hair, assessing the half-up-half-down style. “Especially with those curls. You should come to see me at the salon. I need more curly hair in my life.”
“Thank you,” I beam. “I just might. I need some layers and a trim before Seoul. My hair’s been giving triangle lately. I want to step off the plane looking like the curly-haired, brunette version of Princess Peach, not her stupid mushroom friend.”
Damien throws his head back in a laugh, lightly swatting my shoulder. “Stunning and hilarious. No wonder the impenetrable Jiho Park fell for you. Tragic, really—I was hoping to be the one to drill that shaft.”
A choking sound blares from Jiho’s throat, his hand thumping on his chest. “John... Go find…” he mutters hoarsely between coughs, patting my thigh. “Drink?”
“A whiskey sour, please,” I say happily, earning a kiss before he flees for refuge.
Damien reclines, proud and pleased. “The straight ones are always so fun to fluster. I’m surprised I can still get under his skin.”
“It was pretty entertaining,” I admit, shouting over the rising bass. Damien’s been my favorite of Jina’s friends all night—sarcastic, kind, and funny as hell. But he’s assessing me again, and now I’m the one squirming. “What? Do I have something on my face? Is it my hair?”
“No, no, you’re perfect. I’m just even more surprised he’s letting you go to Seoul for a whole year alone.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Hearing someone else say it hits a little different—a little harder. “We trust each other,” I decide to say, shrugging it off. “And he’ll come visit. His business is important, and so is my job. And he’ll come visit.”
“You said that already, honey.” Damien lays a comforting hand on top of mine. “I have no doubt in our Mr. Park’s loyalty, but as his barber of several years, I’ve come to know a lot about him. Hell, when you graduate from cosmetology school, you’re basically signing up as an unofficial therapist.”
“What do you mean?”
“That I know things. Like, he’s a workaholic. He hasn’t had a vacation in five years, despite the fact every gym he owns has general managers and can operate fine without him. He’s been thinking of selling recently. Or expanding. The jury’s still out on that one. And the only thing keeping him from going to Seoul with you is himself.”
“No, he’s… He’s choosing to stay because the man has priorities, just like me. We respect each other for it.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then explain,” I snap, “because I don’t tolerate people talking shit about my boyfriend.” Holding up my empty whiskey sour glass, I add, “Especially with three of these in my system.”
Damien rears back, a hand on his chest. “Fierce, I like it. But calm down, honey, because Damien Velasco does not talk shit. He kindly informs.”
“Then inform, Damien Velasco.”
“Fine,” he sighs. “What I’m saying is that Jiho has the means to go to Seoul with you, all the while maintaining his priorities. He just won’t.”
I blink, my vision blurring as a pained hollowness fills my chest.
It’s not just the alcohol. Damien’s words... Are they true? Because they sound like it—the same, lingering thought I’ve tried so hard not to admit to myself. Shutting myself up by saying I’m selfish for even thinking such a thing.
But Jiho could come. He just…won’t.
And suddenly, I’m not sure if I’m even in the running as a priority, or just someone who fits neatly into his present—not his future.
“Oh no, you’re crying. No, no, no. Don’t cry, queen.” Damien scoots closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “It’s not even midnight, when the shit usually hits the fan.”
“What do you mean?”
Damien chuckles, patting my shoulder. “That’s your favorite question of the night, isn’t it? Nothing good ever happens after midnight, honey.”
“I’m sorry,” I blubber, wiping at my tears. “I’m just really drunk right now.”
“You are? Wow, what a poker face.” Damien nods like something finally clicks. “That explains it.”
“Ex-explains what?”
“You being drunk, queen. Considering the tea Jina spilled about one Kelsey Bradshaw, it explains why you didn’t notice when the bitch arrived ten minutes ago. And why you didn’t notice the two of them kiss and make up. It’s why I came over here—to kindly inform you about it.”
“What?” That dries up my tears in an instant, my shoulders tensing under Damien’s arm.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
“What?” I ask again. God, drunk Morgan and her limited vocabulary need to never be a thing again.
Damien releases me. “They’re walking this way. Please don’t hate me. Okay, byyye.”
“Huh? No, wait—” Damien disappears before I can grab him, replaced by a drunk Kelsey and an even drunker Jina stumbling into the same seat. Right fucking next to me.
“Morgan,” Jina slurs, “Kelsey has something she wants to say to you. You should listen because you’re the sweetest person ever, and she’s the sorriest person ever.”
“Yeah, like, oh em gee, Morgan,” Kelsey whines with a pout, throwing her arms around me before my drunken motor skills can function and dodge. “I’m, like, so, so, so sorry.”
My stomach flips—but not the fun kind.
“How’d you even know we were here?” I ask, my eyes scanning for any sign of Jiho to free me from the cage that is Kelsey Bradshaw’s hug.
“Jina’s Instagram story, silly.” She releases me—thank God—but her hands find mine, latching on like a stuff-of-nightmares lamprey.
My poor, whiskey-drenched brain tries hard to process. I’m definitely too drunk for this, or maybe I’m not drunk enough. Whatever the case, I’m left suspended in limbo with just enough alcohol to dull my senses, but not enough to keep the panic from quietly stirring. At this point, I’d give anything to be numb to all things Kelsey.
So yeah, not drunk enough.
My eyes dart around again—where is Jiho with my Kelsey-numbing drink?
“But, like, can you please forgive me? I was a total jealous bitch. I’ve had a stupid, little girl crush on Jiho for, like, ever, and the blue monster totally took over my life.”
“Green monster,” I try to correct, but she’s too far gone. Hell, I’m surprised I’m not right there with her by now.
“I would never, ever actually try to break you two up.” Tears line the rims of her blue eyes, calling forth my fucking soft side. Goddammit. “I was also kind of, like, really mad at you. After my asshole brother, you totally ghosted me. I thought we were, like, close or something. Like, big-sister-and-little-sister close. And I, like, totally still love you like one. You deserve to be happy, Morgan.”
Still raw from Damien’s words, when her tears finally fall, I know I’m a goner. Even sober, if others cry, I cry, and my heart turns to a mushy blob of empathy. It’s a curse. Drunk? It’s a steroid-infused curse.
“See?” Jina says, swaying like the couch is a boat on water. “She’s so sorry, Morgan. She apologized to me too.”
Kelsey’s head bobs up and down, up and down. “Yeah, I totally did. So, will you, like, pretty please forgive me?”
As I wipe at my tears, I don’t know if it’s the whiskey partying it up in my bloodstream or if Kelsey’s words actually hit me in my cursed, mushy heart, but I say, “Sure.”
Not yes.
Not no.
Sure.
Because the truth is, despite my empathetic nature, I don’t know if I forgive Kelsey. But I’ve always believed in second chances. And if those tears of hers—drunken or otherwise—are genuine even in the slightest, then she deserves one.
“Oh em gee, thank you, Morgan,” Kelsey shouts, giddy and smiling like a drunken fool.
She and Jina wobble off, and when she passes Jiho and John with nothing more than a smile and a wave, I start to think…
Maybe I did the right thing.
Maybe I was too hard on her to begin with. I won’t pretend to understand unrequited love, but I imagine it can hollow a woman out. Leave her aching and forever longing, turning sadness into madness one silent hope at a time.
Fuck, now I pity her. Changed my mind—I’m too drunk for this shit.
“What the hell is fucking Kelsey doing here?” Jiho asks as he takes up his spot again and hands me my drink. I try to hold in the next sob as he relaxes into my side. John, on the other hand, resumes his perch on the end of the sofa, still watching, still brooding.
I take a long drink, hoping it’ll help, but of course, it doesn’t. “M-making amends. S-she said she’s s-s-sorry about everything.”
“And you believe her? Wait, are you crying?”
My head bobs, sniffling. “I want to, and I am. And I’m drunk, and Damien said—” Another sob wrenches free before I can finish.
“You’re too kind, baby. Some people don’t deserve—”
The DJ cranks the music higher, swallowing the rest of Jiho’s words. I should ask him to repeat it, but then his hands brush my cheeks, wiping away my tears, his touch softer, hotter, more intoxicating than the drink in my hand and alcohol in my veins.
Every word in my head slips away as I melt into him, eyes fluttering shut, savoring the feel of his skin against mine.
Until the feeling turns into the world spinning and my stomach churning, wrenching my eyes open again.
Jesus, I really am too drunk.
A sober person would tell me to put my new drink down and chug some water. But the only sober person here is Damien, and he’s—
On the other side of the room, casually recording Jina making out with the hunky Hispanic guy like it’s a normal, nightly occurrence. I assume he plans on using the footage to kindly inform her of her debauchery tomorrow.
Then he shifts the camera to John right as the man bolts from the couch, grabs the guy off Jina, and socks him square in the face.
Jiho’s head snaps up, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
Damien finds my watery gaze, points to his watch, then the giant ceiling fan overhead. I cue in, spying the time on Jiho’s watch.
12:01 AM.
Right after midnight.
Just like Damien said.
Fan, meet shit.
At least now we get to finally go home.