Every bone in my body stiffens as I fight not to drop my gaze, to keep it listlessly trained on hers. She’s watching me, but I can read absolutely nothing in those onyx orbs. Jesus. Seeing her dolled up so close to having seen her on the battlefield covered in blood ...Fuck.
“You’re late,” I tell her as I approach.
She doesn’t respond, but turns when I do and follows me toward the glass doors of the lobby. She waves over her shoulder as we exit the building. My car is already waiting, but I don’t approach the driver because I’m too busy trying to determine who she was waving at and why it bothers me.
Monika slides into the back seat of my limo. Following her in, I grunt, “You aren’t wearing a coat.”
She shakes her head. “Hoes don’t get cold.”
I snort—careful now, she might have thought that was laughter. “You better not change your mind. I won’t give you my jacket,” I tell her.
She simply shrugs. “I won’t, and I know.”
Annoyed at her for using the same tone and language with me as she did back at Old Sundale Station, and annoyed at myself for being hyperaware of the fact that she’s coatless and enjoying it way too much, I pull out my phone and start scrolling ... once again through all the pictures she took of me that chaotic evening. My body flushes with heat, and I can’t help but spy on the scantily clad woman out of the corner of my eye. I worry that I may have made a poor choice in agreeing to come with Monika this evening.
Chapter Ten
Monika
Taranis stares down at his phone like every bone in his body is regretting coming with me tonight.
Somehow that helps.
I don’t want to be sitting next to you, either,Arschloch, I want to tell him, but that would mostly be a lie. Taranis looks so fucking good right now I thought I was having a stroke when the elevator doors opened and I first saw him. I forgot my own name. I forgot how to speak Korean. My German and English brains also went night night. And then he’d accused me of being late, and all of it—especially how good he looks—just came together to piss me off.
I thought Taranis in a baby-blue bodysuit was the apex of attraction. Turns out, that was only because I’d never seen him in a tux.Scheiße.The matte black of the fabric contrasted against the silk of the ... the ... what’s the jacket part that folds back? Whatever that part is, it folds back to reveal a differently textured, darker black vest beneath. And there’s a silver chain clipped to one of the vest buttons that disappears into a vest pocket? Like ...What? Is this sexy-ass Black man carrying a pocketwatch? His shoes, his tie, his hair, his purple eyes ... Fuck me. Fuckhim.
The worst part is ... I’m starting to really consider it.
My neck is hot, and I’m getting increasingly more pissed as I notice more and more attractive things about him, while this dress didn’t stir even the slightest reaction out of him. Virtually none at all. For a second, I thought I saw his face tense and a vein in his forehead pop, but that was just because he accused me of being late—I wasn’t.
And IknowI look good.
This dress is sensational. It’s by a Korean designer based out of New York. I had it custom fitted to my measurements, but the clever, talented bitch made the bust an inch too small. My tits are fully spilling out of the top. If I don’t end the night with a nip slip—or by pissing Taranis off so much my insides end up on the outside—I’ll count the evening as a win. Forget about the 007 shit entirely.
My dress is made out of silk, which means it leaves nothing to the imagination, and I’m not wearing SPANX underneath. I’m not wearing anything underneath. I worry that maybe my rolls are too ... rolly, and for a moment I feel a thread of self-doubt I don’t usually feel. Do I look ... bad?
The soft black fabric has a shimmery finish and a slit up the side that goes nearly all the way up my thigh, and the top is low, barely held up by the thin straps that go over my shoulders and then crisscross all the way up the exposed back. My favorite part of the dress, though, are the designs stitched against it in deep purple. Dragons lunging over waves make up the bulk of the stitching, meant to symbolize the 3,800 Korean soldiers who fought off 20,000 Japanese troops during the Imjin War, preventing them from crossing the Namgang River. That’s the origin of the Jinju Namgang Yudeung Festival, and even though I’m a third culture kid who’s lived outside South Korea for most of her life, honoring my heritage is still really important to me.
So if Taranis doesn’t like my dress, my body, my face—he can suck it, I tell myself. At least, I try.
I take a few shaky breaths while the driver peels away from the curb. She’s a blond woman dressed in a boxy, slim-fitting suit, who must sense my anxiety, because her voice filters through speakers overhead:“There’s a refreshment bar on the right-hand side of the car. Just lift that black panel there.”
I look up and realize the car is a limo. We make eye contact in the rearview mirror. The divider separating her seat and the passenger seat is down. “Thanks.” I smile at her a little less shakily and shuffle along the bench seat until I can reach the minibar. There’s a bottle of champagne—looks fancy, and ya girl never said no to expensive bubbles. I down a glass, then pour myself a second before taking a seat on the bench directly across from the bar.
“Apologies if I’m being too forward, but I just wanted to tell you, your work is incredible,” the woman says.
I perk up, surprised she recognizes me or knows who I am. “Thank you.”
And then she goes on to surprise me even more when she says, “I don’t just mean your celebrity pics either. I, uh ... sorry. I’m not supposed to fangirl over clients, but I saw your last exhibit at the Morrison and haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. The untold stories of Black America? That photo you got of Aomawa Shields, the astrophysicist? I just ... stunning. Your work is haunting—in a good way,” she quickly adds. Her blond bob is the same length as mine, and I feel a blush creep over my chest as we make eye contact.
“I ... Wow. I don’t meet folks who know about my gallery work very often. I’m seriously touched.”
She smiles more widely and it transforms her face. She’s probably my age, and reminds me of the first girl I ever seriously dated. It was short and we weren’t a good fit, but she was still only one of two people I’ve ever been with that gave me what Iliked—tried to, anyway—and between her and my most recent ex-boyfriend, she’d definitely been closest to getting it right. That was back in Berlin, but the way her lips felt against mine is still fresh. My blush deepens.
“I opened my own gallery last year. I try to showcase photographers from marginalized communities, but I am doing my first solo exhibit in February. It’s more superhero-y, but I’m hoping it’ll be more of across between my commercial stuff and some of what you saw at the Morrison. If you want, I’d be happy to get you tickets to the event?”
“Oh my gosh, I would be absolutely—” But midsentence, the divider rolls up between us.
