For the most part, I don’t have much to do with Young-gi’s business. I mean, yeah, I hang around his office and misbehave for attention, but lately I’ve been watching art tutorials and practicing that. It’s been fun, and it keeps me from getting bored. His mafia stuff only takes up some of his time, and while I have been with him in the war room once or twice, I usually go hang out with Kira when he’s doing that. She’s been helping me learn some Russian as a secret surprise for Young-gi.
Janessa and Lexie are finally relaxed around each other, so being with them isn’t as tense as it was in the beginning. Kira embraced her coming out story, and I’ve basically faded from her socials, and according to her, no one asks about me anymore.
It only took like a couple weeks, too, so rich people must have short memories.
“Do you want to stop for food?” Young-gi asks me. We’re huddled together in the back of another one of his dark-tinted, reinforced cars.
I swear, every time I see a seatbelt now, I get hard. He knows it, too. He keeps buckling me in and smirking at me every time we drive somewhere.
“I’m not hungry, but I might be later. How long are we going to be in this meeting for?” I ask, watching the unfamiliar city pass me by. We’ve left New York behind and took the private jet to Chicago. Young-gi says he’s got somebody to meet that can’t be done over the phone.
“I’m not sure,” he says cryptically.
“Well, if I get hungry, I’ll just throw a fit. How about that?” I tease, and his poker face melts a little, warming up while we share a heated look.
“Good to know.” His words are dark and husky, and I shiver. Behind him, in the window, we pass a laundromat with an old, cracked sign.
I try to smile at him, try to keep up the fun and teasing mood so he knows I want some special attention later…but a pang in my chest distracts me. Rubbing at it absently, I watch the scenery go by, taking in the buildings. And I don’t know why… but I feel anxious, suddenly. My heart speeds up and I fidget in my chair. Young-gi, as always, is watching me closely.
The walls seem to close in around me, ever so slightly. What the fuck?
“Are we almost there?” I ask. “I’m feeling, like, claustrophobic all of a sudden.”
“Almost.”
“Not your usual neighborhood,” I comment, trying to calm down and peering closer at the neighborhoods. Older apartment buildings, townhomes, and the occasional duplex crowd the streets from all sides. There isn’t an office or warehouse or business in sight, which is where Young-gi usually meets people.
We pass a house with faded pink paint on the front door, weathered and time-worn. I whirl in my seat and press my face to the glass to watch it go by, my heart racing so fast it hurts, then pull back, confused. I press my hand more firmly over my chest.
“I don’t feel right,” I say hoarsely. My head is spinning, dizzy from the blood rushing around in my body.
“We can go straight back to our hotel room after this.”
“No, I mean it,” I say, but my voice is getting far away. I haven’t dissociated in a couple weeks; Young-gi always keeps me grounded, but right now I’m slipping away as easily as if he’dnever met me. “I don’t feel good. Take me back to the hotel. Now.”
“We’ll go afterwards.”
“Fuck you,” I snap, and tear my seatbelt off. My ears are ringing, louder and louder with every passing second. Nothing matters except getting away from whatever this feeling is. I can’t let myself feel it; it’s too big. Too much.
“If you don’t give a shit, fine! But I’m not sitting through your fucking meeting when I feel like I’m about to have a fucking heart attack.”
Young-gi grabs me right as I try to open the door, despite the fact that the vehicle is still moving at least forty miles per hour. I grunt as he yanks me backward. But I’m pissed and upset and I don’t know why, and that makes me even more pissed and upset because I thought I’d gotten over these ugly mood swings! But of course I didn’t, of course not! I’m fucking delusional for thinking I was better. For thinking a few spankings and some very possessive love would help me keep my head on straight. Nothing can fix me. I have to stop, I need to stop feeling this way; something is eating me from the inside.
“Get me the fuck out of here!” I shout as I fight against him. We wrestle so hard we end up on the floor of the car, with him on top of me. Trapped in the narrow space, I don’t have much room to maneuver. I’m pinned. Pinned and fucking angry about it. “What the fuck is your problem?! You seriously don’t care that I don’t feel right? Aren’t I more important than some stupid meeting? I thought you loved me!”
“You know I love you,” he growls. “Let me prove it to you.”
From this angle, I can’t see out the windows anymore, and some of my dizziness fades. The dissociation hits me hard, though. Like I’m crashing from an adrenaline spike. I go limp beneath him and feel so achingly empty.
So ugly.
“Whatever.”
“Oh, sweet boy,” he murmurs, so soft and gentle. It slides right off me like rain on a windshield. But when he wraps his hand around my throat and gives it a good squeeze, that gets my attention. He straddles me and pulls me partway up with that grip on my neck, not tight enough to bruise but enough to make me hyper-aware of the air he’s allowing me to breathe; hyper-aware that he could decide to keep air from me at any moment.
And now I’m tearing up, dammit. I need to disassociate, to stay distant, to keep away whatever storm I’m inside. But he’s pulling me back and I don’t want to cry. I can’t feel this way, I can’t handle it–
“Please,” I tip my head back, showing more of my throat. “Choke me, fuck me, hit me–fuck, I can’t–I’m, I–” I swallow hard and grab his wrist, trying to encourage him to squeeze me harder. “Get rid of it,” I beg. “Make it stop.”
