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"Yes." Decisive.
"You might regret it."
"Not as much as you'd regret it if you didn’t." Where this bravado comes from, I don’t know. Maybe I just know that it’s now or never.
This time he smiles in response.
And then sighs, his hand falling from my throat.
I almost whimper in disappointment.
"I can’t. As much a fucking asshole I can be. I don’t want to be that way with you. So, I'm not going to do something that we’re going to regret when we are both sober."
"But..." I start, he cuts me off with a look.
"Do you know Bottle in Soho?"
I nod, it’s one of the hardest bars to get into in London and is owned by his brother Kingsley. "I think so. Why?"
"I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. If you… if you still feel the same, be there at 6 p.m. tomorrow."
What? What is he saying? I shake my head to clear it. "You… want… me… to meet you at Bottle, tomorrow?"
He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead like he’s done to annoy me a hundred times before. But this time it feels different.
"I want you to if and only if you want to. Okay?"
My chin dips in a single nod.
He gives me one last look.
And is gone.
two
Kiara
Five Years Later - Hong Kong
There'salittlebeepas I press my key card against the security pad and my door unlocks.
A quick glance up and down the hallway satisfies me that I'm alone and I slip into my apartment.
The cool air instantly envelops me, an audible sigh slipping from my lips, and then I take what feels like the first full breath of air in hours. The Hong Kong climate is cursing me with its record humidity this year. Hot days followed by barely cooler nights followed by even hotter days and stiflingly humid nights. Whoever tells the visitors that they’ll get used to it is lying; I was born here, am cold-blooded, thriving in the heat, and still some days I can barely survive the humidity here.
I push the front door closed, making sure I hear the click of the latch mechanism falling into place before I drop my ace of spades keychain into the dish on the stool by the door. The leather couch sinks under me as my Tony Burch bag slips off my shoulder onto the floor at my feet.
It’s been a long day.
Productive.
Lucrative.
But long.
Reaching for the locked black pouch from my bag, I give it a little shake before unlocking it with the key on my charm bracelet. I pull out the neat stack of notes that fits comfortably but heftily into my hand. One, two, three, the notes get separated into equal piles.
One stack goes back into the pouch to take to the bank, one into the hidden safe on my bookshelf, and one into the disguised plant box by my bed. Repeat experiences with my apartment broken into have taught me to never leave it all in one place.
