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This Huan is one I’ve never seen and neither has Judd, who is as pale as the wall behind him. I blink. Right, Judd. Forgot about him, which is a shitty thing to do when he's shaking like a baby earthquake.
“What you think happened didn’t happen,” I exclaim. “You need to put him down.”
“He was mumbling that he hurt you.”
“Obviously, it's the incoherent ravings of a lunatic!” Sorry, Judd.
“Nice try, Ms. Chahal. I'll wait for him to describe how he hurt you.”
“Unnecessary! And as you can see I am clearly unharmed”—technically true since I’m fairly certain my vagina’s response stopped as spontaneously as it started—“and if you don’t let poor Judd down, you’ll be overreacting and banned from this hostel by the authorities!”
A dramatic warning for the very empty corridor we occupy. It's a dead zone that the front desk manager in the Hawaiian shirt and his staff apparently don’t care to frequent.
Judd’s feet hit the ground, but Huan keeps him against the wall, wrinkling his already disastrous dress shirt further. “How did you hurt her?” he asks Judd, clearly not believing anything I say.
“Toilet seat… just spilled—” Judd stammers
I blurt, “A bottle of soap.”
Huan spares my outburst brief consideration, his eyes straying away from Judd to land on me.
I jump on the chance. “Judd left me in the bathroom to get… a towel to help clean up. Because he was afraid I’d slip andgethurt.” My shoulders shrug. “But look at me, unhurt and capable of balance on slippery surfaces. Will wonders ever cease? I think not.”
“Tell me the truth,” he demands of Judd, turning back to him.
“Ergh.” Judd’s eye flick to the side. To me. I’m behind Huan’s back, jabbing my pointer finger in the air like a pistol. He better keep his mouth shut about what happened or else… or else, I don’t know, but something!
Not that Judd needs my threat on top of Huan’s anger. I’m sure he curses the moment he met me, not realizing I’m a package deal. That I come with a bare-knuckled street fighter disguised as a Tom Ford gentleman.
Not relying on Judd to save himself, I say to Huan, “If you don’t believe me, what is the point?” My voice has hardened. “Aren’t I supposed to be your client? Isn’t that what you promised me on this trip? Shouldn’t you care about what I’m saying?”
Just like that, Huan lets Judd go. It happens so quick that Judd trips to the floor, but he recovers well enough to scamper out of Huan’s way and down the corridor. His last look at us is pure confusion. I can almost read the words in his head. She is his client?
Huan stares at the fleeing man with darkening pupils, as if he is one thread snap of control away from following him. “Something is off about this.”
I scowl. “Your bullshit radar must be pointed inwards because I’ve long suspected something was off about you.”
“You get mean when you’re covering something up.”
He needs to stop broadcasting these observations out loud. I’m never mean outside my head. Only inside it and in secret.
“When you lie, you also grind your teeth,” he says, as if my confusion is obvious and requires an answer.
Immediately, I unclench my jaw. “I’m not mean. I'm lovely. Nice. You don’t know me.”
“Lovely? Nice? Aren't you Komal Chahal, the same woman who signed your friend’s modelling agent up to be recruited by Scientologists after he joked about her needing to lose ten pounds hoping he would be harassed and may never know peace?” At my eye bulge, he says, “The last part is a direct quote. You were talking to yourself and didn’t realize I was posted outside the door.”
I huff with growing panic. “One example is an anomaly.”
“You signed Reena’s deadbeat stepdad up for life, mortgage, home, car and boat insurance quotes, because insurance people never give up. They keep calling at every hour of the day to get their sale. Your friend was quite vocally happy about that.”
"Two examples are not a pattern, Mr. Li."
He doesn't comment. Me, my brain is overloading because I'm now wondering if Huan knows about all the other times I’ve been possessed by The Evil Spirit of Vengeance. My latest act was posting a personal ad giving out happy massages, pretending to be the blogger who told my mom to stop acting because she has more cellulite than a plastic bag.
Yeah, that guy can go fuck himself.
But also…
