C4 - Villaintine

When I first came to live with Dad he worked in a prison-release program at Goodwill. He would pick things out of the donation piles to bring home.

An ironman with his one hand tinkered and jagged. A half-empty box of tinker toys. It was when he brought home the Rubik’s Cube that we hit the jackpot. Some of the stickers had been torn or smudged away, but the colors were still visible.

Only one sticker was gone completely, but a quick count of the sides told me it was yellow. I sat down in front of the armchair, still worn and lumpy then.

My legs crisscrossed, my heart pumping. And in twenty minutes solved the cube for the first time. Dad watched with a strange look in his eyes.

When I was done, he turned the columns this way and that, trying his best to make sure no two colors were side by side. This time I already had practice. It took fifteen minutes.

So many evenings we sat like that, him messing up the cube, me putting it right. That was before he lost the job at Goodwill before he turned heavy to gambling.

Before I met Kim Taehyung and began to hide what I could do. Though I guess we’re still in old patterns.

Dad messing things up. Me putting it right. I can tell Dad’s home before I put my key in the lock.

Something about the air feels heavy with despair, with guilt—though maybe that’s just wishful thinking. I want him to be sorry for what he’s done. But the only thing I feel when I feed my addiction, when I breathe in the sharp tang of numbers is relief.

He sits in his lumpy armchair, the second-hand metal cane leaning against the side. My feet seem to slow down as I approach him.

As much as I need to have this confrontation, as many questions and accusations are swirling inside me, I wish I were anywhere but here. I don’t bother to sit on the lumpy couch or the wooden coffee table with a crack down the side.

Instead, I sit down at his feet, crossing my legs. In the same place I sat so many times. The same way I did when I was a six. That’s how I feel right now. Small and helpless. In Dad’s eyes I find terrible confirmation.

“I’m sorry,” he says gruffly.

“I don’t understand. Why would you borrow from Kim Taehyung?” When his lips press together, my heart stops. “Oh God. You owe someone else.”

He shakes his head, as if struggling to understand it himself.

“I thought if I could pay off the debt with Kim Taehyung, I’d have more time. So, I borrowed from someone else. Pretty soon I owed almost everyone in the city money.”

“Almost?” I say, my voice tight.

Where I felt a surge of emotion with Kim Taehyung, there’s only emptiness. A blissful numbness that spreads from my heart to my fingers. It’s a relief, however temporary.

His eyes sharpen. “I didn’t borrow from Kim Yongdae.”

“You wanted to.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway, whether I borrowed from him or not. There’s no way I can survive this. Not with the amount of money on the line.”

“Kim Taehyung talked to me.”

Dad surges up in a surprising show of strength, before making a cry of pain and falling back into the chair. “That bastard. Did he touch you?”

That small amount of protectiveness makes my heart squeeze. This is what I wanted.  Someone to care about me, someone for me to care about. Without having to worry about kneecaps breaking.

How is it that some people get huge trees of family, aunts and uncles and cousins?  A flick of a DNA strand, a twist of fate.

And here I am, almost alone. Except for one person. I can’t quite meet that person’s eyes.

“Taehyung might be willing to help.”

“He’s no better than his father,” Dad snarls. “Leaning on family like that. He’s not supposed to do that. He’s never done it before. And with you still a child.”

A child? Not really. There are enough men in the diner who stare at me to know they see me as anything but child. We grow up early in the west side.

The Rubik’s Cube is long gone, lost to the vagaries of childhood. Maybe left behind in the trailer outside of town. But my fingers clench together all the same, longing for something to solve. A puzzle that’s guaranteed to have an answer.

“What will we do?” I ask softly.

“I have a plan,” he says, gruff, almost glad.

“But how—”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“There’s this big game.”

Dread slithers down my spine, thick and cold. “No way.”

“The pot is huge, Jungkook. It could pay off all the debts and still have more.”

“You have to win.”

“With your help I would. If you were there—”

“You don’t think anyone would notice?”

Counting cards isn’t allowed, which has never made sense to me. As if I could stop counting them. But any sort of signals I made would definitely be caught.

“The game isn’t for six months,” he says. “We have plenty of time to practice them.”

“And what would I be doing at a high-stakes game?”

Even in the twisted sex world of Deagu, the fifteen-year-old son of a player would not be allowed into the private room. There are rules, which is why I couldn’t help him in the big games. He’s silent in that way that’s filled with words. With guilty admissions.

“You’d be in the room if you were my buy-in.”

My gasp sounds loud and ridiculously innocent in the broken little apartment.

Who knew I still had naivete to shatter?

“You want to bet me?”

“It costs fifty thousand dollars just to enter.”

Oh my God. I thought we had hit the bottom with the debts, but this is worse. There are rocks down there, sharp and slick. And no one to pull me from the water.

Suddenly I remember Kim Taehyung, his eyes black, with depth of fierceness.

What made him able to hold his breath underwater so long?

My throat tightens. The memory of a tall man in black sweeps over me, his grey eyes like mist in a dream.

“Who’s running the game, Dad?”

“Kim Yongdae.”

“Don’t do this,” I whisper, knowing I’m too late.

“We’ll win, Jungkook.” He’s pleading now, asking forgiveness for something already decided.

We’re not so far away from medieval times. A man can sell his blood. A man can gamble his own blood. I don’t have to ask what happens if he loses, my body forfeit. Horror is a black hole, threatening to drag me under.

Only denial keeps me floating in endless space, denial that my own Dad would do this.

“There has to be another way.”

He stares at his hands, knotted together. I know he has arthritis, that his joints swell up in the warm muggy nights, that he struggles to hold the cards.

Oh God, I hate that I care about him.

“The debts are coming due,” he says, and in his voice, I hear the grains of sand falling, the amount of time I’m the owner of my body slipping away.

The water level rising.

!~~~~!

The diner still pays me off the books, the way they did before I was old enough to legally work. That means I get to keep one hundred percent of my measly tips, the handful of coins tired factory workers leave beside their empty coffee cups.

Supposedly I’m saving for college, but both Dad and I know that the few hundred dollars in my account will never cover actual tuition. Stochastic calculus is just a pipe dream, stored on a shelf alongside leaving west Deagu and finding out I’m secretly a lost princess.

Six hundred dollars seems to be the tipping point.

That’s how much I can save before Dad gambles again and needs help paying the debt. A fifty- dollar note from the bar owner. A few hundred dollars deep. Not thousands of dollars.

I guess I should be flattered that I’m worth that much. There’s a cold, hard stone where that flattery would be. Polished smooth from years of being objectified and diminished, shined with every day working in this diner.

I wipe the cracked countertops with extra fervor.

“What do you recommend?” comes a voice out of my nightmares.

A muffled shriek escapes me before I catch myself. Kim Taehyung sits on one of the stools, looking at ease despite the fact that his suit costs as much as a car. He sounds so much like his father that I’m surprised to see him there. And relieved.

And secretly so very glad.

A lock of dark hair falls onto his forehead, effortlessly perfect. He studies me with a bland expression, the only sign of life the amusement dancing in his ebony eyes.

I glare at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I haven’t eaten dinner.”

“So go somewhere else. Somewhere with caviar and steak on gold plates.”

He sighs, woebegone.

“Those places can’t fill a man up.”

“Get out.”

“I’m a great tipper.”

“How about you tip the amount my father owes you?”

“I don’t know.” He sounds thoughtful. “That’s a lot of money. And so far you haven’t really given me great service.”

“I’m not servicing you at all. Leave.”

“We didn’t finish our conversation.”

“That’s because I don’t want to talk. Or see you, ever again.”

“How disappointing for you.”

His smug dismissal sends a jolt of electricity through my body, not entirely unpleasant. I whirl away from him and push into the kitchen. I hate how aware I am of Taehyung’s voice, the low and sensual timbre. I hate how I can see his cocky smile even when he’s not there. The scowl on my face must be fierce because the stoic cook, Jackson, raises an eyebrow.

“What?” I demand.

He doesn’t answer, just flips a greasy burger on a grill caked with black. Jo Maeri has no such qualms. She heads out of the office like a bull seeing red, as if she can sense an unsatisfied customer from far away. If anyone on the floor gave her attitude, she would throw him out in a heartbeat.

That’s why she doesn’t usually talk to customers. Bad for business.

“What the hell are you doing?” she growls.

“Checking on an order.”

That’s a lie but luckily Jackson slides the burger onto a bun, and I grab the plate. It takes some time to do the rounds to all my tables, to refill coffee and jot down orders. And then there’s nothing left to do but face him.

I slump behind the counter, closing my eyes.

“Why are you still here?”

“Still in conversation,” he says, taking a sip from his mug.

“Where did you even get that? I didn’t give you coffee.”

“I went behind the counter. You seem busy.”

I’m replacing Jessica, but Daniel called in sick. That probably means he’s high with his lame boyfriend-of-the-week. So, I’m working the tables by myself. Busy is an understatement.

“You have thirty seconds to finish the conversation.”

One eyebrow rises up. If anything, his voice becomes lower, a faint Southern drawl inflecting his dark velvet voice.

“You were polite to the asshole who wanted five refills.”

“They’re unlimited.”

“He only drank that much coffee so he could stare at your rack.”

That’s probably true.

“Well, then he’ll suffer plenty when he finds out what five cups of that radioactive sludge does to your stomach lining.”

Taehyung pushes the mug with his fingertip. “Duly noted.”

“Is that why you’re here? To stare at my ass?”

He manages to look affronted, which is a major feat for a man in his position. For a man who’s put me in this position. “You’re fifteen.”

“Then why did you really come here?”

For once in his life, he actually seems uncertain. Almost nervous.  Except he has the upper hand in every possible way.  He’s handsome. Smart. Rich.  And for some reason he’s holding his breath.

“Look, Jungkook. It isn’t exactly safe for you here.”

“Is that a threat? Because the last guy my dad owed money to showed up at our apartment with a baseball bat. I didn’t know subtlety was part of your profession.”

His eyes narrow. “His name.”

“What?”

“The name of the person who showed up with a bat.”

I’m not going to tell him who beat the door in, who smashed my father’s knee. And I’m not going to tell him about the big poker game. This man is nothing to me.

I owe him nothing. Least of all the truth.

I brace my hands on the cracked countertop, sure that I’ll need the support.

“How much?”

“We should talk about this in private.”

Then he shouldn’t have showed up at the diner.

“I could shove you into the freezer?”

“He borrowed five grand. And the interest on that’s…not negligible.”

All the blood drains from my head. I’m dizzy with fury, impotence.

Hopelessness.

“Is that all?” I manage to choke out.

“No, he came back and borrowed another five.”

Ten thousand dollars. My throat feels thick.

I can’t start crying in the middle of the diner. Jo Maeri would definitely dock my already-slim pay-check. I press my nails into my palm, counting slowly until the moment passes.

There’s a look of genuine sympathy on Taehyung’s stupidly handsome face, which makes everything worse.

I want him to look smug and gloating. I want him to be easy to hate.

“Jungkook,” he says, low and grave. “I’m trying to help you.”

I make a sharp motion with my hand.

“If you really want to help me, stop loaning money to my dad. No matter what he wants, no matter what he promises. We’ll find a way to pay you back, and then we’re done.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why?”

“Because your dad’s fcuking desperate,” he says, speaking more rapidly.

He runs a hand through his hair with what’s most likely frustration, but it only succeeds in making him look charming.

Is this what my prince charming looks like?

No, my prince was the wild boy through the trees.

“He would have gone to my father next. He would have lost everything.”

“We haven’t already?” I ask, bitter with grief.

“I prefer to think not,” he says, his voice casual, but I’m not fooled.

It matters to him what I think. It matters that I don’t see him as punishment. Tiredness sweeps over me, the weight of a thousand anxious days and a thousand sleepless nights.

“I’ll talk to my dad. We’ll figure something out.”

“It’s too late for that. He’ll never come up with that kind of money.”

“Then what do you suggest?” I snap, my voice wavering.

“You pay the debt.”

I hold up my hands, as if they can encompass the griminess of the diner, the sadness of the west side. The complete worthlessness of my person.

“With what?”

“With yourself.”

His meaning comes to me like a cold, hard slap. With my body. Whether he’ll use me himself or put me in one of his strip clubs, the result is the same. I’ll be wrung out as surely as the girls on the street.

“No,” I whisper.

“You have to,” he says, leaning closer.

“Or what?”

“How do you see this playing out, Jungkook? You work your ass off to make five hundred bucks, barely a dent in the debt. And meanwhile your Dad’s out borrowing more money, from men more dangerous than myself.”

“He won’t,” I whisper, but we both know he will. “The city is dangerous.”

“A guy slammed someone’s head into the bathroom floor last Tuesday. I know it’s dangerous.”

His eyes turn quicksilver.

“More than that. You’re a target, Jungkook.”

God. My voice comes out shaky.

“Do you know what it cost me?” A pause.

“What?”

“To hide everything I’m interested in, everything I can do. Everything I am. It cost me everything. And now you want me to pay ten grand. Fine. But I’m not going to be your whore, Kim Taehyung. I’m keeping my dignity. That’s the one thing I won’t give up.”

“Soulmate? Huh!! It doesn’t have to be like that.”

This is a man who loves slick packaging—his European suit and his fancy watch that glints in the dim light of the diner. Except I know what’s underneath, what it really boils down to, and it’s not pretty.

“Will I be able to come and go as I please? Will you touch me? Kiss me?”

A weighted pause. “Eventually.”

“That’s my dignity,” I say, my voice sharp.

The corner of his mouth kicks up. “Not if I make you like it.”

I meet his eyes with a solemn vow, because this is the only part of me that’s left. I already gave up everything else for this dubious safety.

“No,” I tell him. “Never.”

Frustration flits beneath his calm surface. Even a hint of vulnerability.

How many people can see it?

I know that not everyone sees the kind side of him. He has weapons and suits and a million kinds of armor, all designed to shield his humanity. Assuming he has any left.

“I’ll give you a little time,” he says, his voice tight. “You can think it over. Weigh the lack of options. Come to terms with what you have to do. But I swear to God you’ll be mine.”

The words are a cold gust of wind, the tap of a branch on a window. The distant howl of a coyote at night.

“No.”

He looks almost compassionate as he tells me, “You don’t have a choice.”

He moves forward, one millimeter, as if he might touch me. Then stops. I freeze, every part of me still and waiting. Wanting things, I shouldn’t. The only thing moving right now is my chest, the rise and fall so marked as we become statues. And then his hand rises. I should duck away. Anything, anything.

My heart thuds heavy against my ribs.

Two knuckles.

That’s the only part of his body that touches mine, at the top curve of my cheek.  He strokes down in what could almost be innocent comfort. Except that he doesn’t stop at my jaw. His knuckles slide lower, to the tender skin of my neck.

To the hollow at my throat.

When his hand finally falls away, I suck in an audible breath. He didn’t touch me anywhere that would make this dirty, but my body still hums like a car left running.

Nowhere to go from here. He leaves me in that diner feeling like I’ve transformed.

I sometimes wish it would have been simpler if Taehyung was my soulmate. That way I would easily accept him rather than fight this inevitable.

There are crescent moons left on my palm, tinted red from breaking the skin. I wash my hands. Force me to breathe even. I have an entire shift to get through. Every coffee cup in the diner is empty after that little chat. I have work to do, shitty tips to earn, even though they won’t make a difference.

Nothing I make will ever be enough.

Taehyung’s words ring in my ear, long after he’s left the diner.

A promise.

A prayer.

I swear to God you’ll be mine.

!~~~!!!!~~~~!