"Denali?" he asks slowly, and I shake my head, attempting to separate myself from those terrible memories and ground myself in the present reality. "Did you hear me?"
"Yeah, sure, Kai, you're staying late," I say slowly, gritting my teeth as I lift my bag and throw the strap over my shoulder, wincing at the weight of it on my aching body. "I don't mind staying late. You might need the car, and if he's not back in time, you'll be inconvenienced. You can't afford to wait around?—"
His hands twitch, and I see him raise them to the outsides of my shoulders, pinning me in place with a curious, worried glare. "What's going on? Is there something I should know?"
I know what he's not saying:why did you nearly kill me with a ballpoint pen?But I don't have an answer for him, not one that will make any sense. I can't tell this man that a terrible previous employer still haunts every waking moment of my life when I'm unfortunately reminded of his existence.
"I'm just tired," I lie, yawning for maximum effect. I don't know if he believes me or not, but it's all I've got in me to do to make him believe it. "I'll just call a cab and take off. You keep the car?—"
"Let Roger drive you back," he says firmly, but unlike the firm, demanding way Theo used to speak to me, this time,the man using the tone fills it with his clear concern for his employee. "Will you be okay to work tomorrow?"
He eyes me like he's unsure I'm fit to work ever again, so I rush out with a quick, clippedyes,and rush off before he can say another word.
The ride home in the back of the company car is long, lonely, and silent, but for once, I don't have it in me to make small talk with Roger, or even to scroll social media.
I just stare out the window at the streetlights as they blur together, the car moving too fast to focus on any one thing for too long.
Unlike my brain, which is focused on one thing, and one thing only: the persistent, renewed threat of a man I thought I'd finally escaped.
Theo Swanson—actor, model, entrepreneur, and all-around American Sweetheart.
And my worst nightmare.
chapter seven
Kai
Something iswrong with my assistant. I have no idea what happened, but one moment, she was fine, if a little sleep-deprived, and the next, she's got a sharp object to my throat, and a wild look in her eyes that seem not to recognize me when I say her name.
That was three days ago, and she's still not improving.
I'm worried for her, and for myself. Sure, things haven't fallen apart yet, but it's only a matter of time before her deteriorating mental state affects her job, and by extension, my life. Every night when she prepares to go home, it's like she's on the edge of a razorblade, nervous, stressed, and shaken.
I've seen that look on battered women before. My neighbor growing up, Yuri, used to babysit me when her husband wasn't home and my foster parents needed a moment to breathe or go do adult things. I saw her husband beat her on several occasions when she thought I wasn't around, or in their backyard, when he thought nobody could see.
She wore that same expression of constant disconnect and vague fear whenever the clock would chime close to his return home.
Is someone at home hurting her? Is she being threatened?
All questions I don't have answers to. I could ask Arista, but I doubt she has those answers, either. She's as much as admitted to me that Denali was a pity hire because she saw a kindred suffering soul at a girls' night out at the local dive bar a few months back.
She's a social media manager, not an assistant, but damned if she hasn't taken to the role quite swimmingly. I don't want to lose her over something like this. And to be quite honest, I actually enjoy having her around.
So I reach out to a friend I know might be able to help.
While Denali is in the cafeteria today during dance practice, I call for a five minute break, which Donato is quick and eager to give me, since I drive him harder with my desire for perfection than he drives me. And then, when he's also out of the studio, I pick up my phone, block my outgoing number, and dial a contact I know by heart.
He picks up on the second ring, hangs up, and then I dial again, waiting until the third ring, when?—
"Choi."
My lips spread into a grin. Some things never change. "Jake, you sassy sonofabitch, I can't believe you're still using that old habit of answering twice before you talk to me."
It's a code he uses to distinguish people he knows from people he doesn't. If you're a new contact, you go to voicemail, so he can screen you. If you're a repeat, you know the rules.
Jake Choi laughs, the sound of too-loud video games slowly decreasing in the background as he turns his attention to me. "Kobayashi, it's been awhile. What do you need now, you randy fuck?"
Jake's done some good work for me in the past—he made a scandal or two disappear before they even started online, he dug up dirt on an ex-member to help me and the others in our debut group push him out to save our image as a whole (not that ithelped, but it kept us from going down with him when the truth came out), and on more than one occasion, he's scrubbed things from the internet for me on an as-needed basis. He's damn good at what his nerdy ass does, and today, I need his skills for something right up his alley.
