His eyebrows twitch—the Kim equivalent of a dramatic gasp. He glances over his shoulder at the store entrance, then back at me. “You come inside,” he says abruptly, already turning away.
I follow him into the cramped store, dodging past shelves crammed with booze and snacks plastered with labels I can’t read. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting weird shadows.
Mr. Kim disappears behind the counter, pointedly not looking at me. I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand. “Wait,” he mutters.
A door creaks open behind the counter, and a tiny woman appears. Mrs. Kim, I assume. She takes one look at me and starts rapid-firing Korean at her husband.
Mr. Kim responds in equally rapid Korean, his eyes darting between his wife and me. I catch John’s name in the mix.
Mrs. Kim’s eyes widen. She turns to me, her face softening slightly. “You John daughter?” she asks, her accent thick.
I nod, hope flaring in my chest. “Yes. Have you seen him?”
The Kims exchange a look that makes my stomach clench. Finally, Mr. Kim sighs. “We see John. Yesterday. Not good.”
“What the fuck does ‘not good’ mean?” I snap, my hands gripping the counter edge so hard I half expect it to crack. Mr. Kim hesitates, then jerks his head toward a battered TV mounted in the corner. “We have camera. Show you.”
He fiddles with some ancient-looking equipment under the counter. The TV screen flickers to life, showing a grainy black-and-white image of the storefront.
“There,” Mrs. Kim says softly, pointing.
I lean in close, squinting at the fuzzy image. My heart nearly stops when I see him. Dad, looking small and hunched, flanked by two men in dark suits. Even through the crappy video quality, I can see the fear on his face.
“This is fucking fucked,” I hiss under my breath.
As Mr. Kim fast-forwards, I feel blood drains from my face. There’s no mistaking the black SUV or the men in suits, the same fucking goons I saw earlier. One of them, his hand hidden insidehis jacket, fingers no doubt wrapped around a gun, shoves John toward the vehicle like he’s a rag doll.
This can’t be fucking real.
46
Thud!
Thud!
I bang the door with my fist, the cheap wood rattling in its frame. I pound again, harder this time, my knuckles stinging. Fuck it. One more for good measure.
“Open up, you piece of shit!” I yell, kicking the door for emphasis.
Muffled cursing filters through, followed by shuffling footsteps. The lock clicks and the door swings open, revealing Jake in all his half-naked glory. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, widen when he sees me.
“Well, well,” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Wren fucking Davis. Still looking fine as hell, baby.”
I roll my eyes, shoving past him into the apartment. “Save the sweet talk, Jake. I’m not here for a booty call. “
His apartment is a disaster zone, same as it was when we were together. Empty beer cans and pizza boxes cover every surface,and there’s a line of coke on the coffee table next to a bottle of Jack. Some things never change.
Jake scratches his chest, yawning. “Shame. Remember that time we christened every surface in this place?”
“Yeah, and I remember regretting it immediately after,” I snap, turning to face him. “I need information, not a trip down memory lane.”
He holds up his hands, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face. “Information, huh?” Jake drawls, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering toward me. His bare feet pad across the sticky linoleum. “What kind… of information?”
He reaches out, trying to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I slap his hand away hard enough to sting.
“Ouch, baby,” he chuckles, biting his lower lip. His hand travels south, cupping himself through his boxers. “You’re still as feisty as ever. Gets me hard just thinking about it.”
I take a step back, disgust churning in my gut. What the fuck was I thinking, getting mixed up with this lowlife? Unbidden, D’s face flashes through my mind. I shake my head, banishing the thought.
