“Sometimes I hang them on the lines here in front of me, to help me remember.”
She hands me some old film-style photographs, like the one my father had framed on his desk. This type has become exceedingly rare by now.
“Ever since Bubble, no one develops photos anymore.” The tone of her voice implies that she doesn’t approve of this.
“You’re an odd girl,” I blurt. I actually mean it in a good way, but it is evident from her face that she unaware of this.
“I think it’s lovely,” I try to clarify.
She leaves me the photographs and returns to the laptop. I flip through them. Her father seems plump and graceless, but her mother had most likely broken more than her fair share of hearts back in her day. It’s clear who Mi-Ok took after.
“Your mother’s very pretty,” I state. The flow of clicks from her keyboard ceases and she twists around to face me, her lips slightly parted.
“Not anymore.” Her voice breaks slightly. I notice the pain in her eyes and realize how far inside my mouth my foot currently resides.
“She died a year ago. My dad, too, three years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea,” I attempt an apology.
“You couldn’t have known,” she is quick to absolve me and turn back toward the computer, but she isn’t typing anymore, just staring, and I’m burning holes into her back with my guilt. I should have known, and I could have – if the PI would’ve done his damn job. He will not be enjoying my patronage again.
“It’s pretty ironic,” she breaks the awkward silence, “that you’re the one who ended up helping me out so much. The scholarship, my rent, even this paper.”
“How so?”
“Well, you own Bubble. And it was Bubble that killed my mom.”
It’s my turn to stare.
“Bubble has received a lot of criticism over the years,” I eventually say, “but so far, this is the first time it’s been accused of causing death.”
Mi-Ok faces me again and takes several deep breaths. “After my dad had died – cancer – my mom started spending more and more of her time reliving the record of their time together. The pain only grew, and she started drinking to cope with it, every day. All day. She lost touch with reality. Either drunk or trapped in the Bubble.”
That explains why she couldn’t stand the taste of soju.
“The thing about Bubble records is that they’re too alive to allow you to move on after the death of a loved one. My mom became dependent on them. Addicted. She couldn’t stop. Can you imagine? Watching something so painful it makes you want to die, over and over and over again?”
I don’t tell her how familiar that sounds. I think of those months after I found out about Lee Sung and Shin Su-Yon. Playing that record repeatedly was essentially an act of masochism. It was sheer torture. Going through that after the death of a spouse sounds like hell, pure and simple.
My entire life I’ve regretted not having a Bubble record of my mother. Now for the first time I’m thinking that it might’ve been for the best.
“She ended up killing herself.” I look up at her, stunned, failing to believe that we both share this particular agony.
“It hurts like you wouldn’t believe. Like this… gaping wound that never scabs over.” A tear runs down her cheek.
I know, I know all that horrible shit, she has no idea. My own gaping wound is still bleeding. I say nothing. Why dump my own baggage on top of hers?
I wipe away the tears with my thumb and wrap my arms around her. She leans into my chest as raw sobs rip through her. I stroke her slender back until she calms down. I badly want to kiss her, but I keep hearing Jeremy’s voice in my head, telling me never to kiss a girl unless I intend “to seal the deal within the next ten minutes. After you kiss her it’s just a matter of time before she gets feelings for you, and that’s never fun.”
This timing is every possible kind of bad. She had just opened up to me about the circumstances of her parents’ death. As the owner of Bubble, I represent the very thing that took her mother away from her. She has a paper to write, due tomorrow. And if that wasn’t enough, I will never, ever have sex on that disease-ridden mattress that’s leaning on her wall. I will, therefore, be sealing no deals anytime soon.
“I’m sorry,” I let go of her abruptly, as if burned by the contact with her skin. She momentarily loses her balance – asshole that I am, I don’t even help her steady herself. Embarrassed, she tries to pat the redness away from her cheeks.
“You have a paper to finish,” I actually try to present this as a result of my thoughtfulness, and she nods, flushed.
“I’ll be leaving now,” I declare and get the fuck out of her apartment.
Chapter Ten
I can’t sleep. I’m staring at the glowing digits of the clock – it’s after 1 AM, and I know perfectly well that if Jeremy was around, I’d be dragging him out for a late-night drink by now. Of course, he hasn’t spent a single night at my place since coming to Korea, because my no-girls rule makes that sort of sleeping arrangement irrelevant to him. Especially when the alternative is a hotel suite just next door to a club, allowing him to “seal the deal” more than once a night.
I take my headset out of the dresser drawer and promise myself I’d only watch her latest record once. I wear them and slide my finger across the biometric reader.
“Access denied.”
I throw my head back on the pillow and laugh. It’s the middle of the goddamn night. She isn’t recording shit. She’s watching me. This I have no doubt of. I can only imagine where the journey through my records has taken her. Enjoy me, gorgeous. Finally the exploitation is mutual.
I wake up, smiling, filled with a desire to do good deeds. I want to do something nice for her, and possibly serve my own ends while I’m at it. Still, I can’t have her interpreting my random kindness as a romantic gesture. She’s too self-conscious, I think, to accept anything expensive from me. I need to come up with something creative, and I think I have the perfect plan in the making. All I need is a tiny bit of luck.
I place a brand-new Bubble headset in a black gift box – I know for a fact that she needs them. I jot down “Because your old ones hurt my eyes” on a note and attach it to the box, then ask the driver to stop by her building and leave it in her busted mailbox.
When I get back to the car, I recognize her boyfriend leaving the building wearing a wide, shit-eating grin. I am forced to admit that he has the look of someone who got laid the previous night, and I think to myself that if I hadn’t been so fastidious about the circumstances and environment in which I have sex, his girlfriend would’ve been the previous chapter in my history by now.
I’m in a bit of a hurry, so I make some calls and set the stage for the appearance of the main actress. I just hope I’m right about her.
I’m deeply engrossed in a stack of papers, raising my head just for a moment to peek at the bottom corner of my screen. It’s noon. If she isn’t here by now, I guess she isn’t coming.
I was wrong about her.
I pick up my phone and dial.
“You can cancel, she isn’t –” not a word too soon, she blasts through my office door like the proverbial tempest, breathless. I smile inwardly and inform the phone: “No change of plans.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t accept this.” She places the black box on the desk, right in front of me.
“Why not? They just give me these for free, you know. And even if they didn’t – have you actually seen that ancient contraption of yours?”
She bites her lip. “It was my mother’s.”
I did not see that coming. Foot once more meets mouth.
I try to steer back toward the original plan. I didn’t actually think she’d take the glasses – they were just a means of getting her here.
The advertising manager enters the room. He
’s looking at her, talking to me. “The model for the photoshoot called in sick. Want me to send the crew home?” he plays his part perfectly.
“Can’t they send someone else to fill in for her?”
“For today? Won’t happen,” he delivers.
“Would you like to maybe do me a huge favor? And make some really easy money while you’re at it?” I address Mi-Ok, who widens her eyes at me.
“All you need to do is wear some fancy dresses, put on our new headset and smile at a camera. Does that sound okay?”
“I’ve never modeled.” She looks terrified at the very idea. “I barely even take selfies. You don’t expect me to… I mean, there won’t be bathing suits or anything, right?”
“No bathing suits,” I promise. Though, now that she’s brought it up, my brain can’t help but picture her in a white bikini, just a tiny bit transparent. “Listen, you’ll do great – you’re beautiful, and no one snaps a photo like Mr. Jang.”
She blushes at the compliment and graces me with one of her enchanting smiles. I love it when she smiles.
“I’ll do my best.” She nods at me and follows the advertising manager to the dressing room. I can’t wait to see her come back out. I’d chosen the dresses myself, just for her.
When she finally does come out, I seem to forget how to breathe.
She’s in a sheer, strapless, black gown. Her hair is woven and held up in an elaborate bun. Her eyes are smokey and her lips are painted a deep, seductive red.
God, she’s hot. She is in fact so hot that I physically struggle to keep from ordering everyone out of the room and having her right there.
I stare at her as she poses for the camera. She’s a natural model. Fit, slender body, perfect breasts, beautiful face, amazing smile. I can imagine her plastered across every billboard in town as easily as I can imagine her sprawled underneath me on a bed. I close my eyes and wish, in the very core of my heart, that everyone but us evaporates. I open them and am disappointed that everyone seems entirely unevaporated. Only she is gone.
She comes out again, in red. A short dress and fishnet stockings, borderline slutty. She looks exactly like I imagined she would when I spotted this dress in the catalog. The clothing stylist for the photoshoot told me that it doesn’t fit the clean, classical look that Bubble ads normally strive for. Honestly, I just wanted some photos of her in this dress. For—personal reasons. Does that make me a creep? Well, yes. A bit.
She twirls and the dress flares and rises up around her. My long-suffering cock reacts similarly.
The dresses keep changing. She looks heavenly in blue, revitalizing in green, sweet in pink – but not overly sweet. She is breathtaking in every single one of them – though, if it were up to me, my favorite candidate to tear off her would unquestionably be the black strapless dress I’ve been fantasizing about since the scholarship inauguration ceremony.
I thought we were done when she rises from the dressing room one final time, draped in long white lace. I fire an angry glance at the stylist. I thought I had been very clear with her.
No white.
Mi-Ok, however, seems exceedingly happy. She smiles meltingly at me, to which I respond with an icy glare. As she looks, she pales, and her smile fades. I turn my back to her and take quick, furious steps back to my office. I pass my secretary’s desk on the way and notice a young, unfamiliar woman sitting in her place.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” I aggressively hurl the questions at her.
“Temp,” she blurts, terrified. “They sent me over from HR, your usual secretary’s sick.”
“Fine. Make sure no one bothers me during the next couple of hours.”
I slam the door behind me and strip down to a white T-shirt, tossing my shirt and tie on the couch. I kick off my shoes and step out of my pants, replacing them with the gray sweatpants and trainers waiting in the closet. I stick earbuds in my ears and get on the treadmill, hoping to somehow sprint my anxieties away on the poor machine.
My brain flicks between Mi-Ok in strapless black and Mi-Ok in lacy white. It’s like some sort of cruel punishment. I want her one moment, then feel repulsed by her the next. It’s not her fault, of course – she couldn’t know how explicit I’d been about the white dress. But when she came out of the dressing room and smiled at me like we’d just eloped, I was instantly frustrated. I’d been fairly certain she wasn’t the kind of girl who wants to get married, and I felt cheated, looking at her glow in that damn dress. I run faster, abusing the treadmill.
I suddenly detect motion and glance behind me. Mi-Ok is standing at the door, flushed, staring at me. My eyes move over her. She is wearing the clothes she came in with, but the hair and makeup take her all the way from beautiful to drop-dead gorgeous. I stop the treadmill and slowly take out the earbuds. Her lips part slightly when I wipe my face with the hem of my T-shirt. I take my time, letting her check me out. She habitually attempts to comb her fingers through her hair, but realizes it’s still braided. She drops the hand and a small, frustrated sigh escapes her. It feels nice to see that I have an effect on her, too.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long.” From the color flushing her cheeks, I’m guessing it was pretty long.
“My secretary was supposed to make sure no one bothers me,” I snap, clarifying that her presence is unwanted.
“There wasn’t anyone at the desk.” Her voice is shaky.
“Fucking temps,” I lash out.
“Excuse me,” she says, retreating – one of her feet is outside the threshold already. In a split second I traverse the distance between us, pull her back inside my office and shut the door behind us.
My eyes burrow into her and she drops her gaze to the floor. I’m looking at her deep, red lips. I need to kiss them. Jeremy’s voice in my head warns me not to, but I convince myself that my office sofa could serve that purpose if need be. If we fail to reach it, the rug could also perform reasonably well.
I close my eyes and, three deep breaths later, open them. Nope, I think. Sorry. I’ve reached the absolute end of my patience.
I’m done.
I’m not waiting another second.
I lift up her chin. My eyes search for approval in her wide eyes as my finger already wanders across the back of her neck and trails down to the round neckline of her t-shirt. Her breathing grows faster, shallow. My hands slip down to her narrow hips and my thumbs nudge up her shirt and dip into her hipbones. She arches her back and swallows a moan. I lose every remnant of self-control and take her lips in a demanding kiss, my tongue searching her mouth and brushing against hers in hunger and desperation. She tries to pull back, but I keep my hand on the back of her neck, my lips clinging to hers. Her eyes flutter shut when she yields, allowing me to deepen the kiss, to do this properly, thoroughly. Her hands are soft and warm as they wander over my damp t-shirt. I feel vaporized by her. I’ve never wanted a woman as much as I want her now.
Something buzzes between us.
“Ignore it,” I whisper, hoarse with desire. I assume it’s my cellphone, vibrating away somewhere in the room. I groan when she breathlessly detaches from me and pulls out her phone from the back of her jeans.
We both stare at her screen.
“When r u coming home? Remember I’m sleeping at ur place 2day?”
It’s obviously from her boyfriend. His timing could not be worse.
She seems embarrassed to realize that I’m reading the text along with her.
“I need to go. A good friend of mine sprung a leak at his place and he asked if he could crash.” Leak? She can’t actually be this naïve. There’s no damn leak. I feel painfully unoriginal – already the second man today that lies to her so he can get in her pants.
“Can’t he crash at a hotel? Or a sauna?” or a street bench? I grumble, though I keep that last suggestion to myself.
I lay on the couch and ponder Jeremy’s ten-minute rule – never kiss a girl unless you intend to seal the deal in the next ten minutes. Once you kiss her, she cultivates feelings; once that happens, you’re fucked. I begin to worry that this kiss will have unforeseen consequences. These emotional hazards that Jeremy keeps warning me about can apparently happen to men as well as women – Mi-Ok now seems to be all I think about. I’m insanely jealous of her boyfriend. I’m dying to hold her in my arms again. I am in all honesty horrified at the notion of kiss-induced brain damage, which I can’t help but take seriously now.
I see to it that the dresses are giftwrapped and sent to her address. I’m desperate, but currently I have nothing better to do than hope that what I’m feeling isn’t permanent.
Chapter Eleven
The intercom buzzes and wakes me up. I must’ve been so tired that I passed out on my living room couch with the TV on. I drag myself toward the buzz and pick up.
“There’s a woman in the lobby for you, should I let her up?” asks the doorman.
“A woman?” none of the women I’ve spent time with know my address.
I hear the guard ask, “What did you say your name was, miss?” and then the unexpected reply: “Mi-Ok.”
I run my hand through my bed head and try to guess what the hell she’s doing here. The soft knocking that drifts in from my door a moment later informs me that my hesitance had been interpreted as agreement, and the doorman let her up.
The Bubble Match Page 7
