Chapter Text
Chapter One: Homesick
February, Current Year
IN THE DIM, ice-cold room, everything smells like liquor and tobacco smoke. A soft and sensual jazz music fills the air. Amidst the warm and elevated stage in the middle of the sea of tables full of drunk white and blue-collared men from varying ages, twirls a fox-like figure on the pole. His movements are like a swan’s; but his face, lathered in pearly, frosty makeup, his slanted fox eyes pronounced in a smoky eye, and his skin as pure as snow and hair as artfully tussled and colored ebony, the clients call him Snow White.
Today, his outfit befits his name. Snow White dances like a dream, with his perfect, slim figure donned in nothing but a tiny ensemble of a bra and thong made out of pure pearls, and his white pleaser heels shine in the air. His clothing pronounces the curve of his small yet wide waist, the bra melting on his ample chest, and his bare long legs wrapped around the pole as he gracefully executes another move.
Parallel to the stage, the crowd thought he was floating. His legs were open in a wide, straddled split, as he twisted his torso away from the pole while pushing his pelvis outward, and he masterfully twisted his grip on the pole in an inverted position. His performance leaves nothing to the imagination, and when one would catch the glint of his eye amidst the soft lighting, they’d see a blank and cool, collected stare.
Snow White always looks so perfect. He never makes a mistake on stage and the crowd is always more than satisfied. No one knows his name, but what they do know is that he’s the star of Eden’s Club, and they’d pay good money to spend a night with him to fuck him.
Snow White twists on a pole again, and this time, he hangs upside down, hooked by his one knee, his thighs glinting on the light – is that body glitter? – as he arches his torso, curving his spine, exposed away from the pole. Millions of dollars from the crowd rain like there’s no end on Snow White’s feet.
He elegantly drops to his knees, and turns back to the audience where opens his mouth and lets his tongue out. His audience knows this move, as it’s an invitation; and they whistle as one of them, looking like a cowboy and smelling like one, tucks an expensive buck in between Snow White’s cheeks. Before he leaves, he slaps one of Snow White’s cheeks, and the crowd cheers even more. The slap leaves a pink handprint. He’s the crowd favorite.
“Are you free, Shirae?”
Snow White, who was at his vanity, touching up on his makeup, turns at the mention of his real name, and sees his good friend and co-worker, Jacques, sniffling by the door. Shirae visibly softens when he sees the tears running down on the blonde’s cheeks, and drops his eyebrow brush. With the blonde’s hollowed cheeks and visible dark undereyes, Shirae knows he hadn’t slept a wink.
“Come here,” he beckons softly to his friend, with his arms open, the pearls on his body twinkling like a bell with his every movement.
Jacques practically collapses on his arms as he sobs like a child. Shirae simply comforts him, with his arms around the younger. Jacques was his first friend in recent years. After moving around a lot in the country, he never cared to form relationships nor friendships. But staying in this tiny, seaside town down far-south of the country, Shirae was afforded a simple life he’s longed for, and before he knew it, it'd been three years.
He first met Jacques at the central park downtown, where he was crying after being fired from his last job after settling in town in the first year. Shirae could remember that day clearly. Jacques hadn't dyed his hair back then, but with his wide eyes, innocent disposition, and carefree nature, Jacques offered him a shoulder to cry on. After settling in town, he had put his grandmother at the hospital, where she was fighting for her last breaths and he needed more money to pay expenses. He thought that was the last time he’d see him. Then he met him again, who was then wide-eyed with shock, the second time when he was introduced to his co-workers at Eden for work. The rest was history.
“He blamed me for his STDs!” Jacques cried out, his sobs wetting Shirae’s shoulders. The older one continues to cradle him like a child. “I discovered he was cheating, and he told me I was the one who gave him chlamydia!” The blond grits out, his eyes and nose red, puffy, and swollen from crying. “I’m fucking offended! We’re the safest whores in the city!” Jacques flails in his arms, hysterical.
Shirae simply hums and holds his weeping friend in his arms, the younger’s cries echoing in his small vanity room. Jacques and his relationships never really ended well. While he’d say something philosophical in life when Shirae needed it, and be a pillar to the older, he has trouble taking his own advice. While they’d bond over hating men, as all men would either kill someone for sex or pay someone for it, both of them had their hearts broken over men too. This one, being the exemplar.
“Oh, my dear,” Shirae hums, as he rubs his palm comfortingly over the top of Jacques’ head. “You know he was trash. I knew it from the moment he’d ask you to pay his bills. I told you that you should stop dating younger men. Wasn’t he twenty-two? Maybe he hasn’t grown out of his diapers yet.”
“Twenty-three. He had a big dick for twenty-three,” Jacques sniffs. “Besides, you talk like we’re old and gray. We’re only twenty-five.” Shirae reaches over and hands him a couple of tissues where he could blow his nose on.
After wiping his tears, Jacques pouted at Shirae and stood up from his knees. “Sorry for disturbing you. I know you have a shift, I just needed a hug.” He gestures to Shirae’s strewn makeup on the wooden vanity. He then glances at his reflection on the mirror, where he was only wearing a jacket and sweatpants hanging on his frame. “We broke up two days ago. It’s been killing me.”
“It’s okay, love,” Shirae intertwines their fingers together as they both stare at the lit-up mirror. They share a contemplative silence. “I’m starting to believe no man will ever love me just because I’ve been whoring myself since I was fifteen.” Jacques plucks one of the cigarettes strewn on Shirae’s vanity and lights it up. “If God is real, and heaven’s a room, then I might as well have locked myself out of it.”
Shirae shares a solemn smile as he picks up his eyeshadow brush. Jacques puffs out smoke, and the room becomes hazy with it. The older one puts white glimmer on his eyelids, murmuring. “God isn’t real, because if he was, we wouldn’t have to resort to this.”
The blonde hums, and Shirae adds, before puckering his lips for his lipstick, “Honey, don’t ever doubt yourself because of a man. Even if he’s God. You’ll find someone worthy soon. Someone who wouldn’t see you just for your job. A person.”
“Right. A person.” Jacques nods, and tears his eyes away from the mirror. “Someday, we’ll get out of here, won’t we, Shirae?”
Shirae tries to catch his gaze. “Of course we would.”
Not even a second later, there’s succeeding knocks on the door. A gravelly voice comes, muffled behind the wood. It’s their manager, Vincent. “Snow White, up for your client? He’s waiting in room 3.”
Jacques lands a hand on his shoulder, and gives a comforting squeeze. “Last push for the night.”
The fox-eyed nods, serious. “Last push.”
The client talks a lot and keeps telling him how filthy and gagging he is to be used. He mutters deliriously in Snow White’s ear that he’ll bring all his friends next time, so that they could use this perfect whore. Snow White keeps his gaze on the ceiling, and like clockwork, moans high-pitched, as the man thrusts inside him in inconsistent thrusts.
“You’re so fucking hot,” the man says, as he licks Snow White’s painstakingly-done shimmer away. “I want to make you mine, and keep you fucking chained on my bed everyday.” He grunts, and as if what he’s saying has renewed his vigor, Snow White clings to the headboard as the thrusts grow rougher. “You like that? Fuck, if only I could fuck you without this fucking rubber, you’d be full of my babies.”
Snow White only moans in response. That’s the thing his best clients know: they’d never hear him talk both in and out of the room. Just an obedient whore who moans as he’s being railed in his holes.
“Fuck,” the man pants. Snow White can’t seem to see his face. “You’re the fucking best, baby. The best fucking whore in this city…” He groans as he leans on Snow White’s chest riddled with his bite marks. “I’m going to pull out.”
Snow White doesn’t even feel a thing. Distantly, in his mind, he thinks of the breakfast he has to prepare soon.
Freshly showered from all the dirt hours ago, Shirae stares as he sits in front of his mirror at home, hours later. He gazes contemplatively at the bite marks on his chest. The client didn’t even let up his chewing on his arms, either. Some are blooming red, and the fox-eyed man winces as he tries to put ice packs on it. He rolls his eyes in quiet irritation.
He glances at the clock on his bedside table, where it says 4:30 AM. The warm figure on his bed, bundled up in a burrito, snoozes the day away, and Shirae feels a smile slip on his face. He then takes a quiet, deep breath, and wears an old oversized hoodie from his teens discarded on the carpeted floor, framing past his knees. This was one of the only treasures he has from his old life, and even now, it brings him undeniable comfort after a hard day at work.
He kisses the bundle of blankets on his bed before he leaves the room, his soft, padded footsteps on the wooden floor determined to not leave a sound that might disturb the slumbering figure.
Shirae lives in a quaint, small one-bedroom apartment downtown by the seashore. He loves his idyllic life here, but at the wee hours of the morning, all he can smell and hear is the soft salty breeze of the waves crashing on the sand. He walks by his grandmother’s picture frame by the hallway and presses a kiss on his palm and lays it on the smiling figure.
Before he starts cooking, he opens his old vinyl player from his grandmother, and plays a song on low to keep himself awake. He then heads toward the pantry and picks out breakfast for today: blueberry pancakes with sunny-side up eggs, and strawberry toast.
As he mixes the flour, he gazes towards the pots of plants decorating his small home, deciding that he would be watering them again before going to sleep. When his grandmother was alive, she’d be the one who would water her plants every morning without fail. But it’s been a year, and Shirae has found comfort in tending to the plants she left behind.
Their apartment looks like a small forest by the sea. Which, speaking of, the morning sun now peeks from the horizon, and Shirae could see it from here on his wide, coastal windows leading to the balcony. Shirae starts frying the blueberry pancake flour as the kitchen and dining area is filled with blue and pink hues.
He then proceeds to make the toasts. The little one has been requesting them every day, after being taken care of by their neighbor last time, an elderly woman by the name Julia, their landlord, but also a kind, gentle yet fierce woman. She’s incredibly kind to Shirae and his little family, and was a friend to his grandmother before her untimely passing. Julia has been buying strawberries from the local market, after talking to one of their farmers.
Shirae likes his life at day. He’s worked hard to achieve this, and he hopes he gets to keep this peace. It’s quite a routine, especially since his grandmother isn’t here anymore, but it’s nothing compared to his life before. He’ll be sleeping after this, and will be waking at 11 in time to fetch the little one from his classes. As he tends to his grandmother’s forest, he thinks of stopping by their shop at the market. While their worker, Ethan, already had it covered, he still would like to pop in every day to see how things are, especially when Valentines is coming up and people from all over town would come stop by their shop for their bouquet orders. Afterwards, he’ll be going to his shift at Saffron Feast–the local Indian restaurant downtown, where his boss is strict but fair, and work as a waiter, until his shift at Eden’s.
Shirae knows deep in his heart that this isn’t what he dreamt of when he was a child. But he knows he has it better than most. And he fought tooth and nail to build this life, and while he may not always be comfortable, what’s important is that he could provide a roof and shelter for his little one.
The little one just turned nine last December. He’s growing up a giggly, lovely little boy. The light of Shirae’s life. The one and only reason why he keeps going.
Mindlessly, he tried to lean over the table as he painted a smiley face with strawberries and syrup on the pancake. Shirae suddenly winced as the pain flared up on his hips. He's reminded of last night. He thinks of quitting soon; after all, he’s put three years into the business already. Their savings was nearly depleted by his grandmother’s cancer last year, but he’s always put investment into the little one’s education and emergency funds anyway. He can handle not having to work at night; he just wants to finish this month. He’s promoted to supervisor at the restaurant as well and will start next month. He’s already talked to Vincent and Jacques anyway.
Just one more month, he thinks, as he pops a strawberry on his mouth and the tart, sour taste bursts in his mouth.
Shirae wakes up groggy to a blaring, and blearily blinks the sleep out of his eyes as he stretches over his bedside table to answer his rowdy phone. It is only 9:30 AM, but when his eyes catch the words, “Ms. Honey”, on the contact name calling him persistently, his heart jumps to his throat and immediately sits up.
“Hello?” Shirae answers, and tries not to yawn. “Sorry, I just woke up, is everything ok?”
“Hi, Mr. Kim,” the soft, mellow tone starts. “I’m sorry for waking you. It’s just that… You will need to pick up Rory now.”
“W-why?” Shirae gulps, and as he clutches his phone between his left ear and shoulder, he quickly grabs his discarded jeans on the floor. “Is everything ok?”
“Rory fought someone, Mr. Kim, and other than a bruised lip, he’s ok.” The teacher sighs, and Shirae takes a lap to the bathroom and starts brushing his teeth and washing his face. “This is the first time he’s done this, so we’re quite concerned. He’s normally the good, studious one. He’s keeping mum about why he punched his classmate during recess earlier.”
Shirae closes his eyes for a moment and leans on the bathroom mirror on the wall, trying to calm his heart. “Alright, Ms. Honey, thank you for informing me. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“No worries, Mr. Kim. Be careful on the way here.”
Shirae then pulls up in his old, beat up sedan that has seen better days, in the parking lot of Rory’s elementary school. He then hastens to leave and heads towards the faculty office with determination, car keys dangling on his jeans, where he reaches his destination and sees the lone, small figure of his son, sitting on the bench, quietly fiddling with his fingers.
Something in Shirae stops when he sees his son’s busted lip, and he doesn’t quite snap out of it until he hears the bell rings, and children and their noise starts filtering out their classrooms. Rory’s head hangs low, and his little feet swings in opposite directions, not quite reaching the floor. Shirae’s heart aches tremendously.
“Baby, what happened?” He asks gently, and kneels in front of his child. Rory’s silver eyes pierces on him, and gives him a small smile despite his swelling cut on the side of his lip.
“Hi Papa,” Rory manages, and Shirae presses a loving kiss on the side of his head as he envelops him in a hug. “Aw, my baby. What happened to you?”
“I’m ok,” the little one says, his small childish voice muffled by Shirae’s hoodie. Shirae’s heart twists. “Breakfast was good. I loved it. And on the way to school earlier, Julia and I fed ducks,” Rory lisps, and the older gives him another kiss on his little forehead.
“Alright my love, I’m glad you loved it and that you met ducks. But I have to talk to your teacher, ok?” Shirae says, and levels once again with his son. His son’s smile and silver gaze drops to the floor, but he doesn’t say anything else. During weak moments such as this, Shirae can’t help but think of the child’s father. From his little one’s silver gaze and mannerisms of not showing their weakness or pain, Shirae knows it didn’t come from him. Shirae was such a crybaby when he was a kid; he would never think of throwing the first punch.
Seated in front of Rory’s teacher’s desk, he feels quite tense. Shirae feels a complex array of confusion, worry, and even anger all at once. This was unlike his sweet child. He knows this enough, because unlike other parents who are ignorant of their offsprings, Shirae dedicates his life to Rory. And to think he was the one who started the fight? It was unheard of.
“We finally found out why Rory threw the first punch,” Ms. Honey says, her lips set in a worried line. Shirae braces for it, like an impact upon him. “His classmate confessed. It’s because they were calling his father a…”
“A what?”
“A whore.”
Shirae is stricken. He’s quite at a loss for words. His surroundings seem to close on him. His heart is plunged into an ice-cold grip.
The teacher continues, in a grim, sad face. “I found out it was because of the classmate’s father. His mother and father were fighting over catching him at the club in the capital, and it seems like the father used you as a scapegoat, Mr. Kim. Naturally, the child targeted Rory,”
“That’s a crazy thing to say for a nine-year-old,” is what Shirae manages to come up with. “Rory doesn’t even understand that word.”
Ms. Honey nods, and behind her on the window, the sun is bright and casts a halo glow upon the children on the playground outside. “We know it’s not true.” The teacher says, slowly. “But if it was otherwise, it’s none of our business, Mr. Kim.”
The restricting hold on Shirae’s heart loosens, and he gulps. “Of course, Ms. Honey. What measures has the school taken for the children?”
“We’ll let Rory’s actions slide, but our guidance counselor will be meeting with him every Wednesday and Thursday after class for three weeks. The classmate in question as well, and they’ll meet the counselor separately.” The teacher says, serious but sympathetic. “We hope this will help the two children. I’ll also ensure Rory and the other child will not be harming one another under my watch once again.”
Rory is quiet, for once, on the shotgun. He’s strapped to his seat with his seatbelt and has a Totoro pillow nestled in between the belt and his chest, a habit Shirae’s long been doing for his safety. The cut on his lip was taken care of by the school’s nurse, and Rory hasn’t uttered a word since they left the school and just quietly grasped his father’s hand, stuck like glue to his father’s side.
Shirae can’t help but take a glance at the little boy beside him. Every time he tried to start a conversation, the young one would just hum or move his gaze away. Shirae gulps, quite at a loss in footing, with his heart tainted with worry.
“Romeo Sylvain Kim,” he starts, tone calm. “I’m not mad or angry. You haven’t talked to me since we left. I just wanted to know why you punched your classmate.”
“He called you a bad thing, Papa,” the child finally speaks, voice quite upset yet quiet. “I don’t know what it is, but he also said you were also a weirdo for wearing boy clothes.”
Shirae’s hands on the wheel tightens, and he tries not to let his frustration at the situation show. He never thought this would’ve happened to them, when Rory was this young. Maybe Shirae was quite ignorant, but children aren't supposed to know this type of stuff. Granted, he’s experienced quite heinous stuff during his childhood which has inevitably shaped him to who he is today, but he always took great care that Rory would never know what he does at night. He’d leave his things for sex work at the club. He has separate makeup sets for at work and at home. No one would even suspect a thing.
His grandmother knew, yes, but that was painful for her to know. And she only knew at her deathbed, when Shirae was taking more shifts than usual to cover her hospital expenses, and Rory was staying over Julia’s and Jacques’ more often.
All Rory knew was that he worked at night. And the child loves his father so much he never questioned it. That’s how most children are; you grow to trust the adults around you and when you first discover their lie, their world starts to break apart. Shirae has done great things to make sure Rory’s world never does.
“Is that why you threw the first punch?”
“Yes,” the boy juts out his bottom lip and tries to cross his arms on his chest. “And he cried when I punched his eye.”
“Rory,” he sighs, and parks over to the side of the empty road, overlooking the sea. “We should never resort to violence. You could’ve talked to him or ignored him. Or better yet, tell Miss Honey.”
Rory gazes away, apparently becoming more upset. Shirae envelops the younger’s palms on his hands, counting his little fingers on his lap. “Your grandmother and I never taught you to punch others to solve things,” Shirae says, voice mellow yet serious. “Didn’t Mama and I tell you? Always speak out. If they won’t stop, tell the teacher.”
“But he was hurting you Papa,” the child says, then bursts into tears. “I-I couldn’t let him s-say bad things about my Papa.”
Shirae unclips his seatbelt and scoops Rory to his lap, gently rocking his shivering child. He ran his hand over the child’s hair and back. “My love, it’s alright. A few words won’t hurt me. You don’t need to protect me.”
Rory looks up at him, his silver gaze wet with tears, but a quiet determination nestles behind it that surprises Shirae. “I will protect you Papa, always.”
Such fierce determination rocked Shirae, but he quickly gathers himself and wipes his child’s tears away gently, with the dried tears left streaks on his cheeks that have bloomed into pink puffs. “Thank you for protecting me, baby,” he whispers. “But right now, all I need is for you to depend on me, ok? You don’t need to protect me, because I’m the one protecting you.”
Rory frowns, clearly upset at his words. “Can’t we protect each other? I love you, Papa.”
So stubborn. Everyday he’s growing up so much like… Shirae stops himself and mentally shakes his head.
“I love you too, baby. But my job is to protect you. Your job is to not get hurt,” he gently boops the younger’s small little nose, and Rory blinks. “Or throw the first punch.”
“Can I throw the second?”
Such an innocent question startled a giggle out of Shirae. “Alright, if there’s no teachers around, you punch back and then run away, ok?”
Rory nods, a little smile forming on his face.
Rory falls asleep on his arms, and he pauses the film on the telly. They were on their—perhaps one hundredth—rewatch of Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet, as this was their favorite film. Of course, Shirae has memorized all the mature and violent sequences and has skipped those scenes when watching with the little one, but Rory loves Juliet and her wings, and the small kid-size angel wings hung on their bedroom door is a testament.
He gently scoops the younger one up on his arms as he pads to their bedroom from the short distance of the living room, tucking Rory in their shared bed. Rory lets out a sweet, content sigh, and Shirae leaves a kiss on his cheek.
Returning to the living room, he begins to clean up their mess from the day before. Thankfully, he doesn’t have a shift at the club tonight. His restaurant manager also let him take this leave, as Ms. Kareena’s worried over the little one after catching wind of the emergency. He met Rory a while back, when the fox-eyed would bring him to the restaurant when Julia was busy. The little one would settle behind the counter scribbling away with his crayons. Perhaps Shirae will stop by their flower shop tomorrow, as he sent Ethan a text earlier that he wouldn’t be coming.
He wanted to simply spend a day with Rory anyway, and times like a full day off with him was rare. Rory also seemed to get over the events of earlier morning, returning to his usual, noisy, bubbly, and dancing self. The younger one loves to dance to their vinyls, and has tired himself out before watching Romeo + Juliet.
Shirae ordered them some Japanese takeout as well, since sushi was one of Rory’s expensive tastes. Thank the heavens Shirae’s earning a lot now, though, and that they can afford these luxuries more than once in a month.
After tidying up, Shirae started his own nighttime routine, by showering and doing his skincare. Inside the shower, Shirae lays his head on the wall as the hot, steaming shower water runs down on him. He feels quite overwhelmed. A father of his child’s classmate claimed he knew him as a whore.
Shirae starts thinking of transferring him out to a different school. Damn, then they’d think he’s guilty of whoring himself around for work. The fox-eyed squints as his breathing steams the wall. He just wants to protect his son for as long as he selfishly could. He knows there’s a second school, albeit it’s near the capital and much more expensive due to it being private, but Shirae doesn’t know of any other options he has left; he just wants Rory to have a good education.
Tomorrow, he thinks, he’ll go to Eden. He doesn’t know who the father is, to which he curses himself for his stupidity. He should’ve asked what the father looks like. While Shirae doesn’t remember his customers, he can ask his manager or their bouncers for that particular man. Better yet, he’ll quit. He can look for another job elsewhere. He doesn’t want more chances of potentially subjecting his son to shame.
His heart twists at the thought of Rory being bullied just because of him. And while no one knows, what if people get tangible proof that he is a whore? What would happen to Rory then? Julia doesn’t even know. The clerk at their local convenience store doesn’t. His manager at the Saffron Feast doesn’t as well. He’s managed to keep it under wraps by going to work in the city. What if not only his classmates, but other people as well will hurt Rory for the actions of his father?
He turns the shower off and numbly dries himself off and wears his pajamas waiting on his sink. But as he opens his door to the bedroom, his instincts suddenly heighten as he vaguely hears a thud outside the hallway leading to the living room and dining area. He feels the hair on his skin stand as he hears quiet pitter-patters in his living room.
Shirae’s instincts sharpening and his gut feeling heavier, he listens in on the thud, waiting for more noises. He quietly creeps towards the cupboard on his right, and reaches for his glock safely hidden where Rory couldn’t reach up above.
He’s carried this since he left his childhood home, something he couldn’t get the heart to dispose of. Shirae supposes that deep beneath what he tells himself, he needed to protect his family this way—as he always has—since he was a child himself.
As he feels the glock’s heavy and cold metal settle in his palms, he breathes to keep himself calm and focus. He loads the magazine up into the mag and starts quietly walking with his back to the wall, leaning over the edge to see the living room. The living room is still as dim as he left it, but through the lights of his porch and the windows of the living room, he could see a dark silhouette messing on the door.
The lock on the door clicks open, and Shirae grabs the top metal slide of the gun and pulls it backwards, and the gun clicks.
The door quietly opens, and Shirae frowns as he sees a drunken bastard slobber all over his floor, moaning out his name. “Snow White… Where the fuck are you…”
The fox-eyed tries to steady his breath. He doesn’t know this man, and judging by his dirty and messy appearance, with no ring on his finger, and his hands clutching an old, rickety phone and wallet, this seemed like a client that couldn’t order his services. Shirae may not remember his audiences, but he does remember those who want a private session. Well, vaguely, anyway. As much as he can remember, he mostly disassociates during those sessions. For the second time today, he curses himself for not remembering them.
“Snow White… Won’t you give me a chance?” The man blinks, and he pants as he sees Shirae in front of him, with a gun pointed at him, a few feet away. Shirae can smell the liquor off of him.
“Oh, baby…” The man licks his lips, and Shirae calmly speaks, trying to keep his fear and tension under wraps. “Get the fuck out of my house or I’ll call the police.”
“Police?” The man stands up from his knees, and rummages through his disgusting, aged brown leather wallet. “Would they even believe you? A whore? Speaking of which, I’d like to order a fuck.” His rough, slurring voice mocks, and drops a couple of dollars and coins on Shirae’s feet.
“Get the fuck out of my house.” Shirae repeats again, voice ice-cold and firm.
“I followed you home yesterday… I’ve been watching you all day. Waiting. And I can’t believe it…” The man sickeningly grins up at him, and the moonlight from outside shines on the silhouette of this man. Shirae couldn’t feel but hot, white anger pulse through him at the intruder’s next words. “You have a child…”
“Get out!” Shirae screams, his voice shrill. “Or I’ll fucking shoot!”
The old man simply disgustingly laughs, holding his big stomach, his suit a mess and there’s a blotched alcohol stain mark on his chest. He even has a fucking boner tenting on his pants. “Maybe he can watch, while I fuck you—“
The shot is deafeningly loud, and Shirae’s ears ring from the impact of the bullet. He saw the man drop to the floor, bleeding into his carpet, and he couldn’t hear anything. He stands there, momentarily frozen, until he feels it all come back to him when Julia’s kind, wrinkly face beams up at him, worried.
“My child! Are you ok? Were you hurt?” The old woman holds his cheeks, and Shirae blinks. “It’s ok, he’s dead. Do you want to call the police?” She asks, in her raspy, yet worried and urgent voice.
Shirae holds his forehead and tries to steady himself from the nausea. The dark, crimson, blood has soaked Rory’s favorite carpet. That’d be a pain to clean.
“I don’t want to call the police,” Shirae shakes his head, and breaks out of the old woman’s hold. He mutters, staring at the blood, his adrenaline crashing. “We don’t have security cameras here, this is the quiet side of town, they might find out I’m a prostitute and they’ll take Rory away from me.”
“I can be the witness.”
“No, Julia, I don’t want to burden you with this.”
Shirae starts pacing, as he sets the gun down on the table. “Alright, I’ll help you hide the corpse. Is the child ok? Did he wake up?”
At the mention of ‘child’, Shirae snaps, and he turns to Julia with widened eyes and a paling face. “Julia… I—“
To his utter shock, Julia just smiles at him. “I know, child. Who do you think opens your porch light at night to welcome you home after work?”
He couldn’t help it. Shirae starts sobbing and breaks down on the floor, crying in his hands. He tries to quiet his voice down in fear of waking up Rory, but the shot might’ve already done it. He feels utterly useless. Shirae hasn’t protected Rory one bit. He’s a danger to his child, and he doesn’t want to admit that aloud. He feels Julia’s warm arms envelop around him, and he cries even more, brokenly, like a child.
Julia gently shushes and rocks him, like how he did with Rory earlier at the car. “It’s okay, we’ll figure this out. But first, we have to check on your son, ok?”
Shirae nods, and hiccups as he tries to reign in his cries. He hasn’t cried for so long, and he never wanted to be vulnerable in front of another person. But he wants to check on Rory.
As they open the door to their shared bedroom, they both sigh in relief when they see Rory sprawled on their bed, limbs entangled on the sheets like a starfish, with drool on his cheeks.
“Good thing I trained him to sleep while vacuuming when he was a baby,” Shirae mutters, but he feels his heart settle at the sight of his unharmed child.
Julia just squeezes his shoulder, and they quietly close the door.
“I’ve cleaned up a corpse before, so this’ll be quick,” Julia winks at him, and Shirae blinks when he realizes the old woman is unperturbed in the whole situation. All he knew was that Julia was a cook before and didn’t start a family. “C’mon, I’ll help you.”
After cleaning all remnants of the intruder in their home, before Shirae knew it, they were burying the intruder in Julia’s backyard. The neighborhood was quiet, like nothing happened, with the crickets load and the water roaring, reflecting how Shirae’s home was left suspended in an icy standstill. Conveniently, since few people lived by the shore and they lived by the cliff overlooking the sea separated from the others, Julia reassures him no one heard them amidst the waves against the shoreline.
“No one will know except us, my child.” Julia throws the butt of her cigarette at the corpse, haphazardly thrown on the hole Shirae dug. The corpse also had no family, after Shirae tried to search for him online, and rummaged through his wallet. Maybe he was just really a miserable drunken bastard who sold his money to the club’s casino. “I doubt the police will come knocking too. No one’ll come look for him, trust me.”
“How are you so sure?” Shirae’s head feels like cotton. He doesn’t know what to think except to get Rory out of this place. The idyllic peace he’s once combed for them is shattered.
The doubt and fear is seizing his heart. What if his child will always be in danger because of him? How long can he protect him? How long can he protect Rory from himself?
“I killed my husband after he raped me for the third time.” Julia grins at him, toothily. “I buried him here too. They all thought I was a crazy old woman after my husband left, hearing me laughing at night, but they didn’t know I chopped his dick up.” Shirae couldn’t help but lay his head on Julia and wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Now here lies Bastard #1, and Bastard #2,” Julia laughs. Bastard #2 has a bullet hole square in his chest, right at his heart. Julia praised him for the sharp aim.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Shirae quietly says.
The old woman’s shoulders fell. She gently pats his cheek, like how his mother would when she’d comfort him. “I’m alright now. C’mon, child, cover them up now.”
“Of course I’d babysit my favorite Rory here, no worries!” Jacques grins at him, as he blows bubbles onto Rory’s cheeks, to which the child giggles at. “I’m the only Rory you know Uncle Ja-ki!”
Shirae feels a smile grace his lips, staring at the sight of them. After the events of last night, he couldn’t simply let Rory stay at their home any longer. He doesn’t want to endanger him or Julia anymore. So, for the first time in his life, he lied to his son by waking him up in the middle of the night, saying he’ll spend a whole day at his favorite uncle (his only uncle), who wants to see him so early in the morning.
Thankfully, Jacques just came home from his shift at the club that night, and has no other ventures for the rest of the day. He lives near the capital, about a 30-minute drive from theirs, and he’s a second year medical student by day. How the blonde manages that, Shirae never knows. It was also a Saturday morning, so there’s no classes for both of them.
As they settle in the kitchen and leave Rory watching The Incredibles in Jacques’ living room, Jacques makes him tea, to which Shirae feels grateful for. He’s eaten so little since the whole ordeal, and only stopped by a fastfood restaurant for the little one on the way here.
“Girl, what the hell happened to you? You look like hell ran over you.”
Shirae knows he can trust Jacques with their lives. After all, the blonde once saved Rory from his whooping cough when he was a baby. They’ve grown tight since then.
“An intruder broke in…” Shirae frowns. “He was a client.”
“Of yours?”
“Of the club.” The fox-eyed shakes his head. “I don’t remember him. He stalked me for a day and threatened Rory.”
“Fuck… And then?” Jacques sits down in front of him, his hand on Shirae’s wrists comfortingly.
“I killed him.”
“Oh shit.” The blonde’s jaw drops. Shirae looks away from his shocked countenance. Because of shame? Guilt? Honestly, Shirae’s on autopilot, trying to make sure Rory’s safe. “I mean, as you should. But how?”
“I have a gun. Someone gave it to me when I was fourteen for self-defense.” Shirae sighs, trying to tighten his hold on the mug, feeling the warmth on his hands, grounding him. “I always kept it loaded just in case. Never thought I’d use it again though.”
Jacques wordlessly brings him to his arms, and Shirae melts onto the younger one’s hug. After what felt like a long minute, the older one separates from the warmth of the hug.
“What’ll you do now?”
“I have a favor to ask of you,” Shirae bites his lip, the guilt weighing heavy on his chest. He has never asked someone else for help before, but he’s at his wit’s end. He can’t do this alone, but he can’t endanger Julia anymore either. Jacques might be the safest bet since he lives in a crowded area in one of the condominiums near his university. Shirae tries to ask Julia to come move in with him for her safety, but the old woman just simply waves him off and claims she has her own shotgun. “Can we stay here for a while as I look for a new space to rent? I’m scared that more of our clients know where I live and who knows what they'll do to my child.”
“Of course,” Jacques doesn’t even try to blink. “I can also help you look around. I know a couple of people with places for rent.”
For the second time this day, Shirae is overcome by a set of emotions. He just tearfully smiles at Jacques, to which the younger one just brings him into a comforting hug once again.
Strangely enough, there are no bouncers standing guard outside Vincent's office when he enters. Balding, pale-skinned, and grimy Vincent’s currently busy with his own girl, who’s laying on his lap with nothing on.
“Hey Snow,” the girl, Annie, greets him with a lopsided smile on her face. “You don’t have your outfit on?” She eyes him with a critical look at his grey cardigan and sweatpants.
Shirae simply raises an eyebrow. To anyone else, he’s quite irritable. Annie lets out an annoyed huff at his reaction, and Vincent condescendingly pats the top of her head like a pet.
“I quit.”
“Oooh,” Annie coos, mocking. “I quit,”
Vincent, the old man, laughs at his face. Shirae’s eyebrows twitch. But as they see him not breaking into a laugh at all, he sobers up. “Wait, you’re fucking serious?”
“I am.”
“What the fuck,” Vincent splutters, his fingers almost dropping his fat tobacco on the floor. “Why the fuck are you quitting?!”
“I am already quitting this month. I just want to hasten it and end it today.” Shirae arches his eyebrow once again. “And you’ll give me the pay you owe me. You’ve been hoarding them the past two months for your fucking horse shows.”
Vincent roars and hits the table. Annie gasps between the two of them. “You’re fucking pissing me off, Snow! You know how I am when I’m pissed!”
“I know, I’ve had to kick your balls once, didn’t I?” Shirae snickers. “Want me to do it again?”
The old, balding man simply glares at him, like he wishes Shirae could wither on the floor. “We have new management just days ago, Snow. I’m just their lapdog now. If you want to quit, try if you can! Be my fucking guest!” He roars, and laughs out loud like a maniac. Shirae is growing bored of this.
“I quit.” Shirae says, firm. “I don’t want to repeat myself again. Give me back my earnings, and I won’t say a word.”
“Say a word to who?” The man grins, and similarly, Shirae remembers the man in front of his gun way earlier.
Shirae clicks his tongue. “Well, if you don’t want Annie here to know how you plan to sell her off to the next old geezer to pay off your debts, then I won’t say a word.”
At that, Annie stands up, indignant, and slaps the old man before stalking away, leaving them alone. Vincent is quite aghast. “You’re testing my patience, Snow.”
“As you are with mine.”
“That’s the fifth whore you made me lose.” Vincent rubs a hand on his face, frustrated. The older man’s golden chain necklace glints in the warm light of his office. Shirae always hated going here. It always smelled like tobacco and the old man’s foul breath. “But you can’t really quit, Snow. You can just leave. I fucking told you before, didn’t the Big Boss help you land this job three years ago? When you came to the city?”
“He didn’t help me land it, he forced me into this,” Shirae clarifies, and rolls his eyes. “He found me and threatened me.”
“Well, didn’t you know he died two years ago?” At that, Vincent laughs at the shock that envelops Shirae’s countenance. “That’s right. You could’ve left this job all along,” He mocks, sadistic.
Shirae doesn’t know how long he could take any more shocks today. The boss was dead? Since two years ago? And who’s the new management? Vincent, for once, now felt an upper hand on Shirae as he grins obnoxiously.
“You have a client too, requested for you the moment they came in here earlier.” Vincent snickers, as he huffs out tobacco smoke in the direction of Shirae’s face. Shirae stays, squinting his fox eyes onto him with a cold glare. “Quite high profile. Never seen him before. He demanded you serve him with such a high price.”
Shirae hates himself. He hates himself for what he’s about to say, as he tightens his grip on the hems of his sleeves. He thinks of Rory. He bites the bullet. “How much?”
“Half a million.” Vincent smiles obscenely at him. “With that money, you could leave town, ‘no?”
Not one client has used the penthouse suite in the longest time. Ever since the end of the Long Wars, and the economy rising, Shirae has never been up here before. No one has been able to afford the price of this suite. He’s heard rumors, sure, but with how exclusive this suite is, his heart is seized with fear when he realizes that he’s separated floors below the others. But then again, would they help him? The only person Shirae is sure would help him isn’t here, he’s with his child. And Shirae’s alright with that. But he’s also sure that Vincent and the others will also leave him for dead if the client manages to drug him or kill him here.
All of the sex workers have non-descript buttons inside their rooms to alarm if a client was endangering them. Shirae had to press it more frequently than he could imagine. But as he’s climbing up the floors with nothing but babydoll lingerie on, his white pleaser sandals and his signature frosty makeup, he’s not quite sure of the layout of the room and where he could find that button.
He needs the money. Half a million is no joke. That could buy him a nice apartment in another region, even. That’d set him and Rory for the next five years. And with money like this, Shirae is sure this is a politician, or some billionaire with time to kill.
He can stomach that. Just for one night, and he’ll be free. The boss is gone, he’s contract’s up, and Rory will be safe. All for his child.
He tries to stop his shivering. After what happened last night, he’s returned to his younger self who would cower at a man’s touch.
The elevator door directly opens to the suite. Shirae gulps as he walks inside, the large expanse of the room dim with light. Like the design downstairs club and casino, the room is designed with Art Deco influences, Shirae thought to himself, letting his thoughts wander to distract himself.
A tall, broad figure of a man stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back turned, glancing at the skyline beneath them.
The man still hasn’t looked at him even as he hears his heels clack on the floor, nearing him a few feet away. He’s wearing a black suit, and he’s unbelievably tall, that he’s still taller than Shirae on heels.
“How would you want me?” Shirae speaks to the client, for the first time ever. Well, this is half a million.
The man turns, and the first thing Shirae sees is the glint of his piercing, silver-grey eyes; one that he knows so well, from waking up in the morning and seeing those same eyes blearily beam up at him. He almost drops to the floor when his knees weaken, and his heart drops at the man before him.
“There you are,” Sebastian Park says with a heavy, dark drawl, one he hasn’t heard in a decade. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”