Page 68 of Doubts of the Egoist (Egoist #3)
Greg didn’t argue, just paused on his way out. “By the way, Tobias shared his findings. Check your email.”
The door slammed shut, leaving Yugo in a silent room that reeked of pickle juice. Giving the glass a disdainful look, Yugo turned his attention to the screen.
It took him less than two minutes to scroll through the attached files and slam the laptop closed.
The muscles around his eyes tightened as a fireball of rage ping-ponged through his ribcage.
He automatically grabbed his smartphone and swiped at the screen, humming, realizing that he’d already used it not long ago, but only now noticing that the screen was responsive and not showing a single crack.
Greg sure is efficient. When did he even do that? The moment of appreciation distracted him, but only for a moment because the next second, he was calling Mio.
“The number you have reached is temporarily unavailable; please leave a message after the tone or try again later.” An utterly polite, mechanical voice only made him grit his teeth in impotent rage.
Pain zapped through his jaw. The scorching needles in his head morphed into white-hot rods, and the thought that he couldn’t possibly feel any worse drove his hand to the tall glass with the yellow contents.
He drained it in one go and instantly regretted his actions.
The sour and salty liquid had a pungent taste of cucumbers, vinegar, and dill.
His eyes watered, saliva turned sour, and his stomach knotted in rebellion.
He gasped, then closed his eyes, taking one small, controlled breath at a time.
“I’ll fucking kill him,” he hissed the threat into the silence once the storm in his stomach subsided, but the iron clamps around his head began to loosen, just as Greg had promised.
After a few more minutes, his nausea disappeared, taking the dizziness with it and leaving Yugo wondering if he was actually starting to feel better, or if he just thought he was because he had survived the slop.
He tried to reach Mio again with the same result, then put the phone back on the desk. It was unusual, if not suspicious, for Mio, who usually slept with his smartphone in hand, to have it turned off so late in the morning.
Is this how he punishes me? Yugo didn’t like the way they had parted.
When he’d rushed after Kuon, he forgot about his promise to stay with Mio until morning.
That bothered him, especially since he didn’t see the brat leave.
Under the circumstances, Mio or Tobias would have contacted him by now. Not hearing from them was alarming.
On cue, he called Tobias, and after two rings, a tired voice answered, “Have you seen the time?”
“It’s eleven.” Yugo rolled his eyes.
“Exactly. Like any normal gangsta, I’m sleeping,” Tobias grumbled.
“Mio’s phone is off.”
“Well… he’s also a normal gangsta.” Tobias yawned, then added, “Plus he’s sedated. Call later.”
The line went dead.
“Fucker…” Yugo muttered under his breath.
The door opened again, but this time Greg brought in a tiny cup of ristretto. He gave the empty glass a nod and a satisfied look, then proceeded to the desk.
“Finally,” Yugo said, getting to his feet. He met Greg in the middle of the room, grabbed the cup from the tray, and moaned as the burning bitterness with a touch of sourness washed away the nasty taste of the pickle juice.
The porcelain clinked as he returned the cup, rubbed his unshaven cheek, and once again scowled at Greg’s immaculate attire.
“Get me some clean clothes and make an appointment with a dentist. Also… give Kuon his things back. I can’t go in there right now.
He’ll probably kill me if I do or vice versa. ”
The next time Kuon woke up, food and meds were on the table in the middle of the room, and his clothes were back in the wardrobe.
He mindlessly pulled on a T-shirt and cargo pants.
Pain lanced through his soles with every step as he hobbled to the bathroom to wash his face.
Kuon stared at the sink for a long moment, considering using Tobias’ SIM card, but he no longer had a phone.
The useless chip remained where it was, stuck to the cold marble.
He ate without tasting anything, took his meds, and lumbered into the hallway to see if he was allowed to go out. The door was unlocked, and no one stopped him.
Kuon still felt groggy, and getting more rest sounded like a reasonable idea, but staying in the room all the time would make him act like a victim, like a prisoner. He didn’t want to give Yugo the wrong idea, so he went down the hall and into the gym to work himself stupid and numb.
Yugo avoided him. That was as clear as day, because another night came and went, but the bed remained cold on Yugo’s side.
Kuon’s patience was wearing thin. He didn’t know what he was doing here, and even training couldn’t free his mind from anxiety.
The idea of stealing a smartphone preoccupied him.
Just one call, the sound of Rick’s voice, could put his mind at ease, so he ransacked every open storage room, hoping to find an old, long-forgotten cell phone, but had no luck.
He began to think it would be easier to steal it from one of Yugo’s thugs, but Greg never relaxed in his presence, and the other men avoided him.
On the third day after their fight, he busied himself at the gym, emptying his mind on a rowing machine, but the relief didn’t last long and vanished as soon as he left the shower.
As the strawberry sunset turned the white birches golden pink, and the first stars blinked in the falling gloom, Kuon walked into the white room, lifted the blanket from the mattress, and froze at the slim smartphone buried beneath the sheets.
BA-DUMP. His heart did a somersault, adrenaline surging through his blood.
Cameras… He dropped the blanket even before his mind could process the elusive thought. Did he leave it on purpose? Is it a test?
Paranoia kicked in, but the phone was right where he’d left it. How come no one noticed it?
Either way, Kuon didn’t want to push his luck by wasting this opportunity.
He lowered onto the mattress, pulled the blanket over his head, grabbed the phone, and checked the battery.
A little less than half was more than he needed, so he punched in the first digits of Rick’s number, paused, and deleted them.
Even if the phone wasn’t tapped, Yugo would be sure to check his contact history. If he called Rick, Yugo would know and get pissed again, so he pocketed the phone, slipped out, and stole into the master bedroom.
Two minutes later, dressed in tennis shoes and sweatpants, with the phone and Tobias’ SIM card in his pocket, he left the mansion. Tobias seemed well versed in his personal affairs anyway. A call to Rick wouldn’t change anything.
Saturated with night freshness, the air chilled Kuon’s parched throat, crawled under his T-shirt.
He swallowed, and his dry tongue brushed against his equally dry palate.
Dehydration or nervous tension seemed to have suppressed his ability to salivate.
Glancing around, he stole along the external wall of the mansion, then down the familiar path leading to the rushing water.
Whipped up by countless stone rapids, water spray danced in the air and settled on his face and arms. He crouched low so that no garden light would reflect off his pale skin or gray T-shirt.
In the coolness of the rapidly darkening night, beneath a scattering of bleak stars twinkling behind dark clouds creeping in from the west, Kuon changed the SIM cards.
The smartphone picked up the signal, and for a long second, he stared at the only number stored in the memory under the name “Good Samaritan.” Another player in the game, which he didn’t understand, piqued his interest. He was tempted to ask for his help to see what conditions Tobias might set for assistance, but not enough to reveal his desperation.
Scanning his surroundings once more, he keyed in Rick’s number.
The phone rang three times… four times… then seven times, breaking the quiet night and joining the soft rumble of the river. He waited. Come on, pick up.
Just as he was about to hit the red icon, the screen flashed and connected. “Yeah?”
Kuon blinked, unable to make out his friend’s voice over the hoarse sound. “Rick?”
The call switched to video. A pale face appeared, bathed in dead blue.
Even in the gloom, Rick looked terrible.
Heavy eyes, ringed with black circles, were swollen to the point of swallowing his sclera.
A white bandage covered the bridge of his bloated nose, and his lips had an ugly wound in the corner.
His whole face looked like a piece of rotten meat in a butcher’s shop—green and gray.
The pillowcas e on which the man lay glowed in the blue light. Kuon couldn’t miss the white plastic frame of the hospital bed behind it.
“Kuon?” Rick’s eyes attempted to widen, and he tried to sit up but winced and lowered his head back onto the pillow, breathing heavily.
He dropped his hand to the mattress, and the camera focused on the tight bandage across the right side of his chest, the underside of his chin, and a pale bedsheet hugging his midsection.
“Thank fuck, I was worried sick. Are you hurt?”
Kuon shook his head. “Are you in the hospital?”
Shadows rippled over Rick’s face as he lowered his chin to look at the screen, erasing the fleeting relief of the call. “Where are you?”
Red and yellow stains marring the white bandage on Rick’s chest made Kuon’s knees wobble. “Is that blood?”
“Where are you?” Rick pressed. “Did he hurt you?”
Kuon blinked, unable to look away from the rusty splotch.
“Listen, I was shot this morning.” Rick’s cracking voice made Kuon look at his face. “I didn’t see the shooter, but the police said it was a sniper. Do you understand what I’m saying? Wherever you are, you need to leave. Give me your location; Gray will pick you up.”
Kuon’s stomach felt rock hard as it pushed the hastily swallowed food to his throat. He felt sick.
Guilt. Responsibility. Bitterness. Contrition. The river of emotions crushed his chest, and Kuon squeezed the words out of his convulsing throat. “Fuck, Rick, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. This is my fault…”
“Where are you?” The man jerked his cheek as if an apology was the last thing he wanted to hear. “Give me your location.”
Kuon stopped listening. Heavy drums pounded in his ears as his entire being turned into a boiling magma of rage. He couldn’t believe that after that shitshow with the gun, Yugo would dare to break his word. “That motherfucker… Stay safe. I’ll call you back.”
“No, wait…” Rick shouted, but Kuon had already cut the connection.
In that moment, he finally understood Yugo, as for the first time in his life, he experienced what he’d so often seen in those gunmetal eyes—darkness.
He realized why the Black Duke did what he did with such effortless cruelty.
In that pitch-black darkness, no emotion survived but hate.
Tobias’ words, spoken in the middle of the night, echoed in his mind, “When you love something with passion and believe in it with all your heart, disappointment kills. It only takes one step for love to turn into hatred.”
Kuon snorted, thinking how accurate they were, because right now he hated Yugo with a passion.