Page 16 of When Worlds Collide (Between Worlds #2)

“ G ood morning from the future!” I chirped as Becka’s face filled my screen.

“Babes, that was funny the first couple of times. Now it’s just a bit sad.” Becka rolled her eyes at me.

“Yowch, what crawled up your butt today?” I leaned back against the plump sofa cushions, pulling my leg up so I could rest my phone on my knee and hold my coffee in my other hand.

I watched as Becka similarly slumped back against the sofa in our – her – apartment, and a twinge of homesickness speared through me.

“Honestly, this whole week has been such a shit-show,” she sighed, wiping a hand down her face, not bothering to be careful of her makeup.

“Wanna talk about it?” I tried to be sympathetic. Becka did not do well in isolation. She needed people to vent to, and as I’d moved across the world, I felt guilty I couldn’t be there for her.

“Actually no.” She waved a hand, as if metaphorically waving away her troubles. “Tell me about your perfect life.” Becka peered at the screen. “Where’s the idol? Tearing petals off roses to toss over the bed sheets? Writing a love song about you?”

I laughed. “He did all of that already.” Well, he’d tossed me around the bed sheets this morning, before singing in the shower; it was basically the same thing. My body ached in ways that made me smile.

“I see that smirk, Thompson,” Becka grouched. “Your delirious happiness is sickening.”

Coming from anyone else, that might have stung, but as it was my best friend in the whole wide world, I just matched her eye roll with one of my own.

“Where is he, then? Not left you to fend for yourself, surely?”

“He’s at the gym.” I absently bit at my thumb nail.

“Stop biting your nails,” Becka scolded.

I held up my hand in surrender. “Yes mother.”

“Speaking about moms,” Becka sidesteps, “have you spoken to yours yet?”

I pulled a face.

“Babes! You’ve been there for days! Why haven’t you called your folks yet?”

“I haven’t found the time!” I protested.

More like, I hadn’t come up with an acceptable way to explain to them that not only had I lost the job I already flew half-way around the world to take, but oh, I’ve now flown the rest of the way around the world to shack up with my famous, but secret boyfriend.

Oh, and that thing I went to university for, studied for years and spent thousands of pounds on? Yeah, nah, I don’t wanna do that anymore, either.

Yes, I can see that going well.

“I just need a moment to breathe,” I said. “It’s kind of a lot of information. I need to figure out how to relay it all without sounding like I’ve lost my mind and been human trafficked.”

“Babes, you’re over-thinking it. Your folks just want to know you’re safe and happy. Call them.”

I groaned. “I know, I know. I will.”

“Okay, lecture over, tell me what you did last night that stopped you calling me – unless it’s yet more sex, in which case I don’t need to know!”

I laughed, “‘Yet more’?”

“I just assume you’re spending every waking moment making up for lost time,” she shrugged.

She wasn’t completely off the mark. Everything was very… intense at the moment.

“For your information,” I began, “we went to a private screening in the hotel’s cinema.”

There really was no way to deliver this kind of information in a tone that was anything but smug, especially when going for casual.

Becka sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Of fucking course you did. My, how the other side live.” She sighed again. “What was it? Korean art nouveau? Some fancy, rich people noir film?

I giggled, almost sloshing my coffee. “Good grief, Becka. He’s a singer, not a Rothschild. No, we watched scary movies, seeing as how it was Friday the 13th.”

“Oh fuck, is it?” Becka looked at her smartwatch, reminding me that for her, it still was Friday the 13th.

“That explains the absolute horror of today.” I watched as Becka stood up suddenly and walked around the sofa and into the kitchenette.

I heard her open the cabinet where we – she.

I didn’t live there anymore – stored the wine.

“That bad, huh?”

“Not great.” She pulled down a glass and set the phone down to open the bottle. “I wasn’t going to bring it up, but fuck it, it’s probably your fault.”

Before I could get out more than an indignant splutter, she continued.

“TK has gone AWOL and Celine is positively spitting blood. She’s been a complete bitchface all week, but especially today, so something’s obviously going on.”

The news hit me like two punches to the gut. “What do you mean he’s gone ‘AWOL’?”

Pouring wine into her glass, Becka didn’t look up as she said, “Literally that. We’ve had to cancel or reschedule his bookings.” She picked up her glass and took a swallow. “And the chief has been in every day this week.”

Liam Fenway, the Chief Operations Officer that had come in specifically to fire me when I’d been caught with Jihoon.

I really didn’t want to care about Pisces business. I mean, I wasn’t even in the same country anymore. But, coupled with Jihoon’s hours of meetings with his company this week, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that something was occurring and it was a direct result of that one kiss.

“Oh, bloody hell,” I said, suddenly so tired of this shit.

“Tell me about it,” Becka sympathised.

“Do you know anything about what’s going on?” I was starting to get that familiar throbbing feeling behind my eye that usually happened when I was stressed.

“Probably less than you do,” Becka sighed before falling silent. I watched as she pushed her wine glass across the counter with her fingers, her mouth pulled down in an unhappy frown. I recognised that face.

“Becka, spit it out.” I already knew what was coming.

“Ky, is he worth-”

“Yes.” My response was immediate, cutting her off mid-question, but the brevity didn’t stop me from hearing the rest of the question that she barrelled on with, as though she hadn’t heard me.

“- because you know this isn’t where it ends. What happens when people find out?”

“We’ll deal with it,” I said tightly.

“Who? Because he has a whole team of managers and a global, billion-dollar company. Who’s behind you?”

“He is.”

But for just a second, I felt a tiny crack in my conviction, like a window that had been left open slightly, just enough that you can feel a cold breeze coming through. And it wasn’t because I didn’t believe in Jihoon, but if I couldn’t even convince Becka, how would we convince anyone else?

Becka was silent as she considered my response.

I watched her think over my answer as I gave her the space to take in my words.

This is how it always was with us. She’d get in her head about something and consider it from all the worst possible angels until she’d spill over with unsolicited advice.

She knew she did it, and she was constantly apologising for it.

But it came from a place of love, and though I hadn’t always known that, or been able to give her grace for it, I knew now it was because she cared more than her words implied.

Eventually, she looked back at the phone where I sat waiting for her.

“I’ve been paying attention, babes. I’ve seen how this usually goes for the women who date celebrities. Even other celebrities. It’s always worse for the women.”

I fought the urge to bite my nails, a nervous habit I was always trying to combat, and only sometimes succeeding.

“I know.” I admitted, I’d seen the same stories.

They were everywhere – cautionary tales of two people who dared to be together, and it was almost always the woman who got the most criticism.

The most scrutiny. The most hate. And while neither of us said it, it was especially true of the K-Pop industry.

Dating bans weren’t only to preserve the appearance of availability of the performer – it was also to protect them.

Seeing that I wasn’t going to offer any further response – what could I say? – Becka picked up her glass of wine and the phone, and I watched as she moved back over to the sofa.

“Next episode?” she asked, propping her phone up.

“Yup.” I reached for the remote and, signing into Netflix, clicked onto the next episode of Married at First Sight.

By mutual agreement, we put aside the things we could not change, and focused on the thing we could: catching up on our favourite show.

After Becka and I had finished catching up, she’d gone to bed, and I’d similarly retreated back to the comfy, massive bed Jihoon and I had shared for nearly a week.

Except, instead of going for a nap, I’d dragged my laptop with me, intending to catch up on some industry news.

Just because I wasn’t currently working in music, didn’t mean I didn’t want to stay involved, even if from a distance.

I bookmarked a few articles I wanted to read later, just little things here-and-there that interested me, that I thought would perhaps make good blog subjects.

But, one errant click led to another, and suddenly, I’d managed to fall down an internet rabbit hole of clicking on one news article, then another, and another.

There was some new kind of flu spreading around, and while it was currently predominantly in China, there was some speculation that the holiday season would spread it around.

I was all prepared to dismiss it, but the phrase ‘novel virus’ kept leaping off the page at me.

I’d always liked history at school, and I remembered an obscure fact from when we’d briefly studied the Spanish influenza outbreak.

This seemed to be a different kind of virus, but they’d called that virus ‘novel’ as well.

For some reason, it stuck with me – the idea that there was a new virus out there, somewhere, that no one had any immunity to.

But, then I got sidetracked by a scrolling headline that the indie band Jumping Jacks were going on tour next year, and I was swept away back into the media section. I knew a member of their touring team, and I wondered if she was still with them. I made a mental note to give her a call.

Just then, I heard the suite door open and close.

A few heartbeats later, Jihoon turned the corner and strolled through the doorway from the living room.

I looked up. And then up. And up. My greedy eyes took executive control as they traced the line of his body from his grey sweatpants to his t-shirt, fully admiring the way it clung to his body as he pulled his hoodie off and over his head.

I watched the way his muscles contracted with the movement, obvious even through the fabric, and when he’d discarded his hoodie and met my eyes, I didn’t bother to disguise the way I was checking him out.

His face twisted into a predatory smirk, somehow still devastating through the flush of his cheeks, and frankly made more so by the sheen of sweat on his neck.

“See something you like?”

In answer, I put aside my laptop and crooked my finger at him.