Dirty Laundry (36 page)

“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I? I’ve even eaten the shitty Jell-O they put on your plate so you don’t have to,” I reminded him. “I’m not going anywhere, Kim Jae-Min.”

“
Agi
?” The time spent drugged out of his mind had taken a toll on his face. His skin was drawn tight across his cheekbones, and he’d lost some weight, sharpening his features until they were nearly vulpine.

“In case it was lost in all of this,
I love you, jagiya
.”

It was fantastic to hear. Despite the R2-D2 orchestra playing the salsa behind us, those were words I needed to hear… wanted to hear. Even sweeter was the kiss he gave me, a slow brush of his mouth, the chap of skin rough on my chin.

“I love you too,” I whispered into his mouth. “But no more getting shot. I don’t think I can take it.”

R
HYS
F
ORD
was born and raised in Hawai’i, then wandered off to see the world. After chewing through a pile of books, a lot of odd food, and a stray boyfriend or two, Rhys eventually landed in San Diego, which is a very nice place but seriously needs more rain.

Rhys admits to sharing the house with three cats, a black Pomeranian puffball, a bonsai wolfhound, and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep of a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a Qosmio laptop, and a red Hamilton Beach coffeemaker.

Visit Rhys’s blog at http://rhysford.wordpress.com/ or e-mail Rhys at [email protected].

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