I looked at Arthur, but he wasn't looking at me. His face was turned towards the door, and I saw the way a smile curved on his lips. "Officer," He said.

"Hello, Arthur. Mind if we have a word?" The man asked.

"Sammy. Hello. How could I mind?" King said, his eyes darting back to me. "See you later, tough guy?" King asked, pearly whites shining at me.

I hesitated for a moment, wanting to ask why in the name of God was the police there and why were they on a first-name basis. I didn't want to go, but I convinced myself it wasn't any of my damn business.

I walked past Sammy, whoever the hell Sammy was, and headed towards the stairs. But I didn't leave. It wasn't my business why the man was there, but why the hell was he calling the cop Sammy?! I wasn't jealous; obviously, I just wanted to know what type of relationship they had. And maybe Sam-the-Cop knew something about why Arthur got hospitalized. Nothing more.

I tip-toed my way back next to King's room and placed my head next to the door.

"It's not really like that." King laughed. "Oh, god, your face is priceless."

"Seriously, Arthur, what was it?"

"I'm fairly sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"So, you're here because all the perfume you wear intoxicated you?" Sam asked. I almost laughed.

"No, Tom Ford would never do that to me." Ah yes, name dropping, never imagined King to be the sort.
"Why are you here? It can't be because you love me, oh so much. Listen, Samuel; I don't care if you're dating my sister. But my business is my business, and you can keep your nose out of it." 

"It's not called dating when you're engaged. I know your family is…"

"Sam. Hush." I heard a rustle of sheets and footsteps on the floor. "Don't be so self-righteous; you're going to be part of this family soon."

Sam sighed, the sort of sigh that came from years of frustration. "Whatever, Arthur. I'm still waiting for those files you promised."

"I'll send someone."

I walked away before Sam-the-Cop could get the change of apprehending me. I was curious about everything, though. Arthur King became more of an enigma in my head than he was before. I told myself to walk away from all the red flags waving desperately at me.

I liked dangerous men; that was something that fucked me over time and time again, but it was the only lesson I was still unwilling to learn. It reminded me of the first time I dated a guy when I was about sixteen, and that loser was about ten years older. He drove one of those old school motorcycles and had a tattoo. It ended badly, mainly for me. Eventually, I got over him and started dating a college student that happened to be a part-time drug dealer – and not the fun kind of drugs. That asshole locked me out of my own house and kidnapped my cat. After that, it was a long series of dating on Grindr and a lot of time spent receiving dick pics from torso-men.

King was probably involved in something illegal. He was rich – ridiculously rich – and peculiar. Still, after all this, I felt a sort of odd loyalty. I didn't want to disappoint him and not show up at my new job. Maybe just one night, see how it goes. Nobody was forcing me to sign my life away to King's club.

Arthur King knocked at my door at precisely 7:00 PM. He was sharp, wearing all black and looking expensive. He was wearing glasses, and I wasn't sure if he did it because it made him look smart, or because he needed them. Most importantly, I never gave him my address.

"Hello, Tristan." He smiled. "Please, don't be so shocked. I'm fairly sure I offered dinner and a ride to the club."

"Weren't you in the hospital?"

"No institution can hold me," he said. "Plus, I hate hospitals; they smell like chlorine and medicine. You're not ready, I see."

I realized that I was hardly presentable, in shorts and an old tank top. At least I had my bunny slippers to save me from the humiliation of being seen almost naked by my future boss and possible romantic interest. Fucker, he could've called. If it were so easy for him to find out where I live, it probably would've been just as easy to find my number. Of course, it wouldn't have been so dramatic.

"No. I'm really not," I said. "I'm frying eggs."

"Throw them out," he said. "And invite me in, maybe? Unless you want me to wait here until you're done dressing."

"Sorry." I chuckled and stepped away from the door. "Unfortunately, my place isn't all that impressive."

"It's charming," Arthur said.

I didn't throw out my eggs, I'm not a madman, but I did save them for later. I found a somewhat appropriate attire and combed my hair. King smiled, so I must've done something right.

"I drove here," Arthur said.

Of course, he did.

I was half expecting him to drive a hot red Ferrari. Instead, in front of my dilapidated apartment building, a beautiful, matte black Chevrolet Corvette Stingray was parked.

"You like it?" King asked. "I saw it in Business Insider, and I had to have it."

"I ugh, I do," I said. "Where are you going?"

"Hm. I have to admit I didn't think that far ahead. What kind of food do you like?"

"I should say something outrageous just to see your reaction."

"Please," King said. "If you want to take a plane to Chicago to get Chicago deep-dish pizza, I'll do it."

"What if I want sushi from Japan?" Arthur laughed. "Well, it might take a while, but sure." He shrugged.

A part of me was a bit irritated with him, maybe because he was so frivolous with his money, or maybe because of the fake modesty. I decided to follow my life motto – if someone gives, you take. I wasn't an independent can-do woman from a rom-com that says no to the rich man because she can do it herself. Nah, I wanted to be pampered before returning to my shitty apartment and my boring life.

"I don't believe you." I teased him. King laughed; he probably knew what I was doing.

"If I like you enough, I'll let you pick where you want to go next time. Hell, we can even throw darts at a map and go there for lunch."

I laughed too. "And if you don't like me?"

King shrugged lazily. "McDonald's, probably. You still haven't told me what you want to eat. Italian?"

"Everyone gets Italian. Be original; you have dyed hair. I bet you can think of something."

King squinted his eyes, amused, and pretended to think. "Ok, hotshot. You wanted different," he said.

King drove for about half an hour before stopping in front of a Chinese restaurant. He was friends with the waitresses, all of them, and he knew how to pronounce all their names without making a fool out of himself. He was, I found out soon enough, friends with the owner too. King talked to the proprietor, an Asian man in his late 50s. Besides his wrinkles, there were hardly any other clues indicating his age. His hair was still dark, and he was lean like a dancer.

He greeted King in what sounded like Korean. To my astonishment, King answered. They talked for a couple of moments, but unfortunately, the dramas I watched during college didn't help one bit. The man nodded, happily, and turned towards me. "You're King's friend?" His English was surprisingly good, with just a slight trace of an accent.

"Yes."

"Great, nice to meet you," he said, without introducing himself or asking for my name. "Follow me, both of you."

So we did, out of the main dining room, towards the kitchen. The man opened the large fridge where the meat was stocked, and we all walked in. If this was some assassination waiting to happen, I didn't like it. I wanted to die fabulously, at 89, in my bed, eating my favorite cereals – which are Cocoa Puffs.

But I didn't die. Instead, the man opened a trap on the floor, and King walked through it.

"Is this like… a mob movie?" I asked.

"No," King said. "Come on; I promise it's going to be great. Thank you, Yeong-Gi."

"Have a great time, mister King." 

I followed King into the unknown, as the poets would say. But the abyss wasn't waiting for me downstairs. Nor was it dark. There were lights and smoke, and the whole place was probably a fire hazard. The music was loud, and I think naked people were lounging on couches.

"Welcome," Arthur smiled. "To my favorite club. It might surprise you, but the duck here is excellent."