Page 116 of Lethal in Pink

“So what’s up?” His voice has lost the sleep-gravel, shifting into the easy, alert tone he uses when he’s actually paying attention. “You sound weird.”

“I do not sound weird.”

“You sound like you’re trying not to laugh.”

I am, actually. The story is already forming in my mouth, taking shape as something between a confession and a bit, and I haven’t even decided which one it is yet. “So. You remember Amiyah?”

“The law student. The one with the death stare and the highlighters.”

“That’s the one.” I take another sip. “We had dinner last night. At her place. She cooked, which was—surprising, actually. The woman can roast a chicken. I was impressed.”

“I’m thrilled for your digestive system. Get to the point.”

“We ended up on the couch.” I pause, letting the sentence hang there with the particular weighted significance it deserves. “And at some point, she pulls out this—thing. This little compact. Pink. Rhinestones. Looks like something you’d buy at a mall kiosk.”

Kiho is quiet. I can hear the soft hum of his air conditioner through the line, the distant sound of Seoul traffic fourteen hours ahead of me.

“She tased me with it,” I say, and the laugh comes out before I can stop it—a short, genuine sound that surprises me with its own lightness. “Right in the leg. This tiny little heart-shaped thing with a bow on it, and she just—” I mime the motion with my free hand, even though he can’t see it. “Pressed it right into my thigh and fired.”

The silence on the line lasts exactly one beat too long.

Then: “That’s not normal, man.”

The flatness of his delivery is so perfectly Kiho that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing again. “Neither are American women,” I say, and I can hear my own accent thickening on the deflection, the consonants rounding at the edges the way they always do when I’m trying to sound more casual than I feel. “It was light. Barely felt it.”

“She electrocuted you.”

“Lightly.”

“Jae.”

“Kiho.”

There’s a sigh on his end, the particular exhale of a man who has known me long enough to recognize a brick wall when he hears one. “Okay. Fine. Lightly. So what happened after she lightly attempted to murder you with a bedazzled stun gun?”

“We had sex,” I say, and the laugh comes back, warmer this time. “A lot of it. Good sex. Really, really good sex.”

“Of course you did.” I can hear the eye-roll in his voice. “Naturally. She tases you, and your response is to fuck her brains out. Very healthy coping mechanism.”

“It worked out!”

“For you, maybe. She’s probably sitting in a law library right now wondering why her plan failed.”

“Her plan,” I repeat, and something in my chest does a slow, quiet pivot. “What plan?”

Another beat of silence. Shorter this time, but I catch it.

“Figure of speech,” Kiho says, his voice shifting back into its easy rhythm. “You know what I mean. She zaps you, you don’t go down, she has to pivot. Classic improv.”

“Right.” I take another sip. The coffee is officially lukewarm now, which is how I prefer it—the point where the bitterness settles into something almost comfortable. “Anyway. It was—I don’t know. Weird, but in a way that was kind of impressive? The woman has layers. I’m still finding new ones.”

“Layers,” Kiho repeats. “Sure. That’s one word for it.”

“What’s yours?”

“I’m still stuck on ‘electrocution during foreplay.’”

“It wasn’t foreplay. It was—I don’t know what it was.” I set the mug down on the nightstand, the ceramic clicking against the wood. “She said it was a kink thing. Taking control. New territory.”