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dazed--xx · 3 years ago

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Mr. & Mrs. Jeon (1)

MR & MRS SMITH screenplay written by Simon Kinberg/ Novelization by Cathy East Dubowski

T/W: Assassinations, guns, suggested sexual content, crumbling marriage, anything else i did not mention

A/N: I DID NOT WRITE THIS THE AUTHORS ARE LISTED ABOVE. I was definitely watching Mr. & Mrs. Smith and just saw Jungkook as John so often i needed this version so bad but again i did not write this i changed the names but THATS ALL I DID and im not claiming to have written this again the authors are put up.

FIRST SESSION, MR. AND MRS. JEON

I allow Mr. and Mrs. Jeon to settle into their seats. I smile at them over my glasses, then spend a few moments offering them coffee or tea (both decline), opening their file, selecting a pen from my pen holder\ polishing my glasses—a technique that allows my clients a chance to settle in and relax before I ask the first question.

MR. JEON: "Okay. First up, I want to say we don't really

NOTE: Mr. Jeon is already leaning forward, anxious to make

something clear.

need to be here—"

NOTE: Yes. A lot of people begin this way.

MRS. JEON (smiling): "Actually it's a funny story."

MR. JEON (chuckling): We were at a charity event, a church

auction slash barbecue—"

MRS. JEON: "—our friends the Coleman’s. They live next

door. Devout—"

MR. JEON: "Episcopalians."

MRS. JEON: "Presbyterians."

NOTE: Slight discrepancy. Nothing to worry about. Unless . . .

ah, yes. A little frown passes between them.

MR. JEON: "Anyway, the grand lot was—"

MRS. JEON: "—a mystery lot."

MR. JEON: "I'd sunk a few, wasn't driving—"

MRS. JEON: "A few?"

NOTE: Mrs. Jeon rolls eyes. Mr. Jeon responds with a hard look. A muscle twitches along his jaw. Obviously, his drinking is an issue. But he doesn't take the bait. Classic case of withholding his feelings. At least in front of strangers. My early guess is that this is a couple who never argue in public. Mr. Jeon continues as if he hasn't been interrupted.

MR. JEON: "So Jane starts bidding. She gets a tiny bit competitive ..."

NOTE: Mrs. Jeon's lips purse at this remark. Another issue between them?

MR. JEON: "Upshot is: We end up blowing eight hundred

bucks on the mystery lot."

MR. AND MRS. JEON (at once): "Four sessions with

Dr. Wexler."

NOTE: They both laugh. Politely. A little too loudly.

MR. JEON: "The Coleman’s have a great sense of humor."

NOTE: Another burst of laughter; which fades quickly. Now my senses are on alert. The couple hasn't come here on their own initiative. And yet they came.

I scratch out a note, giving them time, to make sure they've said their piece. Then I look up at them and smile. "But you didn't have to come."

NOTE: Complete silence.

Mr. and Mrs. Jeon glance at each other; then quickly look Away. I say nothing, and wait patiently. Sometimes it's the best way to get someone to talk. A comfortable silence doesn't bother a person whose mind is at ease. But a pregnant pause seems to compel people who are nervous to completely spill their guts. It's a little technique I picked up from police dramas on TV. I wait.

MR. JEON: "Right—"

MRS. JEON: "Absolutely."

NOTE: They sit back in their chairs. A bit nervous. I can see

Mrs. Jeon thinking, though.

MRS. JEON: "But we have a theory . . ."

MR. JEON (startled): "We do?"

MRS. JEON (smiling): "The 'Oil Check.'"

MR. JEON: "Oh. Right."

Note: I have the distinct impression that this is the first time

Mr. Jeon has heard about this theory. But he's playing along.

MR. JEON: "See, we've been married five years—"

MRS. JEON: "Six."

MR. JEON: "—five, six years, and this is like a checkup for us. A chance to peek around the engine, maybe change the oil, replace a seal or two."

NOTE: How many years married seems to be an issue. Mr. Jeon seems really into the auto-mechanic analogy.

Mr. and Mrs. Jeon smile at each other; then turn back to me. The perfect happy couple. They remind me of another perfect couple. Barbie and Ken. I begin to see where this might be heading. "Very well, then. Let's pop the hood. "Please answer the following questions as quickly and instinctively as possible."

MRS. JEON: "Sure."

MR. JEON (gesturing like a gunslinger): "From the hip."

ME: "On a scale of one to ten, how happy are you as a couple?"

MRS. JEON: "Eight."

MR. JEON: "Wait."

NOTE: Mrs. Jeon has spoken instantly. Mr. Jeon seems startled by her answer.

MR. JEON: "So, like ten being perfectly happy and one being . . . totally miserable?"

"Just answer instinctively."

MR. JEON: "Okay. Ready?"

MRS. JEON: "Ready."

MR. AND MRS. JEON (at once): "Eight."

NOTE: Interesting . . . not too hot, not too cold. Like porridge.

ME (next card): "On a scale of one to ten, how happy would

you say your partner is?"

MR. JEON: "Eight."

NOTE: This time it's Mr. Jeon who has the instant answer; Mrs. Jeon who hesitates.

MRS. JEON: "Um, are we allowed fractions?"

NOTE: Mr. Jeon seems taken aback by her answer and leans

over.

ME AND MR. JEON (at the same time): "It's what's instinctive."

MRS. JEON: "Okay, I'm all set. One, two, three . . ."

MR. AND MRS. JEON (at once): "Eight."

NOTE: Eight again. They look at me for approval, as if I am their teacher and they are answering questions at the blackboard. Very interesting . . . Eight is a very telling number. Safe cruising altitude. No drama—high or low. No passion one way or the other. Now that I've warmed them up, time for the Big One. I glance down at my card, my face impassive so as not to give away what's to come. The shock value usually provokes the truest response. "How often do you have sex?"

NOTE: I have to glance back up to make sure they are still there. They are, but they look like a picture postcard. Stunned. A little shell-shocked.

MRS. JEON (blushing): "I . . . don't understand the question."

NOTE: Yes, you do, Mrs. Jeon.

MR. JEON (squirming in chair): "Wait. Okay, I'm lost. Is this a one to ten thing?"

NOTE: Ah, Mr. Jeon. Quit stalling.

MRS. JEON: "Right. I mean, because if it is, does one equal 'not much' or is one like, 'nothing.' Because strictly speaking, zero should be nothing."

MR. JEON: "Exactly. Plus, if we don't know what one is, what's ten?"

MRS. JEON: "Right ... Is ten . . . you know. .

MR. JEON: "Constant . . . unrelenting. .

MRS. JEON: "Twenty-four/seven . . . without a break. For

anything."

MR. JEON: "Not even to eat."

MRS. JEON: "Like Sting."

MR. JEON: "Exactly."

NOTE: Mr. Jeon shakes head emphatically—he's found a well-known figure upon which to divert our attention—a tactic that can help alleviate his feelings of guilt or discomfort.

MR. JEON: "Look at Sting's Day job. Who else has sixty hours a week to put aside in the sack?"

NOTE: Okay, I think I'm ready to hazard a guess here. Based on my professional instincts and experience, / write down a number. My estimate of how often this young couple has had sex in the last month. Maybe the whole year.

"This is not a one-to-ten scenario. It's a straight question."

NOTE: I wait for them to settle down a little. It is, after all, an embarrassing question to answer in front of a stranger. Some people just say they can't remember. Sometimes people boast. Often, they flat-out lie. I wait for the Jeons to speak. And when no one does, I ask the question again. "How often do you have sex?"

NOTE: Still no answer.

"How about this week?"

MR. JEON (stalling again): "Including the weekend?"

"Sure."

NOTE: Mr. Jeon sinks back in his chair and stares at his hands. Mrs. Jeon seems to be studying the pattern in my office curtains. Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Jeon. Can't even say the number out loud, can you. But then I guess they don't really have to. I retrace the number I've written down in my notes—a nice round even number. Zero. Then I check my calendar to see if I can get them back in early next week. I think we have a lot of work to do.

SECOND SESSION, MR. AND MRS. JEON

NOTE: Clients fail to show.

An hour later Mr. Jeon calls apologizing. Says he had to go out of town unexpectedly. Declines to reschedule. Says he has to check with his wife. Will call back later. Mr. Jeon calls the next day. Wonders if he can come in on Wednesday. By himself. Interesting . . .

SECOND SESSION, MR. JEON ALONE

Mr. Jeon, second session. Full transcript of our recorded conversation, with my notes added. Mr. Jeon sits down in my office. He apologizes for being late, even though he's not. The man looks tired. I check my notes: Mr. Jeon runs a construction company. International. Travels a lot. No kids. A busy Life. But his exhaustion doesn't seem physical. His eyes suggest that something else is wearing him down.

I do my usual paper shuffling waiting for him to relax. I offer coffee, tea, etc. He says no thanks, then pulls out a silver hip flask.

Flashing a crooked grin—the kind that knocks ladies off their feet—he asks, "Mind if I.. .?" I glance at the clock. It's barely noon and yet there's something about the gesture that seems perfectly natural for Mr. Jeon. "Like the song says, 'It's five o'clock somewhere " he jokes. I make a note. Jeon Jungkook is suaver than I remembered him being during his first visit. Then he struck me as a very nice, dependable, steady guy—like a husband in an insurance ad. This Mr. Jeon seems . . . well, different.

There's a bit of James Bond—or maybe even Frank Sinatra—in him. He has that kind of Rat Pack flair. He casually takes a swig from his silver flask and that's when I notice that he's not wearing his wedding ring. I check my notes. He was definitely wearing it at the first session when his wife was present. That might seem like just a tiny thing. But it's something I routinely look for when married couples come in.

A wedding ring is more than a symbol. Most people take it very seriously. I wonder if Mr. Jeon had a reason for not wearing his. There's an interesting story here, I'm sure. I turn on the tape and hope to find out: "tell me, Mr. Jeon. Why did you decide to come back

alone?"

MR. JEON (shrugs, looks away): "I'm not sure, really. I don't think we have a problem. I mean, I love my wife, love my house, love our life . . ."

NOTE: He doesn't complete the sentence. There's a big BUT hanging unsaid. But he can't seem to make himself say it. "But . . .?"

NOTE: Mr. Jeon's eyes take on a faraway look. He's obviously replaying painful scenes in his mind. Something is definitely troubling him. But it's clear that he doesn't know how to talk about it. Of course, this is not uncommon among my male patients. So, I take a step back and try a different approach. "Just relax, Mr. Jeon. We're here to talk, that's all. There are no right or wrong answers. "Tell me about your wife . . . What was it that first drew you to her?"

MR. JEON (smiling now): "She was mesmerizing . . . exciting . . . mysterious. .

NOTE: Good. He's opening up.

ME: "And now?"

NOTE: Mr. Jeon's face darkens, his eyes shutter.

MR. JEON: "No mystery."

NOTE: I wait patiently for him to say more. But he just looks at me and shrugs. Like "That's it." He fiddles with his flask, takes another slug of whatever he's drinking, then looks down at the floor resigned to his disappointment. I can see that he's going to have a hard time opening up. In fact, I'm convinced it'll take dynamite to get him to say more. I tap my pen on the desk, thinking. "Mr. Jeon, I'm going to give you a little homework."

NOTE: He gives me an "are you kidding?" look.

"Nothing to worry about, I assure you. I just want you to go home and write about your feelings."

NOTE: Mr. Jeon bursts out laughing, like I've just told some hilarious joke at the country club. Then he stops, looking embarrassed.

MR. JEON: "You're not serious, right? No? Oh, well. Look, Doc. I'm not much of a writer. I'm more of an action kind of guy. Construction, did I tell you? And well, I'm so busy at work—you wouldn't believe the shit going on with this project down in Atlanta ..."

"I understand, Mr. Jeon. But you don't need to worry. This is not a school assignment for your English teacher. It doesn't have to be fancy. It doesn't even have to be in complete sentences. It's just an exercise. An experiment, let's say. You don't have to show it to anyone."

MR. JEON: "Nobody?"

ME: "No one."

MR. JEON: "Not . . . you know . . . her?"

ME: "Mrs. Jeon? Oh, no, you don't have to show her. You don't even have to show me. Of course, you can show it to me if you want. But mostly I want you to feel free to write down whatever you want. To help you figure out exactly what it is that's troubling you. Sometimes we don't know what our story is until we tell it to ourselves."

NOTE: Mr. Jeon takes another hit from the flask. He seems to realize I might be counting. Quickly; he screws the top back on and tucks it into the pocket of his suit jacket.

MR. JEON (shrugging): "What the hell." Laughs like it's no big deal. "I mean, sure. I'll take a shot at it. Why not? You're the doc, right?"

ME: "Excellent."

MR. JEON: "But hey, no promises."

NOTE: Mr. Jeon jumps up to leave. Shakes my hand like we're buddies at a high school reunion. Starts to hustle out. Then stops. Turns around.

MR. JEON: "Uh, Doc?"

"Yes, Mr. Jeon?"

MR. JEON: "So, uh, like how do I begin?"

"Just begin at the beginning. Try to remember how you met your wife . . . Maybe try to remember why you first fell in love."

MR. JEON: "Yeah. Great. Gotcha!"

NOTE: Mr. Jeon bolts out the door like the school bell just

rang.

I jot down a note and shake my head. I wonder if I'll ever hear or see from Mr. Jeon again. I did, however; hear from Mrs. Jeon again. To review Jane's file notes,

NOTE: I nod, pleased. I can tell from her face . . . there are still a few embers smoldering among the ashes of this marriage.

"Very good. Begin with that. Oh, I do wish we could get Mr. Jeon to do this, too. Do you think it's a possibility—"

MRS. JEON (looks stricken): "Oh, no! I mean, I don't think he wants to come in anymore. I mean, well, you know how men are. He's not really into . . . things like this. And actually, well . . ."

ME: "Yes?"

MRS. JEON (soft laugh): "I haven't exactly mentioned to him—yet—that I was coming alone. I didn't want to worry him, you know. Or make him think I thought there was something really wrong. I just sort of wanted ... to keep it . . . private."

NOTE: Ah, yes. One of the little secrets . . . [It appears that Mr. Jeon has a few secrets, too. Unbeknownst to Mrs. Jeon, he called for a separate appointment as well.]

JANE

Okay. This feels kind of funny, writing all this down. But here goes.

Here’s how I met Jungkook. It was six years ago, and I was staying in the Americana Hotel, in Bogota, Colombia. I was there to aas-aos I was working on an assignment for my organization. The company I work for. Just something routine. The place was in total chaos. Politicians were being killed; soldiers raided the buildings on a regular basis, the policia ransacked rooms. Suddenly, one afternoon, the whole town went mad-people flooded the streets, yelling and screaming. I heard a voice shouting in Spanish,

“Somebody shot the Barracuda!”

The Barracuda-Sancho Varron. I knew the name well. A local politician who ran the province. Not a good guy. I had ... heard that he’d been assassinated. Dark storm clouds threatened overhead, mirroring the mood in the streets, and for both reasons, I decided it might be wise to head indoors. My hair was dark and my Spanish was excellent, but my clothes definitely screamed “La turiMa gringa.” Not the best day to stand out in a crowd. I shoved through the panicked crowd till I reached my hotel. With a glance over my shoulder, I ducked into the doorway. As my eyes adjusted to the cooler darkness of the lobby, I saw a man sitting at the bar. He was watching the turmoil outside as calmly as if he were watching a parade pass by. Black hair, golden tan. Lean but muscular, like a boxer. Stunning good looks. American business traveler, I guessed. Or maybe a tourist. He was using a dog-eared copy of Let 'A Go: South America as a coaster. It was the first time I ever laid eyes on Jungkook. And I thought at that moment that I would never be able to look away. A bellboy was telling him the news of the assassination.

“Police are rounding up single tourists!” the young man warned in Spanish. I never did understand exactly why they did that. Maybe it was something they picked up from American movies. “Are you alone, sir?” he asked Jungkook. I saw him shrug yeah. Best news I’d heard all day. He must have felt my stare because he looked up at that moment. And it took my breath away. He had devastating brown eyes. Eyes a woman could get lost in. And since I’d completed the day’s assignment, I thought I might just like to get lost for a while. I took a step toward him.

Just then the policia Capitan stormed into the bar and ruined the party, rounding up suspects and otherwise throwing his weight around. On the slightest whim, he could drag us off to jail, where we might never be seen or heard from again. My heart pounded as he noticed me. Gave me the once-over, made assumptions, glanced back at Jungkook.

“You two are together?” the Capitan asked. Our eyes met. And ... that’s all it took, really.

One look-a refuge in the middle of a murderous riot-and Jungkook and I were together. Jungkook took my arm as if he’d been waiting for me all afternoon. I gave him a flirtatious hug, then led him toward the stairs. The Capitan bought it, looked a little jealous, even, and moved on to terrify other innocent people. I squeezed Jungkook’s hand as we continued upstairs. Looks like we’d dodged another bullet.

JUNGKOOK

This is weird.

I’m not sure I can do this.

Okay. Here goes.

Here’s how I met Jane. It was five years ago, and I was in Bogota, Colombia, to aas-s Well, I was on an assignment. For my engineering company. I often travel in my work. I was sitting at the bar in the lobby of the Americana Hotel watching the world erupt into anarchy when a bellboy rushed up to me with news: “Somebody shot the Barracuda!” he shouted in Spanish. “Sancho Varron?” The boy nodded. No need to tell him it wasn’t news to me. “Police are rounding up single tourists,” the boy said, which again was not news. “Are you alone?” he asked. I was alone. I was always alone. It was the kind of life I led. Then the policia Capitan stormed in, no big fucking surprise, backed up by his pack of rats and scaring everybody with his weenie of a gun. The next thing I knew he was in my face, shouting something. But suddenly, even though I speak fluent Spanish, I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Because an absolute vision had just walked in the door, and for a moment, I was oblivious to everything else. Hair the color of melted chocolate. Gray eyes that could burn a hole in a man’s heart. Curves that looked hard and soft at the same time. I don’t know what the hell a woman like that was doing in a place like this. And I didn't care. I was just glad that out of all the gin joints in the world, she’d walked into mine. Her smile said she’d noticed me, too.

The policia Capitan shoved me, demanding my attention. “What?” I didn’t dare tear my eyes away from the vision, in case she tried to disappear. The Capitan followed my gaze. “You two are together?” he demanded. Without a word, I asked her. Are we? Without a word, she answered, Hell, yeah. At least, that was my fantasy translation. I nodded at the Capitan, who looked just the tiniest bit jealous as this goddess gave me a sexy hug and then pulled me toward the stairs. We continued our charade all the way up to her room, where I assumed the game would end. But a round of gunfire changed our minds. We ducked inside and slammed the door. Side by side, leaning against the door, our hearts drumming in our throats, we listened to the shouting, the gunfire, the pounding footsteps. Hoping we’d be among the lucky ones. I expected my date to scream, or faint, or at least burst into tears. Instead, she started giggling, like a little girl playing a thrilling game of hide-and-seek. Jesus! I rolled across her and held my hand over her mouth, inadvertently (yeah, right) pressing the rest of me against the rest of her in the process. Her eyes widened like I’d made a pass at her. And hell, maybe I had at that. Neither of us moved. I stared down into her clear gray eyes and thought at that moment that I would never be able to look away.

I could feel her heart pounding, I could smell the heat of the day on her skin. Who was she? What kind of woman faced danger and laughed? My kind of a woman. I knew how I wanted that evening to end. At sunset, when the day’s insanity had quieted down for the night, we escaped the sweltering hotel and ran into the streets. It had begun to rain by then, people were rushing everywhere. We dashed ahead of them with Spanish newspapers over our heads toward a place I knew down a back alley. “Varron ran this province for years,” I was explaining to her as we ducked beneath an awning. She nodded. “That’s three assassinations this week.” So. She kept up with things. “Four,” I said. “So, what brings you to Bogota?” “Business.” I waited, but she said nothing more. Maybe I should have asked, but hell. I didn't really care why she was there. Just that she was. “You?” she asked.

“Pleasure.” She seemed to like that answer. I led her into a basement dive bar, a little place that was popular with the locals. We’d be safe here. And it was a good place to get drunk without anybody remembering your name. The dance floor was mobbed with people trying to forget about the world outside; the salsa music was frantic, the dancing hot and furious, and sexy as hell. Not that I ever participated; but I did like to watch. As I led Jane toward a table in the corner, the danger we’d been in that day seemed to suddenly hit her. “I was right in the street,” she said. “I guess I was pretty lucky.” “Trust me,” I murmured as I sat and pulled her down beside me. “I’m the lucky one.” I snapped my fingers, and a bottle of tequila slid across our table out of nowhere, followed by all the fixings. That's what I liked about the place. The service. And the cheap booze. I poured out two shots and raised my glass for a toast. “To dodging bullets ..." I said.

She smiled and clinked her glass to mine. “To dodging bullets ...” My eyes never left hers as we licked the salt from our hands, sucked up the tequila, and bit down into juicy, tangy limes. It was the single sexiest drink I’d ever had in my life. Two more and Jane was dragging me onto the grinding, pulsing dance floor. I hollered at her that I didn’t dance. But when she threw her arms around me and began to move her hips, she quickly convinced me otherwise.

JANE

Jungkook said he didn’t dance. But that night I thought, if this is how he moves on instinct, he’d be downright dangerous with a few lessons. It was better than most of the sex I’d had. I always liked men who knew how to move. That night I learned the secret of salsa’s allure. It was a dance that said, “To hell with today, to hell with tomorrow-tonight we dance.” And so, we did, filling our minds with nothing but the moment. The only thing that finally tore us away from the dance floor was the dress code-clothes. We had to keep them on. And so, high on tequila, we escaped into the night and tumbled into a cab. There was plenty of room in the backseat, but somehow, I found myself curling up on Jungkook’s lap, where we continued to move to a salsa beat. When we reached the hotel, our dash up the stairs to my room was no longer a charade. Later, to escape the sweltering heat inside, we wrapped ourselves in our tangled sheets and climbed out onto the rooftop, where we sat and dangled our feet over the edge. The breeze was heaven on earth, and the clouds had given way to a riotous canopy of stars. We felt like angels, perched high above the earth on a lofty cloud.

Down below us, a small crowd had gathered on the street to watch an old black-and-white movie projected on a bullet scarred wall. One of my favorites-Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, twenty feet tall and dancing as if they were made for each other. And that’s how I felt as Jungkook pulled me into his arms. The next morning, I woke to sunlight streaming across my face. Delightfully sore from dancing and everything else, I stretched, joyfully aware of being alive. And happier than I'd been in a long time. Maybe ever. I rolled over and reached across the bed . . .And felt nothing but rumpled sheets. I sighed. A wonderful night or a beautiful dream? Either way, it was nice while it lasted. And either way, it had disappeared with the dawn. Ah, well. I was used to being alone. I was always alone. It was how I lived my life. By choice. But it had been nice to think otherwise for a night. I snuggled back down into my pillow, and tried to recover a wisp of my delicious dream when I heard a key in the lock. I sat up and pulled the covers around me. Had the policia returned? Then the door opened and there he was. Jungkook. As real and as glorious as he’d been in the night.

“Hiya, stranger,” I said. “Hiya back.” He moved toward the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. And

he came with gifts. A steaming cup of coffee and the morning paper. “I think room service fled,” he said. “So, I did what I could.” I took a sip of the coffee as he tossed the paper on the bed. “Mmm. Cafe con leche. It’s good.” “Better be,” Jungkook said. “I had to milk the goat myself.” I laughed. “A man who’d risk his life for a cup of coffee. You’ve gotta love that.” Jungkook looked startled, then crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains to stare out into the streets. The glass was shattered from the day before. Black smoke hung in the distance, darkening the sky. But all I saw was him. And it was a beautiful morning. With a sigh I opened up the newspaper, and gasped.

There, tucked in the fold, was a flower. A simple one. The kind of bastard wildflower that shoots up against all odds from the cracks in a battered sidewalk. It was the most beautiful flower I’d ever seen. “Anything in the paper?” Jungkook asked without turning around. “Nope,” I said with a smile, and slid the flower behind my ear. Then I picked up the paper again, trying hard not to adore this wonderful man.

Good things, I knew, were as ephemeral as a wildflower in your hair. The paper was filled with pictures of yesterday’s carnage. This place, it was no longer safe. With my work complete, I should have been gone by now. “You watched me sleep last night,” I said casually. “Did I?” he asked, feigning innocence. I snuggled back against the pillows and stretched my arms above my head. “What did you see?” “What did he see ... . ?” Jungkook turned and leaned against the windowsill, studying me as if I were some great painting he’d purchased at Sotheby’s and just unwrapped in his own home. I took the moment to study him as well, framed by the window’s morning glow. And I came to the conclusion that the man could give Michelangelo’s David an inferiority complex. “He saw himself flying home and wishing he’d known her middle name,” Jungkook said at last. “And her?” His answer surprised me. I was touched, and falling quickly under his spell. It was a lovely feeling, a part of me thought. And far too dangerous, countered another. Many words sprang to my lips. I was very good at games of the heart, so I knew to keep things light, flirtatious. “She saw herself walking through Chinatown,” I said, “and wondering how he felt about jazz.” A clever, sexy line, I decided. “And he,” Jungkook vollied, “thought that maybe there is something more sublime than the perfect putt on the eighteenth green on a sunny Sunday morning.” Be Mill, my heart, my grin answered, as I drew the covers up to my chin. “And she thought how much he’d love her lemon cake,” I said playfully.

Suddenly he was towering over me, and the playfulness in his voice was replaced by an intensity that took my breath away. “He suspected that last night would be the night by which all other nights were measured.” His eyes dared me to step out from behind the security of coy phrases. And so, in spite of being scared, I answered honestly. “And she agreed.”

Jungkook leaned down, his face inches from mine, his chocolate eyes guarded.

So. We were both afraid. And with that knowledge, a giddiness began to bubble up in my heart. “What happens next?” he whispered. “Everything,” I said. He growled like a starving tiger as we fell into each other’s arms, into a kiss that felt as if it would never end.

JUNGKOOK

“aaand step right up, ladies and gentlemen!”

Jane and I were strolling through the San Gennaro Street festival, one of New York City's oldest and biggest street fairs, held in Manhattan's Little Italy. Yeah, that's right. We'd traded streets-one filled with murder and mayhem for one overflowing with laughter, music, and celebration. We’d left Bogota and flown home. And, well, let's just say we'd stayed in touch. Very much in touch. No more bullets to dodge.

Instead, Jane and I dodged the crowds as we shared pink cotton candy and browsed the stalls offering food, crafts, games, and other things to spend money on. “Come on, little lady, don’t be afraid!” The ancient barker working the shooting gallery had no idea who he was talking to. I didn’t think my Jane was afraid of anything. It didn’t escape my notice that I was already thinking of her as mine. Jane slowed down and seemed attracted to the toy guns.

“Want to try your luck?” I suggested.

Her killer lips curled into a smile, considering.

“Why not?”

As I paid the man, Jane selected a gun. It looked a little awkward in her hands, but I resisted the urge to correct her hold. It was just for fun, after all. She aimed, fired; The gun had quite a kickback. Jane stumbled a little and missed. I urged her to try again. The next time she almost blinded the barker! Poor guy. I tried not to laugh as she shrugged and handed the gun to me. I took the weapon in my hands, testing the weight, rolled my neck to loosen up. Then took aim. What is it about carnivals, girls, and guns that just makes you want to show off? I fired-and bull’s-eyed the target. Jane gasped, and looked very impressed. I shrugged. “Beginner's luck, I guess.” Hell, I didn’t want to make her feel bad. So, I decided not to try so hard with my next shot. I had other reasons, too, for not wanting to show off in public just how good I was with a gun.

So, I took a few more shots, this time dipping down, missing a couple for good measure. All in all, not bad for your average Joe. Even trying to miss, I won a small stuffed bear. Proud of myself, I turned to walk away and offer the prize to my girl.

But Jane stopped me. “Urn, may I have another go?” Ah, I thought. Competitive, are we? I liked that in

a woman. This time she held the gun like a pro, raised it to her eye, and fired off five rounds in a row.

Blam! Blam! Blaml Blam! Blaml

I nearly dropped my bear.

Five shots. Five perfect bull’s-eyes.

“Beginner’s luck, I guess,” she said as she walked off with her prize: a life-size stuffed bear. I guess I must have looked stunned. With a laugh, she slipped the scarf from around her bear’s neck and whipped it around mine. She had me where she wanted me. She could have ended my life with a hard twist. But instead, she pulled me close and ended my life as I knew it . . . with a killer kiss. Goddamn. She was the girl of my dreams.

JANE

Okay, so now I was scared. It had been six weeks since Jungkook and I met in Bogota. Six weeks! And now he wanted to take me out someplace really special for dinner. Dress up, he said. So, you might ask, what was I scared of?

The six-weeks part.

I hadn’t been in a relationship that lasted longer than six weeks since I took piano lessons in second grade. And that only lasted for seven. Good things never lasted. And this thing between Jungkook and me? It was good. Very, very good. So of course, it had to end. And soon. Hell, for all I knew, this could be our last night together. So, I dressed up as if I had something to celebrate. Even though I might only be toasting adieu. We could have walked, but Jungkook suggested we take a taxi, since I was wearing heels. I secretly think taking cabs reminded him of our first night in Bogota. All too soon we arrived at the River Cafe. I suggested we drink tequila for old time’s sake, but Jungkook ordered champagne.

“Champagne is for celebrating,” he said. I smiled, blinking away the sudden moisture in my eyes. We drank champagne, we watched the river, but mostly we stared at each other. We’d ordered food, but it sat there between us, untouched. I was hungry, but only for him. I think there was music; I think people danced. But just as in Bogota, we seemed oblivious to everything, as if our lives were lived at the eye of a hurricane while the rest of the world stormed around us. I wondered wildly if there was some way to make this night last forever. Maybe we could lasso the moon and ride it forever through the stars, so the dream would never end. Not the kind of thoughts I usually entertained. But then, that’s what being with Jungkook did to me. That’s when Jungkook’s hand moved to his pocket. I thought it was for a pen, at first. Or a cigarette? But instead, he pulled out a small box. Light blue, the shade that Tiffany’s is known for.

I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. Jungkook didn’t say a word. He just opened the box. And then the whole world sparkled as he slid a ring on my left hand. Jungkook had given me the stars and a night that would last forever.

JUNGKOOK

“STOP!” my best friend and coworker Taehyung exclaimed. The next day I was working out in my regular

boxing gym with a trainer. I'd been telling Taehyung about Jane, and he did not like what he was hearing.

“You’re what” “I'm in love,” I said. Taehyung looked at me as if I’d taken too many blows to the head. “You've known her, what, six weeks?” But how could I explain to Taehyung? He changed women more often than he changed his socks. “This girl, Taehyung-she’s . . . wild. She’s strong, and she’s competitive. I don’t know how to describe it. I feel like. .

Pow! I slammed into the bag.

JANE

"You don’t think this is happening a little fast?”

I The next day I was climbing with my best friend and coworker Rose. I always found this sport to be a great way to work out, but today I found it especially exhilarating and had to struggle not to leave Rose far behind. But she wasn’t talking about my climbing speed. She was talking about my relationship with Jungkook

“You know me,” I said, glancing back down. “I don’t do anything rashly-watch your foothold.”

She did. “So, what does he do?” “Construction. He’s a big-league contractor.” “Great,” Rose said sarcastically. “So, he lays cement.” I laughed. “That’s not all.”

JUNGKOOK

She’s in computers,” I told Taehyung. “A server goes down in Wall Street, she’s in there anytime day or night. She’s like Batman for computers. Or something.”

JANE

“And the sex ... ?” Rose asked.

JUNGKOOK

ham! I let loose with a thundering punch, knocking my sparring partner off his feet. Taehyung whistled. “That good, huh?”

JANE

We had reached the top of the cliff, and the view was magnificent. I’d always been athletic—my job required me to stay in shape. But I had never felt more energetic. I suspected it had something to do with my workouts with Jungkook. But Rose was still a ways behind me, and still skeptical. Sex is sex, was her attitude. Why complicate it with things like relationships? “You don't worry that, you know, your work schedule might foul things up?” she asked.

“Use the crag on your left,” I suggested. And yes, I’d thought of that. There would be some ... complications, sometimes. But I was sure it was nothing I couldn’t work out. “He travels a lot, like me,” I explained. “So, it’s not a problem-” I pulled her up beside me. And ignored her worried frown.

JUNGKOOK

“-and, what, am I supposed to sacrifice any personal life I have for my job?” I asked Taehyung.

I kept working with my trainer. My endurance was better than ever. I smiled. You might think Jane and I would wear each other out. That’s how the old sports advice went. But instead, it was having just the opposite effect. I had more energy and drive than ever.

Jab, cross, duck . . . jab, cross, duck ... I felt like I could go on like this for hours.

But Taehyung was not convinced. To him sex was just something that kept breakfast, lunch, and dinner from being one continuous meal. “I give this six months, tops,” he said. “No way it lasts longer than that.”

“Taehyung,” I confessed. “I asked her to marry me.”

“What?!”

“I’m getting married.”

Whack! Taehyung was so startled by my news, he walked right into my trainer’s glove. He went down, hard. He was never going to forgive me for the news.

JANE

Jungkook and I got married in the city clerk’s office. We couldn’t wait any longer. Rose was my maid of honor, and Jungkook’s friend Taehyung stood up for him as best man.

They both looked mad as hell.

But we barely noticed. When Jungkook slipped the ring on my finger, our hands shook. It was the first time in my life anyone had promised me anything.

“-if any party should feel opposed to this union,” the clerk said, “let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” I saw Rose biting her tongue, and I made a face at her to stop.

I’d show her.

JUNGKOOK

I was afraid Taehyung would burst when the clerk said that bit about speaking now or forever holding your peace. It took everything he had to restrain himself. He still thought I was nuts. But I’d told him he could only stand up as my best man at the wedding if he promised not to say a word.

And I warned him I’d punch him out if he dared. So, we made it through the ceremony. My hands shook as I slipped the ring on Jane’s finger, but she just glowed. And then the clerk said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mr. and Mrs. Jeon.” Mr. and Mrs. Jeon. I liked the way that sounded.

And when he said, “You may kiss the bride,”

well . . .

We kissed until the couple waiting to go next complained.

JANE

The last assignment Dr. Wexler gave me wasn’t all that painful, so I’m ready to give this one a try, too. The good doctor wants me to write about my life now, so here goes ...

I am

We are doing

Jungkook is

Okay, this is harder than I thought. Maybe I’ll just write about last night. I was making dinner, like most nights. Ping! The timer chimed and I peeked inside the oven. Everything looked perfect. But, of course, it wasn’t. Six years is a long time.

Things change.

People change.

My perfect life ... isn’t really perfect. So I just keep trying to make it that way. The house, the yard, the food. I throw myself into everything with the same ambition and competitiveness that drives my work.

Like dinner. I can dance around this kitchen, chopping vegetables and tossing pans like I was Jackie Chan. I can plan, organize, and prepare a dinner for fifty that would put the White House to shame.

And I do it every night for two. Even after a long hard day at work, like last night. I cooked a savory meal, set the table, and chilled the wine so everything would be absolutely perfect. Even though it never was. But what else could I do? I had to keep trying. I heard a car in the driveway, and looked up as headlights splashed through the window. Why do I always tense up the moment Jungkook arrives? I wondered.

Remember who you are, I reminded myself. You’re Smart, you’re Strong. You can do anything. I snatched up my knife and twirled it over my fingers before slamming it into its block.

Yeah, anything but save my own marriage.

JUNGKOOK

Okay. It was hard enough writing about the past. About Bogota. That was one thing. But now Doc Wexler wants me to write about what’s going on today-in our marriage. I told him-he’s a guy, he should know-we don’t do this kind of stuff very easily.

“That’s the point,” he said. He thinks there’s a lot of stuff bothering me. Like shit deep down inside. Stuff that I avoid thinking about. Stuff I never deal with. And that sometimes the only way to address it is to get it all out in a journal.

“Hey, the punching bag usually works for me,” I joked.

Dr. Wexler didn't laugh.

So here I am.

Okay. I couldn’t figure out how to start. So I called Dr. Wexler to say that it wasn’t working but thanks anyway. I was about to hang up and forget the whole thing, but he stopped me. He’s a persistent bastard, you know. He just said, “Relax, Jungkook. Remember this is not homework.” Then he reminded me that there are no right or wrong answers here. He suggested that I start by writing about last night. “Just write down what you remember,” he said. “The rest will come.” I reluctantly said okay, I’d give it a whirl.

So here I go.

Last night.

I pulled into the driveway and eased the sedan into the garage.

For a moment I just sat there, listening to the engine hum as I got my act together. It had been a long day, and the world I’d been in was light-years away from the one waiting for me in that house. Five years was a long time.

Things changed.

People changed.

Or maybe . . . maybe everything just faded. Like a newspaper lying in the sun.

Might as well go in, I thought finally. Jane’s hearing rivals Superman’s, so I felt sure she knew I was home. If I sat here too long, she’d come flying out to see what was wrong. I unbuckled my seat belt and Damn! Where was my ring? I’d almost forgotten to put it back on. I searched my pockets and found it in my coat, then slipped it back on my left ring finger. I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror. Pay attention, man.

Hell, what was that? A smudge of red on my collar. Shit, that’d send Jane through the roof. I rubbed it, but no way was it coming out. So I managed to tuck my collar in a bit, hiding the stain. Then I hurried into the house. Once inside, I tossed my keys into a bowl in the foyer. Wondering, certainly not for the first time, why I felt so tense every time I walked in the front door.

Jane appeared out of nowhere. “Perfect timing,” she said with a smile. She looked at me expectantly. Oh, yeah. The butter. Thank God I didn’t forget. I'd never hear the end of it. With a flourish I pulled the carton from my coat pocket. “You ask for butter? I bring you butter.”

“Good day?” she asked as she took it. I shrugged. “Same old same old. You?” She mirrored my shrug. Hesitated. I leaned down to deliver the obligatory kiss. Bad move. I saw her frown as she pulled away. Which meant she obviously noticed the smell of alcohol on my breath.

“I stopped off for one with Taehyung,” I said casually. Jane nodded, not hiding her displeasure very well. And I’m sure I didn’t hide mine well, either. She was always on my case about the drinking. But now there was something more. She was staring at the butter like it was a two-headed snake. “This is salted,” she complained. She held up the carton so I could see it; yep, it said salted right there on the front. I blinked. “Does it come any other way?” “Un-salted,” she said. Adding under her breath, “Like I asked for.”

I groaned inwardly. Why did she keep giving me these ridiculous errands to do when she was never satisfied with how I did them? It was like an ice princess sending the poor beleaguered knight out on some quest that he could never fulfill. I tried to apologize, but she just waved it away. "It’s all right. I’ll just, uh, work around it.” Hey, if that’s your toughest lump of the day . . .

Fortunately, she tried to change the subject. “I got new curtains for the living room,” she said cheerfully.

“You did?”

“I did.”

She led me into the already perfectly decorated living room to show me the new green curtains that we didn’t need, draped over the sofa. They were huge; the color overwhelmed everything else in sight. "There was a tug-of-war over the material when I found it,” she said. "This tea sandwich of a man got his hands on it, too, but I won.”

“Of course you did.” She always does.

“I figured with the boldness of the solid, we should consider maybe finding a checkered cover for the couch,” she went on, “something not too busy, not a floral obviously, and definitely lighter than the curtains, which means we should get a darker Persian for the floor.” My eyes were glazing over, and I felt a headache coming on. So we were getting curtains that we didn’t need, which meant we would have to change the couch covers to match the curtains, and then the rug to match the new couch covers that we wouldn’t have had to buy if we didn’t get new curtains to begin with.

“Or here’s a thought,” I said. “We could just stick with the old curtains.” She looked up and frowned. Sure took her long enough to realize she was having a conversation with herself about something that irritated the hell out of me. “What? We talked about this. Don't you remember?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Because we decided to wait.” I sighed at the miserable look on her face. My happy little homecoming was over. Jane smoothed the already smoothed-out curtains.

“If you don’t like them, I can take them back-”

“I don't like them-”

“Well, get used to them"

The silence was staggering. How the hell had we gotten to this point again? All hope of a pleasant evening was gone, which was exactly where I wanted to be.

“I think I’ll go wate—”

“I should work on the-”

Mercifully, we allowed each other to escape. Outside, I turned on the hose and sprayed the flowers along the driveway. Not that they needed it. But I needed it. I liked the sound of water. It was soothing. Made me think of rivers, flowing away downstream. I spotted a basketball lying among the tulips. Was it my old one, or had some kid left it behind? Man, it had been ages since I shot hoops. On a whim, I scooped up the ball and took a shot at the basket mounted on the garage. Then I turned around, picked up the hose, and went back to watering.

Thirty feet behind me, I heard the ball sing through the hoop. I could sink a shot without even looking.

But this marriage ... it was getting harder and harder to even try.

JANE

He didn’t care about the curtains. He never even thought about the house. I’m not sure he cared about anything in the house. Including me. So why did he make such a fuss? Why did he have to ruin something that mattered so much to me? He never seemed to care that things were always the same. What was wrong with a little change now and then? Change is good. Sometimes I get so bored staring at the same things over and over, I think I’m going nuts. Sometimes, I think, if I didn’t have my job to escape to every day …

Forget about it, I told myself. Just fix the curtains. They’ll look great, he’ll see. It’ll be a nice change. I stood on a chair and snapped the panel over the rod. But the chair was too low. I still needed to reach higher to fully straighten out the fabric. So I stood with one foot on the arm of the chair, the other foot on the top corner, and then I stretched until the curtain hung just right. Thanks to my job and climbing workouts, I could balance like a mountain goat on the top of a pin.

Perfect.

But then I heard Jungkook come in. I jumped down instantly. He looked up from the mail just as I stepped off the chair, missing my skilled acrobatics by seconds. I smiled at him. “What do you think?” He looked at the curtains, then back at me. The best he could offer was a weak smile. We sleepwalked through the meal, as usual. Jungkook was polite as always, saying his lines, complimenting the food.

I could have been anybody, said anything, and none of it would have mattered. Sometimes I felt like a ghost. Invisible. Most nights I felt like jumping up and shouting, Look at me! I’m alive! Ask me Something. Yell at me. Anything but this! Sometimes I want to shout, Let me tell you what I really did today. You wouldn’t believe it!

Instead, I just pick up my knife and slice off another piece of meat.

JUNGKOOK

She makes such a big deal out of dinner every single night. I mean, I told her a long time ago, Jane, you don’t have to do this. I didn’t marry you just so you could cook for me. I mean, can’t we just have a frozen pizza or some microwave nachos sometimes?

But no. It has to be this perfect dinner every time, like something out of a magazine. I don’t know, maybe that’s what it was like in her house growing up. So that night we sat at opposite ends of our huge table in the dining room. Candles flickering and all. But everything I did seemed to irritate her.

I drank my wine and refilled the glass. That seemed to bug her. Guess she thought I was drinking too much again. Then I complimented her on the food. I mean, it looked beautiful-almost too beautiful to eat. And I asked her, “You do something new with it?”

“I added peas,” she said. “Ah. Peas,” I said. I scooped up a huge mouthful. “Mmm. It's good.” What’d I say? She looked like she was ready to blow. So I gave up and ate in silence for a while. And then I asked her to pass the salt.

Well, you wouldn’t think passing the salt would be such a big issue. But she stages these little battles of will, which she’s got to win at all cost. “Could you pass the salt, please?” I asked. For some reason, she looked annoyed. “It’s in the middle of the table.” I looked. And well, to tell you the truth, it looked like it was a little closer to her end of the table than mine. Not that it really mattered. But she was the one who made it into a contest. “Is that the middle?” I snapped.

“It’s between you and me,” she said. Damn. So I screeched back my chair, got up, walked to the middle of the table-her side of the middle-and grabbed the salt. You should have seen the smile of victory on her face.

Till I sat back down-and drowned her precious dinner in salt. Jane swallowed her smile. Let me tell you, I had a hard time swallowing my dinner, too, with all that salt.

But it was worth it. This time. I’d won.

I wasn’t sure what I’d won, exactly. But . . . I’d won.

JANE

later that night, after managing to avoid each other all evening in our large perfect home, we found ourselves in our bedroom. Bedtime usually comes when there’s no way to put it off any longer. Sometimes I go to sleep early while Jungkook stays up working in his office or the den. Or when he’s puttering around out back in his toolshed.

Sometimes I stay up late, finding little things to do in the kitchen. Or I watch an old black-and-white movie on TV. Sometimes I even fall asleep on the couch. Accidentally, of course. Jungkook usually leaves me there, and the next morning says he didn’t want to wake me. But some nights I think, if we could just go to bed together, and talk ... really talk … But we never do.

Tonight I was already in bed, reading a novel, when Jungkook came in, dressed in his pajamas, and slid in beside me. He busied himself with his alarm clock, his covers, his pillow. I laid my book down. A sign that I... could be interrupted. To talk. Or whatever. But of course, he didn’t look at me. He was rarely interested in interruptions anymore.

“Well,” he said to the foot of the bed. “I’m bushed.” I shut my heart against the rebuff. It got easier every time. “Me, too,” I said quickly. “Busy day tomorrow.” “Good night, sweetie,” Jungkook said. He paused a moment, and I waited hopefully. Then all he said was, “Love you.” I swallowed. “Love you, too,” I echoed. When did we drop the I? I wondered. When did I love you turn into the abbreviation Love you?

It really didn’t mean the same.

“How’re ya doing?”

“Have a nice day.”

“Love you.”

Meaningless expressions that people said without thinking. I sighed and turned off my bedside lamp. Jungkook turned off his. We settled down in the darkness. I closed my eyes and could almost believe I was all alone. Which, I sometimes thought, might just be easier than this.

JUNGKOOK

Well, you can imagine what it was like in the bedroom that night. Jane was already tucked in, reading. I waited as long as I could before hitting the sack, hoping maybe she’d fall asleep. But I was tired, dog tired, and finally I just couldn’t put it off any longer. I changed into my pajamas in the bathroom, then climbed into bed. She put down her book. Looked at me expectantly. But what the hell did she think, really? I mean, to be honest . . . there hadn’t been a whole lot going on in that room except sleeping for . . . well, for a long time. And after the evening we’d had . . .

“Well, I’m bushed,” I said, fussing with my covers. Trying to yawn. She just looked away. “Yeah, me, too. Busy day tomorrow . ” She sounded so hurt, I felt like a heel. But I didn’t know what in the hell I could do about it. I figured the best thing I could do was just go to sleep, and put us both out of our misery. “Good night, sweetie,” I said, forcing the affection. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she said. Automatically. Like she always does. She never says it first anymore. But if I say it first, she says it back.

“How are you?”

"Fine, and you?”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

It was a relief when we just turned out the lights. I mean, maybe I could have said something. Or touched her hand. Offered a small gesture that would have made a difference.

Maybe . . .

But I was tired. Tired of trying , too. I can’t make myself feel something I don’t. I mean, really, what did she expect?

JANE

few nights later Jungkook and I were doing the dishes together. A chore, a ritual. We didn’t talk. Jungkook scrubbed the plates under running water, and I put them in the dishwasher. That’s how we always did it. What if we just got totally crazy and switched places? I could scrape and rinse-and he could load?! I guess our marriage couldn’t stand the excitement. His mind was elsewhere, as usual. Thinking about something or someone else. Work, I guess. I could have whacked him over the head with one of the plates, I thought, and he still wouldn’t notice me.

Then, absentmindedly, he handed me a plate that was still caked with food. I mean, I told myself Jane, don’t make an issue out of it. Just put it in the dishwater. But really, why not do things right? I knew the plate would come out still dirty, and worse, caked with food baked on by the heat of the drying cycle. So I squeezed past him to lean over the sink and scraped the food into the garbage disposal.

Well, he didn’t say a word. Just made this face he makes. Pursed his lips, like some old sourpuss. You would have thought I’d insulted his tie. Luckily the phone rang.

My eyes shot to the phone on the wall. So did Jungkook’s. Line two was lit up. My line. “Office,” I said, and quickly snapped up the receiver. “Just be a sec.” I dashed out of the kitchen, and up the stairs. Leaving Jungkook to do whatever the hell he wanted to with the goddamn dishes.

JUNGKOOK

I watched Jane go. Ducking her head, covering up the receiver as she spoke into the phone. She sure got a lot of calls from the office. I stared at the dirty plate in my hands as I listened to her pounding up the stairs, to our bedroom. Where she couldn’t be heard.

I listened anyway.

The faucet dripped in the sink.

Nothing.

Then I took that dirty plate and stuck it straight into the goddamn dishwasher. Without scrubbing it clean first.

Just a tiny act of rebellion.

Hey, a guy had to do something every now and then to protect his manhood.

Suddenly I heard a strange scraping noise upstairs, over my head. Like furniture being dragged across the floor. Or a body. My eyes narrowed. Now what?

Not that I cared. But . . . maybe Jane needed some help. Casually, quietly, I stole up the stairs toward our bedroom. As I moved down the hallway, I could see our door was open a little. Just enough for me to peek inside. Jane, her back to me, had just slipped on her coat. Still talking quietly into the phone, I heard her say, “Mmm-hmm . . . uh-huh . . . Penthouse suite. Be there in forty-five.”

Penthouse suite, huh?

She hung up, and I took a step back. But the floor creaked, just the tiniest bit. She spun around and saw me, standing in the doorway. “Jesus, honey, you almost gave me a heart attack. ”Sorry,” I said with a casual shrug. “Just wanted to make sure everything was all right.” She rolled her eyes and swung her arm toward the phone. “Some clown just crashed a server at a law firm downtown, and ended the world as they know it.” Her movements seemed exaggerated, her voice a little too loud. She shrugged apologetically. “Gotta go to the city.” “We promised the Coleman’s,” I reminded her. She stiffened, and checked her watch. “I’ll be back by nine. In and out. Just a quickie,” she added. I kinda wished she hadn’t used that word.

She smiled. I smiled. A formality, really. I guess we were both half relieved to be free of each other's company for a few hours. I waited till I heard the front door slam, then traced her path down the stairs. I stood at the front window and watched her back out of the driveway. Not for the first time, I wondered where she was really going. What she’d be doing. Who she’d be doing it with. Maybe she wondered the same things when I went out.

When did we stop asking?

Hell, when did we stop really caring?

Her headlights hit me like a searchlight, then she was gone. A clock ticked on the mantel. Suddenly our perfect house seemed too big, too empty.

Lucky for me, I had a little errand to run myself. Half an hour later I was riding across the Queensboro Bridge with my hired chauffeur—a guy named Yousef. I couldn’t quite decide if Yousef was happy or pissed to be driving me and his cab into the city. Probably a little of both. Brother, I know the feeling. His driving sucked. I was still wearing my suit, but I loosened my tie. Easier for the booze to go down that way.

And boy, could I use a drink. Yousef’s cab was a little short on amenities-like a window that worked and a well-stocked limo bar. But no matter, since I always traveled with my own personal wet bar: a silver hip flask. Top-of-the-line Scotch. What else do you need to know? I pulled the flask from my pocket and twisted off the cap.

I held it out a moment as we bounced over something in the road, then found my eyes tracing the engraving. How long had it been since I’d actually read

those words?

To dodging bullets. Love, Jane.

Yeah. Here’s to you, too, babe.

I took a long drink. Yousef looked like he could use a shot himself as we pulled up in front of the address I’d given him. The street was dark, ominously quiet. Trash skittered like rats along the sidewalks. Or maybe it was just rats. I paid the cabbie, tipping him enough to go get so fucking drunk, he’d forget he ever saw me. As soon as I stepped out on the street, he tore off like the devil was after him, and I was alone.

I did a slow three-sixty, then headed down some dank stairs that led to a blacked-out door. I jabbed a buzzer, and after a moment, the door clicked open. I stepped inside and looked around. Jeez. Maybe Yousef had it right. This place was definitely the last stop before hell.

A bare bulb hung over the cash register, revealing some strung-out hookers barely hanging on to the bar. Darkness spared me from whatever else was going on in the stinking room. I sat down on a stool that seemed in danger of plunging through the rotting wood floor. Found my balance. Waited for the bartender to acknowledge me.

At last he glared at me like he’d just heard I’d screwed his mother. “Yeah?” “What kind of beer can I get?” I asked. “Guinness ...” I waited, but he didn’t say anything else. Guess that narrowed down the choices. “I’ll have a Red Label and soda,” I said instead. “Go stingy on the soda.” While he poured my drink I leaned on the bar and studied the decor. Now that my eyes had grown used to the darkness, I could see that the shadows cloaked various felonies in progress: drugs, gambling, cash being exchanged for lumpy bags. A few other things in the corners I didn’t want to think about. Beyond that, a partly drawn curtain led to a hallway and further secret hiding places.

The bartender slammed my drink on the bar. Maybe he thought I was looking a little too nosy. So I turned back around and stared down into my drink. It was black. Sure didn’t look like Red Label and soda. But the bartender’s look told me he didn’t take criticism well, so, what the hell-booze was booze-I sucked it down. Whoa! That would do the trick. “Hit me again, will ya?” I said, beginning to slur my words a little. He gave me a hard look, so I decided not to linger. “Where’s the Jungkook around here?” I complained, and he nodded toward the curtain in the rear. As soon as he served me my fresh drink-and I’m using the words served and fresh loosely here-I headed through the curtains and staggered down the hallway till I found two doors. One was marked: pisser. The other read: keep the fuck out.

High-class place, this joint. You gotta know this about me. All my life I’ve had major issues with “Keep Out” signs. Something about them piss me off. Just can’t ignore them. So I chose the one less traveled by, and stumbled through the door.

“What the fuck!” somebody shouted.

I'd barged in on a poker game. Very private. Very backroom. Three extremely untrustworthy-looking characters and one all-around badass motherfucker stared at me in disbelief.

“What is this shit?” somebody shouted.

“Sorry,” I slurred. “Was looking for the can.” I started to leave, then, swaying a little, turned back. “You guys playing poker?”

“Private game,” one guy said. “Get the fuck out.”

“You’ve got an empty chair,” I pointed out.

Another guy twisted in his seat and glared at me. “What part of ‘fuck the fuck off’ didn’t you under¬

stand?”

“You sure?” Swaying, I tried to get my hand in my pocket. “I got plenty of . . .” The big mother was on his feet with a semiautomatic pointed at my forehead before I could finish my sentence .

I froze. “Hey, It’s just my roll.” Slowly I pulled my hand from my pocket and showed him a thick wad of bills.

A few whispered words passed between them. Nothing I could catch, but I heard someone call the badass guy Curtis. I got the feeling he was top dog. I could see Curtis thinking: Shit-faced rich boy with a pocket full of dead presidents needing to make a deposit. Who could have a problem with that? Almost in. “I just thought, you got an empty chair-”

“That’s Lucky’s chair,” Curtis snapped. Just what I wanted to hear. “When is Lucky getting

here?”

He grunted. “Whenever Lucky wants to get here.”

“Well, let me play till he shows,” I said. “C’mon,

you know I got money.”

The guys at the table traded looks, looks they thought I couldn’t read: Why not have a little fun

while we wait for Lucky? Curtis kicked the empty chair out from the table. Smiling like a dope, I sank into Lucky’s chair.

JANE

switched vehicles in my usual discreet manner once I got into the city. “Another day, another dollar,” I muttered to myself as I hopped into the backseat of the Yellow Cab that would whisk me downtown to my assignment.

Midnight runs were nothing unusual in my line of work. And what I did for a living definitely paid better than minimum wage. God! If Jungkook only knew what I did when I escaped our suffocating life in the middle of the night.

What would he think?

Would he even care?

I shivered and gazed out at the city flying past. The crowds, the bright lights filling the night sky, always reminded me of a beach carnival someone took me to when I was little-someone whose face I can no longer quite remember. Soaring rides,

sideshow freaks-I squealed in delighted terror at it all, tethered to safety by a strong hand that swung me high in the air, but never let me go.

And then, one day, did.

Damn.

Focus, I told myself. You’ve got a job to do. I rolled down the window to let the fresh air whisk away old heartaches. I chose a building up ahead and began to count the floors, a little game I often played while riding taxis. First I estimated the number of floors, how many apartments on each floor, how many people in each apartment. Then I tried to calculate how many people might be living in the whole building.

How many people were at that very moment flushing the toilet? Eating Chinese takeout? Making love? How many ordinary people? How many secrets? At last the driver pulled over to the curb. I stared up through the window at my destination: the very elegant, the very tasteful, the very expensive Hudson Hotel. Booked solid, every night. Who were all these people? I wondered. And what in the world did they all do to earn enough money to stay here, instead of the Motel 6 off the New Jersey Turnpike?

Upstairs, on one of those golden floors, one of those lucky guests was waiting for me. Was perhaps even salivating with anticipation of my arrival. And it was my job to give him the night of his life. So to speak. And I knew exactly what he did to be able to afford the place. I overpaid the driver, whispered in his ear that he’d never seen me, then grabbed my doctor’s bag and stepped out, careful not to dirty my high-heeled black boots in the gutter. As I walked toward the hotel, my coat fell open, and the doorman nearly dropped to his knees.

Good. That was exactly the effect I was hoping my client would have to the all-black-leather outfit I’d chosen. Men were always easier to handle when they were on their knees. I moved like a panther through the hotel lobby, trying not to attract attention, but the men, always hunting, kept their sights trained on my carcass till I reached the elevator. Once inside, I caressed the long list of numbers, then pressed PENTHOUSE. Nothing but the best for this man. And that included me.

Even so, I was going to be a helluva lot more than he’d bargained for. I had been doing this for years, long before I met my husband. Even after we married, I continued my ... private career. I was experienced. Well trained. A true professional. And I prided myself on being the best woman in the business.

Ding! The elevator stopped at the top floor. The doors hissed open.

Showtime, I thought, and felt a rush-that surge of adrenaline that I always got just before I went to work. How many secretaries or computer programmers could say that? At the double doors to the penthouse suite, I was greeted by a bodyguard the size and shape of a Sub-Zero refrigerator. Deluxe model.

“You Carlotta?” he grunted. I just smiled and stepped inside. As he locked the door behind me, I quickly surveyed the room-doors, windows, floor plan. In the main living area, four more bodyguards-each one uglier than the next-huddled around the TV watching the Game Show Network.

I smiled. A couple of Einstein’s. Perfect. “What’s in the bag?” Sub-Zero demanded. I didn’t answer, but simply opened it for his inspection. One by one he pulled out my tools of the trade: A long wicked whip. A set of bondage cuffs. A cat-o’-nine-tails. The stuff didn’t even faze him. Guess his boss had done this kind of thing before. Sub stuffed the items back into the bag and shoved the bag into my arms. “We have a plane in an hour,” he warned.

I winked. “I’m the fastest gun in the West.” With a bored grunt, he motioned to a hallway off the living room, then turned back to the TV. The goons were trying to guess a clip from an old movie, and they didn’t have a clue. In more ways than one. But the movie was easy. Black-and-white, Cary Grant. Charming little flick about a dead body.

It was one of my favorites.

“Arsenic and Old Lace,” l tossed over my shoulder as I headed down the hall. They exclaimed various expletives when the game-show host confirmed that I was right. Guys like these never expected a woman to have a brain in her head. They thought we were only good for one thing. Their mistake. Lucky for me, though. It made my job that much easier when they underestimated me. And now it was time to do it. On full alert, I slipped into the bedroom and closed the door.

I was greeted by sounds of gargling and spitting: my host “freshening up” in the adjoining bathroom. Good. That gave me a few minutes to scope out my setup.

Huge bed with zebra-print linens. (Yuck.)

French windows that led to a generous rooftop balcony.

(Excellent.)

I set my bag on the bed and opened it, then paused. I could smell my client sneaking up behind me. I turned around and gave him my sexiest smile. The groan he let out was almost a bark. He reminded me of a German shepherd about to pounce on a plate of raw steak.

Marco Racin. A slick, sleazy Euro. Fifty-something. Tubby.

Tsk, Tsk, Marco. How you’ve let yourself go, I thought. But my face said, Come here, you sexy hunk! I’m paid for and I’m all yours. He slowly walked around me, licking his lips as he admired the merchandise. Unaffected, I stood and let him look, hoping he’d work himself into a state that would make him putty in my hands. After a few moments, I moved to the door and locked it. Then turned around.

He was pawing through the bag I’d left on the bed. “See anything you like?” I purred. With a snap of a clasp, my overcoat fell to the floor, revealing my evening wear: black dominatrix gear. “Much,” he slobbered. Then he swept me into his sweaty arms and whispered in my ear-something I’d just as soon not write down here.

“They still put you in jail for that, baby,” I murmured. “Not in my country,” he growled. Okay. He was ready. Time to make my move. I cracked my knuckles, shoved him down on the bed, and reached for the bag.

JUNGKOOK

“Shit!” I threw my cards on the table. My new buddy Mickey grinned and raked in the pot. “I was so close!” I whined. The rest of the guys just laughed and winked at one another, like I couldn’t see everything they did. Changing dealers didn’t help my game much, and the results were pretty much the same. “Damn!” I complained when my other new best friend, P.J., won the next hand. “That was . . . Damn!” My poker buddies had been reluctant to let me play at first. But it was amazing: The longer I played, the friendlier they got.

After three losing hands, I started to show signs of confusion and doubt, but they encouraged me to “keep trying.” What a couple of pals, eh? When Curtis upped the ante in the next game, I blurted out, “Call!” then “No-fold!” then “No! Call!” until P.J. reminded me I was playing out of turn. And then I lost again.

“Shit!” I cried, when P.J. bluffed me into folding three nines to beat me with a pair of deuces. “I had that!”

P.J. pulled his winnings-most of it my money-into his arms, then turned to me with a look of pity. “Homes, you got fourteen different tells,” he said. “Motherfucker, you are William Tell.” Mickey leaned back in his chair and sang the melody to the famous overture, and everybody laughed.

I was impressed; they’d obviously picked up quite a lot of culture from the classical-music sound tracks used in the cartoons they watched. Curtis’s turn to deal. By now I was so down, I was almost under the table—both from my card playing and my drinking. Did they see the panic in my eyes? I made a vague glance in Curtis’s direction.

“Don’t be stealing no look, Casper,” he warned. He shifted in his chair so I could see the gun tucked in his pants-the same semiautomatic I’d gotten up close and personal with earlier in the evening. I sighed loudly and stared at my cards. Stared at my chips-or lack of them. Stared at the empty spot on the scarred table where my wad of cash had been before I lost it all. I was worse than flat busted, I was in the hole, and needed a big win just to get out of the game alive.

I glanced at the door. Still no sign of Lucky. And I was running out of time.

With another heavy sigh, I reached into my coat pocket and slowly-reluctantly-pulled out my last hope. My special hip flask. I stared into its polished surface and saw one shit-faced son of a bitch staring back at me. As my poker buddies studied me, I slowly caressed the bottle as if it were a magic lamp. But alas, no genie appeared to save my ass.

I hugged it to my chest one last time, kissed it good-bye, then laid it reverently on the table. “It's solid silver,” I whispered.

P.J. grabbed it to confirm its value. He squinted at the inscription, his lips moving as he read. Then he guffawed and read it out loud in a girlish voice: “‘To dodging bullets. Love, Jane.’” Well, I thought they’d never stop laughing. Mickey was getting off making kissy sounds. But at last P.J. tossed it into the pot, keeping me in the game for one more hand. We were just hunkering down for the final skirmish when the door crashed open.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS”

a voice thundered like the wrath of God. The game screeched to a dead halt. A definite chill fell upon the room. It wasn’t hard to tell that the infamous Lucky had finally arrived. “Looks like you’re done, pal,” Mickey said, his voice low and urgent. “Thanks for the memories.” I raised my head, hard luck and disappointment written all over my face. Then I narrowed my eyes at the big man. He definitely beat the pants off Curtis in the “Badass Motherfucker” category. By far the most dangerous man in the room.

Or was he ... ?

I squinted, trying to hold his gaze. “You’re Lucky?” I drawled. “Yeah,” he grunted, expecting me to run like hell. But I didn’t. I just sat there, waiting. He stared at me, head cocked in curiosity. Maybe halfway impressed that I had the balls not to cower like a flower girl in his presence. “What is it, kid?”

he asked. “You looking for a job?”

I slowly shook my head. “You are the job.”

“Huh?” Lucky was obviously confused.

So I straightened up, stone-cold sober, to explain. But my mama always told me that actions speak louder than words. That's when I threw back my chair, stood up, and let my favorite move articulate my meaning:

1. Start with two loaded, silenced pistols.

2. Cross-draw from opposite pockets.

3. Remember what the bastard did to deserve this.

4. Pull triggers.

I fired both guns and blasted Lucky against the

wall . Guess they wouldn't be calling him “Lucky” anymore. My new poker buddies suddenly realized that they’d underestimated me-that maybe, just maybe, I was the most dangerous badass motherfucker in the room. Curtis groped for his semi, but gosh darn it. I’d just had to relieve him of it before the last hand had been dealt. Just in case. It was lying somewhere under my chair.

“Go big or go home, y’all!” I shouted, using a little poker lingo to wrap things up. Then I eliminated the other players from the game. Which reminded me-my cards were still on the table. I turned them over and tapped my hand. “Pair of threes.” Not a great hand. But in this case, I guess it would do, since I was the only player who hadn’t folded.

All good things must come to an end, so I reached toward the pot for my winnings. I didn't take back any of my money, though-it was just petty cash from my office, anyway. I took the only thing of value in the whole damn room: my silver flask.

Then left Curtis’s semi in its place, just in case he had any heirs. To avoid the party up front, I slipped out the rear exit into the back alley. The rats snickered in the shadows. But the moon peeked down at me in between the run-down buildings, reminding me that there were still things of beauty in the world, like stars in the sky.

I drew out my flask and caught some of the silver moonlight on its polished surface. Took a long comforting drink. Guess it had gotten me through another night of dodging bullets.

Then I spotted my ride home: a monster motorcycle gleaming in the shadows, with a license plate that said lucky.

Yeah, well, who was lucky now?

I jumped on, fired up the engine, and got the hell out of the neighborhood.

Just another night out with the boys.

JANE

“Have you been a bad boy, Marco? Have you?”

The bed shook as my client nodded like a wimpy little child.

What an idiot, I couldn’t help but think. Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey with a rubber ball in his mouth, the great, powerful, wealthy Marco Racin looked completely ridiculous.

And he was entirely under my control.

Scumbag. I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up. I snapped my whip in front of his eyes. “You know what happens to bad boys, don’t you? They get punished. Is that what you want?” Marco whined like a baby. I fondled the whip. “You like the taste of leather?”

He nodded, almost wild with desire. I slid slowly onto the bed beside Marco, drawing out the torture. I felt him tremble with excitement and fear.

“Have you been having impure thoughts?” I whispered in his ear.

He nodded, yes, yes!

“Have you been abusing your body?”

He nodded, more frantically-yes, yes, yes

Time to take the game to the next level. I checked the exits, then smiled. What I said after that would come as a complete surprise to my date. But then again, didn’t the experts always say that a little surprise kept a relationship interesting?

“Have you violated international law, baby?” I demanded, my voice now velvet-encased steel. “Tell me you haven’t.” Marco’s eyes widened, and I saw a bead of sweat roll down his big fat nose. I cracked my whip, and delivered the bombshell. “Have you been selling big weapons to bad people?”

That’s when various parts of the great Marco Racin’s anatomy went as limp as overcooked spaghetti. He tried to yell for his bodyguards. But of course he couldn’t with that silly rubber ball stuffed in his mouth. I pulled his reddening face back, pressing my hands into his cheeks. Then, without warning, I gave his head an efficient twist. Marcos eyes bulged. The little ball popped out of his mouth and rolled across the floor. His days playing games with other people’s lives had finally come to an end.

As Marcos lifeless body slumped to the bed, I reached into my coat for my cell phone to check the time. It was already 8:30. “Damn. The Coleman’s.” Jungkook would kill me if I didn’t show.

Just then I heard a tentative knock on the door. One of Marco’s bodyguards, nervous about interrupting the fun and games. “Mr. Racin,” he called hesitantly through the crack in the door. “We have a plane in an hour, sir ... Sir?” As the pounding on the door increased, I decided I’d better slip away from this party fast, so I didn’t have to explain what had happened to my “host.”

I raced out onto the terrace, scanned the rooftop for guards saw none-then peered down over the railing. Some fifty floors below me, the city’s taxis swam like bright fish in a black river. I needed to catch one before Marco’s men made me the Catch of the Day.

But I’d come prepared. My black leather bag had been designed for bad days like this. Calmly I strode back to the doors to the hotel suite, hooked one end of my purse on a metal wall sconce, then turned to face the night sky.

Lovely view, I thought briefly, then ran toward the edge.

Should work.

Behind me, I heard Marco’s men finally burst into the room, firing their weapons.

Time to say adieu.

“Thanks for the nudge, boys,” I whispered, then took a flying leap over the railing.

To the stunned guards, it must have appeared as if I’d simply thrown myself off the roof like some kind of suicide assassin. But as I plunged toward the ground, the fabric of my bag unraveled into a super thin almost invisible black Kevlar cord, which I rode like a spider all the way to the ground below. Definitely the smartest bag I’d ever carried. When I neared street level, I let go and dropped to the sidewalk. A passing pedestrian stopped and gawked. Must be a tourist, I thought. A regular New Yorker would never have blinked. But I wasn’t worried. By the time this guy told friends, he’d have convinced himself he’d seen a movie being shot on location. Or at least I hoped so, because I sure didn’t have time to stop and explain.

With a smile, I snapped my overcoat closed and walked toward the front of the hotel as if I were just an ordinary house wife walking home from the corner market. Without breaking my stride, I approached the doorman just as a cab pulled up at the curb. I slid into the backseat, tipped the doorman with my warmest smile, and said,

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“My pleasure, ma’am,” he replied, and meant it. After a quick “mission accomplished” call to headquarters on my cell phone, I sat back and relaxed for the first time since I got the assignment.

God, I was dying to take a shower. With lots of hot water and soap to wash the slime of the world off my skin. It wouldn’t do much for the way I felt inside, though. I leaned my head against the glass and tried to look between the skyscrapers for some stars.

But the only stars you could find in this part of town were the ones driving by in limos. So I closed my eyes and conjured up my own.

They looked a lot like the ones I’d seen one night in Bogota.

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