April Loves Black Coffee: First Impressions (19 page)

Choi Sangwoo is standing near the driver’s side. He is dressed down in a black dress shirt that showcases the muscles spanning over his broad chest; the sleeves are rolled up to the creases of his elbows, showcasing developed arms with healthy muscle bars that wrap and twist from disciplined workout sessions. A pair of aviator sunglasses folds into the crest of his front shirt. Sangwoo completes his look with black jeans–casual and camouflage in the night. He is darkly handsome with his tousled hair styled away from his face. He is everything that gang leaders should not be and definitely should not look like.

What should I say to him? All thoughts dispel from my mind. I slowly hang up my phone while he mirrors my movement from only a distance away.

Choi Sangwoo, leader of the dark underground world, is picking me up in a flashy car. Oh my. This is going to take some time to digest. I am more nervous now than if I had never seen him throw up. It is funny how memories can fade when current reality is overbearing.

Sangwoo looks at me with speculation. “Hi,” he says again when I approach him slowly. “I decided to pick you up from work since we never got to work out the details about tonight, last night.”

How does he make complex thoughts flow so simply?
Say something May.
My intuition is gaping at him with her mouth formed into a perfect circle. He makes her task very tough. “Uh . . . you didn’t have to.” I feel as though the balloon above my head deflates in disappointment.

Sangwoo’s brown eyes briefly survey me before he motions with his head towards the car. “It’s not a problem. I want to. Come,” he states with a commanding tenor.

I clutch my tote bag and look at him, rocking from the current of curiosity and hesitation. A sudden bout of awareness comes over me like never before. I know that the moment I step inside Choi Sangwoo’s car, and go wherever he is going to take me, I am indefinitely never going back to my boring and mundane life. There is nothing ordinary about this man, and the world that he lives in is chaos and possibly immoral.

His brown eyes are speculative and encroaching. The gang leader comes out through his courteous offer. “I prefer to follow up with our discussion from last
night in a less public place, Maybelline.”

Oh damn.
He said my full name. For some reason, I don’t find it annoying when the syllables of my name hang in the air like that. The music rises invisibly above me as I clutch my tote bag and walk to the beast of a car. I am going to be lost in his world, falling perpetually somewhere in the current.

“Where are we going?” I do owe him a dinner.

“The Aston House at the W Seoul Walkerhill Hotel.” Sangwoo already has the passenger door open for me by the time I step into the air that surrounds him.

The what at the where?
The Aston House at the W Seoul Walkerhill Hotel. That doesn’t sound like anything I can afford. Does the whole world bend for this man?

One look into those brown eyes of his and I know the answer.

CHAPTER SIX

T
here is electricity in the air. It is rocking and rolling, permeating to fill every nook and cranny. I am well aware of the soft music playing in the background of Choi Sangwoo’s remarkable vehicle. It is a classical piece that I am not aware of; the tone and cadence are foreign in both melodic diction and harmonic rise. On the screen of the car’s instrument panel, I see the song’s artist.
Thievery Corporation
. How appropriate.

The Mercedes SLS550 travels down the road with ease and command. Colors and the existence of life fade behind its darkly tinted windows. The leather seats still emit the distinctive new smell to it. The entire matte black interior panel appears to be untouched. In the short time that I have known him, Choi Sangwoo has two cars to his name.

Just as I am daydreaming about how many other cars he must own, Sangwoo’s phone lights up and a female voice replaces the music. “Boss. The package is traveling northbound at fifty-five.”

Her announcement is a shock to the peace circulating in the car.

“Good. And Ren?” Sangwoo’s short reply is all business.

“He is in touch,” the female reports.

“Make sure the rest of the cargo is intact. I want the data retained and generated before the night is over. Send him to me when it is ready,” Sangwoo states precisely. He hangs up without waiting for a reply from her or a goodbye. “Sorry. I’m trying to tie up some loose ends for work,” Sangwoo remarks briskly.

I am mesmerized and perplexed by this man. “It’s ok,” is all I can manage. Why do I feel so perpetually shy around him?

“Is something wrong?” Sangwoo is aware of my silence.

Nothing. Except for the fact that you bought the place I work at and now I am going to be jobless soon.
My intuition stops gaping at him long enough to throw her accusations. I bite my tongue.

“I had a long day at work,” I hint.

I expect his facial expression to change emotions or some colors to flourish, but it is not Choi Sangwoo’s style. He keeps his face forward, and although he is driving carefully, Sangwoo weaves in and out of traffic. The other cars on the road are just merely moving roadblocks to him.

We are traveling through the city of Seoul to the more affluent part of the town, to the area where the stable roads give way to slopes and slants. The glitz and glamour of the area are apparent. Buildings, structures, and evidence of city life recede to make way for large alpine-like trees and condensed cement. The skies darken and intensify as the Mercedes pushes the city limits.

“Have you ever been to the W Seoul Walkerhill Hotel?” Sangwoo asks, giving me the impression that he is trying to keep the conversation light.

I have only been to one hotel in my life, and it was only two stars. This W Seoul Walkerhill Hotel sounds like it is in the five-star range and ghastly expensive. More and more my stereotypes of gangsters are being debunked. Not
only do gangsters look good, but they also drive expensive cars and live a very affluent lifestyle.
Why hasn’t anyone corrected Hollywood and the drama world?
Once again, I am way out of my league here.

“No,” I answer Sangwoo once my thoughts die down. “I don’t go to hotels often.”

Sangwoo glances over his shoulder at me. He keeps his left hand on the steering wheel and his right hand on the stick shift. It is a habit, I conclude. “It must be nice to have a home to go to at night.” His voice is reminiscent.

“You don’t have a home to go to?” The question darts out of my mouth. Another fact Sangwoo is choosing to reveal about himself.

Even in the dark evening light, Sangwoo’s brown eyes smolder as they glance at me briefly. The hint of a smile approaches his lips, but is not welcomed. “I travel frequently, so hotels are my home. In my line of business, it is not wise to stay in one place too long.”

I’m reminded, once again, of what his profession is. Some people have jobs like me, others have careers, and then there are the select few who have professions like Choi Sangwoo and Mayhem.
I wonder what the other gorgeous gang lord does on a typical night.
My intuition kicks in with her inappropriate thought.

“It must be exciting though.” I try to lift the dense mood. “You get to travel and experience the world.”

Sangwoo contains his facial expression. “It can get rather lonely.”

I gasp silently. It is an unexpected comment from him. A hardcore gang leader with emotions and feelings of loneliness? Heaven forbid. Sangwoo is completely different from the portrayals of the Godfather and all the other gangster movies I have seen. He doesn’t fit the cookie cutter definitions that Google described this morning.

Sangwoo’s cell phone buzzes again. This time, he doesn’t answer. He presses a button on the Mercedes’ steering wheel and his cell phone quiets down. The Mercedes turns smoothly to the right of the road as the pathway narrows. The headlights of the car sharpen as the ground hitches to a slope. Suddenly, we are traveling to greater heights. My back presses against the smooth leather seat. The sports car curves the lengthened slope, following a marked pathway.

The view of the luxurious hotel stuns me. Pale and bright yellow, incandescent lights lead to the hotel’s entrance. The grand area, where the cars come to a standstill, displays an elaborate entrance. It dawns on me that we are at the Aston House itself. The main hotel, the W Sheraton, is another mile from this private structure; at least that is what the elegant sign on pearl gates indicates.

The SLS550 comes to a slow and unnerving stop. The valet, dressed in a crimson red suit, appears out of thin air.

“Come.” Sangwoo leaves the car running as he steps out.

I follow his suit.
Jeez. I am completely out of my element here! This type of wealth is intimidating.

“Sir.” The valet bows to Sangwoo. He looks petrified and makes no eye contact.

Sangwoo coolly slips him a bill and then turns to me.

The smoldering look in his eyes stuns me. It is a mixture of intimidation and
something else.

“We’re going to eat at the restaurant first,” Sangwoo tells me. It dawns on me without conjecture; he knows the effect he has on me. “Are you hungry?” The smile in his voice is meant to ease my anxiety. If only he knows I am trembling like a leaf inside.

I nod my head. “Yes.” I don’t really have a choice, do I?

Sangwoo leads the way into the Aston House. He walks in front of me, keeping a conscious space between us, but his gait is relaxed.

I am about to have dinner with Choi Sangwoo, the leader of Crist. Isn’t he one of society’s most wanted men? Yet here he is, casually strolling through a reputable hotel.

“The Aston House is a mansion that is built on top of a very lavish hill at the W Sheraton Hotel. It is an exclusive location with a panoramic view of Seoul and the Han River. It’s named after the 17
th
century Jacobean-style mansion in Aston, Birmingham, England. It is often converted into the ideal venue for corporate events, birthdays, and even weddings.” A large, ornate painting displays the history of the elaborate mansion we are walking through. The font is professional and grand, giving off the impression that even those with limited sight can still read it.

The entire Aston House is a contrast of white and gold. Even the customer service desk, an oval structure that wraps around the entire floor, embeds in elaborate gold. There is an old man and young brunette standing at the customer service counter. When he sees us, the old man abruptly leaves his place.

“Mr. Choi.”
Joo
is on the name tag of the manager’s shirt. His eager eyes flick from his high-paying customer to me. A look comes across Mr. Joo’s face as though he is afraid to make any assumptions that his valued client is with someone as ordinary as me.

I square my shoulders as a feeble attempt to look like I belong. I am vaguely aware that I’m still wearing my work uniform. The black pencil skirt with the white blouse makes me look as though I work here too.

Choi Sangwoo, on the other hand, seems oblivious to the comparison all the personnel at the Aston House are making. Abruptly, he surprises me. Sangwoo reaches down and casually, with his right hand, grabs for mine. The electric current rushes through me and I freeze.

Choi Sangwoo is holding my hand. What the hot fudge on a Sunday?
My conscience is fanning herself.

Mr. Joo’s eyes travel faster than lightening. The look on his face softens now that hands are holding and the no-contact space reduces. Mr. Joo clears his throat and immediately snaps out of his surprise. “Your reservation, sir. This way.” He extends a wiry hand and motions for us to follow him.

I am well aware that Sangwoo does not let go of my hand. Sangwoo’s facial expression remains unreadable as he follows Mr. Joo. We walk down a corridor of the Aston House, past the ornate and elaborate elevators, to an open threshold. The entrance to the private restaurant is a cascade of plush curtains. It’s dim inside with a wave of blue and white colors. Half-walls and drapes section each seating area.

Mr. Joo leads us to the very back of the room and gestures with a prickly
hand towards the reserved table.

Sangwoo lets go of my hand and motions for me to take the seat across from him.
Even the chair is fancy
, I take notice. I fist my hand together. The sensation of his palm is still against mine.

As soon as we are situated, Sangwoo orders without the menu. “The usual, Mr. Joo.” Sangwoo explains briefly to me, “I always get the best Aston has to offer.”

Control freak much? I think you should start running.
My intuition composes herself and throws out orders. Part of me is glad that I don’t have to decide, but the other part is weary of Sangwoo’s hasty decision-making.

Mr. Joo does another customary bow before retreating.

Sangwoo places his hands on the table and unleashes the power of his gaze on me. “So, tell me. What’s bothering you?”

Gangster and a mind reader too? I feel my heart thudding in my chest. Suddenly, I feel like a child again.
Oh, what the hell. I should just tell him the truth.

“I got fired today,” I tell him. How is Sangwoo able to get me to commit information so easily?

Sangwoo’s eyes narrow. “Fired . . . from Sansachun or The Trax?”

First of all, how does he know I work at Sansachun? And secondly, if he fired me, Sangwoo should know. Instead, he is looking at me with an unreadable expression on his face.

“The Trax,” I answer finally. He probably knows how much is in my bank account too. I am not sure how I want to tackle this man who is passively stalking me. These are all assumptions, however. Sangwoo could have asked around about me. I’m sure his sources are more reliable than my Google searches.

“Who fired you? Naili?” Sangwoo asks, bringing me back to the grounds of reality. For confirmation, he adds, “She has long hair like Medusa and stark nail polish.”

How does he know Medusa’s name? He knows exactly what she looks like too. Sangwoo really is the new owner.
My intuition is jumping up and down, pointing at him with fervor.

“Yes,” I confirm with a braver tone. “I have never seen her before and she came in today, laying off everyone from the assistant manager to the chef to the servers. How do you know her?”

“My world runs in circles,” Sangwoo offers a simple explanation.

“Naili’s a gang member too?” I ask with shock.

“No.” Sangwoo shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle. “In my world, we tend to know who owns what.”

I am more confused than when we first started out. I should just let this go.

Sangwoo’s gaze on me is unrelenting. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “Perhaps it is a blessing in disguise.”

I look at him under my eyelashes. A tinge of shock travels down my body. “Blessing in disguise?”

“It’s a dangerous place to work May.” Sangwoo’s voice is soft and calculating. “Especially for a young girl like you.”

A burst of emotions rushes through me. “I don’t think it’s a blessing in
disguise,” I refute his opinion. “For someone like me, a second income is very important.”

If Sangwoo is surprised at the fact that I am standing up for myself, he doesn’t show it. He hangs his head in an intrigued manner. “You think I don’t understand the predicament you’re in.”

How can you? You drive a Mercedes that is equivalent to an average person’s three-year income. You dine at restaurants that cost hundreds of dollars. You have people waiting on you, eager to fill your half-full glass.

“I don’t think you do,” is all I can say to the face of intimidation.

“You’d be surprised at much I know about the struggles only one income can produce,” Sangwoo states. “But doesn’t your safety matter more than money?” A dark look crosses Sangwoo’s face as he challenges me.

He cares. He cares about me, but in what way? I cannot understand this man. Does he have a hand in my unemployment or not?

I pick up my glass of water and drink it. My throat is thirsty and scratchy. “Of course it does. Are you the one who bought The Trax?”
Very casual May
. My intuition slaps her forehead.