as it turns out, all the advice from her days with sang do not come in handy when it involves finessing one’s way into an ultra exclusive country club that screams upper class privilege and holier-than-thou energy.
it’s the rumours that draw her in. started from something small — a politician allegedly cheating on his wife — to something much bigger that finally sparks a semblance of interest in her work, which has been hard to achieve recently so kudos to her. it all that leads to one rather obvious conclusion that nobody has really bothered to look into: the country club is a miniature, wannabe sin city.
if only jessica alba could get her through this.
as for why there hasn’t been much coverage of this? because the last person who attempted to do so ended up dead.
bomi’s fairly certain they’ve just fucked off to a different country. actually, she’s a hundred percent certain because she found their very active facebook profile two nights ago. the clientele in the country club don’t exactly seem like the type to maintain a fake online profile for their victim. hell, she even doubts they know how to properly use it.
a little disheartening and anticlimactic, if you ask her.
what’s even more disheartening is the fact that this fucker in a glaringly white polo shirt won’t let her in. no, not disheartening, but frustrating. gas is expensive and unfortunately, time is money — for her at least. then, a light thwack on the back of her head. her smile falters.
“hey—” huh, would you look at that? a strange turn of events that has her wondering what myo inchul’s business is in a place like this, more so out of curiosity than worry. “i have an interview for work,” mr. lee doesn’t even know she exists. “but polo shirt won’t let me in.” her eyes land on the racket in his hand before she meets his gaze with a raised brow. “you play here?”
curiouser and curiouser. introduction of the ex-girlfriend, jeon bomi, 25, journalism(?) major. and—under the spring breeze, smells, nostalgic. florals, laced fingers, shared smiles, ends on a sour note. it is particularly off-putting to find her here, when her chapter in his life has long ended.
( if you don’t count the interlude cuts of body upon body, heated hook-ups whenever the group met up at any event. he doesn’t. )
but it’s not his place to ask. certainly, bomi owes him as much as he owed her in terms of explanations, excuses, whatever sh wanted to call them. there’s no saying she’d tell the truth either.
“oh.” it doesn’t sound legit, he knows it as much as the club’s security. what office would send her here without a pass? still, inchul supposes there’s no particular harm in lending a hand. it’s what friends—however loosely used of a term between them—are for. “mhm, i know.” you sound stiff. inchul doesn’t care. his posture never shifts, turning his head instead to glance over at the security guard.
“she’s with me, she just forgot her guest pass.” he smiles, nodding in thanks when the male gives way. “cmon, bomi.” the taller steps forth, hand resting instinctively on her lower back, casually nudging her forward; carrying with him a purposefully airy tone.
“you’re going to be late.”
