MERRY 8

It was only because that movie was the last one Ethan and I watched together; because even then, when he was still quite the coward, he had held my hand while we watched it. That was the only reason I watched Jaws on Christmas over and over again.

The other meanings attached to the nickname “Jaws” didn’t come until much later. It was after I’d memorized every line and scene to the point I couldn’t watch it anymore. It was after the entry for “Ethan Reed” in my memory had become stained and smeared.

There were two cases where I was called Jaws.

The first was when I acted selfishly without caring about others’ opinions; people around me would use the term as a form of jeering. It was because I had a strange streak of persistence—once I got stubborn about something, I wouldn’t let go.

“That bastard is acting like Jaws again. Once he bites down, he never lets go.”

The second was seeing the function of a specific part of my body as having the traits of Jaws. The meaning that had flustered Ethan was surely the latter.

“I have no intention of biting your cock, so stay out of it,” I muttered, cooling my excitement.

I wondered what Ethan thought after uncovering the full meaning of that nickname. How did he feel? Knowing that the innocent me had become “Jaws.” The version of Jaws that had morphed into meaning someone who doesn’t easily let go once they’ve got a dick in their mouth.

For the record, I’m the tenacious type even when I’m the one holding the other person. I only knew that kind of sex, so that was the only way I could develop.

So, thinking about it again, there was a problem with Ethan mocking me. He played a massive role in me becoming Jaws in the first place.

He ought to feel at least a little responsible, yet his face, which had quickly returned to a state of calm, chilled me to the bone. My malfunctioning body snapped back to normal, and the tension in my senses was overtaken by anger.

“I think that’s something you can say when I actually ask you to bite it. I haven’t said anything like that yet.”

“Good for us, then. Since we aren’t interested in each other anyway. Why are you following me if you’re not interested?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. I was just drawing a line regarding your sex life.”

It’s too late to act like there’s a chance. I sneered at him, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Why are you trying to separate my sex life from who I am? It’s not even funny. You’re a twisted human being. Keep it simple. Attributing meaning to sex is just hollow. Life just flows on. Sex is just a part of that flow.”

Ethan gripped both sides of his glasses frame with his thumb and middle finger and pushed them up. He was just adjusting his glasses, but the veins on the back of his hand pulsed threateningly.

“I’m not sure if this is a matter that needs to scale up to a discussion about ‘life.’ Furthermore, I don’t think an attitude that treats sex as a mere communication tool is ‘simple’.”

Unlike him, who spoke dryly as if he were reading a book, I was highly emotional, and my voice frequently spiked.

“I don’t give a damn what you think!”

“You wanted to know, though. You said so.”

I was the one acting like a sharpened blade, but I was also the one getting cut. A sense of frustration—the feeling that anything I did would be futile—was waiting for me. It was mocking me, just like Ethan was mocking my nickname. I forced a breath in and out of my scratchy throat and spoke.

“Not anymore! Get out! Get out of my car right now!”

Despite his borderline blackmail when asking for the keys, Ethan immediately killed the engine and handed the keys back to me.

“Somerset.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Quinn. Mr. Quinn.”

The second I tell him not to call me that, he switches? Since when did he listen to me so well?

“What! What is it!”

“It’s dangerous to wander around alone late at night. If you’re going to live in such a nice apartment, get home on time.”

I rubbed my face and glared at Ethan. Absurdly, he had kind eyes. If I let my guard down for even a second, I’d fall for the illusion that he was actually worried about me.

Unless the world splits in half, that won’t happen. I bit my lip hard. Get a grip. Trusting this traitor is a fool’s errand. Don’t be bewitched. I scolded myself internally as I gripped the car keys tight.

“Being alone is less dangerous than having a stalker attached to me. Don’t think you know everything about me. Do you even know what it feels like to be hounded by a stalker? You don’t. You don’t know anything.”

But frustratingly, Ethan did know me well. He knew I wanted to be alone, but at the same time, he knew I hated being alone, and he acted accordingly.

After I kicked him out of the car in the alley and drove home myself, Ethan followed right behind me—though I don’t know where or when he got his car back from his “colleague.” The light from his headlamps looked so warm that it just made me more annoyed.

It had been nearly a month since the stalker appeared, but I hadn’t asked anyone for help. They call the phenomenon where a hostage sympathizes with their captor Stockholm Syndrome, but is there a term to describe someone who is being jerked around by their stalker? If not, maybe I should just put my name on it and call it Somerset-Quinn Syndrome.

I stopped the self-deprecating thoughts and entered the pub. My stalker had arrived at the meeting place first and was already settled at the bar. I thought he was following me from the shadows of the late evening, but he was actually faster than me.

Did I tell him when or where I was going? Ethan’s gaze pushed aside the question that had swollen like a cyst. Whether he reacted to the sound of the bell as the door closed or if he just sensed my presence, he happened to turn around just then.

His eyes had a way of paralyzing a person’s mind. I wondered if he was remotely injecting some kind of illicit drug into my veins. I shifted my focus to this newfound curiosity and walked forward. To get inside, I unfortunately had to pass by the bar.

Ethan watched me silently as I drew closer. Without a single movement, he looked like a well-carved statue.

“When I see something beautiful, I have to possess it to be satisfied. Don’t you feel the same, Mr. Quinn?”

The words my client—the one who visited the gallery for an inspection earlier today—said came back to me. Ethan needs to watch out for that guy if he doesn’t want to be “collected.”

Running a hand through his fine blonde hair, he suddenly knit his brows. Catching the minute movement behind his lenses, I scowled back, refusing to be outdone. To think a stalker would dare look at his victim with such impious eyes. He really is the worst.

While I was cursing him out in my head, Ethan pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and stood up. As he passed by me, he murmured softly.

“I’ll be right back.”

Inadvertently, my head turned, and I caught his profile—and the faint smile playing on it.

“Okay.”

Dammit. I actually answered the stalker’s greeting.

Belatedly, I looked away and strode off, pretending I hadn’t seen him. I looked around the restaurant for Susan and was seated by a window with the help of a staff member. In the meantime, Ethan had vanished from sight.

It was about five minutes later when he returned. He sat with his back to the bar and wiped his glasses with his tie. The bartender spoke to him, and he appeared to be ordering something.

I pretended to be lost in the view beyond the terrace, but I was rolling my eyes to steal glances at Ethan. Not because I was interested in him, but because I was staying alert in case the stalker tried to harm me. The moment he tries anything funny, I’m fighting back! I clenched and unclenched my fists and drank my bottled beer.

The pub was in a great location and had a sophisticated atmosphere, yet it was quiet. This was because the drinks were expensive and the appetizers tasted terrible, so it was rare for a customer to visit more than twice. But the people who did visit a second time kept coming back. There was no better place to rest and drink quietly on the bustling 5th Avenue.

For that reason, Susan was a regular here, and having been here many times with her, I had wisely ordered a beer. Knowing that the “specialty cocktails” made by the professional-looking bartender were as much of a dud as the food, I chose a mass-produced product from a beer factory.

Ethan, lacking such savvy, must have taken the bartender’s recommendation; he pressed his lips to the glass and grimaced. Serves him right.

I pressed the beer bottle to my mouth to hide a sinister grin. Feeling parched for some reason, I chugged nearly half the beer in one go. By the time my companion showed up, I was on my second bottle. Susan, who found me easily in the empty pub, gave a light wave.