─═ڿڰۣڿ♚ڿڰۣڿ═─♥︎─═ڿڰۣڿ♚ڿڰۣڿ═─

It had been close to two in the morning by the time Junhui had dropped him home. Wyatt had opened the door before Ling knocked, grabbed him by the collar and crushed him in a hug.

"I called a hundred times and you didn't pick up," his younger friend had snapped, and any fear Ling had felt was overridden by guilt. "I was seriously about to call the police Ling, you dumbass. You're meant to be the rational one that worries about us."

Ling let the man rant uninterrupted, not that he was in much of a place to reply with his mouth pressed into Wyatt's shoulder. He sensed Junhui right behind him, probably standing there smugly.

This was not the type of sandwich Ling wanted to be in.

"...what if the killer was out tonight Ling Ge? You fit every fucking criteria they go for."

✦

Wyatt had offered to drive him to the club and even wait there for the whole filming process, even after Ling told him it would be a two-day shoot. Ling, though, had put his foot down. These past few days had been a test from God. He was going through a breakup and did not need Wyatt to trail after him like an overprotective puppy.

Roux greeted him with his usual cocaine-worthy enthusiasm before driving his model to the Lonely Hearts club. Ling was a little hungry, but on the morning of every shoot, he conducted an even more scrupulous face and body care routine, no makeup, casual clothes, and no food.

But he had still stopped by the Blue Pearl where he ordered a sad drink called peppermint tea, because he was stubbornly strict with himself before a shoot. Junhui had given him the drink for free, but the joke was on that prick this time because Ling had called in earlier under a different name and ordered $300 worth of food for an imaginary catering event. Thank god another staff member had taken the order down. But now Ling would have to get someone else to pick everything up and pay when the order was ready in a couple of days.

What the hell was he going to do with several pavlovas, apple pies, cheesecakes and cherry strudels?

Ling considered his options for a while.

There was always Logan?

The club was just as he remembered it, only the atmosphere outside during the day was far different. The place was obviously closed at 7:30 A.M., though there were a few cars still parked around. Roux took one of the private spots directly in front of the looming, dark block building.

M.P. Enterprises had hired their own crew for the shoot, and so Roux only needed to be there to act as his agent. They were let in by a club security member, who Ling actually vaguely recognised as Azim from his first time here. The well-built man dressed more like a secret service agent than a bouncer, though Ling guessed that must have been normal for a high-end place like this. He led them to the main floor of the club.

Ling felt like he was walking onto the set of a Scorsese film with all the crew and equipment buzzing around.

As soon as he stepped down into the oasis section of the club that gave strong black and white Empire State vibes, he and Roux were met by a woman in a blouse, carrying a clipboard.

"Ah, Zhi Ling, Mr. Mandelo," she greeted with a professional air. "Mr. Pell is delighted that you wanted to be a part of this campaign. He had a very specific aesthetic in mind for Ardor Gin. Mr. Pell has always been passionate and hands-on in all of his Enterprises' endeavours, and the moment he saw you and your skillset, Ling—do you mind if I call you Ling?"

"Sure—"

"Fantastic," she resumed with a smile before he could finish. Ling shrugged and sipped at the straw in his boring-ass tea. "He will be here shortly. I'm Esther Hachette, Mr. Pell's representative for this project..."

Ling found himself trying to spot the owner of the club. If Azim, the security member that had accompanied Mr. Abel the last time, was here, then surely his boss would be? He would've had to have given approval for Pell to use the location.

Not that he really cared, but he was curious. And it was better than listening to Esther Hachette.

After, Roux went with Ms. Hachette to sign off on more paperwork, whilst Ling was taken to an upstairs office area clearly not open for patrons. He took his beanie off and sat down whilst several people hurried around with others whom he assumed must have been playing background actors for the shoot.

If Ling thought that Roux was the sassiest queen he'd ever met, he thought he might have been wrong after his makeup artist, Sherri, introduced herself.

"And don't worry babe," she said, clipping his hair away from his face. "Oscar might be a racist slimeball, but I've heard the Pell who is actually paying us is nothing but professional. And you know that he's even gotten Jon M. Chu to direct the piece..."

Sherri, whom he'd known for ten minutes, went on about the man who directed Crazy Rich Asians, and though Ling was a little impressed that Pell really had gone all out with ensuring the major players in this campaign were East Asian, he was starting to wonder why everyone lately thought to warn him specifically about possible creeps. Wyatt and Junhui's grousing made sense, he supposed, but now his makeup artist too? Ling sipped at his tea, letting another assistant take his varsity stitched jacket off and hang it up.

Yes, the first guy he had gotten serious with became obsessed and tried to burn down his old apartment so Ling would have no choice but to move in with him. But Nicholas was in a psych ward in San Francisco now. And then there was that fling he'd had a couple of summers ago, where the guy got too involved and thought Junhui always giving Ling discounted food and frappes meant something else.

Ling had walked in on that guy – who he'd been non-exclusively seeing on and off for two weeks – trying to give the whole macho back off from my man speech. Junhui had simply handed the man the right to refuse any customer plaque and shooed him off. Then he had given Ling a free drink right in front of the guy with a venomous, gummy smile.

His friends really could be pricks sometimes. Ling chuckled.

With his makeup and hair done, Sherri called in a couple of other design crew members who brought in a partition curtain so he could get changed. His measurements had been sent in previously, and so Ling wasn't surprised he was given a fitted white, striped tuxedo with crimson lapels. The trousers matched the suit and the shoes matched the lapels.

"Damn boy," said Sherri, unabashedly appraising him. "I'm blaming you for this country's Asian fetish."

What did one say to this? "I'm so sorry?" he said with a smirk.

His Vietnamese makeup artist only laughed, and at that exact moment the door opened and a person wearing a headset around their neck told them, "Mr. Pell has called saying he'll be delayed, but to begin without him. He'll look over the footage when he arrives."

A loud and obnoxious voice neared, one that Ling didn't recognise, and the crew member wearing the headset visibly cringed. "But the younger Mr. Pell has—"

"I do not need the help to introduce me. I am perfectly capable." The crew member left, and a man with too-white teeth in his mid-forties barged into the room. Isaiah Pell.

Sherri made a show of cleaning makeup products that clearly didn't need it, and after only two hours' worth of getting to know the makeup artist, Ling already liked her. This Pell, the youngest of the three brothers, may not have garnered the bad publicity of the middle brother Oscar, but he was known for being a playboy.

This was going to be fun, especially since Isaiah had almost as many shares in the company as Memphis did.

"Good morning Mr. Zhi," he said debonairly. The sudden change from his belittling tone toward that film crew member gave Ling whiplash.

"My brother Memphis won't be able to make it for a while, unfortunately, so he asked me to come in his place." He took in Ling's appearance, in a questionable version of professional appraisal. This man was straight though, and infamous for his marriages to several actresses and Playboy models. With the meticulously kept, yet ruggedly handsome Jon Hamm thing going on, Ling supposed he could see the appeal, though his smile was too plastered and his teeth too white.

"First of all, I'd like to say that I hope you don't take my brother Oscar's remarks too seriously, he's always been a bit of a dud, and whilst hiring you is probably not the most surreptitious way to apologise for his remarks, I assure you, your exotic looks were not the only reason you were hired, Ling."

That was blatantly honest. He decidedly ignored a repulsed Sherri mouthing exotic.

"I, however, have nothing but respect for the Asian community." He stepped closer to Ling.

Ling was sure he must have had immense respect; his second ex-wife had been a Pornstar from Hong Kong called Bambi.

"As a member of the Asian community," said a familiar velvety voice, "who is honoured by your respect, may I invite you, Mr. Pell, to a late lunch on the terrace after today's filming has wrapped up?"

Everyone faced the doorway, where the owner of the club serenely stood, hands in his trouser pockets. The causal stance didn't lessen the elegance of his dark suit and polished black shoes.

"Mr. Abel," acknowledged Isaiah, this plastered smile even more feigned than the last one. "Thank you again for allowing us the use of your establishment."

"Of course, you know Memphis is a good friend of mine." Was Ling imagining it, or was that a very thinly veiled challenge?

"I'm aware," Isaiah kindly replied. "And lunch on the terrace sounds delightful. What are you doing here right now?"

"Ah, yes. So sorry to interrupt, though I do believe I heard something about everyone being ready downstairs."

Isaiah Pell left on a barely contained huff when his phone rang, followed by Sherri, grinning as she patted Ling's shoulder and whispered, "Hun, you are a whole damn Kdrama. I'll let everyone know that your exotic ass will be down in a minute."

Ling nearly snorted his tea, though the unapologetic older woman only looked between him, and Mr. Abel, who was still standing like a relaxed statue by the door, and left them to it.

Whatever that was meant to be.

"Ling, it's lovely to meet you again," said the courteous club owner. "And under much less precarious circumstances. I prefer this far more than the bathroom."

Ling sipped at his tea again. "You don't look like a member of the Asian community, Mr. Abel." He had no idea why that was the first implied question that came to mind.

"Well, Ancestry.com says otherwise," countered Mr. Abel. "This exquisitely dressed young man before you is one-eighth Korean, courtesy of his maternal great-grandmother."

Ling appraised the hazel-eyed, olive-skinned, American-accented man, who probably had Mediterranean roots somewhere in the mix. "Yeah, you can definitely tell."

 Mr. Abel smirked, which just had to put dimples on display, but Ling seriously felt like that stare could devour him whole.

─═ڿڰۣڿ♚ڿڰۣڿ═─♥︎─═ڿڰۣڿ♚ڿڰۣڿ═─

I met one of my best friends in a public bathroom at 1 in the morning during a concert after she threw up a bad bowl of nachos.

~ Daci, professional hair-holder-backerer