Love of Silom

Prolong

 

Do you believe in life's timing? The blooming moments, the good times that will come to everyone, just waiting for the right time, something like that.

 

I never believed in that crap. As far back as I can remember, my life's timing has been nothing but hell-rocky, full of ups and downs, some nights at rock bottom, some days filled with hope, only to be deceived into thinking things might get better before being slammed down again. Over and over, until sometimes I have to ask myself why people live in hell even before they die.

 

At the moment the vase smashed against my head, I wasn't thinking about any of that. I only registered the impact and the sharp, immediate pain. My body staggered and collapsed onto the floor. Warm blood streamed down my forehead and into my eyes. The world blurred, as if I wasn't even processing what I was seeing. My head throbbed, dazed, until I heard a commotion at the door, followed by loud, panicked voices. Even when they rushed in to help me up and take me to the hospital, I was still in a daze.

 

And now, as I sit on a plastic chair in neat rows at the hospital's emergency department, I'm still dizzy. Blood still seeps from my wound. A man stands nearby, keeping watch— probably to prevent my attacker and me from going at it again. I glance at him, then slowly trail my eyes upward from the hem of his black trousers, up his long legs, to his broad chest in a light-colored dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A suit jacket is draped over one shoulder. A cop...

 

Honestly, I didn't expect him to help me. Not that he actually intended to, anyway. He was just attending a wedding at a fancy hotel in one of Bangkok's upscale areas. But just because an area is "nice" doesn't mean only good things happen there. And that's how he got tangled up in an assault case inside a hotel room, completely by accident.

 

Blood trickles out again. Damn, it hurts. I press the cloth in my hand against my wound, trying to stop the blood from dripping onto my pants. My shirt? Whatever. But my pants? They're my favourite. Ripped just right, revealing just enough sexy in all the best ways. 

 

"Here, use this." The cop steps closer, holding out a fresh towel to replace my already blood-soaked cloth. "Didn't you hear me?"

 

His tone turns sharp when I don't reach for it. He sits beside me and pulls my hand down before gently pressing the soft, clean towel against my head wound, carefully, almost tenderly. I freeze. His actions stir a mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, and something I can't quite put my finger on. It's been so long since I felt this... kindness. I turn to look at him.

 

His face is strikingly handsome, with sharp features, neatly arched brows, large eyes with a slight upward slant at the corners, a straight nose, and well-shaped lips. He looks back when he notices me staring. His expression remains neutral— not smiling, but not scowling either.

 

I've met plenty of good-looking men with terrible personalities. Looks don't faze me. But this time, it is different. There's something in his eyes that tells me we're alike. That we both hide something deep within-something we don't want anyone to uncover, a prostitute and a cop could never be the same.

 

And yet, I can't stop how I feel. I can't even look away. I just stare into his eyes, my heart dropping into my stomach, only to bounce back up and start hammering like it's trying to break free. Right then, I knew I had fallen into something. My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid the whole hospital could hear it. 

 

My attacker was still shouting at me from across the room, accusing me of deceiving him, of framing him, calling me promiscuous and every insult he could think of. Did I care? Not in the slightest. All I could think about was that stupid idea of life's timing. That someday, something good would finally come along. What a cruel joke. Not funny at all.

 

I fell in love with a cop on the night I was about to sell myself.