Chapter 30 - Parallel Lines

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Shuai Zhaomin thought he would fall asleep.

 

Technically, he already had—at least halfway. It was probably one of the few skills he'd picked up after becoming a lawyer: the ability to keep his eyes open while sleeping, and to wake up at the crucial moments.

 

Court hearings could be dreadfully dull, especially in the early years when all he could take on were hopeless cases. Back then, it wasn't just him nodding off—more than once, he'd seen judges startle awake from their own snores.

 

He didn't understand why Tengshe insisted on recounting this story in such excruciating detail. Honestly, it could have been summed up in two sentences:

 

"Before my father died, he told me to take care of the person he had secretly loved. So, I seduced that man into my bed."

 

So clean. So efficient.

 

Damn it, he really couldn't take this anymore. Was he going to get that phone or not? Shuai Zhaomin had long since given up on the hope that Tengshe would suddenly develop a conscience and get off of him.

 

"I know you climaxed on your first time, so?"

 

Something about that didn't sit right. Shuai Zhaomin blinked twice and tilted his head. From that angle, he could just make out the short curls of Tengshe's black hair, trembling ever so slightly with laughter.

 

"I climax every time. Isn't that the whole point of sex?"

 

Like hell I give a shit whether you climax or not!

 

Why don't you just drop dead from overexertion while you're at it? Wait… does that make him the horse in this metaphor?*

 

[T/N: The phrase "馬上風" (mǎ shàng fēng) refers to sudden death during or after sex, often due to overexertion or a heart attack. It comes from the idea of someone being "caught by the wind while on horseback", metaphorically meaning being overwhelmed by physical intensity—though in modern slang, it's mostly linked to sexual exhaustion.

If Tengshe is the one who might die from overexertion (馬上風), then by this logic, does that make Shuai Zhaomin the horse being ridden too hard?]

 

Shuai Zhaomin knocked himself on the temple, trying to shake off the dull ache in his head. Even his thoughts were starting to get derailed.

 

"Mr. Brelini, you've spent…" He glanced at his watch with an exaggerated sigh. "Thirty minutes describing your father's death and your first sexual experience, and yet, you haven't actually made a point. I assume Bude was Fitch's father? And he's dead too?"

 

The golden hair and amber eyes made the connection obvious. Besides, he couldn't think of any other reason Tengshe would be dumping all this on him.

 

"Yes. Fitch is Bude's child. And Bude, in a sense, is also dead."

 

The rough scrape of Tengshe's stubble against his neck sent a ticklish shiver down his spine. It wasn't unpleasant, but Shuai Zhaomin didn't like how it made him want to laugh.

 

"Could you be a little more concise? Maybe wrap this up in three minutes?"

 

Better to lay it out now than suffer later. He had already had enough of Tengshe's rambling.

 

First, he didn't speak. Then, suddenly, he wouldn't shut up. Couldn't he find a middle ground?

 

Damn it, no matter what, he's just unbearable.

 

There's an old saying: Hateful people often have pitiable pasts.

 

He supposed that was true. Tengshe's childhood had been nothing short of tragic. A father he barely knew, only to return and die, leaving him with a final request—to confess his love on his behalf and take care of the man he loved.

 

What kind of cruel joke was that for a child who had longed for a father's love?

 

Still, a minute of sympathy was more than enough. No matter how tragic their past, a hateful person would still remain a hateful person. That wasn't going to change.

 

"Attorney Shuai, don't you think this is a wonderfully tangled, passion-filled story?"

 

Tengshe propped himself up slightly, his red-brown eyes narrowing as he surveyed the marks on Shuai Zhaomin's skin—faintly swollen bite marks, some deeper than others. His gaze carried the same hunger one might have when eyeing a particularly appetizing meal.

 

"I prefer Little Red Riding Hood's kind of entanglements."

 

Shuai Zhaomin's feigned smile barely concealed his disinterest.

 

Reality was already bloody enough for him—stories could never outdo the sheer drama of real life. When he had time to rest, he just wanted something simple, something that required zero thought.

 

Though, he always ended up overthinking anyway...

 

If Bude was Fitch's father, and Tengshe had promised to give Bude anything he wanted, but Bude was now "in a sense, also dead," then… could it be?

 

Was Fitch… the child he had been entrusted with?

 

"You've already figured it out, haven't you, Attorney Shuai?"

 

Tengshe's arm remained wrapped around Shuai Zhaomin's waist, but at least his body wasn't pinning him down anymore. He shifted slightly to the side, lying next to him instead.

 

Their eyes met, just a little off-center, breaths entwining in the narrow space between them.

 

"Did it ever cross his mind that he might have left his child in the wrong hands?"

 

Taking care of him in bed—well, that was certainly one way of being thorough. Wasn't this practically an incestuous meal, father and son served up together?

 

Tengshe let out a sharp laugh, a cruel glint flickering in his eyes.

 

"How could he? He didn't entrust his child to me. He entrusted him to the reflection of someone else he saw in me."

 

"Too complicated. I don't care. Just skip to the conclusion, thanks."

 

At this point, he already had a general idea of why Tengshe both protected Fitch and seemed to want him gone. That was enough.

 

Damn it.

 

Why was he being dragged into this mess?

 

"He was looking for my mother in me."

 

Tengshe's tone was light, almost amused.

 

"But the older I got, the more I became my father instead."

 

And?

 

Shuai Zhaomin barely had the energy to care. He yawned, his dark eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

 

"Yeah, I get it. Every rich family's got its drama. I once handled a divorce case where the wife was cheating… with her own father-in-law."

 

"How… refreshingly simple."

 

The hell? That was the first time Shuai Zhaomin had ever heard anyone describe that kind of case as simple.

 

He cleared his throat, schooling his expression into an insincere smile.

 

"Mr. Brelini, I still don't understand why you're dragging me into this. Based on everything you just said, I get that you don't like Fitch, but that has nothing to do with me."

 

"You're right. That's a separate matter."

 

Goddamn it.

 

What was this, Storytime with Grandpa?

 

For the love of all things holy, just lend him the damn phone already.

 

Serg was an early riser and freakishly efficient. At this rate, it was probably already too late to undo whatever damage had been done.

 

Teng She, seeing through his thoughts at a glance, chuckled. In the light, his red-brown eyes—when they weren't filled with malice—were actually quite beautiful, like pure high-grade rubies.

 

"Mr. Brelini, please, just lend me the phone." Come on, his pride was already in the dirt.

 

This time, Tengshe didn't make a fuss. He arched a brow, pulled out his phone, and handed it over. "Attorney Shuai, should we charge by the second or by the word?"

 

"Then, you'd owe me more than you could ever pay back." With a scoff, Shuai Zhaomin wrestled his hand free from the sheets, snatched the phone, and shot Tengshe a sharp look. "Mr. Brelini, I'm just going to take a guess—I assume it's not actually that ridiculous."

 

"Hmm?" Tengshe's elegant fingers traced lazily through Shuai Zhaomin's hair, skimming his cheek in what was likely meant to be a flirtation. The touch sent an involuntary shiver down Shuai Zhaomin's spine.

 

"You're not about to tell me you've been tormenting me because you like me, are you?" The words felt utterly ridiculous coming out of his mouth. If Tengshe denied it, his dignity would be sinking to the bottom of the Pacific.

 

And if he did deny it, should Shuai Zhaomin just grab the sheets, throw them over Tengshe's head, and beat him until he had amnesia? That way, he wouldn't have to feel humiliated at all.

 

"I suppose you could call it 'liking,' but I find you more entertaining than anything," Tengshe admitted smoothly. His fingers slid from Shuai Zhaomin's hair to his cheek, rough fingertips brushing over skin that was anything but soft—exactly as a man's skin should be.

 

Entertaining? Shuai Zhaomin's expression twisted. Was that a confession or a rejection? What the hell did that mean?! No, wait—did that mean this bastard actually liked him?!

 

Even if it was just supposedly?!

 

He shot upright as if struck by lightning, only for the movement to send an explosion of pain through his skull. His temples throbbed like they were being drilled into, and his stomach twisted in protest, threatening to empty itself.

 

"Fuck—" With all the grace of a dying man, he collapsed back onto the bed with a pained groan. The only upside? The phone slipped from his grasp and smacked Tengshe square in the face.

 

Tengshe let out a muffled grunt of pain, rubbing the fresh injury with a rueful smile. "Alright, Attorney Shuai. Let me just cut to the chase, then. An hour ago, Taotie's people sent a message—Mr. Muhammad is in their hands."

 

"Tengshe Brelini!" Forget the orchestra of agony playing inside his skull—Shuai Zhaomin pounced, grabbing Tengshe by the collar with a furious roar. "Tengshe Brelini! I'm going to fucking kill you!"

 

"Be my guest. " Tengshe grinned, wholly unbothered. "We're already in bed. The sun is shining. I don't mind a few little deaths*."

 

[T/N: The phrase "小死幾回" (literally "die a few little deaths") is a double entendre. On the surface, it plays with the idea of figuratively dying—as in being exhausted or overwhelmed. However, the phrase "小死" (small death) is also a well-known euphemism for orgasm, derived from the French phrase la petite mort (the little death).]

 

Shit. His fist was raised, but somehow, he couldn't bring himself to throw the punch. All he could do was glare at that infuriatingly smug face, swollen like a pig's head, still grinning from ear to ear. His lower lip was visibly split, yet he still wore that damn smirk.

 

Shuai Zhaomin swore he was cursed. He had to be cursed. That whiskey last night? Probably wasn't even whiskey. It was definitely some Yunnan shaman's witchcraft*. Otherwise, how the hell could he explain what he did just now? No damn way!

 

[T/N: The Miao ethnic group in Yunnan has long been associated with mystical practices, including the legendary "Gu poison" (蠱毒) in Chinese folklore. The Gu poison is a mythical, sinister poison made from venomous creatures like snakes, scorpions, or centipedes, used in curses or to control someone's will (often in romance-related stories).]

 

Fuck!

 

Mom, Dad—your son just just kissed the man he had beaten to a pulp and whom he fully intended to murder.

 

And it wasn't just a kiss. It was a goddamn french kiss!

 

There was no undoing it now.

 

The faint taste of iron lingered between his lips, mixed with the bitter scent of nicotine—the exact same taste as before.

 

Why the hell did every kiss have to end in blood? And if it always did, why did he keep doing it?

 

He'd never been the type to play innocent. If he was going to do something, he might as well go all the way.

 

His tongue swept into Tengshe's mouth, slowly teasing and tasting. The teeth were clean, but there was a lingering note of red wine. "Have you been drinking this early in the morning?"

 

"Something like that. A glass of red wine a day keeps cancer away." Tengshe licked his lips, clearly enjoying himself. He didn't press forward, but the smoldering challenge in his red-brown eyes was unmistakable.

 

"Don't butcher proverbs!" Shuai Zhaomin licked his own lips, hesitating. Should he make another mistake?

 

"If you don't come to me, I'll come to you." Tengshe leaned in, his soft lips grazing Shuai Zhaomin's in fleeting touches—once, twice, three times—his grin so smug it deserved a beating.

 

"Fuck! Stop copping a feel!" Shuai Zhaomin cursed, yet his tongue instinctively flicked over the spot where he'd just been kissed.

 

Why did he kiss him? A hangover hurt like hell, but that didn't mean he'd just lose control like this.

 

"You drugged me." Might as well shift the blame first.

 

"A love potion?"

 

"—Cough! Cough! Cough!" Caught off guard, Shuai Zhaomin choked on his own saliva, wheezing as he collapsed onto Tengshe.

 

Dying from a hangover was one thing. Dying from choking on his own spit? That would be an even bigger joke.

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