Was I Ever Here? ; jenlisa ff G!P

18

Jennie Pov

We sit down at the same booth I sat at with Rosè when we learned Ian's body had been found. Now I'm having coffee with the girl who killed him.

Funny how life is sometimes.

I stare down at my oat milk latte as Lisa peers at me over her cup of black coffee. Of course she drinks her coffee black.

This feels too domestic. Us being here. I couldn't imagine Lisa doing anything as normal as sitting at a coffee shop. She feels larger than life. Although, I have started to get used to her being around all the time.

"So what do you do exactly?" I ask innocently.

She watches me, a boyish grin on her lips. Her eyes are bright in the early morning sun, and I hate how my stomach slams into my throat at the sight.

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

"You don't want to know what I do, little sun," she states, taking another sip of coffee.

"Like hell I don't. What is it? Drugs? Guns? All of the above?" It's probably all of the above.

"I'm part of The Sin Eaters, I'm sure you know that by now," she answers, her lopsided smile widening.

"I know that, I also know that Jisoo runs the entire operation but what I'm asking is what do you do?" I push.

We continue our little staring contest until she concedes and answers me, "I launder money and oversee most of the legal side of our business, like Sammies—amongst other things."

"Amongst other things..." I say sarcastically, "Do you like it?"

"I'm the best at it."

"That's not what I asked."

"This isn't why I invited you here," she replies seriously.

"So why did you?"

Lisa looks back at me now, her irises full of an emotion I can't place, and I can't help but squirm beneath her intense gaze.

"I want to get to know you," she replies.

"I was just trying to do the same..." I mutter with slight annoyance. I sweep across her features trying to find anything other than her favorite stoic mask but I get nothing.

I roll my eyes and reach for my latte just to have something to hold. We're getting nowhere.

Suddenly, the tension between us crackles when Lisa leans over the table and snatches my left wrist in her hand.

"What's this?" she growls, a muscle ticking in her jaw.

Her thumb digs into my skin while we both stare down at the scar on my wrist. It's an ugly thing, raised and angry. It begins at the edge of my palm and goes up my forearm, about three inches in length. I've managed to cover most of it with a tattoo of two snakes criss-crossing around my forearm, but at the right angle, it's still pretty apparent. I'm surprised she hasn't noticed it before today.

It's also obvious what it is if you have eyes and any kind of critical thinking. I know her question is rhetorical. But she has no right to ask about something so private.

Shame burns my cheeks and indignation boils under my skin as I rip my arm away from her tight hold. Still, the loss of her touch is a dull throb I willfully ignore.

"It's none of your fucking business."

I throw her own words back at her and lean on my chair to get as much distance as I can from her. She studies me for what feels like forever, her eyes piercing through my resolve until finally, she leans back in her own chair and folds her arms across her chest looking defeated.