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Victor had a handful of things that were from his ex. A photo in his wallet, two shirts she’d bought him, and a bar receipt where she’d scribbled her phone number on the back the night they met. Oliver hated looking at the small pile—not because it made him feel jealous, which it did, but because it was so small.
He couldn’t help but wonder if Alice had anything of Victor’s. Had she wanted to burn it all too? Or did she not give enough of a shit?
When Victor straightened back up, Oliver crossed over to him and pulled the box of matches from his pocket. They looked a little worse for the wear, coming from the one junk drawer the luxury kitchen had, but he was pretty sure they’d light.
“Ready?”
Victor leaned heavily on his cane and stared down at the matches in Oliver’s palm. “Do we need to do some sort of…chant or ceremony?”
Oliver laughed softly and shook his head. “It’s not a spell, hon. It’s just symbolism. Letting go of the things that caused you pain. I did this after I aged out of foster care. I did one for my time in the system and one for my parents.”
Victor looked at him like he wanted to ask a million questions, but instead of saying anything, he took the matches, lit one, and let it fall to the middle of the wood stack. There was a hiss, and just before Oliver thought the whole thing was too wet, the wood started to catch. He grimaced at the acrid smell of lighter fluid, but it was quickly replaced with the rich scent of burning pine.
It was more smoke than flame at first, but soon, an orange glow lit up the space around them, and heat began to pour from the little cement circle. The pair of them backed up, and Oliver moved to stand behind Victor, wrapping his arms around his middle, taking some of his weight.
Victor didn’t move much, but he didn’t feel as tense as he had back in the house.
“How does it feel?” Oliver eventually asked.
Victor let out a slow sigh. “I don’t know. I think I’m coming to realize I’m more hurt by Charlie than I was by Alice.”
“I probably would be, too, if my friend was fucking my fiancée in my bed.”
Victor placed one hand over Oliver’s and stroked the backs of his knuckles with warm fingertips. “I knew he wasn’t the best person, but I never thought—” He cut himself off when his voice went tense. “I wanted to be worth more than this to him.”
“Have you decided what you want to do when you get home?”
Victor shook his head, his grip on Oliver going tighter. “Our other friend—Emil—the three of us have equal shares in the company. It was my father’s company, but I didn’t want to run it alone, and they were willing to step in. We felt like the Dream Team.”
Oliver pressed his lips to the back of Victor’s neck and kissed him instead of saying anything else.
“Emil knew about Alice and Charlie. I think I hate him a little bit for that too.” Victor paused for a long moment, then said, “Emil asked me if I was going to tell Charlie’s wife.”
Oliver startled. “He’s married?”
Victor nodded, not taking his eyes off the flames. Oliver watched the way the fire lit up his profile, and God, he was so beautiful. “He’s married. They have children. I knew he wasn’t a good man. I just didn’t think he’d—” Victor stopped, then let out a long sigh. “No, that’s a lie. I never had proof he was keeping mistresses, but he was never very subtle.”
“Did you tell his wife?” Oliver asked.
Victor winced. “No. I was kind of hoping his guilt would drive him to do it. I don’t want to be the one to shatter her reality.” Victor stroked fingers up to Oliver’s elbow, then back down before twisting their fingers together and holding on. “But I suppose doing that would make me as bad as everyone else who knew about Charlie and Alice and said nothing to me.”
“I understand though. I mean, it would suck to have her hate you over something her shitty husband did,” Oliver said. He felt a weird, sudden pulse of jealousy at the thought of Victor talking to the wife and finding common ground and understanding with her. Hell, they would definitely be a better match than him and Oliver. And Victor deserved to be happy.
But it still hurt, no matter what right he had to the pain.
“However she feels doesn’t really matter to me,” Victor finally said, then hesitated. “Do you think that makes me a monster?”
Oliver rose onto his tiptoes so he could press his lips to the hinge of Victor’s jaw. He let the kiss linger for as long as he could take the strain on his calves. “It makes you human, Victor. And the fact that you care enough to want her to know—to want her to avoid the pain you felt—makes you a hell of a lot better than the other people in your life.”
They watched the fire a bit longer, and then Victor dislodged himself from Oliver’s grip, turned, and cradled his face. “I want to spoil you.”
Oliver swallowed heavily, pasting on a smile. “Sure. I mean, I’m here to give you what you—”
“No,” Victor interrupted, his voice deep and serious. “I want to spoilyou, angel. I know I can’t keep you, but I want to pretend for just a little while that you’re mine. That I get to be the one to make you forget all the ways you were hurt in the past. But I don’t want to cross lines. I couldn’t live with myself if you walked away from this with any regrets.”
“I won’t,” Oliver lied. He’d regret every single second he couldn’t tell Victor how badly he wanted to keep him—to see where they could go and what they could make of a relationship. But stories like this one didn’t end well.
There was no happily ever after for the escort and the client.
