CHAPTER THIRTEEN

VIC LEANED AGAINST THE HEADBOARD of his bed in an exhausted slump, staring down at the needle in his forearm, trailing to a little clear bag of labetalol dangling from a portable IV stand. He felt like a sack of dry cement, slouched over and lifeless, and he slowly clenched his fist to see the veins pop in his forearm while at his bedside, the EMT packed up her bag.

And kneeling next to him in the bed, Amani watched him with darkened, frightened eyes, tracking both his and the EMT’s every move with anxious, hawklike intensity.

“Shouldn’t you be admitted?” Amani asked, then redirected the question to the EMT. “Shouldn’t he be admitted?”

“Not today,” Vic said tiredly. “I’d just be taking up a bed someone else can use. This just…happens sometimes.”

The EMT flicked him a sharp look as she rose. “Don’t treat this casually. If you aren’t closer to baseline within the next eight hours, you need to come in. I’d rather have to come back here for my IV than come back here for your corpse. Frankly I’m considering this voluntary refusal of medical assistance. Just because I said you don’t have to be admitted doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

“Listen to her.” Amani had Vic’s free hand clutched in both of his own, and it felt like the only spot on Vic’s body that was actually warm. “Please…please, just…”

Vic shook his head, heavy as a stone on a limp neck, and let his eyes close again. “Please just…let it drop. Please.”

The EMT’s departure was a collection of brisk sounds, then the crackle of the radio clipped to her collar as she murmured into it. Silence fell as the elevator doors closed, before Amani’s voice fell in little whispered drops of hurt.

“I don’t understand how you can be so glib about this,” he said. “You’re not invincible, Vic.”

“I know.” He mustered the strength to squeeze Amani’s hands. “But I’ll be all right. I’m fixing this. I am.”

“When?” He’d never heard that pleading note in Amani’s voice, hoarse and broken. “You feel like you have some obligation to your company because of your family, because of expectations, but why does it have to be you? Why can’t you just…walk away?”

“I can’t. I just…can’t.”

Yet he could no longer explain why, when right now…

Right now, lying here in the disarrayed remains of his tuxedo, an IV in his arm, duty and responsibility just felt like excuses.

Was he going to die for excuses that, at the end of the day, meant nothing at all?

“You won’t have any choice when high blood pressure turns into a heart attack,” Amani countered. “Fuck, I thought you were having one, I just…”

A choked sound, the sudden snatched withdrawal of Amani’s hand, dragged Vic’s eyes open just in time to see his lovely Master clap both hands over his mouth as though he could catch his deep, rasping sobs and force them back down his throat, yet nothing stopped the tears spilling over his lashes, coursing down his cheeks to gather on his fingers. Vic tried to reach for him, but his arm didn’t want to respond, barely lifting off the bed before falling again.

“Don’t cry,” he begged. “Not over me. It was just a hypertensive episode, Amani.”

“Just?” Amani gasped out. “You can’t fix yourself if you’re dead, Vic.”

He didn’t know where he found it in him to smile. “So concerned for me.”

“Don’t you dare!” Slim hands clenched into furious fists, wet-glazed eyes glaring, snapping. “Don’t you dare try to brush this off—”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Amani. Come here. Please.”

He managed, even though it sent pain lancing up his chest, to lift his arm and extend it to Amani. After several trembling moments, Amani fell against him, burrowing against his side and burying his face in the crook of his arm. Vic let his arm fall, draping heavily, but holding his pretty little Master as close as he could, turning his head to breathe in the scent of the wilted vanilla orchid still woven into his hair.

“This is my normal,” he murmured into that soft tumble of hair. “I’ve been dealing with it since I was nineteen. Usually as long as I take my pills every day and use the nitroglycerin for emergencies, I’m fine. And emergencies don’t happen often.”

Amani’s entire frame shook against him, and for the first time…for the first time, no matter how small his Master might be, Vic saw Amani fragile, undone. “One happened while we were…while we were…”

“I’ve had a long day,” Vic soothed. “Those fundraisers always stress me out of my bloody knickers and annoy me until it’s a miracle I don’t burst a vessel. I could feel my blood pressure ramping, and I should’ve said no.” He wished he had the strength to pull Amani deeper into his arms, cradle him and comfort him, but he could barely move himself, couldn’t risk the IV in his arm—and so he only kissed that soft hair over and over, trailing down to nuzzle and nose at Amani’s temples, his wet and salt-tasting cheeks. “Are you blaming yourself?”

Silence answered more than any words. Vic pressed his brow to Amani’s, curling his fingers in the back of that beautiful gown that had made Amani into a bit of fractured starlight, captured and held in a moment.

“No, Amani. Things just happen, and it’s no one’s fault. I overexerted myself at the wrong time. It’s not your fault. Promise me. Promise you won’t pull back from me because of this. Being with you is saving my life.”

Still Amani remained silent for so long, until his voice drifted listlessly from the hiding little bundle he’d tucked himself into. “You’re paying me, after all.”

“Don’t say it that way.” Vic couldn’t handle the lurching palpitation of his heart right now, the way it stole his breath. “Please, Master.”

Amani lifted his head, red-rimmed eyes searching him so intently. “It’s not fair to ask me that way. You know I can’t say no.”

Vic dragged out a small smile. “Makes you wonder who really has the power here, doesn’t it?”

The question was an olive branch, a safer topic, and when Amani just looked at him for a moment he was afraid, desperately afraid, that it would be the last straw, that his need to deflect and avoid this would send Amani running away from him, and this time he’d never come back.

But with a sigh, Amani sank down against him, resting close and draping an arm over him and giving him his body heat, his weight, the comfort and solidity of his presence. “That’s part of what makes this kind of thing work,” he said quietly. “It only looks one-sided from the outside.”

“Well.” Vic let his eyes close, just…settling to rest, and let the medication do its work, but this time when he tried to smile it wasn’t so hard. “Glad to know it’s not one-sided.”

“Vic,” Amani sighed. “My sweet boy.”

“Ah—that’s just mean.” Vic winced. “If I get hard right now, I might pass out.”

“I just want to make sure you’re listening to me.” A warm palm cradled his cheek, coaxing him to open his eyes, to look into amber depths that even when he was exhausted, commanded his attention, held him. “I’m about to give you an order as your Master, and I want you to pay attention.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Five PM,” Amani said sternly. “No later. Every day, I want you out of the office by five PM. No going in even earlier to make up the hours, either. And you leave work at work on the weekends.”

“But what if—”

“‘What if’ nothing,’” Amani hissed with enough vehemence to crack that mask of resigned acceptance, letting the truth of his upset bubble to the fore, his eyes slitting. “The work will still be there in the morning. The company won’t grind to a halt if you don’t stay until you drop.”

A lifetime of conditioning smashed up against the tangled knot of need at his core, that twisting thing that pulled all his strings until he wanted to do nothing but obey Amani; anything to keep that hurt from his voice, from his eyes. Unstoppable force, immovable object, and when they met Vic found himself crushed in between and unable to move either way.

“…mmph.”

“I’ll come see you earlier if you do,” Amani promised.

“What about your homework?”

“I can do it on the train. Or after.”

He stared. “After…”

Amani’s smile was sad, wretched, beautiful, heartbreaking, but he leaned close and pressed his lips softly to the corner of Vic’s mouth. “After.”

Everything inside him still raged and rebelled at abandoning his obligations, yet one sweet kiss and the scales had tipped, spilling him toward the lovely man in his arms. “All right,” he said. “You have a deal.”

“Good pet.”

He quirked his lips. “Not your sweet boy?”

“I’m not trying to kill you just yet.”

“…yet?”

“Yet.” Another kiss, fuller, softer against his mouth, before Amani drew back, slipping out of the bed in a flow of gossamer and moonlight. “Rest. I’ll get you something to drink.”

l

AMANI MISSED CLASS AGAIN THAT morning, if only because he stayed with Vic that day. It was the only way to be sure he would rest, actually calling in sick, rather than getting up and trying to go into the office when he was still clammy and pale, and his hands shook even when the IV had drained dry and he was resting easier and Amani could no longer count time by the veins in his temples.

He stole one of Vic’s button-downs to wear as a belted tunic dress, and spent the day playing nurse—coaxing Vic into a shower, putting together something for him to eat, bullying him back to bed when Vic swore he was fine and could at least sit up and do some light work. Vic only slept when Amani took his laptop away—falling into a deep, silent sleep, his breaths so shallow that Amani could only comfort himself by pressing his cheek to his chest and listening to his heart.

It was there. Vic’s heart was there, steady and strong, while Amani’s was unsteady and weak and trembling apart.

Last night…last night he’d thought he’d almost…

He curled by Vic’s sleeping side, and pressed his brow to his shoulder. This man. This obnoxious, annoying, stubborn fucking man.

How had he managed to make Amani care this much, this hard, that he felt as if he’d been slit open from head to toe, his entire self emptied and hollowed out, at just the thought of losing him?

l

WHEN HE WOKE THE NEXT morning, Vic was already up and dressing. And Amani knew no arguments, no orders, nothing would stop him from dragging himself into that office that was draining his life like an incubus perched on his chest, greedier and greedier and greedier for more.

He didn’t say anything. He just hugged his knees to his chest and watched Vic dress, and wondered what it was about that company that it had this hold on him, that he’d rather kill himself than let it go.

As he shrugged on his coat over his suit, Vic sank down on the edge of the bed and dipped in to brush a kiss across Amani’s mouth. “Hey,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Amani asked. “Like I almost watched you die less than forty-eight hours ago?”

“Except you didn’t. I promise I know myself, and my own limitations. And I stayed in bed yesterday, didn’t I?”

“Only because I yelled at you.”

“And it’s very effective when you do. But I can’t miss any more work, and you can’t miss any more school.” Vic offered an outstretched hand. “Listen. Since I had nothing to do but think yesterday, I had a rather brilliant idea.”

Only that lingering residue of fear clinging, wet and sour, to the inner walls of Amani’s heart let him push past his frustration to press, palm to palm, with Vic. “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m skeptical of the idea of you and brilliance in the same sentence right now.”

“Ouch. Try to make the cuts a little more shallow, would you?”

“I’m not happy with you right now.”

“I know. I know. But hear me out.” Vic leaned in and nudged their noses together, resting temple to temple. “Remember when I told you I’m on the social roster in the next few weeks to host the next big charity shindig?”

Amani eyed him warily. “…I remember.”

“It’s almost always a live concert venue.” Vic’s words were slow, careful, but Amani knew what he would say even before the words came out, each one an arrow of dread. “And I happen to know a very talented cellist who could give them the performance of a lifetime.”

“What? No. No.” Amani leaned back, jerking his hand away, his entire body knotting, and for just a moment he was cold sweaty palms and the burn of stage lights blinding him and all those indistinct faces looking at him with pity and condescension— “I don’t—I can’t—”

“Okay. Okay, Amani. It was just a thought.” Vic’s arms were around him instantly, pulling him in close, wrapping him up tight. “You’d said you missed performing. I’d thought it might be a good baby step.”

Amani curled his hands in clutching handfuls of Vic’s coat sleeves, burying his face in his throat and breathing deep again and again until that sharp shock of panic passed. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” he whispered. “If I’ll ever be ready.”

“You don’t have to be. But Amani…” Victor drew him into his lap, tangling them together in comforting warmth. “If fear’s your only reason for not trying, what’s really stopping you?”

“I don’t know. But I know—I know I’ll never go back if I don’t jump in with both feet. Until I met you didn’t even think going back was an option, but…”

“But…?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to fill in that blank.”

Vic smiled ruefully. “I guess we really aren’t that different. Both of us can’t seem to stop doing something that’s hurting us, just because that something is what we’ve always done.”

“…when you put it that way…”

“When I put it that way…?”

Amani didn’t know how he managed to speak when his tongue was so thick, when his lungs swelled and locked. “I…I…” He could say this. He could. He had to, because he couldn’t demand of Vic what he wouldn’t face himself. “I’ll do it,” he choked. “I’ll play the gala. But you have to come. You have to.”

“Good.” With a soothing stroke down Amani’s back, Vic said, “I’ll be there the whole time. I won’t let anything go wrong, Amani. I promise.”

That’s not a promise you can keep, Amani thought, and hated how he trembled. And I’m not sure it’s enough.

l

WHEN AMANI RETURNED TWO NIGHTS later, Vic wasn’t there.

He’d made himself stay away from his phone all of Tuesday and Wednesday, or he’d give in to the urge to text Vic. To call him. To make sure he was all right, still alive, still…just the thought made him press his knuckles to his mouth and struggle to breathe, and that was why he couldn’t. He couldn’t forget that he’d set the rules, he’d defined the terms, and everything they were was bought and paid, love for sale and Vic was just the highest bidder.

But Vic was nowhere to be found, when the front desk buzzed Amani in without even batting an eye and he stepped off the elevator into the apartment. Even in a room this large, with such sparse furniture there was nowhere to hide, nowhere where Victor could duck out of sight; Amani let his steps carry him to the living room arrangement, turning slowly, frowning.

“Vic…?” he called, and ignored the sick lurch of his heart that said Vic was dead.

Vic was dead, and he’d just missed the news report, a quick footnote on the evening recap and forgotten.

“Vic?” he tried again, to no response—yet as if on cue, his phone rang, and he fumbled it from his pocket to tap answer almost before he registered the Overbearing Prick on the screen.

“Hey,” he said breathlessly. “Where are you?”

“I’m sorry,” Vic said—though he sounded distant, distracted. “I completely forgot I had plans tonight. I should’ve told you I couldn’t see you.”

“Oh.”

Vic didn’t answer, and Amani almost thought he’d hung up, until he came back with a borderline disinterested, “I’ll still…you know…pay for the time.”

An odd, sick floating feeling washed over Amani, vertigo a thing that ran in circles, and he let himself tumble to the side until the couch caught him. He had to close his eyes and count his breaths until his head cleared; until he no longer wanted to scream with the sudden shock of hurt and rage and confusion when no matter how many times that notification had popped up telling him his body had bought another layer of safety, another promise of a better future…Vic had never treated him like someone he could just hire and dismiss so impersonally when his services were no longer needed. And maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much if Amani hadn’t cried over Vic’s shaking, convulsing body, if he hadn’t watched him sleep so he could stand guard against the darkness that might take him away, if he hadn’t…if he hadn’t…

If he hadn’t gone and fallen for the illusion that Vic’s submission could ever belong to him and him alone.

“That’s fine,” he said tightly. “You don’t have to pay. I’ll go home.”

“You’re already there?”

“Yeah, I…” No, fuck, this wasn’t right, Vic’s voice was all wrong— “Vic…? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Something just came up.”

Just that. Nothing else, and Amani wasn’t entitled to anything else and that harsh reminder was enough of a slap in the face to clear his head. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“We have a business arrangement, Vic. That’s all our relationship is, isn’t it?”

Long moments ticked past, and then, carefully, “I don’t know. Is it?”

“Our business is our business.” Amani’s lips trembled, and he pressed them together tight tight tight until all he could feel was frustration and anger, like he was compressing his hurt down between his lips until it was crushed and flattened small enough to swallow it. “Your business is your business. If you’d still like to meet for the Friday session, let me know.”

“I will,” Vic said tonelessly. “I guess…bye.”

“Goodnight, Victor,” Amani said, then ended the call.

Then threw his phone down with a thick, aching snarl, as the PayPal notification chimed and that number outlining his value flashed across the screen, counting out the cost of a human heart.

l

HE DIDN’T WANT TO GO back.

Vic didn’t call, didn’t text—nothing. And Amani wasn’t taking that step; he’d rather just walk away. They’d never put an end date on the contract, but he’d made sure that either of them could nullify it at any time without requiring the other’s consent, and he was damned well ready to nullify when no amount of financial stability in the world was worth someone making him feel like an object to be tossed aside.

But when Friday evening came, he was just stepping out of class when his phone dinged at him again—and the notification flashed with another ten thousand, like clockwork. The stab through his chest left him motionless, clutching his fingers against the strap of his bag.

Fine. He’d been bought and paid for.

He’d go. He’d go, and he’d tell Victor it was over, and then he’d send back the twenty thousand he hadn’t earned because the last thing he wanted from Victor was charity.

What he wanted from Victor…

He didn’t think that was possible.

He spent a miserable train ride glaring out the window, working up what he would say. Thank you for your compensation, but I’ve decided to terminate our agreement. I’ll refund costs for services not rendered. This should free us both from the contract terms, but of course I’ll abide by non-disclosure. The cold words felt safer, easier to hold on to, giving him something to steady himself as he stepped off the train at Spring Street and made his way down to Vic’s building.

But every carefully prepared word flew out of his head as he rounded the corner, and Vic stepped out of the glass front doors of his building with a little girl on his hip, a red-haired woman on his arm.

The girl and the woman from the photos.

The girl with Vic’s winter-blue eyes, who threw her arms around his neck and smacked her lips against his cheek and chirped, “Bye-bye, Daddy” with her high sweet voice carrying over the street, while Vic laughed and swung her around before setting her down with a kiss to the top of her head. Another kiss to the woman’s cheek, and then the two pulled away, mother and daughter hand in hand and walking down the street. While Amani watched, frozen and numb, Vic stood gazing after them fondly, his hands in his pockets and a smile on his lips.

A smile that faded into a look of sheer, raw dismay as he turned, and locked eye to eye with Amani.

“…ah, fuck.”

“Virgin, huh?” Amani lifted his chin, glaring. He didn’t fucking care who Vic had or hadn’t slept with, but if he’d lied about that, what else had he lied about? “Anything else I should know, Vic? Or did you forget to tell me roleplay was part of our contract, too?”

“Amani—Amani, stop.” Victor pressed his fingers to his temples, sighing, speaking slowly. “Siorse’s not my daughter. Not in the biological sense. I just…” He swore, almost violently dragging his fingers through his hair. “Can we talk about this upstairs? Please.”

No, Amani wanted to snarl. I’m not going anywhere with you.

But Vic was watching him almost desperately, and no matter how Amani tried to steel himself he was still weak for that pleading gaze, still worried that Vic’s color wasn’t quite right, that he was too pale. He folded his arms over his chest, hugging them to himself, and looked away, compressing his lips.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “That’s all you get.”

“I don’t even know if that’s long enough to explain,” Vic said, catching the door handle and stepping back to hold it open, “but I’ll try.”

They didn’t look at each other, didn’t speak to each other for the tense, short ride up. In the apartment, Amani perched on the sofa at the end closest to the door, while Vic stalked into the kitchen and poured two glasses of sparkling water. He left one on the coffee table near Amani, and cradled the other between his hands without drinking, his body language vibrating and tight as he paced to the window, staring out. Amani bit his tongue, waiting. He’d said ten minutes, and he’d meant ten minutes.

“Her name is Julie,” Vic suddenly said, clipped and abrupt. “The woman. And the little girl, Siorse? She’s my niece. She just calls me Dad because her real father’s not exactly welcome here.”

Her real father…? His niece… “Your older brother…?” he realized as it clicked together. “The boy in the photos.”

“Oliver,” Vic confirmed grimly. “He’s eleven years older than I am. He…” He closed his eyes, deep creases around them. “Fuck. This isn’t mine to tell, Amani.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I do. Just so you know I wouldn’t abandon you for nothing.” Vic opened his eyes, glaring out the window, then tossed back his sparkling water like he was tossing back a bracing shot of whiskey, his voice tight and hard-edged as he continued, “When he was the age I am now, Julie was this—she was an aspiring actress, still in high school, while my brother was…he was trying to be a screenwriter. He didn’t want the company. He had his own delusions of grandeur.” A disgusted snort. “He’d get into these Hollywood parties, meet women, try to impress them. And he…” Every word thick with emotion, with loathing. “He got Julie drunk and…she was only fucking seventeen, Amani.”

The cold implications in those words were ice against the marrow of Amani’s bones; he curled his hand against his chest. “Oh, Vic…”

“Yeah.” Vic’s smile was a cruel, humorless sickle. “And that’s how Siorse happened. The one saving grace is that Julie has no memory of that night. She was blacked out, but that doesn’t make it any less horrifying to wake up and realize what happened to her. She may not have to relive the experience, but she still knows.” He trailed to a whisper, mouth moving against the rim of his glass. “And then she realized she was pregnant with Siorse.”

Amani unfolded himself from the couch. He didn’t want that need inside him, to reach out to Vic, to comfort him, caress him until he went soft and emptied of his tension, but he couldn’t stay at a distance, either. He settled nearby, resting his shoulder against the steel framing, looking up at him. “So she kept the baby.”

“She wanted to.” Vic glanced down at him, but his eyes were shuttered, closed. “My parents were—still are—so completely disgusted with my brother. They disowned him, cut him out of the will, told him to never come home again. And for Julie…they gave her everything. They covered her medical care, hired private tutors to keep her up with her studies so she wouldn’t fail high school, paid for childcare, paid her university tuition, bought her a house. Siorse wants for nothing, and attends one of the best private schools in New York. Fuck, they treated her better than they treated me, but…she deserves it. Anything Julie or Siorse need…they have only to ask.” A sad chuckle choked out. “And you know, she’s so sweet she almost never asks. Not unless she really needs it.”

“You really love her, don’t you?”

“She’s not my blood, but she’s like family. And Siorse is family, and I’m the closest thing to a dad she’s got.” Vic shook his head sharply. “I know it’s ridiculous, me being so secretive about them, but I’m trying to protect them. Tabloids don’t follow me around the way they stalk someone like Ash, but all it would take is one hot tip about the woman and child I visit every so often to thrust them into the spotlight, and all that scrutiny and pain. All she wants is to live her life.” His fingers tightened against the glass so hard it squeaked. “It might drag my brother out into the light and leave him squirming like the cockroach he is, but the pain it would cause them wouldn’t be worth it.”

Every new layer of this story added horror upon horror, grief upon grief. Amani bit his lip. “He was never…?”

“My brother never had to deal with a thing, other than losing out on his inheritance. He’s still directing movies in Hollywood and making his fortune there. Fits right in with those Weinstein types. I’ve thought about reporting him so many times, but if she doesn’t want to press charges then there’s nothing I can do but try to make sure she has the life she wants. It’s not fair. And it’s not fair that Siorse never had a father who was decent to her.”

“So you try to fill in for that.”

“Try.” Vic lifted his glass in a mocking salute. “Not sure if I succeed.”

Now…now it made sense. Why Vic worked himself to the bone. Why he wouldn’t walk away from the company that was sucking his life away. Why he was Vic, and it was nothing to do with upholding his status as the heir and everything to do with the pressures that could mold carbon into diamond, or crush it into dust.

“And that’s why you try to do everything right,” Amani said. “Because you have to be the good brother. The perfect son. The one who doesn’t hurt people. The one who doesn’t fail.”

“…yeah.” Vic bowed his head, staring blankly at the floor. “Not that it helped. It’s like with Oliver gone, my parents got bored with the idea of being parents. So they never even noticed. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“No.” Amani shook his head. “But you can’t live your life trying to atone for someone else.”

“Can’t I? Don’t we all just…spend our lives trying our best not to be horrid people?”

“You can’t define yourself by who you’re not, Vic. You can only define yourself by who you are.”

A wretched look turned on Amani. “But I don’t ever want to be like him.”

“So don’t be.” Amani started to reach for Vic, then stopped, recoiled, curling his fingers. “Be yourself. And make who you are into someone you’d respect.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Vic took a deep breath, shoulders squaring as he turned to face Amani fully. “I was at Siorse’s school play the other night. And I didn’t feel right telling you about them, and I was so angry at myself for forgetting her play and almost missing it that I was in a right shit of a mood, and ready to burst and just end up whingeing all over you. So I…”  A helpless flick of his fingers. “I shut you out so you wouldn’t have to deal with me like that. I’m sorry.”

That…he just…all the shock and hurt of that night came bubbling up as if an old wound had been cut open to bleed fresh, and Amani stared at him. “It’s not dealing with you to listen if you need to talk.”

“Isn’t it?” Vic asked. “I don’t know how to talk to you if we’re not Master and pet, Amani. I don’t know if it’s allowed.”

“Of course it’s allowed, I—what do you think we’ve been doing this whole time? That night, at the gala…and even before…” And then Amani realized. He realized he’d been collecting moments. Capturing them inside himself as if they were real, and filling himself up with them, every little one as tiny and shining as the threads of seed pearls he wore in his hair. “Sessions are sessions, but outside of those we’re still people. We still have these…these complex and nuanced needs, and human contact, conversation, is one of them. You can just talk to me as Amani, and not as…as…”

“As what?”

“As the Dom you hired.” The words tasted bitter, so bitter. “That’s how you treated me. As someone you just pay, as if the money is the only thing that mattered and then you just dismissed me, writing me off with a check—”

“But I didn’t—”

“But you did!” Amani thumped a fist against the cold steel bars at his shoulder. “Money is just…just a vehicle here, Vic. When you take on this role with someone else, when you meet time and time again instead of just once or twice as impersonal strangers, it’s more than just paying for a service. It’s intimate. It’s letting someone inside you.” Every word was harder and harder to grind out, his voice fragmenting. “And you made that cheap.”

Vic stared at him, eyes stricken. “You were the one who said you would never want to date me, or anyone like me.”

And that’s my fault, and maybe I changed my mind, but I can’t tell you that now. Not after this.

“That doesn’t mean I wanted to be treated like the hired help.” Amani despised the fragile quaver in his voice, when right now he needed strength, his spine, his backbone more than anything. “Do you have any idea how much baggage there is in letting someone like you pay someone like me? How much I had to work through to even be with you? To remind myself that you were buying the valued services of a skilled professional and not buying the body of a disposable Black person you’d just use and throw away?” Maybe he’d been lying to himself, too. And he couldn’t look at Vic anymore, turning his face away, staring down at the street below. “I’d told myself it was all right. That it was different because I was in control. Because I set my own value. But it wasn’t different at all.” He pushed away from the glass, away from Vic. “You weren’t different at all.”

“I’m sorry, Amani,” floated after him, small and chagrined.

“Sorry isn’t understanding,” he whispered. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything.”

He made it two steps before the crash of glass followed, shattering and loud and harsh as a stab through vulnerable flesh. He turned back sharply, as Vic’s glass dropped to the floor, as Vic reached after him, catching at his fingers gently.

“Don’t go,” he begged. “Amani, please. I’ll…if I made you feel cheap, tell me what won’t.”

“Don’t.” He pulled his hand back, stepping out of reach of the spreading puddle on the floor. “Please don’t try to buy me again.”

“I’m not! I just…” Vic shoved both hands into his hair, staring at Amani across the plain of broken glass. “Don’t you understand that I’d pay anything to be with you?”

Amani smiled bitterly. He supposed that was the nail in the coffin, illusions as cracked and fragmented as the sharp edges littered all over the tile.

Because in the end, Vic just wanted to negotiate price.

“You don’t understand that that’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t want you to buy my love. I just want you to want it. And unless you can see me as more than someone to be bought…”

Amani retreated, and made himself turn his back on Vic for the last time. Before he gave in to the anguish in those eyes that had made him laugh, made him weep, made him cry out with more passion than he’d ever known. It had just been an act, a roleplay, and now the curtain was called.

“I just can’t be with you, Vic,” he finished.

And ran, pelting from the apartment before Vic could try to stop him again.