Chapter Twenty-One

“Are you going to sign with New York or Los Angeles, Victor?”

Ian was sitting on the couch, papers spread all over the table in front of him while he punched numbers into a calculator. Victor watched him enter numbers on one of his countless spreadsheets and flip between the papers before looking up at him with a serious expression on his face. They were talking about money, and Ian was always serious about money.

“If you look at only the numbers, the New York deal is more money in your pocket. The salary is higher, and you get bonuses for touring. They are dying to get you signed and roll out the red carpet.”

“And Los Angeles?” Victor asked, turning back to the mirror to check his makeup. This afternoon he’d participated in a photo shoot, and the makeup artist had done a good job. Reporters from every major news source had been there, and he’d answered numerous questions about the work he was doing to raise awareness about the human rights violations occurring in his home country. He’d been very busy since arriving in New York, and he liked it that way. It didn’t leave much time to think about Isaiah. “How do the numbers work for them?”

“No bonus for touring, but the base salary is better.” Ian tapped on the screen and turned it toward Victor, displaying columns and data he didn’t understand. “In the end, they’re even. Just pick the place you want to be, and live the dream.”

Victor scoffed, leaning forward to check his eyeliner. “No dreaming for me. I needed to wake up.”

Ian sighed and shut the computer, throwing himself back onto the couch in a heap of designer suit and paperwork. He’d more than earned his fifteen percent, making last-minute travel arrangements when Victor had needed to get out of L.A. and coming with him when he’d figured out what a mess he was. Above and beyond, that’s what Ian had delivered these past couple of days.

“Does Isaiah know about the offer from Los Angeles?” Ian asked, picking up his coffee and wincing when he took a sip of the cold brew. He stood up and walked over to the sink in the corner of room and dumped the cold liquid, popping a new cup into the machine to brew a fresh one. He looked back at Victor when he didn’t answer. “I’ll take your silence as a no.”

“It will do no good to tell him. The best thing I can do for Isaiah and his family is to move to New York.”

“Uh-huh. That sounds like bullshit to me.” Ian poured his coffee and took a sip. “Or it sounds like Isaiah. Both sound alike sometimes.”

“He’s your best friend.”

“Well, he’s your husband.”

There was no arguing with that statement, even though it was clearly in name only and would be until they didn’t need to be married anymore.

“I didn’t tell him.” Victor stood up and moved toward where his costume hung on the rack, peeling off his sweats and underwear, and pulling on the flesh-colored leggings he’d wear for the performance.

He examined his reflection in the mirror; the dark shadows under his eyes were noticeable in contrast to the paleness of his skin. He hadn’t slept on the plane, too wound up from the fight with Isaiah, and he never really rested in a strange hotel bed. And he’d missed Isaiah, warm and solid and wrapped around him from behind, big arms holding onto him like he was a lifeline. Victor had never had anyone need him like that, and it was addictive, something he’d have to get over with time.

And distance.

“I think I should take the New York job.” Victor snuck a glance at Ian, gauging his reaction.

“I didn’t take you for a runner, Victor.”

Victor shook his head, not willing to take the bait. “I grew up in the custody of the state, little more than a work camp, and I got my ass kicked by people a lot scarier than you.”

“Scarier than me?”

“Yes,” he answered. “And they had Russian accents. So much scarier than your posh British one. You sound like the queen.”

“The quee—” Ian paused, lifting his cup to his mouth, middle finger extended toward Victor. “Fuck you.”

“Keep talking to me like that and I’ll dock your commission to ten percent,” Victor replied, moving to the middle of the room to do some light stretches to warm up his muscles. A glance at the clock informed him that he had a little under an hour to get ready for the performance.

“Are you nervous?” Ian asked, settling back on the couch and gathering up his papers. “Do you even get nervous anymore? Did you ever?”

“Yes, of course I do. I give a shit about it, so I get nervous,” Victor answered, bending over at the waist and touching the floor with the backs of his hands, letting gravity loosen his body. “I get nervous every single fucking time.”

“But you still do it, yeah?”

“Of course, it’s my job.” He paused, correcting his answer to be more honest. “It’s my life. My heartbeat. My best friend. It kept me going when I had nothing.”

“You love it.” Ian sorted a stack of papers, looking through them before placing them in his briefcase. Victor stopped his movement, feeling the trap coming, but not sure from which direction it would come. He was going to pay for the crack about the queen, he could feel it. “You love Isaiah, too.”

Oh, there it was. A shot to the heart.

He rolled up, flopping back into his chair, staring at the ceiling. “Do you know how weird this is coming from the guy who told me that his idea of a long-term relationship is fucking the same guy for a long holiday weekend?”

“I said it counted if it was a long weekend spent in an expensive hotel. If I’m not paying, then it’s just casual.”

“You just made my point,” Victor said, rolling his head to the side to observe Ian at an angle. “Don’t talk to me about love.”

“I have a theory that those of us who are incapable of the emotion are the ones who see it clearly.”

Victor didn’t want to be interested, but he was. Still desperate for even a glimmer of hope. He was an idiot, but he was an idiot who wanted to hear what Ian had to say, because he wasn’t ready to give up yet.

“Okay, Shakespeare, tell me what you see.”

Ian shoved the last of his papers into his case and closed it with a metallic snap before easing back onto the couch cushions and giving him a long, serious look.

“Let me tell you a story.” He smirked, clearly enjoying this moment more than he should, and it was starting to piss Victor off, but not enough to get up and leave. “There were two princes who met, and they were hot together. Supernova hot.” He winked at Victor with a knowing grin. “I was there so I can swear that it’s true. Anyway, one prince had everything and lost it, and the other prince had nothing but was willing to fight for the right to have it.” He held a hand up when Victor sat up a little straighter in his chair. “They recognized each other, the real person underneath their outward success and personas, and ended up married, but both were too scared to go after what they really wanted from each other. One prince was willing to shout from the rooftops about what he believed in, and the other lived quietly, the best revenge on those who think you don’t deserve your happiness. They were two of the best princes out there, but they were both too scared to risk it all and fucked it up. The end.”

“The end? You’ve seen the future?” Victor asked.

“You tell me, have I?”

A knock at the door interrupted them, the stage manager’s face appearing in the crack of the door. She was in her mid-thirties, very nice, but Victor suspected she would rip his balls off if he was late and fucked up her schedule. She smiled at him.

“Cindy will come back to get you in about twenty minutes. Mr. Grayson from the AIDS Alliance will do your introduction, kind of like at the Kennedy Center Honors, and then you’ll give your performance. Afterward, please stay on the stage, and Mr. Grayson will come out to give you the Alliance Award for Activism, and then you’ll both exit stage right. Sound good? Any questions?”

“No. It all makes perfect sense, thank you,” he responded, smiling at her as she nodded to them both and closed the door as she left.

He shifted in his chair, intending to do some last-minute costume and makeup checks when Ian’s voice reminded him that he was still there.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

It took a minute to refocus on what they’d been talking about; he was shifting into performance mode where nothing broke through but the music and the steps. It was his zone, his happy place. But he could answer his question, because this story, his story, he knew how it was going to end.

“You left some crucial facts out of your tale, so let me tell you a story. There were two guys, one a prince and one a pauper.” Ian scoffed at this with a derisive snort and a wave of his hand in dismissal. “And they were hot together, molten lava hot. The prince had lost everything, but was still kind and loving and just about the sexiest thing the pauper had ever seen. The prince was also a great father and son, and he offered to help the pauper out when he was going to be thrown out of the kingdom. The prince was clear this rescue didn’t come with emotional strings; the pauper would live in the castle, but he would not be royalty. The pauper wanted that to change, he fell in love with the prince and his family, and thought that maybe he would finally have the home he’d been searching for his entire life. He wanted to be with the prince in the castle and live happily ever after, and he thought the prince wanted that as well, but he was wrong. The prince just wants to live with his family in his castle, that’s his happily ever after. The end.”

Ian held up his hands, shaking his head as he got to his feet. “No. No. That’s not the end of the story, you didn’t tell me what happens to the pauper. Does he stay in the castle? What about his happy ending?”

Now it was Victor’s turn to shake his head. Wasn’t it obvious how this was going to end? “The pauper moves to a new kingdom and starts over with the fresh start the prince gave him. The end.”

Ian observed him, his eyes searching, curious. He opened his mouth to argue, if the narrowing of his eyes was a true indicator of his mood, but then he shut his mouth and shrugged. “We’ll sign the contracts for New York after the performance tonight.”

The sooner he could write another ending, the better.