Chapter Text
Cover art made by @BlindlyCeci (Twitter & Instagram)
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January 1952
A wave of trepidation surged through Vincent as he pulled into the bar’s gravel parking lot, the pale yellow glow of a nearby streetlamp sweeping across the hood of the car as it rolled forward. The car’s tires rocked over the uneven ground, the motion doing little to steady his already frayed nerves.
As he coaxed the car into one of the many vacant parking spaces scattered around the lot and killed the engine, he was struck with the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that this—this was it.
He really was here. Doing this.
And now… looking around at the small handful of vehicles that occupied the lot, the building’s weathered brick that had certainly seen better days, the dimly lit entrance that was only illuminated by a small neon sign—
Vincent began to have second thoughts.
Because fuck. Was he actually ready to do this? To step inside this establishment knowing that once he did so—once he showed his face—there would be no going back?
His knuckles tightened white on the steering wheel at the notion.
Listening to the quiet ticking of the cooling engine beneath him, he silently reconsidered every life choice that had led him to this point.
He had put so much work into tracking the place down—had spent so many nights tirelessly drawing up a plan to come all the way out here. Hell, he had even taken valuable vacation time for this little trip, something he rarely afforded himself—just for it all to come down to this very moment.
And he couldn’t even bring himself to step out of the fucking car.
The entire situation was almost comical. Almost. And Vincent might have laughed, were it not for the fact that he seemed to be the butt of the joke in this particular situation.
However, as it was now—as the TV host peered up at the building and its weathered exterior, he wondered, not for the first time that day, if this really was a good idea.
…Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn back.
He could still leave—very easily, actually. All he had to do was just put the car in reverse and drive away; it was as simple as that. No one would even know that he had come here, no one except him.
Admittedly, the thought was very appealing.
And, not only that, but it would make the most sense. In fact, it was probably the most reasonable course of action in this case.
Vincent knew this. Was painfully aware of it.
Yet, he didn’t shift the car into reverse or drive out of the parking lot. Hell, he didn’t even move to turn the engine back on.
He didn’t… because this bar was the entire reason he had driven all the way out here in the first place.
According to the tidbits of information he had been able to piece together through his extensive research, this was the perfect place for him to explore the peculiar… inclinations that had been troubling him as of late. Somewhere he could lay low and become just another indistinguishable face in the crowd—which, yes, was something Vincent was normally vehemently against—but tonight…
Well, he figured discretion was probably the best choice of action if he wanted to keep his career intact.
Decision made, Vincent drew in a steadying breath, gathered what little courage he had left, and wrenched the car door open.
As soon as he slid out of the driver’s seat, the frigid Pennsylvania winter air greeted him immediately, nearly knocking the breath right out of his lungs.
Inhaling sharply into the biting air, he straightened, hands automatically moving to smooth out his suit jacket.
He didn’t move immediately toward the building.
Instead, he simply stood beside the car for several long seconds, staring at the neon-lit entrance of the bar like a man walking to his own execution.
Fuck. He really was doing this then.
Well, best not to delay the inevitable, as his father had always said.
Ha! Vincent could only imagine what his father would say to him now if he knew the type of establishment his son was about to walk into. Oh, the disappointment—
The TV host cut off the thought before it could spiral any further.
Focus. He needed to focus.
And he really didn’t want to think about his “dearly departed” father, especially not when he already had so many other things to worry about—far more pressing matters.
Rolling his shoulders, Vincent slammed the car door shut behind him and made his way to the entrance. As he walked, he adjusted his tie and the cuffs of his sleeves, ensuring they were properly straightened.
Because no matter what establishment he stepped into—or the sort of people he met inside—he would be damned if he wasn’t going to make a good first impression.
He didn’t bother sparing the flashy neon sign above the door another glance as he pushed it open, finally entering the bar.
The inside of the establishment was dimly lit, bathed in a warm amber glow that emanated from the light fixtures suspended above. The sound of soft jazz wove through the air, accompanied by the low murmur of voices, and the occasional clinking of glass and faint rattling of plates filled the silence in between.
Vincent’s eyes were immediately drawn to the bar’s long countertop, which essentially took up the entire room—almost like the entire establishment had been built around it rather than the other way around. Behind it, a bartender worked tirelessly, meticulously polishing glasses all while serving drinks to waiting patrons.
Vincent’s palms grew clammy as his gaze swept across the room, quickly taking stock of it. Well, if there had been any doubt before that he was in the right place, there certainly wasn’t any now.
There was not a single woman in sight. The space was filled entirely with men and only men.
He took a deep breath.
Okay. This is fine. No big deal. All he had to do was play it cool.
Just act like it’s just another bar, nothing out of the ordinary, he told himself
Stepping away from the entrance and further into the establishment, Vincent began to survey the room more thoroughly, careful not to let his gaze linger on any one person for too long. After all, he didn’t want to end up giving someone the wrong impression—and something told him that the men in this establishment would definitely take such a prolonged look the wrong way.
Although Vincent couldn’t say exactly what he was looking for—or what type of man would “suit his needs”—no one in particular stood out or caught his attention during his initial sweep of the room.
Everybody looked fairly… average.
His gaze drifted back over to the bar.
After a brief moment spent weighing his options, the TV host decided the bar would probably be his best bet, at least to start out. Not only would it make scanning the room for potential candidates easier, but he had to admit that a drink sounded exceptionally appealing right about now.
Crossing the room, he took a seat near the far end of the bar, where the countertop met the wall. The bartender seemed to be occupied at the moment, so Vincent decided to busy himself with the entire reason he had come here in the first place. Clasping his hands together on the bartop to keep himself from fidgeting with them, he discreetly began to scan the room for any possible suitors.
However, much to Vincent’s chagrin, even from this new angle, they all looked rather… unremarkable. Plain. Average. Insignificant.
Completely and utterly forgettable.
And worse yet, none of them even came close to Vincent’s caliber.
Doubt began to creep into the back of the TV host’s mind. Would any of them measure up to his expectations? Or would they all be as boring and as mediocre as all the other women he had met? Would he leave just as severely disappointed as he had been with every single—
“Can I get you anything to drink, sir?” a voice cut in, immediately derailing Vincent’s train of thought.
Startled, the TV host straightened, turned toward the voice.
Beside him, the bartender leaned against the counter. He waited patiently for Vincent’s answer as he finished polishing a glass, gaze cast downward as he cleaned it.
Shit. Vincent hadn’t even heard him make his way over, having been too caught up in his own thoughts.
He deliberated over the question for a moment, considering a few different options before he responded with, “Gin, please.”
The bartender looked up at him, gave a small nod, then turned away to prepare it.
Left alone once again, Vincent’s thoughts drifted back to the current predicament he now found himself in.
Okay, well… maybe it wasn’t all so bad, he reasoned.
Even if none of these men met Vincent’s standards, it couldn’t hurt to dip his toes in the water, right? Test the waters, as they say?
Although, that did raise another concern that the TV host had yet to consider.
How the fuck was he supposed to flirt with another man?
Women made it look so easy, and Vincent had never struggled to understand what they wanted or expected since they usually made it abundantly obvious.
However, he had a feeling things might be a little bit different when it came to a man flirting with another man.
Men looked for different things… wanted different things, didn’t they?
Vincent could only assume so. He knew he would certainly want different things in a man than he would in a woman.
Fuck.
He really had not thought this out beforehand.
Okay. He could handle this. He just needed to think.
Since there weren’t any easily accessible handbooks on how to do any of this—at least none that Vincent was aware of—he supposed he would just have to wing it. He could do that, surely. How difficult could it be, right?
Men were much like women—smile at them the right way, say the right things, and they’d practically grovel at your feet.
At least, that was how it had always worked for the TV host, so he could only assume it would work the same here.
Really, he could just think of it as another performance—no different from charming his managers or captivating an audience—and, if there was one thing he was damn good at, it was putting on a show.
“I haven’t seen a pretty face like yours around these parts before,” a low, baritone voice interrupted his thoughts.
Vincent nearly jumped clean out of his seat.
Holy hell. He was on edge tonight.
In all fairness though, he had not heard the man approach him from behind… which seemed to be a recurring theme that night.
Shit. First the bartender, now this guy? Was he really losing his touch already?
Trying his best to compose himself and appear unperturbed by the sudden intrusion, Vincent nonchalantly turned toward the voice with his usual award-winning smile plastered on his face.
A man stood behind him, watching him with the intensity of a hawk hunting down its prey. As Vincent regarded him, his gaze caught on the man’s unnaturally blue eyes—eyes that even the TV host couldn’t help but find distasteful.
Sure, he liked blue, but that was a little too blue, even for him.
A faint, smug smile tugged at the other man’s lips, and he seemed to carry himself with an easy sort of confidence—the kind that suggested he belonged here and knew it.
Okay, so he was a little bit arrogant, Vincent could work with that.
He let out a small, disingenuous laugh to keep up appearances.
“Well, I should hope not,” The TV host said flippantly, his voice carrying its usual charm and charisma. “This face is one of a kind, after all. Or I’d like to think so, anyway.”
The man chuckled wholeheartedly, seeming thrilled by the small quip. “A guy with a sense of humor! I can definitely appreciate that,” his gaze flicked to the spot next to Vincent.
“Mind if I take a seat?”
Vincent opened his mouth to respond, but before he could answer, the man had already taken the stool beside him.
He blinked, momentarily taken aback by the other man’s brazenness.
Okay… so this was definitely a bit different from dealing with women.
That’s fine. He could adapt. No biggie.
For the second time, the TV host opened his mouth to say something, but, again, before he could even get a word out, he was interrupted.
“Gin,” the bartender stated as he neatly slid the glass across the countertop. It came to a clean halt right before Vincent, who picked it up without preamble.
He offered the bartender a brief nod of thanks before taking a large swig.
And, fuck, he had to admit, it really did hit the spot.
The pleasant burn of the liquid as it traveled down his throat was a welcoming sensation, so much so that the TV host nearly polished off the entire drink in that first gulp alone.
All the while, Vincent could feel the other man’s attentive gaze on him as he drank—patient and watchful as ever, but a little too intense. Almost like he’d already decided Vincent was easy game.
And, oh, how wrong he was. Vincent could almost laugh at just how wrong he was.
Well, if he wanted to play that game…
The TV host would be more than happy to oblige. It was about time he put a half decent show on anyways.
Feeling much more confident now that alcohol was in his system, Vincent sat up a bit straighter and fixed the other man with a brilliant smile, one that was far more charismatic than those he had worn before.
It seemed to do the trick.
The man’s grin returned. “So, I take it this is your first time here then?”
Vincent shrugged his shoulders, trying to act nonchalant. “Yeah. I guess I can’t really say that I’ve graced this place with my face before,” he chuckled, the joke rolling smoothly off his tongue, landing exactly where he had intended.
Maybe a little bit too well.
The man’s brows lifted in surprise before his expression shifted, morphing into something much more ravenous.
Oh, shit. He had said too much.
“Oh?” The man said, shifting closer until their knees brushed lightly against each other. He threw an arm over the back of Vincent’s chair and leaned in. “Well, in that case… what brings you to these parts then, hm?”
Vincent swallowed hard at the sudden proximity, doing his best to maintain his composure, though it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so with the man leaning so close.
“Just… curious, I guess.”
The man let out a quiet chuckle.
“Curious, huh?” he mused condescendingly.
Vincent clenched his jaw to keep himself from saying something he might regret.
God, he loathed that tone. So much so, he had the sudden urge to punch the guy squarely in the face—anything to wipe that smug ass look off it.
But drawing attention to himself in a place like this was the last thing he needed, and he knew it damn well.
So, instead, he forced himself to remain still.
“Yes,” he bit out, “I—”
“Exactly how curious?” the man said, cutting Vincent off—which, okay rude. That was the third time since this little conversation of theirs began that he had been interrupted.
The nerve of this guy irked Vincent down to his very core, and he had just been about to open his mouth and say exactly that when, all of the sudden and without any warning, the man’s hand slid down to caress the inside of his thigh.
Vincent flinched, hard.
It took everything in him not to jerk away immediately. Really, it was only by some miracle—and sheer force of will—that kept him glued to the chair.
“Woah, woah—hang on there,” the TV host spluttered out, a nervous laugh escaping his lips before he could stop it. “We haven’t even introduced ourselves yet.”
It had been meant as a joke, but he feared his tone betrayed his nerves more than he intended.
The man tilted his head, a slow, shrewd smile curling at the corner of his lips. And, unfortunately for Vincent, the hand on his thigh remained firmly planted, and didn’t seem like it would be moving anytime soon.
Fuck. Guess it was time for plan B.
“Right. How… impolite of me,” the man drawled, not even bothering to cover the arrogance in his tone.
God, this guy was full of himself.
Of-fucking-course Vincent had to go and get himself saddled with someone who had the fattest ego on this entire planet—and that was saying something, because usually Vincent was the one people accused of being too cocky.
But he knew that he had to maintain his easygoing composure. Otherwise, the man would be able to see right through him and see just how inexperienced he truly was.
And Vincent refused to give him that satisfaction.
“The name’s David. And you are…?”
“Oh, uh—” Vincent scrambled to come up with a name, and he ended up blurting out the first thing that came to his mind. “Michael.”
“Michael,” David said slowly, unnecessarily drawing out the syllables. “What a unique name.”
Okay, that was a fucking lie if Vincent had ever heard one. That name was the exact opposite of unique, so either this David guy was full of bullshit, or he really was trying that hard to get into Vincent’s pants.
Either way, Vincent did not want to stick around to find out, least of all with this guy.
“Right.” He deadpanned, no longer even bothering to keep up the façade. He just wanted to get the fuck away at this point, and he figured acting cold and dismissive wouldn’t give much away. And even if it did, he couldn’t bring himself to care at this very moment.
In an attempt to disentangle himself from the situation and—more importantly—from the man’s slimy grip, he announced, “Hey, I need to run to the restroom real quick. I’ll be right back.”
It was an outright lie, but David didn’t need to know that.
Fortunately, it seemed to do the trick, since he let Vincent go without much of a fuss.
David nodded, the same predatory glint still clearly visible in his eyes as his slimy gaze swept over the TV host, lingering near his lower half. “Alright, doll, don’t leave me waiting too long.”
Vincent wanted to throw up.
He didn’t even bother responding to David, only offering him a smile that he hoped looked convincing enough. He quickly slid out of his seat, setting off in a direction that he prayed was at least somewhat close to the bathroom.
Fortunately, it seemed like the universe had finally taken pity on him and granted him a brief reprieve. The direction he’d set off in turned out to be the right one, and he was able to locate the bathroom with relative ease.
And, better yet, the bathroom appeared to be empty when he stepped inside.
Vincent immediately made his way over to one of the sinks, turned on the tap, and hastily began to splash cold water onto his face.
Even though the water was freezing, it was a welcome relief to Vincent, who desperately had needed something to clear his head.
After a few seconds of him practically waterboarding himself, Vincent shut off the water and braced his hands on the edge of the sink. Water dripped down the TV host’s chin as he lifted his head to stare at his reflection in the mirror.
He looked downright unhinged, what with all the loose strands of hair that clung to his forehead, his hunched over posture above the sink, and his freakish mismatched eyes staring back at him.
Fuck.
“What,” he muttered under his breath, “the hell are you doing?”
Unfortunately, his reflection offered no answer whatsoever. It only stared back at him with the same wide-eyed, deranged-looking expression.
He nearly burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.
Oh yes, some great idea this had turned out to be. Truly, one of those profound Vincent Whittman ideas! Say, wouldn’t it just be the most excellent idea to come to a random bar in a town he was completely unfamiliar with, pretend he knew what he was doing, get completely unnerved by the first queer man to touch him, and watch the whole thing blow up in his face?
What a fucking fantastic idea. Really, he should do this again.
Vincent dragged a hand down his face, his jaw clenched so tight that it began to throb in time with the headache he could feel coming on.
He had come woefully unprepared—almost to the point of it being laughable.
Actually, no, scratch that. It was laughable. Very much so.
How he had even managed to convince himself that he was able to do this in the first place—that he could handle it, he did not know. Optimism. Or perhaps sheer ignorance, he supposed.
Vincent spent several more long minutes just standing there in front of the mirror, staring blankly at his reflection as he silently reevaluated all his life choices for the umpteenth time that day.
Eventually, though, he managed to muster together enough willpower to pull himself back together.
After all, anyone could walk into this very public bathroom at any moment and catch him in the middle of a full-blown meltdown—and the TV host had neither the intention nor the patience to explain that to some random stranger.
Quickly drying his face and any damp spots he’d accidentally splashed onto his clothes with a paper towel, he slicked his damp hair back into place, straightened his tie, and smoothed the wrinkles from his collar. In spite of everything that had occurred that night, he still had to make himself look at least somewhat presentable.
He cast one final cursory glance at himself in the mirror.
Well, at least he didn’t look like he was two steps away from a psychiatric ward, which was something worth celebrating in his book. Honestly, at this point, he was willing to take whatever he could get.
It wasn’t perfect, but he was going to make it work regardless.
Now he just needed to head back to the motel, gather his things, and leave this cursed town. Return to the life of fame and fortune—the life he was familiar with, the one that suited him—and forget that he had ever come out here in the first place.
Just as Vincent had been about to step away from the sink, the bathroom door creaked open behind him.
Fuck.
Vincent stopped dead in his tracks, his heart dropping into his stomach as a feeling of dread shot through him. Had David finally gotten tired of waiting for him? Had he decided to come looking for him himself?
The mere thought of the man’s smug smile and his wandering hands made Vincent’s own hands clench at his sides, his jaw tightening at the memory.
The TV host was definitely not above killing somebody in a public space, and there was absolutely no fucking way he was going to let that guy to touch him again, so if he even tried—
His train of thought immediately got cut off when a man who bore neither David’s stature nor his slimy, oily presence stepped inside the restroom.
And wow. Holy fucking wow.
The man was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man Vincent had ever seen in his entire life.
Eyes growing comically wide, the TV host drank in the other man’s appearance.
The dim lighting of the bathroom somehow seemed to work in the man’s favor, casting a soft glow across his handsome facial features and accentuating the best parts—which, in Vincent’s humble opinion, turned out to be all of them.
A pair of thin, round frames rested delicately on the bridge of the man’s nose in a style that was a bit outdated, yet somehow worked remarkably well on him. Just above them, dark curls framed the man’s face, dancing with every subtle movement in a way that almost made them seem alive.
Then there was the rich bronze of his skin, which glowed softly—almost ethereally—in the low light.
Holy hell.
He looked—
He looked like a god.
Noticing Vincent’s gaze, the man raised a brow and regarded him with lightly veiled curiosity.
“Rough evening?” he asked mildly as he drifted over to the sink beside Vincent, seemingly unbothered by the eyes fixated on him.
“I, uh…” Vincent said, very intelligently.
But dammit. Could he really be blamed? The most gorgeous man he had ever laid eyes on was standing right in front of him!
Transfixed, he watched as the man turned on the tap and began scrubbing his hands under the running water.
The TV host swallowed hard.
Jesus.
Everything about the man was just… perfect. From his sharp cheekbones and his plump, kissable lips to the clean line of his jaw and the way his lithe figure moved with the grace of a feline. Honestly, he might as well have stepped straight off the cover of Vogue.
Not to mention his eyes, which were warm, deep pools of molten honey, framed by long dark eyelashes and currently appraising Vincent with faint amusement—
Wait.
That wasn’t right.
…Why was he looking at him like that? Did he do something wrong? Or maybe—
Then it clicked.
Oh.
Oh shit.
Vincent had been staring.
The man turned off the faucet with a flick of his wrist, acting entirely unperturbed as he reached for a paper towel.
“You know,” he said casually while drying his hands, “most people try to be a little bit more discreet when they stare.”
Vincent nearly choked on his own spit.
“I wasn’t staring,” he said, maybe a little bit too quickly.
A beat passed.
“...much.”
The man gave a faint, noncommittal hum.
“Ah yes,” he said dryly, tossing the used paper towel into a nearby bin as his eyes met Vincent’s. “And I suppose that the very thorough examination that I just underwent in a public bathroom was simply just my imagination then.”
Heat crept steadily up the back of Vincent’s neck.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“In—in my defense,” he began weakly, “you are—”
He cut himself off abruptly because, dammit, there was simply just no good way to finish that sentence without sounding like a complete ass. And while the TV host normally had no problem being one, he really wanted to keep talking to this fine-looking man in front of him, so he didn’t want to say anything insulting.
The man tilted his head slightly, his curls bouncing with the movement, clearly amused.
“I am…?” he prompted.
Vincent’s face burned. Fuck, he really needed to get it together. Like right now.
“Visually… striking,” he managed at last, immediately cringing at how the words came out. Did he have to sound so pathetic?
The man considered this answer for several seconds—long enough to make Vincent second-guess himself and every decision that had led him up to this very moment in at least a dozen different ways.
Then, a small smile tugged at the corner of the man’s mouth.
“Well,” he said lightly. “That is certainly one of the more… creative explanations I have heard.”
Vincent groaned, dragging a hand down his face as it burned with humiliation.
Fuck him. Fuck his life. The most gorgeous man on the planet thought he was a fucking idiot.
“Please. Just—just forget I said anything.”
The other man barked out a laugh. “Ha! I’m afraid that may be rather difficult, dear,” he said pleasantly, sounding far too amused for Vincent’s liking.
The TV host let out a long, suffering sigh, wondering if he had just completely blown any chance he might have had with this man. The man hadn’t seemed to take too much offense to Vincent’s comment, but then again, he may have just been being polite about it. Vincent couldn’t be quite sure, especially with his odd… mood swings? Was that the right word?
“You still have yet to answer my question.”
The comment made Vincent’s head snap up from his self-deprecating thoughts. He looked at the other man in confusion.
The… question? What? What question?
Oh.
Oh, right.
That question.
“I mean… yeah, I guess it has been kind of a rough night,” he admitted, voice coming out quieter than he would’ve liked. “Just sort of long, I guess.”
The other man nodded, shifting to lean against the sink, one hip casually against the edge of the porcelain.
And holy fuck.
That pose—the way his lithe frame rested against the curve of the sink like it fucking belonged there—put any damn woman Vincent had ever seen to shame.
The sight alone made heat spread throughout Vincent’s body, followed by something all too familiar stirring much further down.
Shit.
Maybe he did like men after all.
…Oh, he was so fucked, wasn’t he?
“I suspected as much,” The other man said, drawing Vincent’s mind out from under the gutter. “Bathroom escapades are rarely a sign of a successful evening.”
“Yeah…” Vincent trailed off, trying to ignore his mounting arousal.
Focus, Vincent.
“Just—well, it was a lot,” he admitted with a small, nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his head, trying to play the entire thing off.
“I—I don’t know. I’m kind of new to… all of this.” He gestured vaguely around them. “The bars, the… being hit on by men thing. So, I guess I just don’t really know how this all works.”
When the other man only hummed in response, the TV host kept going anyway, unable to stop himself now that he had started.
“And then there was this guy out there—David—who just really… irked me. He sort of appeared out of nowhere and started talking to me like we were old friends, like we already knew each other or something. And then, before I even knew what was happening, he’s got his hand—”
Vincent stopped himself before the next words could tumble out.
He was oversharing, and he really needed to stop—stop himself from blabbering on before this absurdly attractive man got tired of his bullshit, if he hadn’t already. He probably didn’t even care about all that anyways, probably didn’t even want to hear it, and Vincent couldn’t say that he blamed him.
Vincent took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“Point being,” he said slowly, carefully, “things escalated rather quickly. And so, I—I thought this may not be the scene for me…”
Until I met you, a quiet, traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispered.
Vincent frowned at the thought. Where the hell had that come from?
Though, he supposed that, considering everything that had happened over the course of that night alone, it wasn’t exactly a wrong thought to have. But still.
Once he got back to his hotel room, he seriously needed to just lay down and process everything that had happened.
The man watched him for a moment longer, brown eyes boring into Vincent’s mismatched ones, his expression thoughtful.
“Well,” he said at last, “perhaps you should do something about it.”
Vincent blinked.
“About… what?”
“Your problem, of course! Whatever else could I possibly be referring to?” The man said, his tone brightening as he suddenly became more animated, waving his arms around as he spoke.
And for one brief, horrifying moment, the TV host became convinced that the man somehow knew about his perverted thoughts and desires and was about to call him out on them.
However, that fear quickly vanished when the man added, “You know, my dear, there are many ways to handle unpleasant people.”
Vincent frowned, brow furrowing as he struggled to keep up with the drastic shift in conversation. “I… I’m not sure if I’m following.”
“Well, think of it this way,” the man continued, voice excruciatingly patient, as though he were explaining something that was painfully obvious. “If one insists on being a pest to society, then one simply… removes the pest.”
Vincent’s thoughts ground to an abrupt halt, his head spinning as the truth of the implication sunk in. Did he actually mean…?
No. Vincent immediately pushed the thought aside before it could fully materialize. No, there was no way that was what he had meant.
But if not that, then what did he mean?
“Removes?” he repeated slowly, cautiously.
The man waved a hand dismissively at Vincent’s expression. “Oh, now, don’t look so alarmed. I’m speaking quite generally, of course. Life is simply far too short to tolerate unpleasant company.”
The TV host hesitated, unsure whether the man was joking or not.
Then a terrible thought occurred to him, sending a cold thread of dread right through his spine.
What if he knew?
But no—that was impossible. It had to be. Vincent had never seen, let alone met, this man before. There was just no way he could know of the TV host’s less… conventional solutions. About the murders.
Yet something about the way the other man had said it—so casual, so matter-of-fact—made Vincent uneasy.
Not because of the suggestion itself.
But because he couldn’t be sure what the man knew—or how much.
“I mean,” Vincent began carefully, “usually most people just… ignore them?”
The man hummed and abruptly pushed himself off the sink, stepping closer to Vincent.
The TV host’s heart nearly leapt into his throat at their sudden shared proximity. Heat surged through him at an alarming rate, settling low into his stomach.
They were close enough now that either of them could probably reach out and touch the other without even trying—a dangerously appealing thought that Vincent found himself entertaining far too much for his own good.
So much so that it took him a couple seconds to realize the man was speaking again.
“—that certainly is one option. But where is the fun in that?” the man questioned, raising a brow in the TV host’s direction.
And hell, Vincent didn’t know how to respond to that.
Maybe he was actually talking about what Vincent thought he was talking about then?
Then again, for all he knew, this could be some sort of ploy—an attempt to get him to talk about his murders just so the man could rat him out to the police. Assuming he wasn’t already an undercover cop.
Still… Vincent didn’t really get that impression from him.
There was just something about the way the other man looked at him that made him hesitate. Something lingered in his gaze—something that went far beyond simple empathy… almost like the man understood him on a personal, deeper level.
And it made Vincent feel… well, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but… almost like he was seen?
Except—really, truly seen. Like the man could see him, even through all the masks the TV host wore or whatever fronts he put up.
It had been a very long time since Vincent had felt anything close to that feeling.
Then the look vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a dazzling smile that made Vincent’s head spin from the whiplash.
And to the TV host’s dismay, his body reacted instinctually to the other man’s smile—sending an all too familiar rush of heat straight to Vincent’s face… and lower.
The feeling seemed to yank him right out of his introspective thoughts.
He needed to get a hold of himself. Yes, the man was gorgeous. Yes, Vincent was wildly attracted to him—but he really needed to start thinking with something other than his dick. Needed to stop acting like he was in fucking high school or some shit.
He was more dignified than this. Hell, he was a full grown man! His body really shouldn’t be reacting this way, especially not to a man he had met less than an hour before.
He had been just about to open his mouth to reply when, completely oblivious to the TV host’s inner turmoil and unperturbed by his lack of response, the man said, “Well, it is just something to consider, my dear. Consider it food for thought.”
He gave Vincent’s shoulder a light pat as he made his way toward the door and disappeared through it without another word, effectively ending the conversation.
Vincent remained rooted in place, his gaze lingering on the door long after the other man had left.
He risked a glance down at himself.
Fuck.
He was hard.