Nate had felt the sting of rejection stronger than anything else that night, even his own sense of being a burden.
And then, once he’d gotten home, cleaned himself off, and tucked himself into bed he’d felt something entirely different.
Relief.
Kazimir had used him and been satisfied, and in his own twisted, fucked up way, wasn’t that Nate’s one true goal in life? It’d been his first time ever, but he hadn’t been burdensome with Kaz. He’d been discarded in the end, sure, but so what?
Kazimir Ambrose wasn’t someone that Nate wanted to keep, either.
It was the relief that angered Nate the most, though that was aimed at himself more than at the Brumal member who deserved it. Maybe he should talk to Bay. Bay Delmar was a professor at Vail University and had a pretty solid grasp on the psyche and how it typically worked. He’d be able to help Nate sort through these contradictory feelings in no time.
Only, Bay had his own shit to deal with…
Nate couldn’t bother him with his own crap.
Fuck.
It didn’t even matter that Bay bailing on the race was what had kick-started this whole mess in the first place. Logically, Nate understood he had a right to be annoyed and toconfront his friend, but that tiny voice in his head told him not to be a burden and make it worse. To stay silent. To tolerate it.
To compress those feelings down until they were so minuscule, he’d hardly remember them at all.
Just like he did with every other problem he’d met in his life.
Contain. Compartmentalize. Compress.
Nate shook his head at himself and realized with a start that Donaver had continued babbling this whole time, completely clueless to the fact he’d been ignored for the past five minutes.
“Mr. Mit is a big ticket.” Donaver tucked himself away, zipped up his fly, and then propped a shoulder against the wall so he could continue the conversation while Nate finished up.
Like a complete and total creep.
Nate wasn’t a particularly violent person, had been raised to keep a level head and fight with words, not fists. He very rarely ever pictured what it might be like to punch someone in the throat and yet…Watching his annoying coworker’s Adam's apple bob up and down as he spoke really made the whole throat-punch thing sound appealing.
He blamed Kazimir. All of his patience and concentration were dedicated to that night and how Nate could properly sort through those feelings. He didn’t have any energy left to deal with the likes of Donaver or the man of topic, Mit Parker.
“You should be a little nicer to him is all I’m saying. Kindness goes a long way.” Donaver clapped him on the back, jostling Nate, but then finally headed out the door of the small restaurant bathroom.
Bastard didn’t even wash his hands.
Nate scowled. He hated these damn work dinners. They never went well and were always more of an attempt to show off in front of the shop’s bigger clients than any team buildingor whatever other bullshit the boss used to explain why it was mandatory. For the past three, Mit Parker had been showing as well, and that guy gave Nate worse heebie-jeebies than Donaver did.
Maybe even more than Kazimir Ambrose. No, that wasn’t fair. Nate had known to give any Devils of Vitality a wide birth, but he’d trusted himself enough not to get in their way, so had never had the foresight to consider Kaz a personal threat of any kind. Even that night in the boathouse when he’d been pissed off and ragging, Nate’s own anger had gotten the better of him and he’d snapped back.
If only he’d kept his mouth shut, stuck to character and bowed his head and walked off quietly, none of the events afterward would have taken place. Hell, he wouldn’t have even been at the bar for Kaz to find. Really, it was his fault that had happened.
“Shut up,” he cursed himself. “It’s not your fault.”
Entirely.
But maybe a little bit?
No, that wasn’t right either. Blaming himself was stupid. Yet he couldn’t seem to help it. A part of him had secretly hoped this dinner would help with that, but so far even being this close to a creep like Mit wasn’t enough to wipe thoughts of Kazimir—and the way his cock had felt inside of him—off Nate’s mind. Thoughts of the Devil were still there, lingering next to the disgust he felt whenever Mit not so subtly propositioned him.
It wasn’t that big of a secret that Mit’s money wasn’t exactly clean, or that he spent many a coin on skin service—aka renting people out for the evening or long weekend. While Nate would never begrudge anyone that type of work, it pissed him off that Mit walked around assuming he could buy anyone he pleased.
Sex work wasn’t Nate’s thing. Full stop.
No matter how much money the fifty-year-old man waved in his face.
