“It was more of a mental game with Callum,” I finally continue. “He told me over and over again that he was going to get me high-profile modeling gigs, and it never happened. He didn’t want me to succeed.”
“Why not?”
“He wanted me to be dependent on him.”
“I thought you already inherited millions,” Ollie asks. “You don’t have to be dependent on anyone.”
“I didn’t need money. I needed connections. He dangled those connections in my face but never let me have them.”
“Because…”
“Because I lived in his house, and he liked it that way. He’s obsessed with control, and he’s the worst person on Earth to have any of it.”
It’s like I’m pushing on that bruise again.
My entire fucking psyche, mysoul, still bruised from the months of living with that man.
Just let me escape from it.
Just let it fucking disappear.
For a moment Oliver is silent, and the only sound is our footsteps. When he finally speaks, the tone of pity in his voice makes me prickle.
“Niko, that’s awful,” he says, sounding so earnest it makes me want to scream. “It sounds like he was psychologically abusing you?—”
“Don’t feel sorry for me. Just stop talking about him,” I snap. “Why don’t you tell me about how perfect your life has been for the past year, instead?”
I don’t look at him, but from my peripheral vision I can see him watching me before his gaze drops back down to the snowy ground.
“My life’s not perfect. I mean, it’s been okay, I guess. I was so happy I got into Crimson. Over the summer I lifeguarded. Worked out a lot. Spent time with my family before I was leaving for college.”
“Sounds pretty perfect to me.”
“I was restless in ways you can’t even imagine, Niko. I promise.”
“And you were watchingme,throughout all of those months,” I say, looking up at him. “Fanboy.”
“Yeah, I fucking was. You post that shit online, so quit acting like I’m the freak for looking at it.”
He looks up at me like he’s challenging me, lifting an eyebrow.
He’s trying to bite back at me, but in his coat and that red plaid scarf, he looks so pure and rosy-cheeked that I’m distracted by his face, instead.
“You have a favorite video, Ollie?”
“Is this how you want me to stroke your ego?”
“I know you must have a favorite.”
He sighs, looking up at the sky for a second. “I like the ones where you have that upward point of view. You film from underneath, so it’s as if…”
“As if you’re on your knees for me,” I finish his sentence. “Glad you like those.”
My cock stirs under my pants.
The idea of Oliver watching those videos alone in his room under the covers, getting off tome, is like catnip.
“Also the ones where you finish on your chest. I don’t know how you shoot so far, or how you have so fuckingmuch. Do you have to wait days and days to build up for those?”
