36 Ian
Ian
Victor’s car gleams in the dim light of the streetlamps on the block.
Around them, the city is dark, with buttery-yellow light in a few windows in the small buildings.
There’s the sound of old jazz from a few flights up.
Victor really should find a garage for his car, Ian thinks. It’s such a tempting target.
“I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you,” says a voice behind them.
Ian turns and smiles. “Well, I’m known for making bad decisions.”
“Oh yeah, is that what I am?” Heart-Eyes—no, Art; Ian can’t do this thinking of him as Heart-Eyes—steps closer.
When Ian texted him to meet him at this corner, they wondered if they’d regret it once they saw him. But not yet.
“This is my ex’s car,” Ian says, dodging the question. Of course he’s a bad idea—he’s a murderer. “He cheated on me, so I used to key it now and then.”
Art laughs. “I like that.” He stares at Ian. “Wait, is texting me a better or worse decision than keying your ex’s car?”
“Well, you are a trained killer who has reason to be angry at me,” Ian says, running a finger along the car as they walk toward Art.
“What would I be angry about?” He looks genuinely confused. “That little trick you pulled? Eh.” He shrugs. “I’ve been on the bad end of a lot worse.”
“Really? And you’re fine with it? No hit out on me?”
“It was a cheap operation for us. One dinner with an easily compromised narcissist who wanted to be back in the field. A few empty promises. There was the cleanup with that one guy I accidentally killed, but that wasn’t so bad.
We decided to call it a minor loss. No hard feelings. We’re not really the revenge types.”
Ian swallows at the mention of the guy Art apparently murdered.
“So you’re not going to tie me up and make me talk?” Ian asks.
Art smiles, stepping close. “Do you want me to?”
Ian looks up at him. Aside from the tattoo, he is really very good-looking. This is a better bad decision. Probably. Or worse. But different, at least.
“Honestly,” Ian says, “what I really want is someone to curl up in bed with so we can get angry at YouTube videos together.”
“Did you know their algorithm specifically tries to push tradwife shit on girls who are interested in sports?” He almost snarls it. It’s very hot. “They all ought to be shot.”
Ian grins. Art grins back and then leans in, pulling Ian close and kissing them. His mouth tastes like a new kind of fire—the gunpowder kind. Ian kisses him back.
A better bad decision. Or at least a different one.