WICKED BOY (chapter six) (Patreon)

"Old times?"  I splutter.

Lucas is still grinning, wide and careless, but my reading glasses are smattered with water — eyelashes desperately trying to bat away the water from the sprinklers above. I blink through blurry vision.  For a moment, it feels like tears.

"This is — ?" Old times.

I find myself being shouldered by the different bodies that are hurrying past me, the voices of angry older gentlemen and high pitched shrieks from women ringing in my ears. I can hear my heart thumping, wild and unsteady, just past that.

Lucas slides through them with an ease that feeds my nostalgia, approaches me with his hands propped inside his pockets — like, like this moment isn't everything to me.

"Yeah.  Old times,"  The dark-haired man repeats. He has my discarded book peeking halfway out the side of his suit jacket. His gaze chases mine to it, then lifts again, "What? Did I crash your little jamboree?" 

"You're an adult — we're adults now,"  I hiss. I can't think of anything else to say.  I can feel the water soaking through the white button-up under my sweater vest, "what are you even thinking?"

"Does it matter,"  He smiles.  It's a mean sort — one that doesn't reach his eyes.  "To you? ...What I'm thinking? How things turned out for me?"

"What are you even —?  We're not teens anymore. You could get in serious trouble — you could be fined."

"Woah! Way to watch out for poor little me." Lucas throws back his head, bares his throat as he laughs loudly — loud enough to cut through the ruckus around us, to edge the skin on the back of my neck into goosebumps, "Damn. You haven't changed at all."   He says, as his eyes travel back to mine, eyebrows working downwards as he studies my distressed features, "have you?"

He repeats this fact, but this time it's colder — almost inaudible. Once, I would've confused it with something different — but now, I can sense a quiet contemplation. 

"I guess you haven't either."

He's crueler — but I can see the familiar shades of green in his eyes sparkling through the yellow lighting of the building, see his smirk fall into something less genuine, a more delicate sort of smile that doesn't seem so sharp — so cutting.

"Yeah.  'Cause you let your dad fuck my life up. And now — here we are."  He slides his hands from his pockets, head tilting. "And I guess — I'm not surprised to see that you turned into everything he wanted you to be. That you have it all. Just like you were born to."

Something angry and hot curdles inside my chest.

Because he's wrong — because he's seven different shades of wrong and he was my friend —

"No, you don't get to do that. You don't — don't blame me for whatever — you're in a suit at McLaughlin Event. Please tell me how your life is fucked — "

"Oh, is a suit all it takes not to be fucked up?" Lucas is too close now — barks this out, and I recoil from the genuine anger in his tone. "Didn't your daddy wear a fuckin' suit?"

I recoil.  If I thought I felt heartbreak — all those years ago.  It was nothing compared to this.

"Why are you so hell-bent on hurting me?" I say it, and though the start is quiet — Lucas somehow still knows the words I've spoken, watches my lips as I speak in the ruckus around us, "What did I do to you?"

His stance stiffens, snide small falling.

"Milan!" 

My attention shifts immediately, startled out of my reservoir. It seems to do the same for Lucas.  I jump a little, turn back in time to see Isaac shoving aside the crowd that's pushing past, his expression twisted into mild irritation,

"What the hell? Did someone pull the alarm?"  He asks, hand slipping up and over my shoulder.  "Should've told me I was showing up to a slip-n-slide — my shoes are worth as much as your whole outfit."

I nod dumbly, turn back in search of Lucas — despite myself. The well-dressed woman from before is laughing; head bowed against my old friend's chest as she points to the sprinklers up above.

I wonder when exactly she had slipped through the corridor — and when she had made her way up to Lucas. She looks thrilled, strangely, motions to the bag in her other hand and jerks a thumb towards the exit.  I stare, and Lucas' eyes drift upwards to meet mine again.

"Milan, uh — can we go?"  Isaac asks.  He squeezes my shoulder softly to grab my attention, and I can feel his class ring against the dip of my collarbone, "You're going to get sick in these clothes, and then I'll be surrounded by boring, straight friends for the next two weeks."

Lucas' eyes flicker from mine and back to Isaac, who stands behind me — I nod again, and Isaac shakes his head and chuckles.

"Guess you didn't need me for a getaway after all,"  He tells me, probably thinks he's lightening the mood — steers me to the side when I falter dumbly, "Come on then, anything is better than this."

I walk with him, feel my heartbeat in my ears — an apprehension in my stomach — a sudden reminder that the last years without Lucas had never made me feel as much as I'm feeling right now.

—

I stare past the wind-shield wipers, a dull swiping noise echoing off the front window of Isaac's car.  He's perfectly content listening to the talk show that's playing,

'Hope you are all having a good night here in Pennbrook, it's pouring snow heavy for us tonight!  Tune into our station for our Christmas classics, starting next week.'

My shirt is sticking to me, my back, the sides of my arms — the material of my sweater becoming itchy and uncomfortable.  It feels like I'm suddenly wearing someone else's skin like I shouldn't be in this car with Isaac at all — that I shouldn't be living this life.

"... Dude, you're pouting,"  Isaac sighs and raises a brow, but doesn't look away from the road.  He cares, I know he cares — but his worry is falling on the dull drumming behind my ears, "C'mon. Was tonight that bad?"

"Worse,"  I whisper, don't mean to say it out loud at all. I do, though — and it hangs awkwardly in our usual lightness.  "It was a long night."

Lucas, it's so hard not to think about him — to not want to ask Isaac to pull over — let me out, so I can run back in hopes of finding him still there.  I'm stuck between kicking myself for missing him so much and congratulating myself for not folding under his anger.

"Here we go, again... You know your dad only drags you to those things because he wants to show you off, right?"  Isaac nods along when he speaks, confirms what he's saying if only to himself, turns his car the corner over,  "My dad does the same thing.  We're their only boys, you know?"

"Yeah."

"So, in some way, that means he thinks there's something about you to show off.  That's cool, right?"

"That doesn't matter — anymore," I shake my head — and my arms feel hot and scratchy underneath my sweater.  "I'm not sixteen anymore; I'm not living to — make him like me. Or to impress him."

"Life is all about impressing others, especially in our sort of life."  Isaac shrugs.  "Hardly a drawback.  Let's suck it up for tonight and have a good drive back."

I tell myself to let it go.  I can't.

" — How isn't it a drawback?  You don't have to go to McLaughlin parties."

"... I don't have to go because I go to different parties," He rolls his eyes. "Stop acting like you were forced or something. You went to that party to get books out of your dad."

"You know that because I told you that, yeah?  So.  What are you trying to say?"

"That you can be pissed you went, but you can stop pretending like you had no other option."  He cups his ear.  "I'm the only one listening here, Milan."

"You don't know my dad."  It's more firm than I expect — but there's an open wound that Lucas has left behind.  "I need — "

"His money. Right. But you don't want his job. You don't want him to think you want his job. I get it.  Whatever."

"If the option is there —"

"The option that makes the most sense is to take the fucking job that he offered you,"  He interrupts me, and God there it is — "you know all the workings to it — to a career that could set you up for success.  You have your foot in the door."

"The door to what?"

"You're privileged. Whether you think so or not."

"... Privileged?"  I think of my father's embellished, leather strap.  The way it hung in his trophy room — like the fear he'd given me was another golden cup.  I think of my mother, of rolling her onto her stomach so her alcohol-tinged vomit wouldn't choke her. 

"I would've killed to work for your dad."

I smile bitterly.  That's what this is about.

"Yeah.  Yeah, I know.  Let's say that I'm privileged and drop it."

"I know a lot of guys that are like you."  Isaac continues.  I know he means well, or maybe that his feelings are hurt.  I also know he thinks that I'm upset over the country club party and wants to put me back into place like he does his frat-boy friends — but something in him reminds me of my father when he speaks of business, pushes my buttons until I can't help but snap to defend my pride,  "And they think their life sucks because they have money.  I've been that guy — okay?  We're just spoiled brats.  That's why we're unhappy."

"Yeah?"  My hands twist together, and I can't help the irritation that swells, "It's not that they're passionless and pitiful and trapped by the idea of disappointing someone — that can't be it.  Can it?"

"That's ridiculous. You can have other passions outside of work.  This isn't a movie,"  Isaac sends me a skeptical look, tightens his grip on the steering wheel, "... Those passions would just come second."

"That's great."

"Your family — if it was hard tonight...  They're probably just angry that you're giving it up so easily.  Let them feel what they're feeling."

"It wasn't easy, Isaac.  It's not easy to put my pride before the promise of — of getting to eat — or a roof my head — "

His face twists into animosity. 

How bad did he want that job?

"It's easy for you to sound spoiled."

"I am spoiled,"  My gaze chases a melting snow clump at the base of his window, "We are spoiled. In some ways.  What of it? Why're you so angry — and how is it my fault?"

"You always want to fight when it comes to this — "  Isaac pulls around another corner.  My hackles raise — drop it, I think.  "I'm just playing Devil's advocate, maybe you need someone to do that for you.  You're not yourself when it comes down to your dad—

"I am myself.  How could I not be?"   I cut him off, finally turn away from the window — and maybe it's too quick. Perhaps I'm also mad.  "How can someone not be themself?"

"How is this you? You sound like an angry teenager. You don't sound like you." 

"I like our friendship, Isaac.  But — you have no right to ask me to be someone else for my father's interest, or your interest.  You don't know anything about my life — or how I've chosen to live it." 

Was it Luka?  Did he start this?  How did we get here?

"My only interest is for you to open your eyes, Milan.  You have the potential to be more than this person,"  Isaac lifts one hand upwards when he speaks, "This person that blindly pushes away things because they're associated with your father. You're smart enough to see that — you're from a good family and well-bred,"

"Am I a dog? Why does everyone keep calling me well-bred?"  I can feel new tears in my eyes, prickling at the corners, because I remember Lucas — and I remember Lucas and his angry smile because I was born with a silver spoon.   Somehow, over the years, I had forgotten that — buried that look of resentment he occasionally wore — and somehow, I'd made myself accept people like my father; I've unknowingly chosen to impress him with company like Isaac.  "...What constitutes a good family? Money?"

"No, for God's sake," He reaches to touch my face — and oh, I'm crying.  His skin is cold against my cheeks, "... I'm not asking you to be someone else; I'm asking you to be more than this.  More than your bitterness."

I avert my eyes, ignore the swipe of his thumb over my tear-stained cheek,

"... Pull over."  There's a croak to my voice, and the dark-eyed man's hand falls to the glove compartment.  I eye the bare, winter road.  I just want to curl up in my room alone — hate that I'm in a car that I don't feel comfortable in, in wet clothes, and with wet cheeks.  I hate that nothing has turned out the way I'd hoped it would — and yet, I'm still spoiled.  "I said to pull over."

"C'mon.  It's not that far of a ride."  Isaac finally turns down his shitty talk-show station.  He finally looks guilty.  "I won't speak — okay.  Your dad will kill me.  Let me take you home."

"I'm a grown man."  I level him with as stern of a look as I can manage through tears.  "And — I asked you to let me out.  I didn't ask how long the ride was."

"Let me just — get somewhere safer."  Isaac sighs.  "At least — somewhere safer than this crap-hole."

He eyes the trailer-park nearly hidden in the dark forest-line.  Huxley is a dingier part of town, buried between Jameson and Pennbrook like a dirty secret — meant for passing truck-drivers and recovering bar-binges, but not intended to be chosen as a home.  No — because Huxley is not something you choose.  It's somewhere else that you're born into. 

Hotel! Rest-Stop! Diner!

I watch the neon diner sign ahead flicker — the 'S' lost as its bulb flashes out.

"Jesus.  I said, pull over Isaac.  Christ."

We hit said diner, just outside of the aforementioned Huxley — and my heart sweeps into my stomach.  Isaac pulls into its loud, gravel drive reluctantly, his car too flashy and bright to be parked next to rusting pick-up trucks.

"Could I pay for a taxi?  For coffee?"   He deflates in his seat as I check my wallet, tossing him a damp twenty for gas money.  "... Just — can you call me when you get home tonight?"

I prop open the door.  I can feel guilt surging through my system because — is Isaac really so bad?  Did I feel this way this morning? 

"I'm not going home."

--

Previous Chapter  |  Next Chapter   | First Chapter