WICKED BOY (Chapter Seven) (Patreon)

[A/N:  Warnings for:  Long chapter, new content. Escorts (will be explored more later).  Implied child abuse, offhand remark about suicide.  Written accents.

If you're a 2 dollar tier or higher, message me for the discord code and come talk with me about this chapter!  I hope everyone likes this addition, let me know what you think! ]

—

'Oh, is a suit all it takes not to be fucked up?'

I always had a curfew, from the time I started middle school until eighteen. My curfew was from the moment I took the last step off of the cobblestone walkway up the schoolyard — the first touch of my hand to the passenger door of my mother's car.

I was on the path to success, unfettered by the influence of any who could bring me down, friendless, and as my Dad said, it was just curfew. 

For some reason, even when he was staged out on business trips for days — I just listened. 

I always listened.

I was a good son. The best, and if I weren't, my father would beat obedience back into me without hesitation. Reluctance wasn't his forte.  Neither was guilt — or affection, or a semblance of tenderness.

I always heeded his wishes like a little pup, Lucas said.  Not that I could help it. Newly weaned pups depend on their owners for food and water, no matter how they're treated — and my bowl was made of pure silver, just like the buckle on my father's belt, after all.

Who was I to complain?

'Didn't your daddy wear a fuckin' suit?'

And why would I ever open up about the pain of that, when it could be used against me?

—

"Welcome to the Rest Stop!"

I'm half asleep by the time I'm welcomed. I startle a bit at someone's disembodied call from the kitchen, thirty minutes after I've seated myself as far from the bar as possible.  It's not like it matters. 

I'm not hungry, though the smell of late-night breakfast food being cooked is more appealing than I want to admit.  It smells like a warm home on an early morning, like the ones on television; the ones with gaudy, floral wallpaper and white eyelet kitchen curtains — and big, green yards.

Only the sun isn't shining. It's dark outside, and the delicate curtains aren't there — just large, glass windows that are desperately in need of a better cleaner, and the reflection of a dying, neon sign.

"We'll be with ya' soon!"

I glance around, tired eyes chasing the voice— but the restaurant is empty aside from me and a man that appears to be asleep — his head underneath his discarded leather jacket, two seats away from my booth. Judging by the tattoos covering his exposed arms, he doesn't seem the type to yell things like, "welcome," to strangers at a diner.

Great. This is more uncomfortable than the car-ride with Isaac.

I manage a feeble smile and nod to no one in particular, only because I feel too awkward to call back, and politely nodding makes me feel less rude.  Then I think, what if they have cameras, and feel extraordinarily stupid. 

Why didn't I just let Isaac take me home?

The sounds of dishes clacking and a noisy sink carry into the dining area, as does laughter, and snippets of a conversation echoing off the empty, tiled walls.

I'm in a bad part of town, I think.  I should feel nervous — should be jittery or on edge. I'm surprised to find — that at the McLaughlin event I was, but here, I'm not.

Why is that?

My focus drifts into something foam-like and intangible, until the man across the diner from me shuffles into a more comfortable position, the jacket slipping from his face.

"Daphne, there's someone out front!"

I find myself staring curiously  — and he blinks into awareness, his sharp, bright eyes sliding to mine.  I should look away, but find that I don't.  His gaze drifts down to my wet sweater vest without shame, and back to my drying hair, and he then — of all things, he smirks. I catch myself in it for a moment, trapped like a insect in honey, before I wince and look away quickly, heart thumping.

My phone vibrates again.  I check the time to busy myself,

10:15pm.

Isaac texts me for the thirteenth time. I scowl and ignore each one — imagine that I'm someone else, somewhere far from Perceptum and McLaughlin and every shitty rich-bitch hell-hole in-between.

"Daphne, you lazy lil' shit.  Put that cigarette out!  I said we have someone out front!"

I laugh a little, anxiously— think, you'd never hear something like that at one of the restaurants that my parents frequent.  No one would ever look at me, that way, either.

Huxley's most considerable charm is that it's full of uncomfortable surprises — that and the fact that it makes me feel like I've time-warped to the fifties, but everything has managed to keep the wear and tear of decades passing.  I muse, mildly at best, that this combo-stop would be an excellent set for a post-apocalyptic film — ruggedly attractive squatter all-included.

"Sorry, sir!" An old man's balding head peeks from behind the kitchen's hallway,  "Someone'll be right out!"

I nod again, smile as warmly as I'm able, and slump against the red vinyl of my booth seat.  I don't want to draw any more attention to myself, and with that original thought — had wedged in the corner of the diner, and next to a smudged window. 

Doesn't seem to be working.

The lights beyond reflect through it meekly, the silhouettes of smokers outside of their hotel rooms brightened by them. 

I turn off my cellphone.

Welcome to The Rest Stop, is printed again — a paper menu tucked under a plastic slab of a covering.  The corner of the vinyl underneath me is ripped and a bit jagged, digging into the back of my thigh — but it's somehow soft, somehow comfortable.  I'm still damp, hair drying into something ridiculous, I'm sure, the wool of my sweater scratchy against my neck. 

Is this — resting?  Is that what I'm doing?

My brain feels foggy.  Like I've felt too much — too much all at once, and now I'm just in a limbo of not really feeling anything at all. Or maybe I'm just delirious.

"Well, I said damn Sue-Anne for callin' out, but look at that outfit."  I hear someone's attempt at a whisper.  "That's tips, right there."

Rich boy.

Someone turns on the radio.  It's static-filled and warm, and I haven't heard whatever song is playing. 

It's pretty.  The light flickers above me weakly, casting shadows on the floor.  There's a click of approaching heels beside me, the stink of cigarette smoke, and the nostalgia of beige stockings swooping into my lowered gaze. 

"Sorry, babes.  I was on my break.  Which college party are you soberin' up from?"  I glance up, and the waitress beside me pops her gum between a grin.  Her uniform is a pale blue, contrasts oddly with the red seats.  She spreads one thick leg further out towards me, and her buttoned dress rides up accordingly,  "What I mean is: room, food, or liquor?"

She taps her pen to her chin before I can reply, the man two seats down catching her attention.  He hasn't reburied his head that's on the table into his coat, rather — uses it as a pillow.  His tanned shoulders are hunched under a ratty, plain tee. The waitress's confidence zaps right out of her — posture deflating.

"Damn, never mind.  It's Saturday."  She groans.  "Can't do that."

"Saturday?"  I echo, caught of guard by her change in demeanor.

"Yup.  Saturday."  She leans against the table, voice dropping down to a whisper.  "We don't sell much booze on weekends, can't compete with West 67th, or The Goules will have our heads." She nods toward the man. "No wonder it's dead today."  She trails off with a huff.

The Goules?  My eyes struggle to turn their attention from him to her.

"Dammit.  This ain't your room, Ez'! You're scarin' my guest!" The dark-haired woman yells, so suddenly that I jump. The man, Ez, I suppose — isn't perturbed in the slightest, just lifts a strong middle finger in response and sags back into comfort. "Get on out of here!"

"Fuck off and get your tips, Daph'." His voice carries forcefully for something so quiet, deep, and indirect. He pulls the jacket over his ears, and I have not seen someone yell at anyone whose muscles move like that.

"Real class act." She rolls her eyes. "Don't stare like that, babes, he'll get a bigger ego than he's already got."

"Oh, I don't want any — " I shake my head, feel my cheeks heat. Her eyebrows raise.  "I mean. I don't want alcohol. I don't... I don't drink, really."

I have perfectly good alcohol at home.

"Don't be shy.  The only options are light beers or cheap vodkas."  She shrugs, her earlier flirtatiousness dissipating into disappointment. She doesn't seem to hear what I've said, glare traveling back to Ez. "Sure it's not what you're used to, but both do the trick.  So.  What'll it be?"

"Ah — just, coffee.  If you have it."  I pick at my clothes.  I think of how I'm going to afford a night in a motel room — briefly, and then say whatever, and tack on,  "And a room. If you have it."  I cringe at my repetitiveness. The other man snorts from where he's at, and I shrink into myself.

"Ignore 'em.  Just you today?"  I nod, and she clicks the top of her pen a few times.  She eyes me curiously. "Where' ya coming from?  You look like a kicked pup."

"McLaughlin,"  I mumble because there's no need to lie.  I feel a bit flustered at the fact that she assumes I'm a frat-boy drunkard, but my disheveled self sitting in a pair of oxfords probably doesn't help matters.  "But I'm not sobering up.  Or anything like that."

"Need a drink to stay buzzed, then?"  She slumps into the booth in front of me, miniature notebook out and ready.  "I don't charge ya' for the first one if ya' leave me a good tip."  She smiles again, so vast that I feel the corner of my lip tick up.  "Or if ya' look sad enough — and ya' sure do."

"That's okay. I'll pay." I frown at what that may insinuate. "I mean, I'll tip too."

"Awe.  But you're just so pitiful."  She crosses her arms, pulls at the edges of her face childishly.  My shy smile grows.  "There ya' go.  You're not plannin' to off yourself in one of our rooms, are ya'? Can't give ya' a key if that's the case."

"Ah," I shake my head, leaning my cheek into my free hand.  "Nothing like that. I'm just resting."

"Okay, whatever ya' say.  I'm Daphne, by the way.  If ya' couldn't tell from the boss hollerin'." 

"I'm Milan."

"Fancy."  She laughs heartily — and the bell chimes at the entrance on the other edge of the building, near the motel area's check-in counter.  Her eyes chase the noise, and then her attention becomes mine again.

"Rent-boy."  She mutters  —  and then she rolls her eyes.  "We're full of Goules all the sudden. Maybe I should bring ya' coffee to your room, babes?  Time to clear out the normal folks."

"Oh, okay. What's that?" I ask, only because her humor is lost — and so am I. I wonder if I should be worried. "I mean, what's a rent —"

Daphne hushes me quickly.  Her voice falls even quieter.

"You see that doll over there?"

She gestures with a quick thumb behind her.  My gaze flits past her and to where she motions.  There's a broad back — one stitched over with the outline of an arching bat.  A conveniently placed half-wall hides the rest of the man.  I raise my eyebrows, eyes shifting back to the man asleep.

Same jacket.

Not like any dolls I've ever seen.

"Do you..."  I pause, feel oddly out of place with how causally friendly she is.  "Do you not like them?"

"They're good for business, I guess."  She laughs, smacking her gum, but her voice is barely audible.  "Rent-boys rent rooms, that's what the boss says."

"Rent-boys?"  I wrinkle my nose.  "Rent... Rooms."

"I was wonderin', 'cause the timings weird." She leans in closer, the crooked table wobbling between us. "Is Ez yours?"

I rattle, eyes darting back to the distant man.

"Mine?"

"Oh. Guess not."  She hums.  "No offense.  When one comes, men and women dressed like you typically follow."  She gestures towards the outside motel rooms. "I mean, out there.  Not exactly wine n' diners."

I glance towards where she motions.  I realize she seems to have a lot of power over which direction I'm looking — and my curiosity. 

"I'm, uh. I'm sorry.  I'm not from here..."  I frown, eyebrows gathering.  "I don't follow?"

"Obviously.  Ain't you innocent?"  She snorts.  "I mean... I guess ya' are.  Anyway.  What ya' want, hun?"

"Daphne would ya' quit gossipin' and bring me that child's order!"

"That's what I'm doin' ya' cranky ass!"

"A coffee would be best."  I scoot my fingers beneath my thigh and pick at the rough edge there. My eyes catch vague details of another group chiming through the entrance.  "Please,"  I add, as an afterthought.  "I'm just tired."

"Awe, please."  Daphne jots down, he said please, and draws a little smile.  "The rich, drunk ones ain't usually so polite.  Cream or sugar?"

I should correct her — let her know that I'm not the slightest bit intoxicated, or rich, anymore, but I don't.  I glance towards the empty containers for each, perched under the windowsill, and glued onto the tabletop.

"Oh. We don't leave it out 'cause it tends to go home with this old fart by the name of Tom Deena."  She blows another bubble,  nodding along to what she says, then mutters under her breath,  "Church isn't gonna save his stealin', gropin' ass."

I chuckle, and my fingers stop fidgeting.   She smiles again, shoving her notebook into her pocket. 

"You hear that, Dale?"  She leans forward on the table, calls out towards the kitchen area.  "This one thinks I'm funny!  We're gonna be friends."  She winks at me.

"No one thinks you're funny, Daphne!"

She shrugs.

"So just one room, one bed?"

"Yeah,"  I nod.  Resist the urge to say please again.  "And... I like cream — in my coffee.  If that's okay."

"If that's okay."  She mimics, stands, and spins on her heel.  "Poor, sweet thing."

"Thank you."  I smile again, the best that I can. 

Daphne thinks for a moment, looks a bit cautious at that — then turns back, ducking next to my ear. Her breath smells like spearmint and smoke, and her necklace dangles against my shoulder.

"I'm gonna bring ya' a key, and you go straight to that room, 'kay?"  She sighs, and there's another rush of a bittersweet scent.  My eyes are on Ez, because his are on mine.  His smirk is back, sharp and confident, and there's a nervous energy blooming inside my restless fingers.  "And by God, ya' stay away from that Ez.  He'd eat a sweet thing like you right up."

--

Previous Chapter  |  Next Chapter  | First Chapter