WICKED BOY (Chapter Nine) (Patreon)

(A/N:  I UPLOADED A CHAPTER LAST NIGHT OF WICKED BOY, PLEASE READ CHAPTER EIGHT FIRST. XX  Okay guys, time to take a break and work on my house.   Let me know what you think!  I love your comments!)

Daphne says that The Huxley Goules are trouble, and Ez' is the worst of them all. 

She says he's wired for destruction, a cloud of cigarette smoke that travels behind his slinking shadow — a slant to his inherited grin that makes him look like a predator who's cornered prey. 

An escort.

She's used the words, hedonist, playboy — and thief in my short seven-day stay. Her disdain of him runs deep, and to me, it sounds like there's a million and one whips of penance Ez's shoulders, and he doesn't regret a thing.  A shark, Daphne calls him; and he's always surrounded by those just as desperate for belonging and material wealth as he.

This is Huxley.

We all want something.

Daphne says it's the perfect place for an escort service. Rumors don't spread much, and if they do, they're not worth anything. She says in Huxley all you come to know is tidbits of warnings, just the facts of who you need to watch your back around, where you need to lock your door,

and the universal truth here is, she says:

That The Huxley Goules side-show as rent-boys, as escorts, but become something more sinister when they aren't faced with a rich face — when they aren't being propositioned by money and material items,

And they are best left alone when they aren't wearing their charm. They might not own much, but in almost every sense of the word — they own the economy of Huxley, and they own this town.

But I know men who have 'owned' towns before.

I watch the bar lights off the corner of The Rest Stop flicker and dim, spring back to life with a jolt and a hum from the open motel door.   I squint when my head throbs, and I step out onto the sidewalk.

One of them is my father.

I hear another car pull into the only open parking place with the sound of tires rolling rocks beneath them, the silky black of the motorcycles next to me reflecting both it's the arrival and the lights near perfectly.

'Goules'

The building reads, in a specific stretch of the motel rooms, with a sickly neon yellow.  Beneath it, are a small group of men and women — all beautiful and leering, cigarettes between their fingers.  There's a bat threaded onto their leather jackets' back, red wings spread above the same lettering,

Goules.

They're laughing, jeering at each other — but they stop as the engine next to me turns off, and their attention turns towards me.

I guess a lack of self-preservation is what happens when you don't get out your rebellious side as a teenager.  I think, although it's groggy and muddled with vodka.  Otherwise, what in the hell would I be doing here?

I just need to ask them to be a little quieter.

My palms are sweating, but I'm more bothered, distracted even, by the fact that it's so cold in the parking lot. 

Politely.  That's all.

I barely have time to shut the door to my room before cigarette smoke wafts into my breathing space.  I wave at it without thinking, sputtering a bit,

"Who're you?" 

The tone is light and heavy all at once, a floating quality to it — but buried under a weight, like a voice heard underwater. 

"... And what're ya' doing here?"

I turn slowly.

"Um — I'm Milan,"  I say it simply, at eye-level with a neck that's printed with the thin and spidery word, Sinner.  I wrinkle my nose as another bellow of smoke blows down and across my face.  I cough,  throat irritated, "and I'm — I'm trying to sleep."

The owner of the voice crouches down, and I'm met with a cutting set of eyes — like a snake, bright and slanting in curiosity.  There's a bit of red in the corner of one, a vein that's burst beneath, threatening but somehow complementary against the bruise at his temple.

Oh.

Ez.

Did he get into a fight?

"Why're ya' here?"  He smirks, and it lifts a bit wider than I'm used to, lopsided and long at something he finds personally humorous.  He reaches forward, the strap of his jacket undone around his wrist, distracting and revealing more strange tattoos. 

"What?"

"I said," He picks at my shirt, or more specifically, a print of Venus on the chest pocket of my much too large pajamas. My chest blooms with nerves when his fingers skim my bare collar,  "why're ya' here?"

"Do I need a reason?"  I ask, but there's no real bite to it.  Just confusion.  His head tilts with it.

"Mm... No offense, pretty boy — but people like you don't wander about here without a want in mind."

I'm only vaguely aware of the men below the lights watching us in my peripherals.

"I... I want to sleep."  I say it anyway, and maybe years spent around my bully of a father and his taunts have taught me to be more sure of myself when faced with a blatant threat,  "I just — came here to rest. But I can't with how loud you are."

"Oh. Oops.  So ya' here for a slumber party?"  The man grins, eyes flickering coldly from my socked feet and back,  "— are ya' late for a rewatch of Iron Magnolias?"

"I don't even know what that is,"  I frown, and his eyes narrow,  "so I'm sure that was a dig — but I bet that says a bit more about you than me."

His eyebrows lift considerably, snorting as he leans back a bit.  I've never felt so fully conscious of the fact that I have an audience, and the man in front of me doesn't seem too happy about it either.

"You must have money for new teeth."  He says it, and I wonder if I'll ever learn to keep my mouth shut. For some reason, I don't want to. "With that fancy fuckin' get-up I saw you in."

I shrug.  He doesn't really seem to know what to do with my frank responses, and spits to the side.

"Well, Milan.  You a burgeonin' alcoholic, or do ya' typically smell like sugary vodka?"

I think of my mother.

"Are you the drinking police?" I slur slightly and curse myself under my breath. "Is that what the jackets and 'no drinking on the weekend' are all about?"  I glance towards the other men,  who are watching with fading interest.  "Well.  I guess I like the bat."

The man looks a bit uneasy again, lip curling downwards,

"Are you not hearing me, pretty boy?"  His lip curls upwards, like a snarl,  "Ya' here for a reason, or what?"

"To sleep,"  I frown, thumb out towards my room,  "that's all."

He rolls his eyes and leans forward.  I subconsciously step forward to steady my drunken footing — but in that, closer to the man with the spade tattooed beneath his ear. He grins at that, eyes flickering down to my mouth and lingering,

"This is Goules.  A private fuckin' area,"  he spits, and when I blink, I swear our noses bump in proximity. His breath is on my lips,  "and I want to know why you're so drunk. I wanna know why you're restin'. You're gonna tell me, or we're gonna have problems."

"... Are you Ez'?"  I mumble, and he mocks it accordingly, setting off a slew of laughter beneath the lights,

"You bet your ass, I am,"  he snickers, and his finger is curling around my shirt pocket — depositing a piece of paper inside of it,  "why do ya' ask? Did someone recommend me to ya'?"

I rattle, taking a quick step back.

"I'm not like that — I don't need a rent-boy — "

"Watch that mouth."  Ez's hand is wrapping around my jaw, quick and nearly bruising in the way that he cups it.  Our eyes meet, and when I try to avert mine, he turns my face accordingly.  His gaze is piercing and bright, like mixed drinks under party lights,

"Mm.  Ain't this interesting?"

"What?"

"You've been cryin'."  He tuts.  "Someone broke your poor lil' heart," his thumb flits beneath my right eye, and I blink — "didn't they?"

"They didn't — "

"Yep, a masochist." He lets his friends laugh along, before righting himself again,   "I was wonderin' why ya' were so ballsy."

He stares.  I crumble underneath it, hands finding my elbows.

"Need me to spell it out?  You didn't come out here for rest, baby," he says it firmly, with conviction,  "you came out here, hopin' I'd beat your ass."

I swallow.

Was that it?

"I didn't."

"Yeah."  He nods, and his grip softens, "You came out — hopin' to feel something.  Hopin', I'd make you feel somethin'."

There's heat that blooms in my chest.  I shake my head, as much as I'm able.

"I'm flattered.  But.  Battin' your doe eyes and sayin' the opposite ain't gonna change a thing,"  his smirk is back, lopsided and shark-like,  "Is it?"

"... You don't know that."  I whisper, hand reaching to curl around his wrist.  Ez's grip loosens, drops,  and he taps the Venus on my pocket.  "You don't know me."

"Okay.  Then don't tell me who broke your heart, angel." I hear him laugh, low and coaxing, and plant my socked feet more firmly against the concrete to keep from swaying, "but please, do tell me why you're wearin' my pajamas."

"You're Daphne's...?"

"Brother?"  He raises his eyebrows.  With a flippant wave of two decorated fingers, we're alone.  The rest of Ez's gang has lost interest with one muted command, fading off in the background, lost behind the swing of the diner's glass door and a jarring echo of grainy music.  I should consider how powerful that is.

"Yeah."  He snorts.  "She leaves out that bit when she's gossipin' about me, huh?"  He hums, eyes considering.  "Lucky for me... Ya' look good in 'em."

I was wrong — this is nothing like Clark.  I flush, feel it travel my ears.  I glance down at my feet and decide that — no.  I am not used to this sort of attention.

I am definitely being eaten up.

"Well.  Anyway.  How did you —"  I pause, because for the first time since this conversation with the Goule had started — and even though now, alone, he's a smaller threat;  my voice quivers with uncertainty. 

I think of his words from before.  I think of — how easily he could tell the exact reason I'd run here.  I wonder  — if he was right about the rest.

Is that what I wanted? 

Did... I want him to hurt me?  

"Um.  Why do you...?"

"What, angel?"  Ez leans back, the flame from his lighter flickering and brightening the cup of his palm.  He looks up from his re-lit cigarette, brows up and assessing.  "How do I know that ya' got your lil' heart broken?" He grins, all dimples, sharp jaw cradled by another stretch of dark ink, of scales — a hidden intuition. He guides the conversation back into his palm.

I set my jaw, hands clenched at my sides. I avert my eyes because now I'm uncomfortable — now, suddenly, it's too much.

"I'm not here because of him," I heave in a breath, voice bitter and wronged.  I never wanted Lucas to have that much control, "I just need — sleep.  Space... I — "

"... Yeah, alright," he snickers, "I get it." His grin says more than his eyes do, and there's something strange about it — the way each lift, more teeth, less; they all seem to say something different.

My stomach sinks.

"... Right then.  I guess — I'm more obvious than I thought." I hate my voice, the disappointment laced in it, "But.  I really do... just want some peace...  If you could — be a little quieter."

I reach back for the handle of my motel door.  I take one last glance towards the parking lot, hoping to find reason in why I'm still here. I don't.

"Oh, now you're goin'?"

The neon lights are on my skin, my hand, the knob of the door. I stare at them, until the artificial brightness, aposematic, makes me feel sick and woozy — the neon a warning of a poison dart frog.

I can't look away, can see each little flash, hear the grate of music and the crickets chirping further on — and it's too much. I bring my palms up over my eyes and inhale. I inhale again and count to three.

Eventually, someone tugs at one finger, and then two of them. I'm forced to remember that I'm not alone, that I need to go inside to be that way.

"— Well then, that ain't no way to say goodbye." Ez's voice has dropped from a humored melody to something sticky, like a trap, "You had all the time to talk — now I want mine," I look back at him without meaning too, something so authoritative in his voice that it demands an audience. He flicks the cherry from his cigarette, and within two steps back, his steel-toed boots noisy against the gravel, he's taking in another smoke-filled breath. 

"What?"  I ask.

"I've got two questions.  Hopefully, you're not too plastered to forget 'em."

"Oh.  That's... fair?" I say, because I can't dissect the look in his eyes — the venomous quality in the bright fog of them, "... What are they?"

"What's his name?"  Ez leans against one of the perched motorcycles. His gaze has gone from assessing to considering, to something else entirely. He smiles falsely, honeyed like a fly-trap. He glances at my socks, "Simple question, yeah?"

"...Lucas."

It's the first time that I've admitted it out loud.

He smiles at that.  But, as always, I don't want to talk about Lucas, can't defend — just why, I say his name so quickly, why I admit his outstanding ability to break my heart to a complete stranger.  Silence passes.

"... Your second question, what is it?"

He exhales, long, smoke a shapeless thing beside him — but his smile behind it disappears into something unsettlingly focused. He watches me with the sole purpose of knowledge, of knowing.

"He ever fuck you?" He bites out, blood in the water, all around us — and he's looking for the wound, “is he fuckin’ you?”

I startle at the harshness of it, the absolutely blunt edge — lights and noise forgotten. I feel strangely bare from the question, offended — or worried I've shown more than I should've. I don't know which emotion to grasp, but my tone turns immediately defensive,

"No." I choke out, confused and stripped.  It was never that — it was never even about that, "no, he didn't. Doesn’t.”

Ez' just hums, nodding slowly to himself. I watch him, cautiously, but somehow curious as to what his reaction entails. He pushes himself back up from the motorcycle, tucking his finished cigarette into his jacket pocket. He leaves his hands there, circles me — and with his side to me, sharp eyes on mine, he says,

"Lovely," and leans closer, aftershave and Huxley air the only cologne to him. My ear feels exposed, and in it, he whispers, "but someone oughta be.  And I think it oughta be me."

The butterflies are back — hot and flooding.  All I can manage is a stupid, soft noise.  I wonder — for a split moment, why I'd never felt this way with Lucas,

But it's lost to,

"Mm.  What a sound.  If ya' want to fill your pretty mouth with something other than cheap vodka,"  his eyes are all heat, his touch is carrying more purpose than any contact that's ever grazed my skin before,  "Call me."

I stumble, softly, trying to remember why I stand here — why I was crying.  Why I drank.  I watch Ez's retreating form and feel the need to defend myself — to protect my... Morals?

"It wasn't about sex!"  I yell.  "I — I never even thought about that!"

It's strange. 

It's a confession.  Maybe, even to myself.

"It was — it was just about him.  It was — not...  It was..."  I feel my eyes watering.  "Not being alone.  I hate — I hate being alone."

"Oh.  Pity."  Ez's head tilts again, the soft surprise being warmed over with a growing leer of opportunity.  "Well — for the right price,"  Ez leans into his height, and shrugs.  For the first time I think, his business card is in my pocket.  That's what — that's what he put there.  I'm primed... Primed and ready to be propositioned by an escort. 

He's so fucking smart.

I'm almost impressed.

"I could be your new Lucas.  Then you wouldn't be so lonely."  He grins.  "I'm good company."

And then he's gone.

—

(WARNINGS & A/N:  Okay, just so that I don't have any upset readers — this may spoil a bit, but The Huxley Goules are not being forced into any sex work.  They are a part of a legal escort service (the shady things they participate in outside of the escort service are their personal choices and character flaws). The Goules are protected and legitimate, and they typically do not have sex with clients, they just keep them company for money.  This work will never shame sex workers.

If members of The Goules CHOOSE to have sex with clients, it's not for more money.  It's against their escort company's guidelines.  Ezra basically is killing two birds with one stone, as he wants both, or either — from Milan.

Also, with Ezra being my first legitimate bad boy and Milan being quite damaged, they are both inherently flawed.  Their relationship will, of course, start off questionable and able to be seen as a bit unhealthy, but it will develop into something great for both of them.)

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