WICKED BOY (13) (Patreon)

(A/N:  If pet names bother you, Ez probably won't be your cup of tea. 😬 Warning: brief, blink and you’ll miss it, moment of suicidal ideation. )

Ez's smile spreads slowly, a jagged tilt of it. A bloom of self-trampled attraction struggles to unfurl at the sight of him.  His eyes carry something curious and playful, the first bit of emotion I've clearly registered since our first encounter.

"How hard did ya' try?"  He asks, but his voice is peppered in mischief, something that seeks a truth that I find myself fighting to bury. My hands are clutching the insides of my coat pockets, warm and damp with hesitation.

"Very hard." The strength of the truth in those two words makes me feel wholly vulnerable.  Ez must see that because I haven't seen a smile so wicked spread over someone's face, not even from Lucas.  Ez's grin carries weight, and his expression is deep-set with it. It feels like reaching instead of pushing, pulling instead of pushing.  

I think of my life, centered around learning, learning, learning, everything, and anything that my father has asked me to, and suddenly, I'm in a place where I know nothing. He smiles. He probably knows that.

"Tell me what ya' want.  I'll give it to ya'."

I startle at how easy he says it.

Why am I here?

I don't, really, know anything about my motivations, why I took a cab over an hour out of town in the middle of the night, or why I'm standing here in front of him now.  I sway a bit to the side, catching myself with one hand to the door railing.

What do I want?

I have the briefest moment where I think that I've made a mistake — that I belong in my apartment complex, alone, with the pale grey curtains drawn tight. I belong in my routine, behind my desk, building power-points, searching for paper to fill the printer, and microwaving another cup of coffee, fighting with the fax machine.

The same, unending routine.

I huff, pushing myself straighter.

"Mm...  For fuck's sake, pretty boy."  My thoughts shift back to the man in front of me. The mood has changed.  Ez's expression shifts slowly, frown appearing and concern overtaking his impishness.  He leans back just enough to regard me thoroughly, then reaches forward and touches the back of my elbow in an attempt to help me steady myself.  "Are ya' drunk enough?"

No.

It's never enough — not with the fear of my room in Pennbrook, my fair-weather friends, my job — my father's hand-me-down car, my self-built cage.   The times I stand near my apartment window and think of what it would be like, to take flight, even for the briefest of moments.  Even if it's just one moment.  Even if everything after ends.

"I drank." But now, I feel suddenly, remarkably free of that thought, and frightened all at once. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, anymore — or what's driving me exactly, but I look at Ez, who normally wears his sharp smile and scarred knuckles, and think of the rumors about him — remember, I don't know who I'll be, but I need something more.  "Right.  I drank.  I suppose."

I think of Isaac's words.

You forgot spoiled, bitter, and a fucking alcoholic.

I feel like I can't breathe.

"This doesn't seem like a normal, post-heartbreak wild streak, babe."  Ez's brows gather.  He stares a little longer than I'm comfortable with. 

"So what?"  My voice cracks.  I stare at the thread along his shirt collar, focusing on it instead of his eyes that seem to see too much,  "You sent — you sent the patch.  Your card, and then, well, I came. Does it matter?"

"Good question."  He steps forward, "You're a businessman, so tell me,"  Ez's voice is a knife against the music, able to cut and wind its way through it. He holds the patch up with two fingers, one with the same spade tattoo as before.  My stomach drops, hands fidgeting endlessly.  "What kinda shady business makes a deal with someone who is drunk off their ass?"

"Right."  My heartbeat feels unsteady.  I feel as stupid as I should — as something about not knowing what kind of man Ez is tugs at my intrigue. I watch him, with his unchanging gaze, his calmness — something not quite so serene that scratches beneath the surface with every trick of the light.  But he's denying me.  Because I'm drunk, he seems... Worried?  I laugh a little, and Ez rolls his eyes.  "I guess that's true."

"Then ya' knew better."  He snorts, circling me with fascination — with inquisitiveness, with something else entirely.  Each takes presence in his grin and then wipes away as he thinks.  He reaches out with one hand, thumb dragging against my chin.  His hold suddenly becomes tighter; thumb pressed into the skin of my cheek, fingers spread across the other.  I briefly register it as warmth, and then as security — and then my mind is preoccupied with the neon lights behind him.  "Why'd ya' come here, if you're not gonna buy?"

I don't know what to say, and I haven't quite thought of it. 

"Buy... you?"  I say, finally.  His eyes are on my lips, on my neck — and ultimately, my own eyes.  It's not a look I'm used to seeing, and his grip feels like more than it did before. "Can you really — buy a person?"

"Sure.  My time.  My company."  He repeats, and there's no hesitation — no waver in his voice. He nods a bit, despite this. "It's worth a few bucks."

"That's... Is it,"  My eyes slide to the men and sprinkling of women at the booths in the main bar, their eyes all averted respectfully. Their jackets match. Their demeanors all match. "And that's — that's an escort thing?  Selling yourself?"

"... Thing?"  He blinks, chuckling like what I've said is absolutely absurd.  It makes me think for a moment that maybe it is. 

"I mean.  If it is.  Why would you care if I'm drunk when I buy?" I swallow, "The Huxley Goules. The bat on your jackets. You said — you gave me a business card."  I say it with more confidence than before, 

"So, I can't have morals?" 

"Morals?"  My eyebrows gather.  "But.  It sounds like... Prostitution."

"Maybe I misspoke..." He shrugs, false innocence staining his downward tilting lips, "Did I say I was a prostitute?"

I cringe at the hate in his question, his voice monotone and forced into a quiet contempt.  He raises an eyebrow, expression set into absolutely nothing, cold and unfeeling.

"I don't know the difference."  I twist the fabric of my down-jacket, palms feeling raw each time that I do.  "I mean.  What's the difference?"

"... The difference is?" his expression twists.  Now he's laughing, snidely — abruptly, "Fucking.  We don't fuck.  No sexual favors.  You want a pic or two? Great.  Want some dirty talk occasionally? Price goes up."

"Oh.  I was confused.  You said—"

"That I'd like to fuck you, if you're not payin' me to escort. Made that clear. Offered ya' one or the other." 

His straightforwardness rattles me, just enough that a moment too long passes between us.  The air becomes stale with something awkward.

"None of this makes sense to me."

"... I'll tell ya' something."  He steps towards me again, to the side, and before I know it, I'm in front of the entrance to the red room — and he's in front of me. "You're a fuckin' brat." He presses me forward, once, again — until the door to the red room shuts behind us.

"What?"

"Oh.  Don't worry."  It's quieter, the sound doesn't carry from the bar — and neither does the light.  Ez is peering down at me, all white teeth and tan skin, and my stomach somersaults. "I like it quite a bit — enough to stand your blatant fuckin' rudeness, waitin' two months to get back to me and then callin' me a prostitute and all. It's kinda cute."

Cute?

"Now, you're drunk.  Now I can't have either.  Pretty fuckin' bratty, I'd say."  He's grinning again.  "Unless you're just a tease."

Heat gathers in the tips of my ears.

"I didn't mean to be rude.  I didn't mean to be rude to you."  I set my jaw.  I watch the mild disbelief in Ez's growing frown and suddenly feel the slightest bit ashamed.  "I — I just want company.  I'm just making sure.  If I buy, I just want your company, is all. I wanted to make sure."

Ez seems caught off guard for a moment before his smile returns, in a gentler — assessing way.  His eyes look lighter than before. He's quiet, and I am too. I don't want to touch the sore spot I've created.

"Scared that ya' might be buyin' sex?"  He chuckles softly. "... What a riot."

"I'm sorry." I glance towards my feet.  "I shouldn't have insinuated that you were a prostitute."

He hums, mildly, "Aren't you a Pennbrook boy? Why're ya' always apologizin'?  And why're you so scared of talkin' about fuckin'?"

I blink, "I don't want to be."

"... Apologizin', or a Pennbrook boy?" He doesn't look too convinced, but then his eyes flicker to my hands.  I wring them slowly.   His eyes lower to mine, and I avert them to his mouth. He licks his teeth, squinting. He taps two fingers against my nose, and I flinch, "Or scared of sex?  Tell me."

I flush.

"Tired. I don't want to be tired."

"You were tired last time."  He nods. "Weren't ya?"  he touches the top of one of my fists.

"I'm tired,"  I repeat, but my voice feels smaller. "All the time."

"Well.  Why're ya' tired tonight?  Lucas?"

Lucas.  Lucas.  Lucas.

"Tonight,"  I swallow something that feels like a lump in my throat.  "Um. No.  My friends.  My friend."

If you weren't so fucking cold — you'd see that. If you'd get out of your head for once, maybe you'd be enjoyable to be around!

Is that something... A friend would say?

"Okay. Well. I'll tell ya' one thing," Ez smirks, his nose bumping mine, "I betcha I'm different than your friends."

"How?" My gaze drifts to his lips, under no consent of my own.  I swiftly avert it.

"Because." his finger slides against the soft skin on my inner wrist, and my eyes follow it instead, "I said that I am. Do I make ya' tired?"

I tell myself not to back away, almost as much as I tell myself not to lean forward.

"No." 

"See?"

"Then.  Can we make a... I don't know.  A deal?"  I say it, but my voice sounds too quiet. Too unsure. Most of me — it wants to stay. I feel seduced by the idea of somewhere so free, so accepting — The only thing that makes me pause is Ez's bright set of eyes and the pain he could surely inflict if I were to become attached to them.  His lips hover over mine, and my fingers shake, "I — I have money."

He barks out a laugh, cold but genuinely humored.

"I know, babe.  But you're still drunk, even if your wallet is full."  He steps back once, and his warmth is gone. "So, no." He motions toward the door with a tilt of his head, "Another day.  Sober up."

"I — What?"  Any ounce of confidence I have circles the drain.  It disappears.  "Another day?"

"Get a cab. Can't make any sort of agreement with alcohol in your system."   His hand drops from its place.  He steps back again. "Sorry, angel."

I can't help but panic the slightest bit, the ease of his statement feeling like another dismissal — another ache like I'm — I'm always going to be stuck.  I'm going to go home.  I'll ponder this — and Ez, for months, and I'll never get the courage to come back. 

"Wait."  I reach forward, hand curling in the fabric around the elbow of his jacket.  "I don't know — I don't think I can come here.  If I'm not drunk."

"That's the problem, sweetheart."

"Please." I don't know why I sound hurt, why I feel helpless.  My grip on his jacket tightens, and Ez's eyebrows raise with genuine surprise. 

"... Did I fuckin' stutter?"

"I mean.  No."  I shake my head.  "I have to do this.  Now.  I came here.  I carried that patch in my pocket for days, weeks — and I want...  I need to —" I sigh, trying to settle my panicked heart,

I don't want to be alone.

I see it, his snide suspicion changing into something that — Looks like sympathy.  My stomach plummets.  He pities me.  Fantastic.

"Mm. Look at you.  Not gettin' what you want, right when you want it."  His brows furrow, "Lil' brat."

I shrink, drop the sleeve of his jacket, my pathetic display brightening my cheeks. 

"Right.  I was — Never mind."  I laugh, scratch the side of my face to hide myself behind my hand.  I turn the handle to the door behind me, shame licking hot on my heels.  "Um.  Thanks for your time."  I tell him. 

His boots sound loud on the floor, but it's just two quick strides before he's in my space again.

"Oh, don't be so fuckin' pitiful," He pushes the door back shut, louder than I'm sure he means to.  It slams, he twists the lock, and his hand covers mine like I might make a run for it.  "Listen, since you're always so goddamned honest, I'm gonna guess that's what you want from me."

I swallow, still mildly humiliated, and opt for silence.    Ez uses my shoulder to turn me back towards him, and he's so close that I find myself twisting my hands together again —  like it'll keep myself from overheating, or from reaching out towards him.

"... Ya' know, you should be a lot more confident in yourself, especially with that pretty face,"  he presses Venus against my breast pocket with his free hand, a long drag of his finger across the bat. His eyes track mine, mine that are wide and unnerved by the thought of another compliment.  I'm still stressed at the situation but pink at the cheeks.  He chuckles, pausing, "Oh.  Come on, don't look so surprised."  He whispers, tilting his head down towards mine, "... You're a pretty boy.  You'd hear that more of you weren't burning in Pennbrook's right-wing hellhole."

"What does that do for you?  Thinking — thinking I'm pretty?"  I frown, fumbling over my words.  "Who would think that?  I'm drunk — I was drunk last time too.  And wet —"

"Shh.  It does lots for me, Angel. Patience."

It's money.  He wants money.  I try to remind myself.  But I stare up at him and stupidly think — that he doesn't seem to be lying.  His hand is threading through my hair, palm cupping the base of my neck,

"Don't worry,"  he tilts his head like somehow he can read what I'm thinking,  "I'll be honest with ya', cause that's what you want, huh? Someone honest?"

I nod.

"I want a pretty face."  He grins.  "Your unhappy little 'sorry,'"  he's leaning down, too close, the warmth of his breath against my neck, "I want the valedictorian son of an insurance bigshot, with big fat hearts drawn on some fuckin' heartbreaker's name."  

He says it with — knows so much, has learned so much from me and about me in just a few weeks — and it probably only took a couple of internet searches and my big fucking mouth.  I let out a breath that feels held for too long, limbs feeling heavy with an invisible weight,

"Yeah? So sad and doe-eyed and so stupidly fuckin' self-destructive— I want that."

Want.  He wants... Me?

"How do you — why would you want someone like that?"

"'Cause it makes me curious," he laughs into my ear, and he smells industrial — like Huxley air and gasoline, an oil spill that won't dry — muddled and dangerous.  "Makes me wanna take care of you."

"... And when — you figure me out. And you get tired of it?"  

"I won't ever be." his thumb is dragging away a wet spot from beneath my lashes, "... We're talkin' about money here. I'm loyal to the money until it runs out, and you can be as ugly as you want.  You can be as honest with me as ya' want.  My lips are sealed."

"If... you think.  What I tell you — what if I'm.  What if I'm really just —"

"Terrible?  I bet you I'm worse."  His breath is on my neck, and my face is heating — eyes averted towards the lamp on one of his desks that flickers unpleasantly — a faint whir echoing from it. 

"How do we do this?"  I say, but I don't drop the fabric of his jacket.  I think of Lucas, and hold on.  "If you won't let me?"

"Won't let you?"  He pauses, the hand in my hair pressing upwards.  I can feel his lips against my ear, a soft kiss to the tip of it. The hair on my neck is standing again.

"What do I do?"

He ducks away from me, pulling back like the first night at the bar when his words sounded like a proposition.  Easy, quiet — and controlled. Everything from before has wrapped neatly again inside of his shark-like smile.

"... Ya' sober up,"  he says it breezily, his fingers hooking against the pocket of my jacket.  I remind myself to check it later.  I swallow down a bubble of fear, picking at the strings of it, the curl of the snap-buttons — the plastic catching under my nail.   "Then, I'll tell ya."

My hand follows his into my pocket — 

"Relax,"  he rolls his eyes, and before I know it, he's at the door,  "It's my phone number. Use it."

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