WICKED BOY (18) (Patreon)

(A/N: like we all don’t know why Ez wants to know if the walls are thin)

Isaac slips away as inconsequential and innocuous as a garden snake, and Ez and I are alone. I imagine my friend leaving, feathers ruffled, stewing in his peacoat with the knowledge that his departure is only possible because Ez allowed him to go.  

Something in me feels guilty, warring away with something larger; relief, mixing with power, satisfaction, and a fluttering of nerves.

For once, I don’t think of apologizing. I just think of Ez. The man at my open entryway, the man who doesn’t quite fit — and can’t deny that it’s part of what makes him so alluring. He turns back towards me, leans against the door, and it shuts with the weight of his broad shoulders. I imagine the Huxley bat etched across them, and take a breath.  

“Good mornin’.” His voice is quieter, lower, something soothing to it that I can’t place.

I blink.  

My skin feels heated. I believe I’ve bloomed at every edge. I think about the loose key on my laptop. I think about the spreadsheet due Monday and the presentation that I’ll be leading Thursday — and then of my open curtains, of how I should draw them shut. I think of anything to distract myself from his lazy smile. But it’s there, and each uptick that cradles his dimples takes my heart with it. 

Was I just too young to feel this way around Lucas?

With the thought, I decide to meld into the mask that others have made me.  It’s best he sees it early. I don’t need this interest festering and turning into something more profound, an affliction that lingers and deepens and scars. I just need Ez to see — what Isaac sees.  

“Well. I need to go apologize to the neighbors for the ruckus.”

“We must have a different idea of the word ruckus.” Ez is still smiling, crooked, and humored. I frazzle further, gaze shifting from him, and to his helmet by the door.  I want to ask him what a ruckus is like in Huxley. I want to ask him a lot. “Your walls that thin?”

“When will you be leaving?” Is what I say instead. It’s curt. It’s the fairest I can do. He doesn’t answer, so I inspect my watch, like I’m interested in the time, like I have a semblance of meaning and routine. 

“Depends.” Ez laughs a bit, dry with humor. My eyes dart up to see it, and he licks his lips. “When do ya’ want me to leave?”

I don’t. I think he knows that. I remove my glasses, cleaning the lenses with the corner of his pajama top. I keep my eyes on my socked feet. My hands are shaking.  

“Well. You shouldn’t be here, to begin with.”

He snorts. My brows gather.  

“Are we dancin’ around somethin’ here?”

“No, I don’t like to dance around anything. I’ll be clear,” I say this instead of stay. “I’m a reckless drunk,”

“Ya’ don’t say?”  

“— prone to making spur of the moment decisions.” My voice falls into tedium. Bored, without intention, tired. It’s the same tone I use with Isaac. Ez is unimpressed. “Sometimes, I barely remember what I’ve done.”  

Ez hums. His lips turn just the slightest bit, but his hands sink in his pockets carelessly. Whatever has put off so many men before him doesn’t seem to waver his resolve in the slightest.

“Unfortunately, you and Huxley were one of those decisions.” My eyes raise to his. It’s a dumb choice. His stare is nothing but scrutinizing — severing the defenses that I’ve laid out before they can find a place. “Reckless. Spur of the moment.”

“I love reckless.” Ez takes a step forward. The apartment floor creaks with his weight. “Nothin’ unfortunate about it. And that still doesn’t sound like leave.”

“I — Should I have to ask you to leave?” I scowl, and his brows raise like he’s pleased by my expression. I try for something more bitter. “I didn’t invite you to visit my apartment, uninvited. I’m sure of it.”

“And I didn’t ask ya’ to show up at my bedroom door and call me a prostitute.” He grins, takes another step forward. It suddenly feels like flirting. Have I ever flirted? “Eye for an eye, I’d say.”

I fluster at the truth there.

“You stole my address. That’s extremely sleazy.”  

“Daphne gave it to me. Much like she gave ya’ my pajamas. Didn’t know she didn’t ask for permission.” 

“Well — anyway. You asked me to return your pajamas. My reasoning for a visit was valid.” My voice almost cracks. I flush. 

“... What kinda bullshit excuse? You didn’t return anything to me, did ya’?”

“Um.” I start. Ez glances purposefully at my top. I twist it between my fingers. “Well. No.”

“Then pretend I’m here for the pajamas and get coffee with me.”

“But you’re not here for the pajamas.” I shake my head, bewildered. “And we’re not — we shouldn’t get coffee.”

“You keep sayin’ shouldn’t instead of don’t wanna. And you’re not tellin’ me to leave, not the type to tell me to stay, so what do ya’ want?”

I reach around him, into my hanging coat’s pocket to grab my wallet. “I’m not telling you what I want.”  

My chest is against his arm. I try not to pay attention to the contact — or the smell of Huxley air and gasoline that clings to his unwashed clothes.

I think for a minute that I might want Ez.

“I’ll pay for your gas. Or any other inconveniences. Hell, I’ll pay for your package’s shipping fee.”

“Great. You’re a rich-boy, and that’s why I’m here.” He reaches back, snags my wallet from my still outstretched hand, and places it on the counter. I huff. 

“And I’m a lot more than you can handle,” I snap back. I grab the wallet again, pull out the wad of cash that sits between my credit card and license, and press it into his chest. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. Honestly. You really should leave.”  

“Should.” Ez cocks his head to the side. “You seemed pretty intent on buyin’ my company last night.”

“That was last night.”

“Yeah, before some weird fuck showed up at your door on some kinda blue-balls rant this mornin’.” He sneers. 

“He made some valid points.”

“He was talkin’ out his ass.” Ez rolls his eyes, then rolls the piercing of his tongue between his teeth. I watch it. He winks.

“Stop that,” I say it before I can stop myself. Ez laughs, louder. Heat floods to the tips of my ears.

“Why? Are we fightin’ or flirtin’?”

“Neither!” I ignore the nerves in my stomach. “Why is it you want me to ask you to stay so bad? Why aren’t you just leaving?” I glare. “You’re — attractive. You’re charming —”

“Oh,” his grin grows large enough that I can swear I see my own feathers inside of it. “Careful. I might think ya’ like me.”

My toes curl against the floor.

“I’m sure you have plenty of prospects.” I try to focus. “So direct your efforts elsewhere.”

“I don’t wanna,” he leans in, so sudden that a soft sound of surprise escapes me. His lashes are dark and heavy — his eyes so light of green that they seem like a trick. “Unless you can tell me that ya’ want me to.”

I hesitate. I have the desire to touch his lashes. I don’t — but his eyes flicker to my lips, and I almost steal a glance at his as penance.

“I can’t,” I whisper. Ez’s gaze lifts back to mine.  

“That so?”

“I’m trying — ugh.”

“Tryin’ to do what, Angel?”

I shake my head.

“This is stupid. It’s a bad idea.” I grumble. “You say you want money; then you won’t leave when I give it to you.”

“You’re so fuckin’ bratty.” Ez chuckles. I stare. “I like ya’ sober.”  

“Well — I’m not sure if I like you.”  

“You will.” Ez lifts his chin towards the counter. “Why don’t ya’ grab that contract?”

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