WICKED BOY (29) (Patreon)

(A/N:  Wicked Boy is starting to veer into NSFW territory, both with language and content.  I want to warn you now because this chapter delves more into Ez's job AND Ez and Milan's attraction, and with Ez hellbent on seducing Milan, it is NOT subtle on the sexuality side (and won't be in the future). I will likely not be giving NSFW warnings beyond this chapter as this book is aimed towards 18+ audiences.

warning: Milan not knowing how to socialize and Ez turning into a chain smoker because he’s so damn horny, HAHA)

—

"What's that on your hand?"  Ez's voice is quiet and sudden.  I snap out of whatever sort of reservoir I'm in, but I don't find myself tensing.  I glance toward the back of my palm, where a swatch of Tamela's foundation lingers.

"Ah."  I swallow.  Ez releases me, and somehow, it's not the slightest bit awkward.  I miss his warmth —  and step towards him as he steps away, entirely without thinking.  Ez's head tilts at that.

He reaches, snags my hand, and lifts it to him, turning it over in the low lighting.  I watch his show of inspection but feel much calmer at the idea that he hasn't stopped touching me.  His skin is warm.

"It's makeup.  It's waterproof."

Ez hums, a slow smirk taking place against his features.  He runs his ringed thumb over the dark smear, and it doesn't budge, but my heart hammers, swells, and the drag of his skin against mine has my cheeks warm.  It feels intimate.  I stretch my fingers, his thumb pressed into the middle of my palm, like days before, at the cafe.

It's altogether different than his embrace, but registers similarly.

And it still — isn't unpleasant.

"...Don't think it's your color,"  Ez murmurs, and I nod dumbly as his bright eyes flicker from the foundation to meet my stare.  I nod again, and he dips closer.  My chin lifts without guidance, following the lid of his eyes.  "Ya' like makeup?"

"Yes,"  I say, all too firmly.  Ez's eyes flicker to my lips, and I swallow.  "I like to do Tamela's make-up."

"Yeah?"

"She lets me practice — on her."  I think of this and feel a pang of guilt.  "Sometimes, her friends.  I have to mix her foundations, though."

"That's nice."  There's not a glimmer of deceit in his praise.  My hands are shaking.  Particularly the hand that's still in his.  His fingers stretch alongside mine, the tips of them pressing, bouncing from my own, and then they intertwine.  I hope that he doesn't hear my inhale.  "How'd ya' learn that?"

"I watch videos."  My words come too hastily.  I don't know why I confide in him the things that I do.  I feel like I talk to distract myself, to soothe my heart, my thoughts.  Ez just stares on. I notice that my gaze accidentally veers to his mouth and away again, and Ez must see this too because he's unexpectedly closer.  "There's a lot.  But — I don't have the same things.  Like the brushes and palettes.  It's just for fun..."

"Ya' ever wear it?"  Ez's brows lift the slightest bit, a genuine inquiry, with no ill will behind it.  I can feel his breath against my lips.  I don't know when we became this close.  I chew the inside of my cheek, and our eyes meet again, mine timid and unsure.

"I haven't,"  I say.

"Ya' wanna?"  Ez's words seem to imply more than one thing.  His gaze drops to my lips, again, longer, more forward in his intent.  His free hand lifts, and he uses the side of his index finger against my cheek, a hint of a caress.  My eyelids feel heavy.  My stomach flips — like we're driving too fast — downhill on Huxley's plunging paths.

"It scares me."

These words also imply more than one thing.  Ez stops, his head lowering.  His fingers are threading through my hair, palm cupping the base of my neck.  He kisses the tip of my ear, the same way he did when I came to his red room in Huxley, but almost with more force.

"I told you — I..."  my voice breaks.  I say one thing, but shift into his hands, lean into his hold.  There's a desire in me, one that isn't sure what it's longing for, that feels like an overabundance of energy.  "I'm mixing things up."

Ez laughs, without malice, his breath on my ear.

"I can take the blame."  He says. I bite my lip until it stings, my eyes warm with want.

He doesn't let go of my hand.

"I want to mix ya' up."

'I want a pretty face. Your unhappy little 'sorry.'  I want the valedictorian son of an insurance bigshot, with big fat hearts drawn on some fuckin' heartbreaker's name.'

My stomach fills with butterflies again.  I barely hesitate.

"Why?"  I wonder, out loud.  "Are you — are you like this with... Do you do this with —?"

Ez barks out a laugh before I can finish.

"No."  He ducks away from me.  Our hands remained intertwined, but only because I don't let him go.   Everything in his expression settles before I can dissect it.

Easy, quiet — and controlled.

Everything that Ez presents. He grins, sharp as ever, and our hold on one another lingers when our fingers disentangle.

"I really fuckin' don't."  He steps into his kitchen, reaches into the cupboard, and pulls down a cup.  He doesn't turn on the lights.  I don't either.

"Then,"  I can't find the words.  I feel entirely helpless.  "Then — what do you do?"

Ez's eyes lift again, and our gaze always seems to catch the other.  There's a slew of micro-expressions, something curious in him, something rather smug.

"You seem very interested in the life of an escort, for someone so fuckin' lily-pure."  He leans back against the counter, and I find myself at the center of his lazy regard.

"Ah."  A large, loud part of me regrets him leaving my space.  "I mean.  It's okay if you don't want to tell me about it.  You don't have to, obviously."

There's a bout of silence.  I straighten my jacket.  I think of unzipping it — but I'm unsure how long I'm welcome, so I don't.

"... Keep 'em company," Ez pauses.  His voice surprises me, and my attention is his immediately.

"Like me?"

"Yeah, but," He fills his cup, and tilts it towards me, and takes a sip,  "...for an hour or two.  S'always a scheduled thing.  Usually, they're old — or older, I guess."

He doesn't seem to feel one way or another.

"Oh."  I nod.  I just want him to know I'm listening.  I don't know what else to say.  "That — makes sense...  What do you do with them?"

"Hmm..." He licks his teeth.  "Eat. Donno' why.  They usually buy goddamn tiny-ass fancy fuck dinners."  He doesn't appear too impressed by that fact, "Yack my fuckin' ear off.  Show me off to some friends if there's an event."

The Goule makes a movement with his free hand that mimics a mouth, then rolls his eyes.  I stifle a laugh, and his brow raises.

"What do they talk about?"

He scoffs.

"Rich folks like to talk about how fuckin' top-tier they are.  Their fortune.  Complainin' about shit kids or their spouse.  But it ain't that bad.  Sometimes they have cool cars."  He shrugs.  "Or take me on trips."

I nod,

"You like cars?"  I supply to ease any awkwardness between us.  There seems to be none on the other man's end because he just laughs at my nervous inquiry.

"Yeah.  But I like trips better."

"Do you make the most money on trips?  I feel like you should be paid more for the events." I tack on.  "They're terrible."  My brows furrow with the thought.  "Do you get overtime for the trips?"

"Nah, part of the payment is the fuckin' trip."  He tilts his head, coy,  "I make more money elsewhere."

"Doing what?"  I do unzip my jacket, now realizing how overheated I'm becoming.  Ez seems comfortable with the conversation at hand, and in his ease, I find myself more relaxed.  "Is it the events?  What are you best at?  Do you all have parts of escorting where you excel?"

"Excel?"  Ezra chuckles.  I glance over at him, unsure of where to place my discarded coat.  He motions towards the back of the coach.  I try to think of the difference between socializing at an event or a restaurant.  I wonder if Ez has to meet married clients out of their hometown — or what suit he could possibly wear to cover his tattoos.

"Yes.  Excel.  I guess — or specialize?"  I frown.  "I don't know what word suits it better."

Ez stares at me, challenging and contemplative.  Then he grins, wicked and large and entirely predatory.  I blink.

Ez pats his pocket casually, and suddenly his humor shifts into a leer.

"I make good fuckin' money on my phone."

I glance towards my discarded coat and back to him, then to the outline of the phone in his pocket.  I feel like I've been cornered.

"How?"

"Pictures."  He says.  "But videos cost more."

"Pictures..."  I repeat.  And then, in a slow realization, I understand what he means.  "Oh.  Pictures of... you?"

Ez's grin turns lopsided as my cheeks darken.

"What do ya' think they're of?"

I struggle to keep my eyes above his belt-line.

"Oh."  It's weak at best, and Ez revels in it.

"If I need a few more bucks, I let clients call me up.  Costs more 'cause I have to listen to them fuckin' pantin' and moanin'."

I flush, eyes averting entirely, because Ez is staring like he wants a reaction that isn't another question— and I've given him just that.

"That's where I make the most."  I can't see him because I'm too busy staring a hole into his welcome mat.  I hear his cup hit the sink.  "That's where I excel."

There's a tension, a strange air left behind.  Ez likely believes he's won.  Even I feel as if he has.

"I don't like fancy dinners."  I'm not very loud, but I don't need to be.  It takes every ounce of courage to look at him.  He watches me back.  "Or events."

"That so?"

"Yes.  I don't have a spouse — or kids, or an obscene amount of wealth, either.  And I don't really go on trips.  I’m a homebody.  I don't have a car... I use the bus to get to work or a taxi to get to the bar, it's faster."

Ez shrugs, like that's the least of his worries.  I flush.

"... And I don't feel comfortable paying you to send me pictures — videos.  Or to make you call me."  I raise my shoulders and drop them with a sigh, "I just want to be honest with you...  Ah.  From a business standpoint.  You're not getting much profit out of me."

"...That's where you're gettin' confused,"  Ez's gaze lingers.  I meet it, only because I miss him when I don't.   I want him to look at me the way he is now — I don't want it to change.  "I don't know how to be clearer with ya’.  Really can’t tell if you’re fuckin’ with me.”

"What?"

"Like I’d charge a goddamn penny if it meant I got to hear ya' moan."  Ez pulls his pack of cigarettes from his back pocket.  My fingers bunch in the fabric of my sweater.

"Now.  We can watch a movie instead, 'cause I get it," he hums, "I get what ya' told me."

"But, like I said,” he grins at me from behind the spark of his lighter, "if ya' really wanna get mixed up with me, I would love to mix ya' the fuck up.“ 

Ez inhales, the cherry of his cigarette growing.  When he exhales, he winks.

“And if ya’ wanna moan in my ear, I’d rather ya’ do it in person.”

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