Wicked Boy (33) (Patreon)

(A/N:  I will be posting the next chapter Friday/Saturday!). Ps. If it feels like nothing is happening, I’m so sorry. Milan is a slow developing character and this book is really just about his and Ez’s journey towards love and self-love/personal happiness.

Ez leans against the counter again. With what's been said, I'm too dumbfounded to meet his regard.

"You have a strange sense of humor."  It doesn't have the bite that I mean for it too.  I lean into the back of the couch, dropping my head against it and running my finger over the soft, crisscrossing stitches of its fabric. I, for once, consider relying on someone — other than my father.

"I don't remember the joke, babe."  Ez sighs, drawn and purposeful.  He wants me to hear his distaste for my frosty behavior, and that's okay; maybe I'm that exhausting.  "Refresh my memory."

I don't know him.

But I close my eyes tightly and selfishly consider taking this weight, this weight that I've carried to bed each night, laid with, woke with, and let crush me — and I think of letting this stranger help me lift something that feels impossible to raise on my own.

But...

If I cut ties with this unhappiness, will I really let go?

What if I leave Huxley, and I'm the same person? What if... the ties to Pennbrook, the knots and the little pink marks left against my skin— what if they fade, and I turn out to be empty, passionless, and pitiful, on my own?

With no one to blame for it?

Or...

What if I take this weight and — unthinkingly pass it into Ezra's open arms.

Will he hate me?  Could I make him as bitter as I've made Lucas, Isaac, and Tamela towards the thought of me?

I swallow again, my throat tight as if I might crumble — just contemplating that disappointment.

I imagine leaving United Minett Financial, my fair-weather friends, and an undecorated apartment room. There's nothing sad about it, nothing that makes me ache with regret. I feel relieved.

But then that tie strangles it, and I worry about Ez and how he might feel about me months from now.

The thought strings along with it distress and skepticism that quarrels with the longing in the pit of my stomach.

"What're ya' thinkin' about, pretty boy?"

Ez's voice is only soft in moments like these.  The teases and taunts are stripped from him, and his voice is low and warm like coals on a hearth.

I want to let his warmth breach the colder parts of me, but I keep pulling from his light and back into the gloom of Pennbrook.  I build city walls after skyscrapers and warn him not to climb them with my sour cadence.

Why do I do that?

I glance towards the window. The eyelet curtain is thin, dainty, and speckled with open spaces. It only reaches a third of the way down the pane and barely hides the stars that are just past the thick and gloaming gathering of trees.

"You..."  I can hear crickets singing and the steady croak of katydids. "And what you could possibly get out of this.  Isn't that awful?"

Ez chuckles.  It's low and grating and insincere, but that doesn't stop my stomach from flipping.

"... Should it be?"

"I don't know.  Are there strings attached?"  I don't know why I say something so mistrusting — so shitty in response to his tenderness.

Maybe because I wish I could pretend that this is just a clever sort of deception, that Ezra isn't to be trusted, and that my body doesn't sag with comfort in his home...

That there's even going to come a time when I'm disappointed that I filled myself with all this hope, all this warmth, and excitement that saddles itself to me.

"...Ya' want a fuckin' string?"  Ezra drolls, his expression as unclear from my peripherals as it can be.  "'Kay.  AA meetings."

"You've said that."

"Milan."  Ez's tone leaves no room for argument, rigid and clipped.  The way he says my name has goosebumps rising on my skin.  "There won't be alcohol in this house."

He doesn't say my house.  Almost like he doesn't want me to feel cornered in someone else's space — stifled under their rules.

My chest lifts the slightest bit when I breathe.  I curl further into the couch. Ez closes a cabinet, wood bounces off wood, and I startle at the noise.

My eyebrows gather at the plainness of his request. I blink at him, gaze darting first to the entrance of Ez's home, then down to the welcome mat. My lips thin, and I glance up through my lashes and then back down again.

"... Alright."

"Sign up is by Ellie Marie's QuikMart." Ez waves a hand towards his right, "It's ten miles away. Easy as shit to pop by."

My eyes lift to him then, searching. He stands, holding the popcorn bag by its edge, away from him like he doesn't quite care for the steam that leaks from the paper casing.

It's just a conversation to him.  A discussion about expectations.  There's nothing deceitful about the exchange.  There's no gain for him.

It's bizarre and unfamiliar to me.

"I don't have a car."

"Good thing I do."  His lip quirks up in a crooked smirk.  He hums mildly, and his brows arch, "got more bullshit excuses for me?"

"I — well.  Then what would I give you?" I start to tumble into the practicality of it all, the lunacy of his offer, "How much would I pay you?"

"For what?"

"First your home but — you need your car.  Then.  The meetings.  I don't want to turn your life upside down,"

"You wouldn't, and you won't." Ez cuts in, his voice sharp. He shuts the microwave, shaking the popcorn, aloof.

"It seems like I am?  Not five seconds ago — you said you didn't want a roommate.  So?"

"So what?"

"Jesus.  How much do you want?"  I repeat, in earnest.  My tone is more frigid than I mean for it to be.  "I have savings.  I can use that until I get a job."

Ez turns, easy and relaxed.  There's a beat, a solitary beat where he's quiet.  He licks his teeth, the way he seems to do when he's assessing something, when he's stalling, when he's trying to disarm someone.

"... Think I can't afford ya', Milan?  Can't take care of ya'?"  He cocks his head, voice heady with conviction,  "'Cause I sure as hell can."

"Can you?"  I sit up straighter, defiance striking through clipped words.  "I mean, really.  Can you?"

I'm exhausting.  I'm more trouble than I'm worth.

"For me to live here, eat here, for me to use your vehicle —"

"Listen.  I got a rich priss for each fuckin' finger.  I got a room with a bed and a car to spare."  Ez murmurs, and his voice is lower, dripping with something sweet and sultry.  He's alarmingly good at soothing my distress.  "I'm not hurtin' for money, babe."

It isn't a lie.  Nothing in it rings like false bravado.

But...

"I know, I just..."  I grimace.  "I can't take handouts from you."

It would be best if you didn't pity me.

"Ain't a goddamn handout." Ez rips open the bag of popcorn over the sink. He fishes for a bowl out of the lazy Susan tucked in the corner where his cabinets meet and empties it there. "It's part of bein' human.  You need an out?  I'm helpin' ya' find it?  What's the issue?"

Ez is good. He's dripping in goodwill and altruism, in honeyed confidence, and I forget the neon, red lights that were once staining his skin. I find myself staring — wishing to be someone more like him.

Something in my expression must give that away because his gaze meets mine, and it lingers for a minute.  I stare.  His eyes are as bright as ever, as catching—my stomach twists.

What is this feeling?

"Why're you lookin' at me that way?"

--

Previous chapter  |  Next chapter  | First Chapter