WICKED BOY (34) (Patreon)

(A/N: FINALLY, MILAN.  PS.  Ez isn’t as cool this chapter, his level-head took a backseat MY BAD)

—

"I don't want to look at you," I blurt. Then I suck in a breath. A flush crawls over my skin, traitorous and pink.  My words feel like they're tumbling together.

There's a sure fondness climbing that I can't crush. That this weight can't overtake.

"Okay, brat."  Ez's grin grows, and it's genuine in his humor, mostly unperturbed by my childishness.  I sit up straighter on the couch, considering turning my back to him.  "Ya' done?"

"I am a brat.  A spoiled one."  I try to avoid his jokes, his teasing — his overall avoidance.  I think of Isaac and his words from the ride back from McLaughlin.

"Tell me somethin' true."  Ez's brows raise, and he considers me mildly, his lips quirking with an expression quickly hidden.  He rolls his jaw, his fingers splaying further against the counter.  "What's got ya' worked up now?"

I take another breath when I realize he isn't going to say anything more until I appease him — and shake my head.

"You're naively offering your home to,"  I gesture at nothing, and then at myself, frustrated.  "An alcoholic? An alcoholic who bought a contract from you.  That's dangerous."

"I'm naive now?"  Ez snorts.  "You're big and fuckin' scary now?"

"You wanted the truth."  I counter.  "How does it look to you?"

"It's my home,"  Ez says, his grip on the counter tightening. He leans forward, towards the direction of the couch, and lifts his chin. "I'll do what I want with it, babe."

He squints, and my teeth grit.

"We should stick to the contract.  The contract is — "

"I'm not stickin' to a fuckin' contract,"  Ez's voice is more forceful than I expect.  I blink, eyes snapping up to meet his.  His brows are gathered, eyes narrowed.  "Not now."

"But we signed—"

"I thought ya' had a shit ex.  'Kay? Maybe a rough go with the alcohol and some rich boy stay-cay in Huxley.  But that ain't it.  Is it?"

I startle.  There's something that shifts in his demeanor.  It turns domineering, his expression less hidden and elusive in the low-lit dining room.

"Just FYI.  I don't go showin' up at people's houses like some kinda freak for no fuckin' reason."  His nose wrinkles in a snarl and he pushes back from the counter, crosses his arms — and his tone lowers.  "But ya' needed help.  Everything about ya' said it."

"I'm an adult,"  I say.  There's nothing else I can give him that will take the truth from his statement.  "And I did what you offered.  I signed a contract with you for company. Not to pity me."

"Pity?  I'm not your fuckin' therapist."  Ez's teeth show when his lip lifts.  "But.  Tonight proved it."

"Proved what?"

"That ya' don't need a contract with a sex worker.  And you're not gettin' it from me."

"Oh, is that right?"  I feel a bit panicked at that, of the idea of Ez pulling that contract from my hands — that smidge of excitement from my daily routine.

Ez nods, a quick jerk.

"Then what do I need?"  I bite back, and there's that chill, a coldness that's creeping into me like defense.

"A friend."  Ez tilts his head.  "Do ya' know what a friend is?"

"Oh,"  I laugh, mean and strict, my lips thin and smile tight.  "So you're going to be my buddy?  Is that it?"

Ez laughs right back, just as mean, just as fierce,

"Yeah.  I am."  He swipes his hand in the direction of the television.  "If you stop bein' a mean little fuck for five seconds and watch the goddamn movie with me."

My eyes widen, my irritation dropping, and his stare is absolutely scalding.  I fold my hands in my lap, turning away, shame hot on my heels.

There's a tense moment of silence that feels like it lasts much longer than it likely does. I chew the inside of my cheek, then my lip, and then my nails.  I listen to Ez, the sounds from the kitchen, and the background talk of the actor and actresses on screen.

"... It's a lot to ask for."  I hope he hears me.  I feel an itch in my skin that wants to apologize.  I'm over-tired, with my thoughts sprinting in one direction, and that direction seems to scream escape.  I feel a lot like I did that night in Huxley, where I told Isaac to leave me at the diner.  "I just — I don't think I can ask these things of you."

"Why?"

"How is it fair?"

I feel overwrought, burnt out, and reckless— and when haven't I?

"...It's not a transaction.  It doesn't need to be fair."

But now, there's a solution in front of me. I think of that night with Lucas years ago, bleeding through my shirt under heavy rain. Waiting — hoping he'd answer my calls.

There was nothing to run to, then, not when I needed it. Just another wall. Another slap of ugly reality.

And I gave up.

But here. In Huxley.

There's something — something to run to.

Ez.

I'd he wants to suffer for me, why can't I just let him?

"It's too much. Isn't it?"  I say again. I need him to disagree with me. Plainly, like he always speaks. Confidently, like everything he is.   I need to do this guiltlessly, but to do that, I need his certainty to overtake my doubt.  "You're doing too much."

"No, it ain't too much."

I exhale.

When Ez sits, it's with a bowl of popcorn.  It's also much closer.  He rewinds the television to where it began to play minutes before and presses pause.  My thigh is touching his.  My eyes slide down to where our bodies meet, and my heart is a live wire again.

He sighs.  His voice becomes quieter.  There's something more authentic in his cadence.

"... And you ain't, either."

Affection.

This is what it is. I'm growing — so fond of a man I barely understand.

"Oh," I say because I don't know how to respond to someone so good, and I want to say thank you — but it feels so strange to me. Ez must sense this inner turmoil or my budding discomfort because he nudges me with his elbow.

"...Huxley sort of looks like this, in the summer."  He flips a finger towards the screen, a welcome distraction, and my gaze follows wherever he leads it.

"...Those trees. The grass." I'm once again welcomed by the swelling green and white of magnolia trees.  They lift and stretch towards an empty blue sky, swaying with the wind, with chattering birds perched on any bare branch they can find.  Behind them is a brick house, with white eyelet curtains, much like Ez's home. "Big fuckin' flowers all over the place. It's all pretty much the same."

"It is?"  My heart is loud.  I want to smother my excitement underneath the cushions before my life takes it from me.  My gaze turns to Ez, who is contemplating me with a dimpled smile, his eyes reflecting the television light.  "It's pretty."

"Pretty?"  Ez smile grows.  I want to touch the dips of his dimples.

"Yes."

"Then. Are ya' gonna hang around?"

It seems like I'm in the middle of twisting pinkies — of making a promise.  I swallow, fingers curling in my pants leg, head still propped against the couch. I pinch at the skin there, lift my eyes to the television screen, and use every bit of my confidence to reach out —

To touch Ez's arm, to tug the fabric of his shirt to reclaim his attention. His brows raise when he turns to me, gaze flickering down to my fingers.  I turn, and stare at the television instead.

"I want to pay rent,"  I say.

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