WICKED BOY (41) (Patreon)

A/N: warnings for: possessive behavior.  (I promise Ez is a good guy!)

—

Our eyes haven't met, so, naively, I think that I can walk away.  I recognize Lucas in the smallest and fondest of ways, but the significance of our years-old friendship was never a sentiment returned, and so — I leave with the notion that maybe, this time, he won't follow.

I've always been this way.  I don't know what to do aside from leave.  Avoidance is the best-learned tactic in a house of anger.  I wish this friendship could've ended with more sweetness to it, but I don't know how not to swallow someone else's bitterness or hatred towards me and feed my sadness with it.

So, I simply turn and rise from my seat before he can see my face.  I excuse myself to the bathroom, amid Tamela and Daphne's quarreling, where I stand with an uneasy gut.  I feel like I spent most of my teens this same way, staring at bathroom tiles, with nausea as my only companion.  Maybe — I've spent my adulthood the same way.

I stare at where the small red, white, and black tiles meet the trim.  My hands shake over the grip of my cellphone.

It dings with a slew of work-related calls, missed calls from Tamela, emails, and texts. It's like I'm tuning back into my real life, to discomfort and stress, and not the fantasy of a life here out of Pennbrook.

What are the chances?

There are three people in this world that make me feel strangely pathetic: my father, my mother, and Lucas.  My memories are tied to them, warped by them, and I hold onto — years that I can't get back and haven't outgrown. Years that I can't heal from.

They all circle the drain.  Avoidance doesn't work — it seems.

If I'm reasonable, I realize that I had ignorant childhood expectations that weren't met and then selfish, teenage hopes that were as fragile as glass. There's a lingering embarrassment buried towards how heavily I leaned on another child — another teen, who likely had their own hopes and expectations, and then called it love —

How it took me until just months ago to realize that it wasn't, and just how much Lucas resents me, how little I am to him, and how much he meant to me.

How can I be something different when there's a stain on each escape route?

I text Tamela, and I tell her to meet me at the car with the food, that I'll explain on our way back to Pennbrook, and I dread it.  For some reason — what worries me most is Ez.

I realize that I want Ez to think highly of me.

And — as the door chimes and I step over the welcome mat, and the gravel outside shifts beneath my feet...

I only think of him.

Lucas knows Ezra.

What does that mean for us?

If I think past the blur of emotions, I understand that... My whole life, Lucas was some sort of an outlet.  He was all I had outside of my home, and I placed a weight — an importance on my contentment when I was with him that I shouldn't have.  Maybe I crushed our friendship beneath that.

And Ez — am I doing the same thing?

Is Huxley another Lucas?

And when Lucas tells Ezra about me, will Ezra think the same thing? He said to use him — but will he feel used?

"Pretty boy." I startle, flinching, and my grip on Tamela's door is a futile thing because it's locked.  I gather myself.  "Ya' forgot somethin'."

I inhale, reeling from a half-sleep and unfocused thoughts. I feel my brows gather.

"Ezra?"  I've heard of the saying 'a breath of fresh air' several times. It's exactly what Ez is. He wouldn't to anyone else, but to me, he looks comforting in Huxley's near afternoon light, with his helmet tucked underneath his arm and his other hand outstretched.

My coat dangles from his ringed fingers.

"You didn't have to drive here to bring me this." I feel relieved.  I want him to hug me again. I already feel so much. I feel so much more — already than I ever did for Lucas and —

"I was on my way out."  Ez hums, juts a thumb towards the road, a singular brow raised,  "... Are ya' tellin' me that you planned to come back?"

I take the coat gingerly, my gaze shifting up to meet his, and his eyes are so warm of green. I feel like there's a lump in my throat. I look back towards the motel and back towards Ezra.

"Yes," I say, finally, and my words sound strangled. I inhale and nod when Ezra's head tilts. "I want to come back.  Can I?  That's okay?"

The door to the motel entrance is chiming. It's audible in the near-empty parking lot, in the quietness of Huxley's morning.

"Um. I'll call you." I swallow. I try the door handle again, averting my gaze from the man. Lucas' steps sound so loud behind me — just like my Dad, he doesn't step, he stomps, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I've always been quiet.  I've always known how to soften each movement —

"Did you fucking follow me out here?" My old friend is chuckling, calloused and deafening. Like it's outrageous — like I'm some kook with a torch out to track him down. I twist towards him. My cheeks burn with an embarrassment that isn't warranted.

I could ask him the same thing, I think, but I don't.

Ezra is just far enough away from me, with each of us in our own parking spaces, to look like we aren't together at all. I want to keep it that way. Lucas is about to shed light on Ezra's disillusionment, and I'm going to be crushed; it's going to hurt —

And the further away, the better.

"We didn't finish our talk last time."  Lucas hums.  It's all too relaxed.  I swallow.  I rub the pads of my fingers over my pockets and shake my head.

What talk?

What talk?

"No,"  I shake my head.  This scab is too fresh.  "We did.  We're good."

"Good?  Then... Are you my shadow or some shit," Lucas is nearer. He ducks into my space; his arm is resting on Tamela's door. It sounds like he's — making a joke?  His body heat feels different than it did when I was younger.  He laughs again, following my eyes each time I look away. "Or did you have my card all along...?"

"Your card?"

"Not like you can't afford me,"  He squints.  He reaches, tapping the outline of my cell in my pocket. "If you can't, call up Daddy dearest.  He'll spot you."

"I have never had your card." The mortification crawls along my skin, wondering if Lucas really believes something so ludicrous — or worse, if Ezra will. I don't want to feel this sting of nerves. I tell myself, if he wants to be bitter towards me, I'll let him be bitter. But not this.  "And — if this is about... I didn't know that you worked here — I genuinely didn't. That's why I'm leaving."

I feel like I'm pleading. It feels like a beg.

Let's bury this.

Not in front of Ezra.

Don't do this.

"What the fuck?" Lucas' eyes narrow, disbelieving, "You thought I just suddenly started getting invited to Mclaughlin events or something?"

"Well, I assumed that was," I wave towards the diner, "your girlfriend — and that she had been invited.  That you were her plus one."

Calm, if I can stay calm —

"Uh, nope,"  Lucas shrugs airily. I still can't meet his eyes and stare at the horizon instead. I shift my hands into my pockets. "Had no fucking clue, huh?"

"No."

"Shit. Fine?  I'll bite,"  he nudges me with his elbow.  "Well.  I'm an escort.  Your dream come fucking true, right?  Want my card?"

"I don't want your card, Lucas—"

Ezra shifts abruptly from his spot by his motorcycle.  His feigned disinterest disintegrates, and he pushes past my old friend, casually slinging his arm around my waist right as the latter man starts to protest. I sway into Ezra's side, surprised, and he glances towards my coat, ignoring Lucas' animosity and my alarm.

"I brought that coat for a reason." Ez says, so easy and light, and my heart that was thrumming anxiously eases in its panic. I feel butterflies twisting at the edge of where his hand touches my midsection. He’s so close.

Lucas fades somewhere into the background, like soft music playing in the diner. He exists there, anyway, like a memory that won't budge.

"Fuckin' cold, ain't it?"  I haven't heard this bite to his words — not since Isaac. He knows precisely who Lucas is; he works with him, and...

I told him, too. What Lucas was to me. The night we first met. I feel like I'm drowning in shame.   Ezra — probably thinks, that night.... That I was looking for Lucas.  That I was chasing someone, who doesn't even —

"Lykaios?"  My childhood friend freezes. His regard transitions from Ezra to the way his arm lays around my waist. He suddenly looks fairly docile for someone so malicious seconds before.

"...This your client, Boss?" Lucas starts again, searching, and his eyes meet mine again with contempt. It's angry and low — disgust a fine powder that coats his words.  He's looking for a crack to slither into, "... Thought you didn't take new ones."

"Mm... You wish he were a client, don't ya?" Ezra smiles, slow and nasty — utterly dismissive. I haven't seen him —

Irritated?

Ezra has something between his teeth that he doesn't like, and he isn't letting go.  He sways away from me and into Lucas' space.  I'm surprised to see Lucas step back.  They stand like that, for a moment, with Ezra staring down at him.  His eyes are sharp, and Lucas looks uneasy —

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean," Ez frowns, mocking and unpleasant.  He tips his chin in my direction, "if he were my client, ya' still wouldn't have a chance.  Would ya'?"

Lucas flinches before bristling. He glares.  He directs it towards me, because it doesn't seem to me that they're on even ground.  He inhales,

"How do you two know..." Lucas' nose wrinkles.  I hesitate.  I think of stopping Ezra — wondering how he'll explain this, feeling utterly stupid that he thinks he has to — has to defend me and —

Lucas finally scoffs.

"Then what's the problem?  Fair game.  He's not yours."

"... I said he ain't my fuckin' client,"  Ez lights a cigarette, nonchalant, and toes the line between the two of them. He inhales, shrugs, and when he grins — a slew of smoke hits Lucas, wholly intentional.  "But he's still mine, so don't make me tell you to back the fuck off."

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