Wicked Boy (42) (Patreon)

(A/N: I know everyone probably expects a showdown, but Ez doesn’t take Lucas seriously enough for one.  Sorry 😬 if theres any errors I’m so sorry I wrote this while having my ear chatted off by children) 

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I can see it in my peripherals, Lucas stunned to silence, his nostrils flaring and teeth gritting. He sighs, shaking his head,

"'Kay. I get it. I was just catchin' up with a...." Lucas inhales, and there's a tilt to his voice — a suppressed anger.  He regards the two of us curiously but uncharacteristically apprehensive, "Childhood buddy."

"Buddy?" Ezra's head tilts. He shifts where he stands, and there's the sound of gravel beneath his boots. Lucas rears back before he catches himself. Ez ducks into my ear, his breath ghosting down my neck, mint mixing with sweet, spring air, "Ya' buddies, Milan?"

My eyes widen, catching his, then staring at the pebbles beside Tamela's car. I feel my chest heave.

"Well. We were, once."  I tell him, but my voice, as it has been lately, betrays the words. Ez stares at Lucas, who bristles, on edge from the threat of furthering this confrontation. Ez smirks, cocky and unperturbed.

"How come ya' never invite him over?"

Lucas' brows raise, caught off guard. I blink at the suggestion of that question — at the intimacy strung behind it.

"...In the past, we were friends," I say, quieter still, the conversation a runaway train on half-built tracks. I can't see where it's headed.  "...We aren't now. We aren't friends."

Ez doesn't respond, preoccupied with Lucas' snort.  I hear it, in the peaceful morning, the edge of Lucas' chuckle. I've done it again. I've said something that's crept beneath his skin,

"Yeah. Not now. I ain't Catholic enough or rich enough, so I was bad company." Lucas sneers, ticked and off-putting. It's a sudden and impulsive animosity. "Didn't go to the country club or Mass on Sunday. You still go to Mass on Sunday, Milan?"

I suck in a breath of air.

Yes.

Disappointment crawls over my skin.

"I never said anything," I try, "I never said that you had to —"

"You didn't have to say anything."  Lucas sneers before his regard slides back to Ezra like he's the unwelcome company but the perfect spectator, "you want the story?"

"Milan's daddy paid me off to stay away from him. A pretty decent sum of money at the last go around, 'cause I kept coming back," My heart thrums with the significance of that admission, a breath of stuttering air that I didn't know I was holding expels, and I feel my brows gathering. Lucas looks somewhere between prideful and anxious, but his ego always wins. "Milan's pretty like that, ya' know? Just desperate enough."

I flinch. I feel my teeth hit each other.  The warming, Huxley air suddenly feels stifling. I ache with the admission — holding the words tightly in my rib cage.

Did dad pay him off?

He — paid him off.

Ez's hand spreads on my middle, strong, warm, and he caresses it — like he's soothing away every ill thought. He listens, with false politeness, his features unperturbed by Lucas' words.

So Lucas does what Lucas has always done — and pushes in a way that screams, notice me.

Notice me!

How had I never recognized that before?

"Smart move, on your part, cozying up to a rich boy. Maybe, his dad will cut you a check too, Boss."

My chest is tight. For once, I wish — that my first reaction was to swing instead of dissect. I wish that I carried fists, a righteous temper like my father. The tension feels like it's drowning me. The humiliation is thick, but Ezra cuts through the uneasy air with a sigh — almost like he's bored.

"Jesus Christ," His gaze spills over to Lucas tiredly, and his verdant stare doesn't stray as he speaks. "Was that supposed to piss me off?" his tone carries dryly, and he, as amiable as ever, picks at his nails in disinterest.

Discomfort inhabits Lucas' posture. I know a past him — one that goads and flaunts and preens. That's precisely what Lucas wanted. To challenge Ezra, to rile him up — because it would be confirmation that Lucas is worth getting pissed off for.

"You're so fuckin' angsty." Ez stretches his legs out, looking at his wrist like he could tell the time from it alone.  His eyes raise and dissect Lucas' troubled expression a second time.

"What?"

"I mean. Ya' sure he didn't ask his dad to pay ya' off because you talk so fuckin' much?"  Ezra's smile settles into nothing for a moment, quiet disgust — so barely there, so wrapped in humor that I'm not sure if anyone else can take hold of it — can shape it into what it really is. "Blah, blah. Fuck. Do me a favor. Don't bore your clients, yeah?"

Ezra sighs again, louder, like the commonalities of business exhaust him.

"This guy had me thinkin' about the weather and shit." He nudges me into his side, smiling down at me in a way that has the corners of my lips threatening to follow suit, no matter how inappropriate the timing is. "Never happens to me."

"What is that supposed to...." Lucas stumbles over his words — loses them entirely. Ezra grins nastily, all teeth, eyes as bright as ever, his focus on Lucas alone.  "Are you threatening my job?"

"Threatenin' your job?"  Ez curls his arm around me tighter, leans menacingly when he does so — just to creep in Lucas' personal space and inadvertently taking me with him.  His fingers are brushing mine when he hums, considering something quietly. "What're ya' on about now?"

"Well... My job." Lucas confirms, but it doesn't sound quite as brave as before.  His voice drips with something syrupy, like anxiety, and he crosses his arms. Ezra's tongue habitually slides across his teeth in a way that makes my skin rise with goosebumps. "I'm a good escort. I've got a couple of clients. Steady ones."

"Mm."  Ez drags his fingers up my side, over my ribs, and my stomach flutters. Despite his shrug, his disdain for Lucas is evident. Ez releases me, strolling towards the other man, contemplative.  He eyes the diner's door. "Neato."

"Really." Lucas juts his thumb behind him, his anxiety spreading like a fever, "you can ask Karissa. She's been with me for a few months and,"

"Relax." Ez scoffs. "We all need money, yeah? I, well... I just suddenly wanna help ya' out. Ya' know?"

Lucas' eyes narrow, confused. Ez rounds him lazily, assessing him like a shark, and my childhood friend straightens like he's worried to interfere with his path.

"...Help me out?"

"Mm." Ez stops, rattling Lucas — before he crouches to stub his cigarette out. "Roughin' ya' up could sell your, 'there's a big fuckin' chip on my shoulder' routine." He tucks it away in his pocket, standing upright once more. "Right now, it's, I don't know? Lackin'."

Lucas pales, his lips thinning into something like a frown — but unsure. He tries to smile, laugh it off,

"Daphne doesn't like it when — you fight in her parking lot." Lucas' gaze flicks back to the motel. "We're not picking a fight, right?"

"Ain't we?"

"I wouldn't." Lucas shakes his head. "Do that. To you... or Daphne."

"Well..." Ezra shrugs, laughing heartily when Lucas takes a step back.  "I would."

Lucas clears his throat, but his eyes fall. He suddenly doesn't seem so significant, or sound so loud. He takes a step away.

"I'll go."

"See ya'." Ez nods, slow, that calculating narrow of his eyes still present. "I gotta check the forecast. It's buggin' me now."

Lucas doesn't dare to peek over his shoulder as he retreats from the taunt. His jaw is tight, tension all over. My humiliation has flitted into his stance, palpable in the way that he moves. A small part of me that once cared for him feels immense amounts of guilt.

I stand next to my friend's car, and the breath rushes out of me as the bell chimes in the distance, Lucas crossing paths with Tamela, whose hands are occupied with two bags of takeout.

Not yet.

I can't go yet.

"I didn't come here for him," I say. It wasn't even a thought before it spilled out. I say it so quickly that I'm not sure what prompts it. Ezra's back is to me, but he sways around to face me with curiosity when I speak. "I didn't know he was a Ghoule. I didn't know my dad — I didn't come... I didn't come looking for him. I swear it."

"Yeah?" Ez is aloof as ever, saunters back towards his motorcycle, but I reach for his sleeve and catch him as he passes. His brows perk. "...Why're ya' tellin' me all this? Ya' worked up or somethin'?"

"No.  Because. I'm telling you — because I don't want you to misunderstand." My heart is beating faster now, and my grip is tighter. I stare up at him, gaze on his because I wish — I wish I knew what he was thinking. "I don't want you to think I have feelings for him."

"Ya' don't want me to think you have feelings for him?" Ezra echoes. He quietly observes me, and the car makes a sound like the doors are being unlocked from a distance. Tamela hasn't approached. I thank her silently.

I nod.

"Because I don't. I don't have feelings for him." I repeat, firm, and Ez's lip lifts. His humored expression catches my attention. Birds are twittering from a tree just behind the parking lot, and I try to focus on them instead, but can't.

"Careful," Ez dips down and carefully tugs his jacket from my grip. My fingers curl at the edges of his and then release, before Ez catches my jaw. He leans, until our noses brush, and my stomach sky-dives, heat sweltering, flooding, and his lips hover again. I press up onto the toes of my shoes and think of how Lucas called me desperate — right as Ez pulls back with a surprised — pleased smirk. "... I might think ya' like me instead."

"... I didn't say that — but."  I swallow. "...Would — if I did.  Would that make things messy for you?"

"I like messy," Ez hums, his eyes narrowing, "I'll see ya' soon," his body is closer, close enough that everywhere we meet has my nerves singing, on edge, "'kay?"

When he pulls away, Tamela stares owl-eyed from the bench outside the diner, pancake dangling from a plastic fork. I stare, owl-eyed, right back.

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