Wicked Boy (44) (Patreon)

(Warnings for: secondhand embarrassment.  alcoholism. Drunk Milan. Drunk Tamela.)

—

I need to get out.

Although we've spent more time together since my stint in Huxley, Tamela disapproves.  I don't think that I would need the company if she were to refuse.

I could always go alone.

Isaac forgives me easily, if I smile when I apologize, and tonight — I'm feeling low enough to do so. Months have passed.  He's likely ready to make amends.

I suppose Tamela may know all of the above.

"Still.  You don't need a bar right now, Milan,"  she's pretending to be angry, but she's dressed in a way that contradicts her compassion.  I tilt my head from its rest against the seat, eyes on her, her dress that shimmers under the light, and her remarkably flat shoes.

The only time Tamela wears shoes without heels is when there's the promise of dancing.  She glances towards her flats as well, caught, and then back out the window in defeat.  Her shoulders sag.

"... Do you really think you should be drinking on a night before work?"  The city lights swell against her skin.  She's pretty.  In every way — elegant.  She looks like she should.  Tamela fits in all the right ways.  She talks in all the right ways.  If the city had a heart, I imagine that it would look a lot like her.

"What does work have to do with it?"  I frown.  The taxi driver is too apparent with his eavesdropping, his eyes flickering up the rear-view mirror ever so often.  "I function fine after a night out.  So do you, if I remember correctly."

"It isn't a good talent to have."  Tamela's jaw clenches.  She picks at the edge of her dress, then rights the crisscrossing straps on her left shoulder.

"Won't your father be upset if someone sees you?"  She bites her glossed lip, releasing it slowly.  "With all the talk right now...."

"That's why we're going further out."  I shift slightly, uncomfortably, because the thought of my father makes my skin crawl.    My voice is too small.  It feels hard to smile.  "He won't know."

"But what if he does?  He's not just your father."  Tamela frowns, crossing her arms.  "He's your boss.  Your livelihood."

My skin feels tight, smothering, and there's an ache in my chest that sits too far up like it might block my breathing.

Slithering creature.

I try to swallow it down.

"I know," The inflection is too sharp, too angry.  I  bite down the feeling.  "I mean — I just."  I glance at my hands.  There's the outline of a brochure from mass in my pocket, folded neatly enough to fit.  In the other pocket sits my phone.  Aside from clients from work, it's been guiltlessly quiet lately.  "You like to go out.  You always complain when I go with Isaac without you."

"I complained."  She huffs.  "Now, I'd rather you just not go out at all."

"I need to."  I want neon lights.  Loud music.  Suffocating heat.  Things like that, they make it hard to focus.   They make it easy to feel the warmth of alcohol in my chest, the buzz of laughter, with strangers I'll never meet again.

"You look sad."  Tamela's throat catches on the breach of confrontation.  "You look — chewed up.  It might not be the best time to...."

"I'm not sad." I grit my teeth, running a palm over my face to settle the tension present in my jaw.  "I need to get away from Pennbrook's elite, for a bit.  Get my head back on straight."

"Okay... So?  We should book a vacation."  Tamela inhales, her eyes shifting back to mine, where they stay for a moment.  She hesitates, her lips downturned.  Maybe, for once, I look as shattered as I feel.  "I have frequent flyer miles.  We could go to Europe... You'll be my plus one."

"Why?"

"You speak Italian fluently. It's a waste."  Tamela shuffles again in her seat.  She crosses her legs, then uncrosses them again.  "You could be my guide.  We could stay for two weeks.  Three weeks, even."

I blink.

"That's a long time."

"That's really getting away."  Tamela blinks; her tone is cautious.  "Not just — not just mentally. Don't you ever think of doing things like that?"

"No,"  my brows gather, eyes on my lap.  The car ride feels stifling and awkward.  I wonder if I'm making it that way.  "I haven't.  I just don't think about things like that.  My head — is still the same."

"I..."  Tamela nods.  She drops it.  She looks as if she might ask me something, but instead, she plays with the clasp on her purse, one that I know only carries her identification card, money, and make-up for quick touch-ups in the bathroom.  "Okay.  Fuck it.  I'm done being a party-pooper now.  Your turn."

I glance towards her.  She smiles in an attempt to be reassuring.  I smile, belatedly, awkwardly, back at her.

"Maybe — I mean," she waves towards her shoes.  "I haven't gotten to dance in a while.  And I'm wearing these ugly-ass sock lookalikes when I bought a pair of stilettos that match perfectly."

"... We'll have fun."  I glance towards my window.  My eyes feel heavy in the worst ways when I'm sober.  The cityscape looks too crisp, too real, without the fog of drunkenness and the bokeh of blurred vision.

It isn't pleasant for someone like me.  I stare at my hands that swallow the city light, where I seem to disappear in the shadow of its night.

I wonder what I'm the heart of.

I wonder what my heart looks like.

"... But you're going to go like that?"  Tamela flicks a finger dismissively at my attire, and when I startle, turning back to her, there's a pout on her full lips.  She runs a hand over her shaved head when she sighs, her eyes following towards the hood of the car.  "Who goes clubbing in their Sunday best?  You make me look bad."

"I make you look bad?"  My brows raise, and I laugh.  She laughs too, with a shrug.

"You're only as good as the company you keep."

—

The third club we venture to is perfectly packed, my legs are growing tired, and my cheeks tingle with intoxication.  I feel pleasant, like this, and altogether weightless.

The lights are only bright, fluorescent, and shifting on the dance floor.  They move to the music, swaying and disappearing, throbbing along to deep bass and sudden climbs of sound.

The bar is dark, and each set of booths near the front is darker.  I'm drinking something that's bizarrely green.  It looks like fruit juice — or snake venom, and I'm barely balanced on a stool that seems to want to disappear from sight each time I adjust.

"This chair is crooked."

There's a neatly dressed man three seats down that keeps ordering sweetly-flavored shots for me — as Tamela hangs from my shoulder and screams about fashion blunders in my ear.

The man winks at me twice, but both times I only tip my drink in his direction, a brief thumbs-up following the gesture.  It doesn't dissuade his interest.

"Jesus.  Do not go out of my sight," Tamela shouts, sticking her fingers into my sides until I giggle and lean back into her chest.  She's damp with sweat, and someone else's body glitter, "and stop giving him the thumbs up!  That man looks very hungry."

"He is not hungry."  I cover my laugh with my hands, hopefully well enough so that the drink-man can't see it.  The motion only succeeds in muffling the sound, and my nails hit my teeth.  I squeeze my eyes shut because they feel warm and watery.  "And it's free.  It's all free."

"He's getting off on the thought of what you'll give him for free!"

"No,"  I cringe, shouldering my friend. "He's totally getting off just buying these."

"You have money, my rich, beautiful boy."  Tamela pouts and grabs my shoulders just to shake them.  I worry for a split second about slipping off of the unreliable stool I'm precariously balanced on, but snort instead, turning back to face her.  "You don't need a sugar daddy.  Okay?  He's gonna think you owe him something!  That's how men are!"

"All I owe him,"  my nose wrinkles when she pats my cheek, "is gratitude.  Gratitude because the last guy sent me bourbon."

I gag.  Tamela rolls her eyes,

"Oh?  That's because you're in church clothes!"  She barks, pulling at the button of my sleeve.  She stares down at me in distaste before tugging me a second time.  "Yuck!  Ugly clothes.  They deserve bourbon."

I laugh louder, burying my face in my palms.  My cheeks are hot.  I'm burning up.  I love — this feeling.

"That's rude."

"Come dance."  Tamela whines, her pitch soaring into something unpleasant.  I plug my ears, and she yanks my hands away.  "Milan! You have to dance with me again!"

"Let me finish my drink,"  I huff, slanting it under a stray light that makes its way to my hand.  The drink is a mix between green and yellow, strangely light, and Tamela stares at it curiously, subdued.  "It's kiwi.  I like it."

"Kiwi?"  She grabs it, sniffing it with a delicate grasp.  "Okay, okay, sold.  Let me try."

"M'kay."  I smile, drunken and nostalgic.  I lean into my hand, my eyelashes heavy when she takes a sip.  "Don't you think..." I squint.

"Don't I think what?"

"Doesn't it look like Ezra's eyes?"

"Ew."  Tamela makes a face, somewhere between surprise and alarm.  She blinks before handing me my drink back.  "You need to drink less, dance more.  More water.  No boy thoughts."

"No — boy thoughts."  I take the drink, albeit gingerly, with an acute realization and embarrassment attached to what I've just said.  The alcohol takes care of that quickly.  "Okay.  Okay — let's dance."

I down the drink in one gulp, shrugging out of the chair with less grace than I mean to.  The alcohol feels like it hits me in a second wave as I stand, and I inhale sharply.

It's hard to walk, sometimes.  I wonder, is this trouble balancing...?  Because I'm just a creature?  I'm meant to be slithering around, after all, without feet.  Because I'm disgusting.

I laugh.  Tamela laughs too.

"Wait!  Bathroom first."  Tamela yelps, and I nod as she slings her arm around me, leaning into my chest as we stray towards the back end of the bar.  The bathroom sign glows under fairy lights and tiny umbrellas.  "I had to pee — like an hour ago.  Did you know that?  Usually, I can't hold my pee."

"Wow."  I hum as the song changes and as she props the bathroom door open.  I glance up towards the men's sign, then back at her as she pushes me inside.  "Wait for — Tamela.  You can't come into this bathroom.  This bathroom is..."

I shake my head.  Tamela squints.

"Yes, I can."  She argues, yanking off her purse and shoving it to my chest.  "The other one is full.  I can do whatever I want.  And — so you can hold this.  I'm peeing first."

"Okay, okay."  I push my hands up in surrender, gaze slowly shifting past the bewildered few who are standing at the urinals as Tamela clambers past them for the stall.  I nod to all in question because I understand.

Then I reach into my pocket.  My phone feels slippery, so I lean it against the edge of the sink as I swipe through my passcode twice.

No calls.

No messages.

That kiwi drink really did look like Ezra's eyes... I frown.  My eyes travel over my contacts, and I inhale with dejection.  My chest feels heavy.  I wouldn't say I like how it feels when I think of Ezra — or Huxley, or how both seem like a distant fever dream.  I wish he had called.  I wish he would call.

Yeah.  I'm not fond of it at all.

I might just tell him that.  I should tell him that, shouldn't I?  If I don't, he won't know, after all.  So I search for his contact.  I pass his name twice, the text on my phone is so small, and it moves so fast.

I stare for a moment.  Even his name gives me butterflies — and I haven't deleted his texts from months ago.  Isn't that pathetic?

Why am I always like this?

I should tell him — that I'm not going to be like this anymore.  So, I dial him, balancing the phone on one shoulder and the purse on the other and fiddling with the napkins from the dispenser.  The phone rings.  It rings again.

I frown, my nose wrinkling with irritation.

"... Pretty boy?"

--

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