Wicked Boy (45) (Patreon)

I updated this on Monday as well. Please read that chapter first.

—

"... Pretty boy?"

Ezra's voice is too familiar for a sound that I haven't heard in so long. It's deep, a slow drawl, like I've woken him. My heart beats faster with the nickname, his calmness that alludes to the edge of sleep, and that lump from the car ride that's fastened in my throat swells.

"Ah — hello." I fumble, and the chain to Tamela's purse slips awkwardly around my chest. I grab for it, before I realize it won't fall.

"Hey."  Ez's quiet humor follows.  I inhale, my words more like a tremble than a real noise to be heard.

Is it only me who has felt the enormity of these months?

"No. I didn't — I meant... Jesus.  Why did you answer the phone that way?" I snipe, grabbing a paper towel and rubbing at one of the stamps along my hand. "I'm not. And. I have something to tell you."

I don't know what else to do besides busy myself. I walk towards the door, and linger next to it, glancing at the bottom of the bathroom stall. Tamela's knees are on the floor. I peek towards the ceiling as the sound of her distant retching melds into the loudness of everything else.

"Aren't ya' all wound up... I'll decide if your pretty or not."  I inhale a second time. My phone feels like it might slip from my grasp. This wasn't supposed to happen. It won't happen. "Yeah?"

"You.... Don't think that you can flirt with me — just because you're good at it."  My cheeks feel hot. Ezra chuckles again.  I squeeze my eyes shut. "I called because I need to say something.  Let me say what I need to say."

"'Kay.  Can I flirt with ya' after?"  There's the rustle of bedsheets; the steady inhale of someone freshly woken. I try not to think of either. Not him, that vulnerable, not him — this late, answering my call on the third ring.

Not how easy it is.

"Well.  No. Because — You didn't call me." I try to focus on that. He never called.  He asked me to move in, to uproot everything, like an absolute crazy person, and never called.  Ezra waits, like I may say something more.

"Go on."  The bustle of the club echoes as the door opens for another patron, loud music sifting in, then dimming as the door closes. Tamela vomits again.

... Tamela's tolerance is shit.  I frown.

"Go on? You didn't try to contact me at all.  So.  Why are you...?  The same."

Ez is oddly quiet. I swallow. My nerves take hold of me, and I find myself fidgeting past the inhibitions of alcohol.

"That your music, Milan?"  His words droll into something with a bite, and I chew my lip.  "Sure doesn't suit ya'."

No.

I have to set things straight.

"Don't.  Why aren't you bothered?" Ez isn't saying anything. Something about his peculiar silence has my hackles rising. "You probably knew that.  That I was waiting.  Did it make you feel good?"

I twist the chain of Tamela's purse. It sparkles, even in the dimness of the bathroom.

"I bet you call your clients. I bet you call them — and like, talk with them and stuff. I hoped that you'd do that. Call me, I mean. And you knew.  So." I suck in a breath. My chest is hot. "I don't know why I do that.  Anyway. I'm not going to think about that, anymore. I'm going to have fun.  That's why I called."

"Yeah?" Ezra's tongue makes a sound. A sound that resonates an awful lot like an aggravated tut.  "... Are ya' sure you're drunk enough?"

What's this tone?

What's this — sudden mood of his?

"Yeah. And?" I shrug, petulantly, like he can see it. "I feel good. But it keeps getting interrupted by — my dad. And you. This is a stupid feeling. I don't want to feel it anymore, so I won't."

Ezra exhales.

"How much have ya' had?"

It's severe at best. I flinch—my anxiety flares into something ugly.

"As much as I want. Okay? There's some guy here; he's bought me like," I try to count on my fingers, but give up. "Well. He's bought me however many drinks."

Just because I give him the thumbs up!

What a fucking weirdo.

I want to tell Ezra that too.  I don't.  I scoff to myself and lean further against the wall; my chin tilted upwards. I exhale shakily, and squint at the graffiti near the peeling paint by the soap dispenser. My hands tremble.

"...Where are ya'?"

There's rustling again. I lean into my phone, like I'll be able to see what he's doing if I can just hear enough. I glance at the stamp on my hand.

"... Near Jameson. Pennbrook can't know I'm out. They have," I snort, tilting the imprint from a stamp this way and that, until I can clearly make out the outline. "Little umbrella handstamps. Isn't that stupid? It's a weird place."

Ez hums on his end, but it's not as carefree as it usually is — instead, it's entirely vexed. I chew my cheek. My eyes water.

Maybe I wanted him to fix this feeling.

He always — he always fixes everything.

"You think I'm stupid, don't you...? You probably think I'm stupid — or pathetic, but. I never called Lucas. Okay?  Just you."  I inhale, and it hurts; it's meaningless, and Tamela rockets out of the stall with a slam of its door and swaying lumber towards the sink. "Anyway. I'm not doing it again."

"... So. Umbrella handstamps?"  Ez says, finally. His voice has lost the sleepy, quiet lull and hardened into something difficult to decipher — especially in the state I'm in. My heart drops."Near Jameson?  What's the bar called?"

"Are you listening to anything else?" I inhale, irritated. Ez clears his throat.  He makes that tut sound again.  "You're not —"

"I said, what is the name of the bar, Milan?"

I flush at the edges of each word.

I hesitate, my fingers curling tighter.

"Fine. Don't listen. I'm going." I glare at nothing, my mood souring into heartache once more.

"Bag, Milan!"  Tamela snaps her fingers and points towards the purse that's draped over my shoulder. She's washing her mouth out with water from the sink, swishing it around, and spitting it into the trash. "Who are you talking to? I need lipgloss!"

I wrinkle my nose, trying to stave off this sudden urge to cry.

"You knew I wouldn't be able to come back.  Didn't you?  That's why you offered.  You knew that I'd fuck up?"  My voice cracks.  "Whatever.  I have that weirdo guy that's buying me drinks, okay?  Match made in heaven.  I'm tired — of..."  My chest heaves.  "I don't need you to call."

I hang up.  I toss Tamela's bag in her direction.  She startles but catches it at her thighs and glares.

"Rude."  She huffs, dragging it up her stomach like it may run away.  She undoes the clasp of it, "I think we need to slow way down, or dancing is a violent vomiting session away from a huge no-go from me."

"Ah.  Okay."  I pace, near the sinks, as she reapplies her makeup.  It's hard to focus on her or what she's saying.  I just think — I've ruined it.  I've ruined something else.  "Okay."

Then I excuse myself to Tamela with another angry laugh,

"Jesus.  I'll meet you out there."  I inhale.  I run my hands over my face.  My voice won't even itself out, and it feels so quiet, "you should drink some water.  Okay?  Eat something at the bar."

Tamela twists the tube to her mascara, frowning before she shrugs her bag up onto her shoulder.

"You sure you don't need the same thing?"  She studies me as well as she can.  Her lips are pursed.  She's looking at me — in that same damn way.

I'm just pitiful.

"I'm sure."

Tamela squints, unsure but drunk enough that she nods.  Her eyes drift to my phone.  She exhales loudly and passes me her mascara.  I take it without thought.

I bite my lip —

The door shuts.

I turn.  I dial another number.

One I don't often use.

My father answers.  Finally.  It takes enough rings, enough redials, that my anger grows in the near-empty bathroom.

"Perché diavolo —"  he shuffles awake, his voice dry, confused, and coarse, "Milan...?"

"Yeah, you fucking asshole,"  I seethe.  I might regret it tomorrow, but then again, I might not.  Sometimes I don't even think about tomorrow.  Sometimes, I hope it doesn't come.  That lump grows.  That sad, empty weight in my stomach spins with nerves, "why did you do this to me?  Huh?"

"What are you...." My father inhales sharply, and I imagine him, alone in his bedroom — in the dark, stunned — no... Furious.  "Ti sei rincoglionito?!"

"Oh, no."  I laugh.  "I'm just drunk.  Did you know caterpillars could do that?  Are you wondering how I held the glass?"

"For God's sake — Milan,"

"So. You paid Lucas off.  Huh?"  I laugh.  The words silence everything between us.  "Awe.  You shouldn't have.  I could have put up with more from you."

I push off the wall.  I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my red-rimmed eyes, my mussed hair.

"You're full of surprises, you know."

If I'm angry, will it give him power?

"Is that what this is,"  the bed creaks as he moves.  There's the sound of a lamp.  "Did you meet with that Gotthardt boy?  Huh?  Is that what's gotten into you?"

"This is about a lot of things."

I remove my glasses.  I twist open the tube of mascara.  I inhale again, and swipe the first stroke through my lashes.  I tilt my chin, stare at myself, and repeat the motion.

My hands shake.  My jaw quivers.

"... You hurt me.  You always have.  I think you like to — to hurt me.  So I want to take that away, now."  I smile a little.  There are tears in my eyes.  They're warm.  I feel entirely empty.  "You and mom — you really wanted that butterfly, didn't you?  So you had to ruin me."

"Do you hear yourself?  You ruined yourself — you, with your alcohol and that goddamned —"

"Non dire cazzate!" I snap, "You crushed me.  I didn't even get to — I didn't get to be myself!"  Everything is seeping from its cracks, frustration pouring, "and now — I'm nothing. You did it."

"This isn't a conversation we should have when you're —"

"It's not a conversation we will ever have."  I hiss.  "I will never speak to you again.  You're a shitty father.  I will never get what you took from me back.  I don't think you would ever realize that, if I didn't tell you — but I hope you don't forget it."

"Where in the hell are you?"

"Away from you.  I want nothing else to do with you — or mom.  And I quit."  I swallow.  "I don't have anything else to say."

When I hang up, I block his contact.

And exhale.

—

(A/N: The next chapter is about to be wild.  Also, you’ll understand Ez’s motivations soon.)

(Translation: sorry, it felt really inorganic to have them fighting in English when it isn't either of their first language.

Perché diavolo -  (sort of like, why the hell...? Like a surprised expression)

Ti sei rincoglionito?! - (are you crazy? Or: Are you out of your mind?!)

Non dire cazzate! - (that's bullshit! Or: don't talk bullshit!)

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