Wicked Boy (48) (Patreon)

Chapter 47 was posted Monday 

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"We should..." I flinch, aware that Tamela is yards away.  "Let's talk outside," I say.

It doesn't resound like a request because it isn't.  Ezra is just a breath away here.

It's distracting to lean this close to communicate.  It's veering around every bitter thought I have and turning me into a pliable, lovesick piece of dough.  The fervor from before is back, from my cheeks, up to my ears.

Ezra is surprisingly obedient.

I steer him out. Then, he leads me. There's a wooden door with a bouncer who stands tired and idle near it, and then the summer air greets us — the sound of crickets and distant music.

The night swallows Ezra as he saunters towards his car.

"We shouldn't leave her in there for long."

His voice is cold.  Perfunctory — and it carries more than its fill of passive-aggression.

"I know."  I seethe, aggravated that his thoughts have taken that route — a direction that implies I don't care for Tamela.  "But I can't hear you with all the chattering and music.  So let's talk here."

Ez chuckles again, and it's stripped in the quietness, the rough edges of it gripping,

"You don't want to be close enough to hear me."  He corrects.  The way he dissects me is unnerving.  I take an unsteady breath.  He smiles sharply, one that cuts me to the core.  "Right?  It freaks you the fuck out."

"What does?"

"Gettin' close to me."

I feel my fingers roll against one another at my sides.  I run my thumb over the top of my palm.

What's that supposed to mean?

Why does an unadorned accusation feel as if it has two edges?

"... About the bar — I didn't know.  I shouldn't have snapped at you like that." I struggle to keep up with his steps, but I don't have to talk nearly as loudly. Once we reach his car, I touch the edge of my shirt, embarrassed.

It freaks you the fuck out.

It's wrinkled, I realize. The softness of it, thin and damp with humidity and sweat, is wrinkled.

"I haven't been here before.  So maybe, what I said was presumptive — "

"Presumptive?"  Ez shakes his head before he tilts his chin.  He looks like he's looking down on me, like this.  I feel very small under his snide scrutiny.  "Big fuckin' words for someone who drunk-dialed me at one in the goddamn mornin'."

My teeth make a sound when they hit each other.  I flinch, my gaze snapping up to his out of surprise, and then away.

"You didn't have to answer —"

"... Ain't been here before. Bet ya' didn't drive. There are no cabs out here, the middle of bumfuck nowhere.  Not this late." Ezra is only venom, like he's trying to twist the lid on fermenting disdain, an emotion that bloats the container.

It surprises me, the shift of his mood, the way it spills.  What surprises me more is that my shame rounds its way around him, and like silt, I sink.

"There's no...?"

For someone who hasn't ever had the chance to be a child, I feel very childish.  I hadn't, in my impulsiveness, thought it that.  I thought of everything else, everything a night here could take away, but not my safety — and not Tamela's safety.

"Yeah.  But you're drunk.  She's drunk." Ezra juts his chin towards the bar, with his fingers sliding through my guilt and gripping it.  He holds it in a way that shows me its ugliness. "So. Ya' must know somethin', right?"

He's angry.

But. It isn't the sort of anger I'm used to. Have I ever heard his tone sink so low?  It's like gravel.  There's nowhere to land.  I cross my arms across my middle, though it's warm here — on the outskirts of Jameson.

"Mm. You'd have to know that, before gettin' plastered," Ezra continues, bites it out, his teeth showing.  He keeps his distance. I hate it. I feel very singular, and everything aches.  That gravel of his arches threateningly, "right? You'd have to know how goddamn stupid that is."

I don't know what to say.  I didn't think of that — I didn't know that, I just wanted to run.  I just needed to get away and,

"Ya' got a fuckin' ride?  A place to crash?"

I don't.

I don't.

"Answer me."

I freeze.  Why do those two words frighten me?  I feel cold and feverish all at once.  It's sudden.

My world tilts.  Ezra doesn't pace when he's upset. He just stares.  He scolds.  My eyes are welling with tears. I try to blink them away. I feel like everything is going to tumble out like it always does, and I tremble.

Ez's expression softens, right as my eyes avert to the ground.

"... Ah, fuck.  I didn't —"  He's suddenly contrite.

It's an odd tone from him.  If it were anyone else, maybe I'd say something nasty, to rid him of his guilt.  Maybe — I'd say something angry, but,

"Milan, I shouldn't have...."

"... what's it to you?" I whisper, and I take a step forward.  My hand is at Ezra's chest, and I touch him because I don't know what else to do.  He's not coming closer, but I want him closer.

Part of me is scared of anger.  A more significant part of me — realizes this isn't anger.  That part is swimming blissfully in Ezra's harsh concern.  His heart is under my fingertips.  It catches my attention, the way it's thrumming,

"... what's it to me?"  Ezra counters, and when my eyes drag up to his, his returning gaze is nothing but imploring, like he can't make sense of what I've asked.  His tone says,

Isn't it obvious?

But.

His eyes are — so raw and unusual, like a snare,

"Yes."  I push with my palm, weakly, because I want to be indignant too.  I want to feel his heartbeat, shaken by me.  I don't want to think about anything else but being furious, but he doesn't budge, and neither do my feelings for him, "what's it to you? I can — do that. I'm not a kid."

"Right."  Ezra hums. His lashes cast shadows when he glances down towards my stamped hand.  "...You're not a fuckin' kid."

"So don't treat me like one."  I inhale. I try to stand my ground — a ground not worth defending. My pride stings, and I want to touch him for longer than this.  "I do, whatever the hell I want.  I can drink.  I can come to a bar without planning out every little detail and —"

"Jesus.  Alright.  I'm sayin' — just.  Don't."  Ezra hisses, and that wall between his expression and mine crashes. He sighs, and he pushes forward, sending me stumbling back, grabbing onto the thin cotton of his t-shirt to pull myself straight. He's giving me an excuse.  "Don't — why couldn't ya' call me and ask for a ride?  A place to stay?"

Why does that sound — like it's edged with two meanings as well?

"I didn't think I could.  No, I knew I could. I just,"  My grip loosens before it tightens.  "I didn't want to take advantage of you.  Because you're so nice — you're so good and,"

Ezra's nose wrinkles, and his jaw sets angrily, but he exhales steadily and waits.

"I mean, why are you so hell-bent?  Look at me.  This is just — me?" My voice is louder but somehow smaller.  Somehow, I'm thankful for the fabric in my hands.  I'm grateful for this closeness, "what do you really get?  This is it.  This is all you get."

"I ain't worried about what I get."  He bites out, and I push again,

"I know.  You said it's not a trade-off.  But I'm not convinced.  Even if you're good for me.  What am I to you?  I'm nothing — there's nothing else.  I don't know what else to be.  So...."

Ezra shakes his head.  His hand grasps mine, and in it, his thumb finds a place on my palm.

"Why're you so fuckin' mean to yourself?  Huh?"

His thumb presses harder before it slides down to my wrist, and I gasp,

"All this shit you're saying?  Is takin' up space.  You gotta fill it with somethin' else." Ezra scowls — as if the thought is the reason he's agitated.  My heart is fluttering so wildly I think I might just spit it out. "Get it?  Ya' want a trade-off?  Then.  Trade the bad in.  Put something good in its place."

"What good?"

"...What?"  He chuckles.  "You don't got a good thought?  Fine.  I can give ya' one.  Now.  I don't know what happened or why you're so fuckin' drunk —"

My next breath shakes, my eyes on his, searching. What's this tenderness strung under his callous irritation?  It feels like he cares; I want to tell myself he doesn't, but my heart is still unsteady with misplaced hope.

"I'm not that drunk."

"Oh, yeah ya' fuckin' are." Ezra tilts his head, bent over me, and I feel everything — everywhere that our body meets. My nerves are singing.

That's it.

I have feelings for Ezra.

They're frightening.  They're exciting.

That's what this is.

My back touches his car's exterior.

"But ya' can't keep doin' shit like this. Or draggin' your lil' friend down with ya'."

I should argue that. Tell him that I wouldn't drag Tamela down. That she's happy. That she wanted to come but... I also should ask him, why he didn't call — where he's been, how he's been...

Maybe I have time.

Maybe I have time to ask him —

"... I quit,"  I say.  "After I called you. I just — I quit my job."

Ez considers me.  I watch him.  I want him to be proud of me.  I tell him this — because he's likely the only person who will be.  I can feel tears in my lashes, ones that cling and weigh on them.

"So.  Ah. Well...." I inhale, my chest heaving with the force of it.  "I thought you should know."

Ez nods, slowly, chasing the news and the abrupt change of subject.  I feel bare with my own upheaval of the conversation. It's so obvious — so obvious that I want to impress him and...

"So, um."

It's quiet. It's awkward and —

"... Can you hug me again?" It croaks out, and it's lighter here, under the parking lights. Drunkenness steals the words I should say and replaces them with vulnerable desire.

Ezra's anger dissolves into surprise, a split second of dumbstruck emotion. I stare up at him, my gaze on his, startled by my loose lips. I clench the fabric of his shirt tighter, alarmed and scared.

I don't know why — but I've never felt so nervous.

I'm vaguely aware that I may be the spider. I don't have a light — only a threadbare, wisp-like web.  I'm holding onto him, clinging without strength.  I feel like I need to trap him here for him to stay.

Ezra inhales, his eyes narrowing,

"... Is that — what ya' need?" He murmurs. I swallow. I nod. I nod again and wipe my eyes quickly.

"I'm sorry about that dance.  I thought — I just wanted..."  I feel better when I'm around Ezra. The realization of it splits something right in half.  "But it's not that.  It's this."

Ezra's brows gather like he's been wounded.  Like he's found something else—his thumb brushes beneath my eye, an inquisitive, distracting touch. His tight composure crumples into quiet turmoil.

"Hey."  Something changes. I feel it change.  He steps forward, and I stumble into him. "... You're smearin' your mascara."

"Oh."  I feel the heat from my cheeks gather in the tips of my ears and uncomfortably at my chest.  I duck my head into his shoulder, my wide, damp eyes on our shoes — that are just an inch apart.

But Ezra only laughs, low and rough as sandpaper, a genuine ring, and uses my chin to pull my face back to him.

"... Pretty."  He whispers.  I stare up at him, my lips parting.  If only this were like before, in his doorway, months ago.  I think I would be able to kiss him this time.  I want him to want me.

There's something heavy between us.

Something I can't grasp.

"Mm.  Don't look at me like that."  Ezra takes another breath, and with my hand still on his chest, he wraps his arms around me.  "... It ain't happenin'.  You're drunk as a fuckin' skunk."

I sink into his chest, his warmth.  His arms feel secure.  His heart beats, settling, against my ear.

"... Thank you."  Ezra's body muffles my gratitude.  Every angry, terrified, and hollow feeling swells with comfort and pleasant touch. I lean into him, greedy for reassurance.  I let go of his shirt and wind my arms around him in return.

He adjusts, tucking his jaw against the side of my temple.

"... Come home with me,"  Ezra whispers, and I feel his breath ghost against my hair.  His voice is much softer, much more intimate, and I blush — hidden against him, "... 'Kay?  I can give ya' whatever ya' need."

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