Wicked Boy (49) (Patreon)

Ez is right.

Past the emotional outbursts, I am 'drunk as a skunk,' and respectively, Tamela is too.  At the time that the bar closed, and without question, she slung herself into the other man's back seat, and now she's singing.

I've never been the type to sing while drunk, but Tamela becomes an international pop star when she reaches her limit. At least — it soothes the awkward aftermath of the fact that I asked Ezra to hug me just minutes before.

Ezra is generous enough to hand my friend the auxiliary cord, and as thanks, she's attempting to force him into a duet, occasionally using a lipstick case as a microphone that she shoves too close to his lips,

"Don't distract the driver," I scold, though Ezra doesn't really pick up much speed on Huxley's residential backroads. Tamela pouts but brings her makeshift microphone back to her own glossed lips.

"Fine," she sighs, but then, like a spark, she sits up again, and I cover my mouth as discretely as I'm able to hide my sigh.

"Hello, handsome Ezra," Tamela pushes herself between our seats, her bleary eyes on the man next to me and her smile large enough to have my heart beating faster. There's a distinct atmosphere of comfort here with him. And, despite all her initial doubts about the Goule — she looks so happy.

"I'm flattered."

"You should be.  I'm going to start the next song. Mind you, it's a classic. Classics are classics for a reason. But, I'm the star."

"... Of course ya' are," Ez smirks, his eyes sliding to her. I can only imagine he's had years of experience with Daphne's children to prepare him for this, or that the Goules can likely be rather rowdy, "I couldn't have pegged ya' as anything else."

Tamela beams at the praise, and my eyebrows raise. Ezra is very good at adding in just the right bit of a flirtatious edge to flatter drunks.

I blink,

"Right? Okay." Tamela cups her hands in front of her, staring with resolution at her palms as she needs them to clarify her plan of action, "So I will be singing the main part; you just need to help — just a smidge."

Tamela pats his shoulder with her manicured fingers and giggles happily when Ezra hums in recognition of her request, and at last, nods.

"Really?"

Ezra pops another bubble of spearmint gum between his teeth. His jaw works it back against his molars, and I watch,

Why do I feel like this?

"Am I gonna say no to a star?" He winks at her in the rearview, and I blush, eyes averting to my palms.

How is someone so...

"Yes!  Alright.  I have the perfect song," Tamela bounces, and my seat bounces with her excitement, "Okay. You just need to pop in at the chorus," she grabs her phone to search through her music, "... I want complete enthusiasm or no duet at all.  But I'm going to sing a warm-up first."

Charismatic.

I try to swallow down a smile, but it blooms at the edges as the song starts — a rock ballad that's so unlike Tamela and likely chosen in the hopes of bringing Ez on board.

Ezra snorts.

What an assumption, I laugh, because the man tilts his head and chuckles softly like he's just as perplexed by her choice in genre. Then, his free arm that's lain carelessly over the center console moves enough to reach me, his ringed fingers tapping my thigh.

My nerves ignite with the most straightforward touch,

"... your lil' friend should sleep in the bed," Ezra murmurs. He leans closer, and I inhale. His eyes are on the road, but they slide to me when he speaks, momentarily, and my stomach flips when our gaze happens to meet. Tamela is singing loudly just behind us, although her voice carries nicely. "It's gotta door with a lock, and the bathroom is close by if she gets sick."

I nod. It's oddly respectful to consider a stranger's comfort. But then again — is it odd?

When isn't Ezra thoughtful?

I chew my lip, poising the warmth that blisters my heart. I'm going — to his house. I don't have to leave there. I'm just going.

I don't have work tomorrow — Ez is there and ...

Focus.

"Ah. That makes sense.  Thank you — I'm sorry that we're kicking you out of your bed." I wish I felt sorrier. I'm too captivated to feel apologetic about anything, really.

Being here, near Ezra, does that. Being in his space — it just does that. His car doesn't smell like cigarette smoke, only his cologne and the air freshener that's clipped to his vent.

It's like his home. It's not what I expect.

He's never what I expect.

I turn enough to watch Tamela, her upper half dancing to the lingering intro of the second song, despite her latched seatbelt, and the chorus seems just far enough away,

"It's just for a night... and the couch pulls out into a bed," Ezra wrinkles his nose like he's a bit sorry at the offer. I nod. There's a freedom with his eyes on the road that lets me stare.

"Is that where you're going to sleep?"

"That's where you're gonna sleep." He corrects. The street lights near the gas station reflect off his eyes, lost to the shadow of a dimple each time his lips move. "I'll warn ya' that it's a shitty bed. Feels like your sleepin' on a wire fence, but ya' can sleep on the couch as is. Up to you."

His fingers leave my thigh, returning to the wheel.  I frown, and I nod, but then...

"... So — where are you going to sleep?" I turn further towards him, my brows furrowed, "with Tamela in the bedroom. If I have the couch...."

"My room at the bar."  Ezra shrugs as if he's utterly unbothered by the idea of it. "It's got a mattress, and I got work tomorrow."

"But you said the couch pulls out." My frown deepens. Tamela is singing louder. "And you'd have to drive back out there — there are strangers in your house..."

"You're talkative when you're tipsy."

Ezra leans back into his seat, his hand at the top of the wheel adjusting to taking another turn.  His thumb taps to the beat of the song, idly, and why am I staring at his hands,

"Oh — well.  Maybe."

"... It's fifteen minutes away." Ezra chuckles. He dips his head, his regard shifting back to Tamela as if he's awaiting her cue to sing. "... Your friend is gonna pass the fuck out.  You're not a stranger. Tam' ain't a stranger to you, so she ain't a stranger to me.  Anythin' I missed?"

I inhale.

Yes.

I don't want him to stay at the bar.

— a petulant part of me aches with disappointment, with a greediness that fusses and says that I haven't seen him in months, whether it was a fault of mine or not, and even if he's sleeping, I don't want him to leave tonight.

I want to be around him.  If just for a bit longer.

"Well. If I'm not a stranger — then." Ezra's gaze drifts to meet mine again. I avert my own, trying to crush this timid feeling, as the tempo picks up — and before the chorus can interrupt us, "Don't leave.  You can sleep on the pull-out with me."

Ezra's brow lifts,

"You got the wrong idea about that pull-out,"  his lip lifts slightly, humored, "... It's too fuckin' cramped."

"I don't move a lot — I sleep on my side,"  I say hurriedly.  How do I convince him?  Why do I feel so desperate to do so?  "I mean — I don't take up a lot of space either."

"I do move a lot,"  Ezra chuckles.  I fluster, understanding every ounce of Tamela's desire to pout when not given her way, quite suddenly.  "Ya' ain't puttin' me out of a bed, so relax."

Tamela pushes up then, singing, pressing herself between us with the sugary smell of her perfume and her pretty voice,

"Ezra, it's almost your turn!"

And I grit my teeth, sighing with annoyance that's wholly directed towards the man beside me.  Ezra's attention shifts to me then, that flash of surprise taking hold of his expression for the slightest moment, for the second time tonight.

I glare at him, humiliation wafting underneath the bravery of my tipsiness and the irritation that follows,

"Fine,"  I blow out a puff of air.  "Then.  How do I get you to sleep with me?"

Tamela's eyes widen owlishly, the way her smeared eyeshadow falls making it just that much worse, and she blinks hard.

Shit,

"Whoops."  My friend whispers, sinking back in her seat, and Ezra's unbothered quietness shifts into a satisfied grin,

"You're a piece of work."

Shit.

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