Wicked Boy (55) (Patreon)

(A/N:  I know the interest in Wicked Boy has been waning, but hopefully we’re back on track (and off to Huxley) with better things to come!

Milan’s character will steadily he growing with the changes (and with removing himself from the toxicity of his family/job/town) and Ezra‘s arc will be joining his now!)

—

"Oh, a nervous Milan is very entertaining."  Tamela coos, "You should've visited Huxley and found an unobtainable escort to crush on a lot sooner. It's very humanizing."

In hindsight, this may have been a decision that I should've taken preparation for.  Ripping off the metaphorical bandaid of contact, as mature as it may seem, means facing Ezra sober for the first time in months — and the idea of being with him alone, with nothing to talk about but my empty home and failed AA meeting, is causing me heart palpitations.

"You're terrible."

"And you're sweating."

I've never been a people person.

Aside from Lucas, the relationships, platonic and otherwise, that I've established until now are with those who pursued me.  I hardly remember most of elementary, before being shipped off to a private school, where I graduated early. I had a waiver signed to start college courses before I was eighteen, where most of those courses centered on math.

Even when I achieved a Bachelor's degree in actuarial science — then changed my subsequent courses to hospitality in rebellion, I hadn't made it far.

And then, as far as that failed rebellion, as an adult, as an entry-level actuary — with a corner office gifted to them by nepotism, I didn't necessarily need to be a people person.

"Yoo-hoo, earth to Milan.  I can practically see your boring thought montage. Are you going to pass out?"

Communication as an actuary is, of course, vital, but communicating technicalities, such as risk and uncertainty, or statistics, and explaining proposals and findings...

It isn't the same as facing someone for the first time after I've drunkenly made a mess of my emotions and left them all at that someone's feet.

"I'm not sweating or boring."  I dab my forehead with my sleeve, flinching.  Okay. Maybe I am. Time to reroute. "Do you think I should shower?"

"You don't have time to shower."  Tamela sticks her bottom lip out in thought.  "Or towels."

"Why did I pack the towels?"

Ezra and I have been texting — but texting is nice. Texting waits for you to come up with a coherent, appropriately distant answer, and on the off-chance of a late phone call, Tamela has been here, three-waying the conversation into normality.

I always turn into someone ridiculous when I see him. A tipped jar that keeps on spilling and spilling, with no end in sight.

And Ezra — unpredictable to me as ever, hasn't texted that he's arrived in the parking lot as he did months ago, so I pace awkwardly beside the door, listening to approaching footsteps with a fluttering heart.

"Because you packed everything."  Tamela is laughing, so I pretend to be busy — like I'm searching my coat pocket that hangs from the rack just above it.  And then I tidy both our pairs of shoes below that.

"... You're trembling like a posh little puppy waiting for his owner."  She, who enjoys this evolution of mine, sings from where she's sprawled against the floor, her cheeks pressed upwards in her hands. She smiles meanly. "...God, could you be more obvious?"

My nose wrinkles in response, eyes narrowing at her cheeky smile. I cross my arms.

"Obvious?"

"Your crush is obvious. I'm bored. Are you still doing my makeup for cotillion Friday?  I could bring your boxes then."  Tamela sighs at a sour thought,  "don't forget that my snotty little sister is a debutante.  She'll want a congratulatory card from you."

"... That dress you bought was for her debut?"  I squint,  "if I do your makeup and you wear that dress — Tamela."

"Tamela, what?"

"You'll outshine her."

"Oh, well then, it's wonderful that I hope to do exactly that."

Tamela stretches and pulls herself from the floor with a grunt.

"Good thing you've been plastered to the door since he told you that he was on the way." She shrugs, "not like he could knock or anything."

I hush her with a fervent wave of my hand,

"What if he's in the hall? He could hear you."

I feel her shift onto her tiptoes to mock-whisper,

"Well. This is my cue to leave." Tamela snatches her purse with a smug smile when I huff in distaste. I'm still wavering, though the knob is quite literally in reach. "Milan. I don't know how to tell you this, but you should answer when he knocks."

"I know to answer when someone knocks."

"Positively questionable," she hums, pinching her clasp closed with manicured fingers. "And if you're trying to claw yourself out of the rejection pit with mystery — there's a difference between playing hard to get and locking someone out of your home after inviting them over."

"You should stay." I offer,  "Or, I know it might not be appealing, but...  Do you come with us for a bit?"

"Me?  Can't.  I'm traveling for work tomorrow."  Tamela squints.  "My father has a client at J&K corporation who wants his factory insured.  He's sending little ol' me to assess the risk."

I balk at her eye roll.

"Exciting."

"More exciting than being an actuary."  Tamela wrinkles her nose at me.  "Well.  Former actuary."

"Paid more."

"Wretched.  But,"  Tamela adjusts her purse but smiles at her feet as she bends to pull on her flats.  "... That's the first time you've asked me to stay."

I blink, blindsided by her unguarded sincerity, and open my mouth to respond — but she cuts me off with a short, playful wave and yanks open my apartment door.

Ezra startles us both, only a couple of feet from the entry, his hair damp and a duffel bag thrown over his arm.  He's lazing his shoulders against the opposing wall, his phone to his ear, but only nods in greeting before bringing a finger to his lips as if to hush us.

"Intimidation?  You're breachin' a legal fuckin' contract,"

Tamela mouths a hello, waves to him as well, and sends one last wave to me with an overemphasized raise of her brows before sauntering towards the new elevators.

"This ain't a threat. It's a fact."  Ezra sneers, still distracted,  "She didn't sleep with ya' and the session was recorded with your written consent.  You put a sneaky goddamn hold on your payment?  That's fine.  All I'm sayin' is a lawsuit ain't very discreet, is it?"

Incoming message (Tamela):
Someone is in trouble

I tuck my phone away quickly, as if Ezra can read my thoughts.  The man sounds unyieldingly sharp — and this exchange doesn't appear to be one that I should interrupt with a greeting of my own.  I don't know what to do, standing there in his line of sight so awkwardly, so I prop the door open with my loafer and hesitate — my gaze meeting Ezra's nervously before I point to it.

Ezra raises an eyebrow, his scowl vanishing as his cheeks dimple with a humored, crooked smirk.  He pushes upwards,  his head tilting and eyes narrowing as he inspects my makeshift doorstop, and I think that maybe — he didn't understand my gesture.

Great.  Now my shoe is scuffed for nothing.

"Mmm.  Your wife is gonna kill you?"  Ezra chuckles, interrupting my annoyance, his gaze skirting back up to mine.  I become as uncharacteristically shy as always, and he as sly as ever, "well, damn, you dyin' ain't gettin' Cherie paid, either."

Come inside.  I mouth.  Ezra's green eyes flicker down to my lips, where they linger.

Sighing, I point to the loafer again, exaggerated, then wave towards the open door like a new car salesman before giving Ezra a thumbs up.   His wretched smile unfurls into a full-on grin, brows raising.  He holds up a finger, and mouths, patient, back.

Oh.

Maybe he did understand the first go around.

Right.

"Mmhm, you're so sorry?  How much is your sorry worth?"

I duck from the entrance and into the kitchen where he can't see me, blowing out a sheepish huff of air.  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to calm my overwrought nerves.  Two boxes in the same corner of my living room welcome me when I finally open them.

This is really happening.

I'm moving to Huxley.

Tonight.

--

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