Wicked Boy (63) (Patreon)

(Sorry for these shorter chapters, I’m trying to write as I pack and get everything together for backpacking next month.  Things are about to get VERY domestic between these two and I cannot wait.  I wanted to post the next part of this chapter but I was taking too long to edit it so I decided that I’ll give you guys this and the rest later!

warnings: Daphne always seems aggressive, but Daphne, Tamela, and Ezra all have their own backstories that are really important — this book has a lot of themes towards healing and familial trauma.

there is going to be A LOT of domesticity and talking in the chapter after this one!!)

—

"Guess I'm sorry for walkin' in on ya'.  Sorry for me too," Daphne says as she makes her way to leave, her eyes reminiscent of her brother's, curious, sharp, and cold, and the uneasy interest in her gaze cuts right down to my bones.

Ezra's door slams behind her and she gives me a once-over, head to toe, searching.

"Sleep tight."

"Sleep tight."  I echo, cordial and disorientated, unsure of what else to say — or what to address in that simple, mortifying reminder that she's seen Ezra's fingers in my mouth, his weight pressed down on my own. A pleasant phone call with Tamela doesn't change that.

"Wait," I stifle it down with a tumble of my stomach, glancing towards Ezra's closed door, suddenly aware of the implication — eyes back towards the storm just outside.  "Why are you going back out there?"

Daphne stops, turns around, and considers me again.  She squints, tired — her shoulders sagging and damp.  I sit up straighter, turning outside of the booth to face her,

"You can stay here. I'll —"

Daphne's brows arch. I can tell by the way the shadows play on the fine lines of her face in the dark. She holds her palm up — takes a breath before she rolls her eyes.

I quiet.

"...We might not be open,"  The brunette sighs, her lips pursing before she carries on,  "but taken the storm wanes before mornin', and we have a pot on, grab some coffee before ya' go."

Blatant skepticism aside, Daphne reverts quickly into the uncertainty of what she feels, the smile that follows her gruffness small and frank.  I attempt a smile back.  She tilts her head, flicks a finger towards the bar, up towards the bottles,

"Don't know what you're plannin' to get up to in the whore-house," she lazily regards the bar. "But. I know you're a boozer."

"And... As ya' know."  She shrugs, careful, and she broaches the subject with a subtle delicacy.  "Our coffee works wonders for a hangover.  It should be on the sign."

I hesitate.  I glance at the bottles, then at my lap,

"I actually... I don't drink now."  I say. I sound less convinced than I did when I was drinking. I used to say it so effortlessly, and now — well. I could've — just left it as an offer that I didn't take, but...  "and I won't be. But thanks."

Daphne nods slow, and her smile drifts,

"...Think so?" She inhales. "... For Ez?"

There's a silence.

"...No." I frown, cautiously eying his door. "I — I just don't."

"Hmm. You sure? Ya' said that when you showed up at the diner last winter. 'I don't drink.'" Daphne pushes stray, damp curls from her loosened ponytail away from her forehead, "didn't believe ya'.  Then you went to town on our shitty vodka."

I shake my head,

"Well. No. That wasn't,"

"I was right, then." Daphne interrupts. "I usually am. Thinkin', this rich boy is a fuckin' liar." Her face gathers into a familiar, calculating mirthlessness, "as most rich men are."

I blink at her bluntness, struck by the splinters of a blow.  My nose wrinkles, with the familiar urge, to say something nasty, a burning sensation in my throat,  but then — Daphne shrugs at my expression, laughs, mild and unimpressed.

"If looks could kill." She shakes her head, "Listen. I'm not a bitch, alright? I'm not so sure about you. Between you and Ez, I don't know who's the cat and who's the mouse," she sighs, her leg bouncing as she leans against the wall. "But. It's weird.... He seems caught by the tail. Don't he?"

I stare. Unsure of what to say. Daphne looks at her feet, digging the toes of her tennis shoe into the floor.

"Anyway. Sorta believe ya', this time, about drinkin', I think."  She adds, thoughtful, "you might be a better liar, now. If not, good for you. Sort of like you. So — if you're doing well. Good for you."

Good for you.

Good for —

"... You aren't driving, are you?"  I should say — anything else, I think.  I could ask how she knows.  How she knew — to begin with.  I could be pissed at the implications. I should do anything but sit here in the dark, watching her back, just as curious as she.  "Do you live far?"

Daphne blinks at my question, pushing up from her spot against the wall.

"... Hun, that would require a license — and everyone in Huxley knows I ain't got one."  She snorts, bewildered.  She taps her nails against her crossed forearms, eyes rolling towards Ezra's door.  "Would also require a death wish."

I tap my fingers against my phone.

"Oh."

So that's it.  I think.  That's how she knew.

That's how — Ezra knew.

"... Well, since I don't have either at the moment," Daphne hums — like she can see the recognition, the gathering of the pieces, and shrugs it off, "I'm stayin' at the motel.  Nice an' dry, and on Ez, of course."

—

I'll keep my hands to myself.

That's what Ezra says, leaning against the frame of the red-room's door, palms up — playful, reverent,

If you do.

—

"My pajamas are at the bottom of the box."  I lay anxiously next to him, the rain rattling the windows, and he shifts in recognition of my voice. I'm talking to talk. Talking to distract myself from the smell of him — the nearness and the very fact that my last contact with these sheets wasn't as innocent.  "I'll wash these tomorrow if you show me where your —"

"Breathe."  Ezra hums, arm slung over his eyes, nose up to the ceiling. "I don't mind your kink for stealin' pajamas."  I lay on my back, just the same as he, worried about turning away or towards him — worried that if I move, we may brush.  "It's your thing. I get it."

I huff, idly playing with the blanket's hem at my chest.

"It's not my thing. You offered," I tug the blanket, hoarding more of it closer to me, a cheap retaliation against Ezra's teasing. He sighs and yanks it right back to him, quickly freeing the fabric from my grip. I glare. "I didn't steal."

Ezra laughs. It's tired, low, and genuine.

"You could make it your thing." He carefully peels his arm away and sets it between us. I'm hyperaware of its weight. I'm also — hyperaware of the dual intentions behind his offer. I can feel his gaze on me. He tilts his head just enough, and turns just close enough that I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. "... As long as your only stealin' mine."

I feel warm, and with that, my cheeks grow hotter. I'm glad for the low lighting. Instead of saying anything, I nod. I'll ask what this means later. I'll ask — if this is some sort of step, later.

Right now. This is....

"... You can't look at me now, or somethin'?" Ezra's voice is quieter, the edges still playful. He taps my hip with the back of his knuckles, a short grab for attention. I open my eyes, peeking towards him. When I do, he smiles, his gaze lidded — unguarded, features muted by darkness. "Shouldn't we be closer than ever?"

"That's not..."

"Should I apologize?"

I frown, my foot bouncing at the end of the bed, and murmur — embarrassed,

"Don't be ridiculous. Why would you apologize?"

The bed dips again as Ezra turns on his side, propped up on his hand. He looks down at me,

"Hm. For bein' vulgar."  He attempts a shrug, but his displaced weight doesn't allow for much. So his lips twist in a mock show of penance, "I know it's late, but I can do romantic, if that's what ya' want."

"... Romantic is cheesy." I inhale, turning away from him, quick to roll towards the door. Then I bite the inside of my cheek, considering,

"... You started it and then — I started it. It's a tie." I whisper, a mild shyness at broaching the subject. "I don't want an apology. We're even."

Ezra laughs. He lays his head on my pillow, his breath on my neck much later, right before I almost fall sleep — and he whispers,

"I'm not really interested in bein' even."

I feel him stretch into comfort behind me.

”Just you.”

—

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