Wicked Boy (68 & 69) (Patreon)

(when ur new roommate is a night owl - welcome to an XL chapter)

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Lexi's house has a white picket fence. It's also rather large, especially when compared to Ezra's modest single-family abode and my former one-room apartment. Her home is two stories, featuring a sleeping porch, and is fully equipped with a hanging, haint-blue ceiling. The driveway pivots into a large stretch of gravel, like a small, makeshift parking lot.

Once we exit, she motions to the dried filth that covers me, leads me to an extension of her home near the side, and opens the door,

"June, baby, go get in your bed."

June obediently wriggles by me and into the pitch, just as dirty as before, his collar clinking merrily.

"I'm usually more hospitable, but the salon floor's easier to clean up than carpet," Lexi says, relying on her crutch's stability as she leans to kick off a tennis shoe. I stand awkwardly near the lobby, hand on the wall like I might find a hidden light, and unsure if I'm meant to follow.

"I have food stashed in here anyway."  Lexi treks further into the darkness, her explicit recollection of an area she knows like the back of her hand evident, "...Sit on the jogglin' board, so the girls don't have to sweep far."

I glance around, the shadows lessened by the window near the front wall,

"Joggling board?"

Lexi chuckles from somewhere distant,

"Black.  Looks like a bench. Under the window,"  there's the sound of rustling, "oh — and wash those hands in the sink up front."

The overhead lights come to life with that, a bit dim, but they illuminate the shadows of her workplace. Four chairs are facing the left, all spaced by unlit scone lights, positioned in front of roll-carts and oval mirrors. Lexi passes the length of a wash station set-up, backed by another few work areas with shelving fixtures, and bends at an awkward angle to open her mini-fridge.

"Right."  I agree with the notion of hand-washing, but discover more dirt spans past my wrists, crusted on the underside of my forearm.  I untuck my blouse, unfastening the buttons, and peel it away to reveal a slightly less soiled undershirt.

"Do you need help?"  I ask.  I fold the dirtied fabric and toss it back towards the bench, scrubbing soap up to my elbows and rinsing a cloud of Taylor Evan's porch mud down the drain.

Lexi doesn't respond.  I think of calling out to her again but instead focus on picking the filth from under my nails with a grimace.

Disgusting.

"... You're in luck.  Me and the girls take turns with meal prep, or we don't get to eat when it's busy.  I'm cookin' for the week since I'm useless at the moment," she explains, juggling two plastic Tupperware containers when she emerges.

I dry my hands, and she hands one to me as I sit down, awkward, the cold bowl balanced in my lap.

"Tramaine's husband caught some big fish last week. Pan-fried ain't all that great as microwaved leftovers, so I hope you don't gag on my quinoa salad."

"Anything's fine."  I smile, a little less awkward, and move my discarded button-up to under the Tupperware container.  "Thank you."

"You're welcome.  Oh, and June begs.  Don't feed him."  Lexi looks at me, and squints at the areas of my white t-shirt where the mud has leaked through and left unpleasant little pools of color.  "...You wanna borrow a top?"

"No, it's alright,"  I purse my lips, then snort a little, "it'll just get dirty anyway."

She shrugs.

"Shit. We need forks." Lexi sighs, hefting herself back up.  "I don't know where my head is at."

I scratch the back of my hand, feeling uncomfortable in the stillness of complete silence,

"Is... This is your salon?"

"Yep.  The salon.  No competition, only salon in town,"  Lexi calls back, fishing through a cabinet above the fridge and coffee maker, "it's called Hide Your Roots.  'Cause, no one wants to look like they're from Huxley, and that's a fact."

"Clever."  I chuckle, smiling down at my salad, and Lexi returns with a spoon and a bigger smile,

"Sorry, all I have."  She motions behind her with a flick of her utensil,  "oh — and.  Bein' the only salon doesn't mean I don't take pride in it."

"No, it,"  I shake my head.  "It looks nice."

She beams, jutting her chin out, her knees turned towards me as she flips her hair over her shoulder.

"Don't it?  We do hair over there and makeup on this side.  I do stylin' in my house, and we have a little manicure set up on the side —  waxin' brows, facials — in that back room over there," Lexi waves her hand towards a corridor,  "no pedicures yet, but I'm saving for those little spa chairs.  I would want at least three."

I blink, stunned, craning my neck as if I'll be able to see all the nooks and crannies of what sounds to be a full-service business.

"... How much are spa chairs?"

"New?  3,000 dollars."  My eyes widen, and Lexi puckers her lips and nods,  "Yep.  Gotta make sure they're worth the investment. The nail technicians here don't wanna touch feet — and I can't really blame 'em."

I swipe my spoon through my salad and nod, glancing back up — towards the shelves of hair products and hot tools that hang from hooks.

There's quite a lot of inventory stacked for a small town, but the coziness of photos clipped to individually decorated workstations and labeled thermoses suggest long-term employees.

"... Well, I'll stop talkin' about feet so you can eat."  Lexi laughs, patting my thigh.  "I know I'm probably borin' you to death."

"It's alright; I like things like this,"  I say, too tired to realize, spoon halfway to my mouth.  My eyebrows quirk, and then I turn to her — clearing my throat,  "I mean — not that I...  I only watch videos.  Occasionally."

I cross my legs, tapping my spoon off the edge of my dish.  Lexi scoots in, pinching my arm, then grins,

"I'm gonna assume ya' don't mean videos of feet."

I cough, horrified,

"No."

"Then why're you actin' like it's a big deal?"  She shrugs and slumps her back against the window, talking over a bite of food, "so, what is it ya' like?  Which part?  Nails?  Hair?"

I grimace, leg bouncing,

"Makeup."  I scratch behind my ear.  "I've watched a lot of videos, but,"

Lexi smirks,

"Oh.  So not — occasionally."

"Well.  No.  I've done my friend's makeup."

"No kiddin'?"

"Yeah.  And her sister's — sometimes a couple of her friends."  I find myself talking over my food as well, looking for something to do with my hands, for another place for my attention to divert.  "I like to watch — like, videos of hair styling too but.... I've never done that."

"Practice makes perfect.  You know what they say about likin' somethin'?"  Lexi asks, cutting in before I melt into my discomfort.  I peek over at her; my interest captured,  "it's even funner to do when ya' make friends who like the same things.

They can even teach you a thing or two."

—

I have a stray and indulgent thought on the way back from a second trip to Lexi's  — one of renting a room at the rest stop to shower, but I'm exhausted, my cellphone is dead, and I really just want to change into my pajamas.

So, against all insensibility, I drive to Ezra's.

Regardless of his warning that he'd rarely be home, by the time I pull into the drive — it's the middle of the night, and Ezra's car is parked outside. My headlights reflect off his tin trash can, the kitchen window, and several metal odds and ends near his front porch.

I deem this development most unfortunate, considering Ezra seemed less than communicative this morning about anything, kiss included — and I'm now seated inside his old car, on top of several borrowed beach towels, and smell of dirt and wet dog.

I sigh.

"Well.  He's seen you worse off,"  I purse my lips and tug the keys from the engine,  "It is what it is."

I grumble to myself for a long while, head lolling back against the seat. Dried mud clings wherever it possibly can — my clothes, my hair, and my dignity.

I roll my eyes.

I can't fill Ezra's shower up with all this.

I consider what to do for a while, then I open the car door, gathering up the towels and my button-up and twisting them into a colorful wad.  I set the bundle inside Ezra's enclosed porch, carefully balancing my phone and glasses by a potted plant, and then I discard my belt, socks, and my pants.

I watch the street as if I've seen anyone pass in the time that I've been back and then squint towards the distant tree line on my tip-toes,

Huxley doesn't seem to be the type of town to have a neighborhood watch.

Fortunately, the air is still warm enough that it borders hot, which does nothing but make me feel grimier.  I hop back down the stairs, making my way to the spigot with careful steps and bare feet.  The hose from Ezra's morning car wash is thankfully still attached, and I turn it on, unwind it, and brace myself as the cold water hits my bare feet.

I squat under the sparse porch light, quietly brushing away stubborn mud on my ankles, and then my arms.  I try my best to avoid my boxers and t-shirt, wincing at the abrupt temperature change.

At least it's better than mud.

I pick at my hair absently, then take a breath, ducking my head between my knees, and under the stream — valiantly chasing away dirt from my hair with one hand.

Water spills onto my face, and I rub at my eyes with stretched fingers, meandering pins of light following the pressure and ebbing across the dark.  I stay like that for a bit, only because it's quiet aside from the water and the crickets — and the tension from a long day in an unfamiliar place tucks and folds into nothing.

As the grime lessens into something expected of a person and not a swamp monster, I'm filled with thoughts of Lexi, Magnolia, and June.  I think of Lexi's salon, Grant's slightly crooked teeth, the salad that fills my stomach, and Taylor Evan's raspberries and honey.

I discover, absently, that my limbs ache.  For once, I'm just exhausted, and it isn't an exhaustion that sits in my heart.

I had a full day.

I spent all day in Huxley, out.  I purchased food from Taylor, intentional or not.  I met people.  Lexi gave me food.  I went to two strangers' houses.  I dug under a porch for a dog that I'd never met — and found another dog that no one was even looking for.

That's kind of...

The door opens.  I almost don't hear it, but even with my eyes closed, I can see the sudden brightness of Ezra's secondary porch light — the one that hangs in the middle of a wooden fan.   I wipe at my eyes quickly, yanking the hose away from my head with a sputter.

"Hey — I'm not,"  I start, then more water trickles into my mouth from my hair, and I wrinkle my nose, perturbed.  I mean to say anything along the lines of, I'm not wearing pants, but I find that it's an awfully strange thing to confess while squatting in his yard at three am.

A blurry Ezra descends the stairs unhurriedly, head cocked with mild curiosity, fingers playing idly with the strings of his black sweatpants.  He becomes clearer to me the closer he encroaches, but shadows continue to find him in the most flattering ways, across the cut of his jaw, the broadness of his shoulders, and the flex of his stomach — where ink bleeds into skin.

His gaze sweeps over me in return, and with an overly familiar, taunting thread, he says,

"... I do have a shower."

I stare up at him, spotlighted by the porch — eyelashes feeling heavy with water, and bring my knees together.

Fair.

"I know that."

"Then where are your clothes?"

"I'm wearing more clothes than you."  I feel hot in the face, unsure where to look, so I close my eyes and re-submerge myself under the garden hose.

"And still less than I've ever seen you in."

There's a weight in my hair, then.  I flinch away before I realize it's Ezra's hand and that he's crouching next to me.  He takes the hose from my grasp and smooths his fingers through wet strands.  I wipe at my eyes a second time as he carefully tilts my head to the side,

"This dirt?"  His brow is lifted, the porch light behind him like a halo.  He smooths his thumb over my jaw and down the side of my neck, displacing a segment I missed.  He glances towards it and back to me, grin growing wider,  "how the hell did ya' get so dirty?"

I try to glare, or find some sort of manifestation of mock irritation, but I'm tired.  I lean into his hand as his fingers swipe through my hair a second time, then over my forehead to divert water from my eyes,

"Mud,"  I say.  It's meant to sound more arduous, but my voice is soft with a gentle touch and the comeuppance of exhaustion.  He laughs.  It's oddly fond. "... There was more than one dog.  Sorry if I woke you up."

Ezra's expression shifts minutely.  His smile softens from playfulness, then into nothing, and he hums by way of response.   I avert my gaze, embarrassed, but he cups my cheek, lowers the hose, and tugs my attention back to him.

"I think you can finish inside."  His voice is lower, quieter, a tease at my expense.  "With soap."

His free hand rests on the damp skin of my thigh.  I watch him, the patterns in his irises, the flecks of darker pigment around his limbal ring.

"... I have raspberries in the car.  And honey."  I don't know why I say it.  Maybe because I'm thinking of kissing him, but if I kiss him, he won't talk about it.  He'll say things like, I haven't dated — and I'll think about why.  I'll wonder if he touched other people with the same affection, laughed with the same fondness, and told them the same thing.

He'll be all I think about — and my exhaustion will become something more familiar to me.

Because, as Lexi said, Ezra is one big wall — and, I have my own wall.  So it's scary, isn't it?

I pull my face from his grip.

"Somehow, Taylor mistook me for a missionary,"  I mutter, standing, if only to place space between us.    I wipe my wet hands on my dry boxers, "And then sold me almost everything he offered to sell me."

Ezra stands too.  He's still close, like he's purposefully seeking proximity,

"... A missionary?"  He echoes.  I round him, head ducked to avoid his gaze, and gather the keys that I left on the car's hood, pulling the raspberries and honey out for show.  I raise my eyebrows as I wave them at him.

This is a safe distance.

"Yes.  Something about my clothes screams evangelism."

Ezra makes a considering sound, gaze sweeping over my bare legs, then up to my chest, where he pauses.

Or maybe not.

"So ya' took them off."

I huff.

"Because of the mud."

"Before or after ya' got here?"

"After, of course."  I push my purchases into his arms, pass the screen door, and gather my phone and glasses.  "Consider it a gift for letting me use your car.  I still smell like dog.  I need to shower."

I've hardly made it into the house when there's a thump behind me.  I realize that it's Ezra discarding the raspberries and honey, right about the time he pulls the phone and glasses from my grasp.  He clasps a hand at my waist, warmth permeating the thin cloth, and swings me back towards him.

My nose makes contact with his collarbone, confused, my palm on the skin of his chest — steps matching his as he walks me backward, before my brain catches up, and I look up to meet his gaze.

Ezra stares at me in a way that's as equally peeved as it is unimpressed, his heartbeat a steady rhythm — something I've never touched before,

"...You wanna tell me,"  he pulls me closer by the waist, his tone shifting from flirtation into something mildly irritated.  He smells good.  Like soap, and clean bed sheets — and probably everything that I don't.  "what you're avoidin'?"

And I won't.  It gets lost somewhere in proximity.  Instead, I do something stupid — I push up onto my toes, palm flat on his chest, and kiss him.

It isn't anything awe-inspiring, I'm sure.  It's timid at best, a gentle press — nothing as urgent or passionate as Ezra's.  But it's me, stepping past my own wall of thought, and doing something for me.  I feel thinner without my layers, and bare without my glasses.  I'm wet, grubby, and tired.

But Ezra's hand flexes on my waist, another joining and pulling me flush.  He immediately presses forward, chest bending my wrists with his weight, and it takes everything, every ounce of restraint, and a very dizzying breath to pull back from him — but Ezra chases.  He chases me up against the counter, and kisses me harder, kisses until I'm lightheaded, hot from my ears to my breastbone,

Ezra chases until I press two fingers to his lips with a gasp,

"... I need to shower,"  My lashes flutter.  I reign in the breathlessness of my voice, regarding him with a lidded, stern gaze,  "You have to let go now."

His lips stretch against my fingers, smile lopsided with confusion, his cheek dimpling,

"... I'm gettin' mixed signals,"  Ezra's voice is rough, more affected than I expected.  He tilts his head,  "you mad at me, or do you want me?  What's goin' on?"

I nod.  His brows raise,

"Both?"

Then at a loss for words, I shake my head.

"... No.  I'm not mad at you."  I draw my hand back, unsure, heat crawling up my ears.  But it's really that simple.  I did something I wanted to do, and now, now I'm not going to think about it.   "I just wanted to kiss you.  So, I did."

"... I also want to put on pajamas.  To do that, I need to shower so I'm,"  I gesture vaguely behind me, staving off my embarrassment,  "going to go do that."  I scratch the back of my wrist,

"Where did you say the towels were?"

Ezra doesn't budge at first, his tongue clicks against his teeth, mouth, whip-quick always — always saying something different from his eyes.

"... You tired?"

"I — What?"

"I said — are ya' tired?"

My nose wrinkles, caught in confusion as Ezra leans a hip against the island counter,

"After your shower," A smirk toys at the edge of Ezra's lips, a lazy cross of his arms,  "I want a movie."