WICKED BOY (chapter five) (Patreon)

"I don't want any."  Lucas was always persistent, blunt wiggling between his fingers like somehow it could entice me into taking a quick drag. “I told you — it makes me feel weird when you bring it in here. My dad could show up." 

"You are so annoying."  Lucas rolled his eyes, inhaling until the paper burned, slowly, at the edges.  He held his breath for a moment, eyes sliding lazily to mine. 

I watched him through the smoke, his bright eyes blown and relaxed. He smiled at me, a soft thing, playful at best — wicked at worst. Then he leaned closer, and my heartbeat jumped in a silly — naive way.  Smoke filled my nose quite quickly after that, and Lucas grinned fully as I sputtered unhappily. 

"... Not so bad, huh? And no daddy in sight.”

"God — you're such an ass.  I said — "  I flushed, unhappily waving the lingering — rank-smelling fog.  "That I didn’t want any — Lucas. It reeks."

Lucas laughed so whole-heartedly that my frown melted into confusion — coughs echoing in the small room soon after that. He patted my back until they subsided.

"... Like you know what you want, little Milo."  He smiled, softened by the haze of his high.  "That's what I'm here for.  To tell you."

—

"I'm so sorry for calling this late, but — I need you to pick me up, Isaac." I don't know who else to call, and apparently, that means that I'm resorting to an all-time low, "Like five minutes ago, super emergency — need you to pick me up."

"What are you babbling about?" Isaac is half-awake, I can tell, probably poring over his studies for next week's exams, "From where, Milan?" There's a pause, a pause long enough for me to know he's taking a sip of his coffee, because Isaac is easy to remember, to remember every detail.

Simple and predictable. Safe, even.

"The Mclaughlin event," I swallow, "I went with Dad, and I'm just, you know, not comfortable —" I shrug even though he can't see me, hope my nerves from Lucas are convincing enough in my voice. "I'm not comfortable being here; I feel like I'm suffocating on five-hundred-dollar perfume."

Isaac laughs into the receiver, which says he believes every ounce of it —

“I thought I was off fake-boyfriend duty tonight. I could have gone, you know. I offered, and you wanted to go at it alone." He's right, he absolutely had, but I didn't want to invite him, was too scared that it would take the relationship to a more severe level — introducing him to my father's clientele — then, that it'd leave an awkward taste in the mouth of our strange friendship.

Funny how things worked out that way anyway.

"You were totally right," I breathe, slip into the next hallway over, near the doors, "I was wrong. You know I'm bad at these things, so bad — that I'm probably going to do that awful thing where I get nervous and vomit, and it's not going to be pretty. Please come get me?"

"Don't worry," There's a shuffling of papers in the background, a jingling of keys, "I don't want you puking in front of your dad's investors. I'll be there in a little over five minutes; it's not too far from my apartment."

I let loose a loud sigh of relief, feeling the corners of my lips curling up, "You're great, so great — thank you." I feel my stomach turn at the words, how Isaac was quite possibly drowning in confusion on the other side of the line,

"No problem, um — " His voice is lower, quieter — has that rough edge to it like he had some dinner nights when his feet kicked across mine under the table, "did you want to come over maybe tonight after I pick you —"

No.

"I told you, no friends with benefits," I whisper, "I'm exhausted, but — uh, if you want to go get coffee..." It's my excuse every night, the excuse that keeps me forever a virgin.

I don't know why he stays there — faking date after date, through the lukewarm kisses and knee-jerk reactions to his touches. He's marriage-worthy, built strong and has the face of a businessman, regal and determined. He's smart, kind —I can talk to him, depend on him — he'll make a good husband for someone.

Me, on the other hand... I'm a mess for not wanting more from him. He grew up in the same blue-blooded family, the same type of father as I. He knows what it's like to follow in someone's footsteps, to be crushed under expectations.

Isaac isn’t interested in relationships, though. He says he thinks I'm easy to be around, and he wouldn't mind hooking up. I haven't accepted. There's no spark. Never has been, at least for me — not a spark like...

Not the same as Lucas.

For some ungodly reason, Isaac knows that but stays by my side.

"Coffee sounds like a poor idea at this hour." His voice is a bit deflated, “you need to introduce me to someone cute, and soon. Or take me to a bar the next time I save you.”

I laugh at that, laugh until the line goes dead. I round the corner, next to the large wooden doors that lead to the main hall — the only way to get to the front exit, plan to bide my time outside the gates.

No, though; of course, it wouldn't be so simple.

There Lucas is, lent against the stair railing with a pack of cigarettes in hand, bouncing them lazily against his palm.  He has a bag strapped over his shoulder, probably belonging to the woman from before — something that suggests they have plans after this event.  For a moment — he's the Lucas that I knew, wild and barely strung together. Then in another moment, he's a look of forced composure,

and is standing in front of me.

I watch him for just a moment too long. Maybe I'm stuck in the past; perhaps long enough for him to lift his head, and find himself in the past alongside me.

"Hey," He says, eyes narrowed as he pushes himself forward with a snap of his dress shoe. I back up a bit as he strides closer, and tucks the cigarettes into his pocket with a wry smile, "I knew you'd find me. Long time no see.”

I turn to look back at the crowd of people, then back to Lucas. I shake my head,

"I — I have to go."

His smile flickers into confusion, and then to a bit of irritation, jaw flexing, "You gotta go? Go where?" He's getting closer, too close, "I'm right here, Milan."

I back up a bit more, enough to smack my elbow and the side of my head on the door frame,

"Fuck!" I yelp, yelp it so loud it startles Lucas. Only a bit, because he knows me, and when I slap both hands over my mouth because I just cussed out-loud and in English, what am I thinking —

His smile broadens.

His smile.

That's when the stifling wave of nausea in my stomach threatens to expel the yogurt and granola I just ate this morning, which, Oh God — how unpleasant.   I wish that I was drunk, that I'd been sharing drinks right along with my mom all night long. Maybe it'd slow my thought process enough for me to think, what the heck am I doing — before — before,

"Oh. Still playing the role of a little rich boy?"

I clench my lips, whirling around in the middle of the hall — that I most definitely need to walk down to get to the exit — and dart in the opposite direction —

That I most certainly didn't need to be dashing down.

What am I doing?

I don't need to be running at all, I think, think of how indecent it is to be shoving through crowds of people like an animal — so I apologize as much and as often as I can, still slinking between bodies.

How else do I avoid ruining the lasting bits of an old, happy friendship with my bitter new self— if I don't run?

I almost make it through the crowd, almost do — and steal one look over my shoulder to find that Lucas is prowling through the bodies of people with much more grace than I — and too many eyes are on me.

I'm tired of this.  I want to better myself, Milo.  I can't with you in my life.

Oh, screw him.

And of course, without looking — and, as luck would have it, I'm sent barreling into the burliest young sir I've ever laid eyes on — my book flopping from my arms and onto the floor.

"What the fuck, twig?" He hisses, tries to grab the softer part of my arm. I snatch it away to duck under him and bolt in the other direction, leaving the book on the linoleum floor.

"Milo!"

The sound of Lucas's heavy dress shoes is snapping across the marbled floor sends my anxiety into overdrive, and I wish I'd worn something other than slip-on oxfords, the shoes that had the least amount of traction to offer. I’m closer to the love-band, though, and it’s louder. Suddenly, everyone has lost interest in the two of us.

What do I say?

Hey Lucas, I know you think I'm a burden, but I haven't seen you in a few years, and I'm still, apparently, pathetically in love with you.

"Milan!" He barks, again, voice still as low and crisp as it had been in every phone call — muted underneath swing music. I swallow, sliding between a set of gossiping, well-dressed women and risking a glance behind me. What does he want?

How does this solve any problem that he said I started for him?

The bag thrown over Lucas's shoulder is evidently weighing him down and paired with his impeccable height, he isn't navigating through the crowd towards the side doors quite as quickly as I.

Great, I think, because I'm a little athletically challenged.

I breathe a sigh of relief, small smile beginning to tug at the corners of my lip — but then Lucas is snarling, stopping — his nose wrinkling before his face splits with that same wicked grin as he always had before.

No, I flush, because that smile means trouble.

He shrugs his bag to the floor. It hits with a thud.

The Lucas Gotthardt that I knew had always been unpredictable.  The boy that I knew is still in front of me, just taller — more handsome.  Apparently, better at hiding his wickedness.

The dark-haired man's defiant gaze isn't subtle, intense in its own right as he pins me from across the room that we stare.

"You done?"  Oh, but how that grin is back, sharp and cutting.  I know that smile.  Familiarity tingles in my gut.  Forever.  Nothing will surprise me now;

not even that his hand wraps around the fire alarm's handle — yanking it downwards with a,

"We need to fucking talk."

I don't know what's more deafening, his voice, or the sound of the siren blaring. The main hall is flooding with men and women alike, all running — because of course —

The sprinklers go off.

There's water trickling over my already ridiculous mop of hair, and I'm sputtering as Lucas chuckles, face full of amusement.

"Just like old times, yeah?"

—

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