WICKED BOY (12) (Patreon)

(a/n: another chapter of WICKED BOY (make sure you read the last one I uploaded yesterday first) as a thank you to my patrons that have stuck around for another month!  Thanks so much for being here!  I am so happy to see the overwhelmingly positive reaction to Milan and Ez, it's honestly so inspiring.  I haven't been able to stop writing because I'm just so excited to see what you guys think!  Thanks for that!

 Also, I've been asked a couple of questions about the characters.  The most prevalent one is, "was Milan abused?"  and the answer to that is yes.  Milan's father was physically (more so, emotionally) abusive and his mother has always had a strong reliance on alcohol to cope with that, so he was rather neglected by her as well.  I've hinted at it several times, but Milan chooses to focus on Lucas instead of his real issues, so it hasn't necessarily been brought into the limelight.)

My trip to Huxley and Ez's surprising gift does nothing to quell any of the animosity that I carry towards my place in life.  In fact, my impromptu and irresponsible depression-trip to the seedy outskirts of McLaughlin ultimately and understandably costs me my job at the library on campus.  My savings crumble, and as I fall behind on rent and utilities, my discontent only grows.

With one final, glaringly red notice pinned to my door as a warning from my landlord, I find myself back under my father's thumb — but finally with money in my pocket, and behind a desk with a rich view of Pennbrook. All previous worries have taken a backseat to the presence of an overwhelming workload.

I'm now in my destined position as an actuary for United Minett Financial, swamped and unable to spend much time focusing on my studies or my emotional shortcomings. I can't say that I'm very enthused about my new position, the proximity to my father's voice booming from his office that lies catty-cornered to mine, or the fact that I spend a good chunk of my day researching survival rates and average life-spans.

But I have a coffee, made by a tired and raw-eyed receptionist and a small welcoming succulent on one corner of my desk.  These trinkets of acceptance do nothing to hide the stack of statistics and mortality tables on the other corner that await my attention.  That and the ugly, "welcome to the family business,' tie that my mother bought me.

What a welcome it is.

It's a job that's considered competitive in nature, lucrative — one that men like Isaac would love to have, and would despise me for complaining about.

And it — it was handed to me, just like that.  Oh, I suppose — graduating early, starting college early, that and the six years of schooling my father paid for before I decided to start entirely over are a factor.  I ran from all of that, only to run right back to him at the first sign of distress.

That's the life that I live, tug-of-war personified.   And I should just accept that I'm pampered, but the coffee is bitter, my father's voice raises the hair on the back of my neck, and my tie is tied too tight.

... And, for some reason, I place that stupid bat in the top drawer of my desk.

Ez has not taken Lucas' place — but somehow, his grin has stretched through each thrum of sudden energy that I gather throughout the day, Cheshire-like and cold, curving around the goosebumps that form on my skin when my thoughts drift too far. The memory of it should be discomforting to me, but between each soul-sucking excel-spread, I revisit it.

I'm not stupid enough not to notice that my Huxley daydreams soothe the ache left from my run-in with Lucas, my recent failures, and the hollowness that comes from working for my father's insurance firm.

I'd like to think that, no, I'm not stupid at all. 

I know myself very well. 

I'm treasuring another fleeting moment with a wicked man.  And that's why I leave Ez's shirt, unwashed, the business card crisp and folded — and unopened, tucked inside its breast pocket.  It lays across my study chair, out of place, like some sort of trinket I've carried from a tourist trap.  Maybe that's what it is — what Huxley is.

A trap.

I stare at that shirt, threadbare and soft,

sometimes when I cook, when I study, when I eat... All of those times, I realize that I'm alone.

So. I decide to busy myself.  Until I do what I usually do.

I become inconsolably sad, and I stretch myself too thin to distract myself from it.

—

I'm falling behind on my homework, which is unlike me, but that doesn't give me the confidence to refuse the longer hours my father hands me at work.   It also doesn't give me the incentive to stop my newfound habit of tagging along with Isaac each night, hoping to fill each empty part of me with fancy mixed drinks and bar food.

This is why I shouldn't have access to money.

I leave Tamela curled up next to my decorative pillows when I go for class, but only after vomiting, brushing my teeth, and showering away any trace of alcohol. She's strangely protective lately, only wants me to drink when I'm with her and accompanies me to and from Isaac's frequent parties.  I'd, of course, finally asked her why.

"Whatever you do — whatever drunken mistake you happen to make.  I just don't want you to fuck Isaac."

She'd slurred, the night before — which was much more uncomfortable than when she voiced her drunken desire for me to attend therapy before she, unceremoniously, passed out against the heavily threaded sheets last Wednesday. 

"I just — I fucking hate that guy."

—

It's probably the by-product of growing up with a business-man, but typically I can't stand parties.  Not hosting them, not attending them, but Isaac tends to coddle me, catches the bill — fends off any schmoozers hoping to get in nice with my dad, or any particularly flirty drunk.  He also tends to know when my tolerance for vodka says, enough is enough.

Only it was enough two hours ago, and I didn't stop, and Isaac's pristine face is buried in a whisper in Rodney Knowles' ear.  I watch them over the top of my glass, and the room seems to sway and take the contents of my stomach on a brief side-to-side with it.

Isaac is so flirting with Rodney Knowles of all people, and I'm plastered and giggling about it into the rim of my cup — because Rodney is very fashionable and very straight.

I can tell that tomorrow is going to be a terrible day because the bartender has told me twice that I 'can't sleep here,' but my eyes won't stay open on their own accord, and I close them each time the strobe lights pass from me and back into the crowd. 

I've spent all day on excel, and every other modeling software that anyone could imagine, and next week all I have to look forward to is a slew of meetings, a slew of discussions on how, when, and why people die — what price to put on the most prevalent deaths,

and god is my life fucking sad.

I laugh again, at nothing in particular, and the bartender rolls her eyes — spraying another douse of water into my empty cup.

"Keep chewing those chips, pretty boy."  She says, doesn't bother to keep it under her breath because I can tell she finds me more amusing than threatening, and also probably counts on the fact that I won't remember any of this come morning.  "Your little boyfriend is gettin' real friendly with that tart over there.  Might want to stay awake for it."

"He's not,"  I shake my head, clear my throat because there is the genuine risk that I'll be revisiting the chips I consumed two hours ago very soon, "well.  He is friendly."

"I can see that."  She nods, considering.  "Real friendly.  Shouldn't you, ah,"  she squints at me, "be a little more upset?"

I consider it for a moment, then shake my finger instead of my head, in order to avoid any new nausea spells. 

"Hm, no."  I shrug.

"Oh?" She adds more chips to the emptying container in front of me.  "Not a boyfriend?"

"Isaac doesn't do boyfriends,"  I snort and spin a bit in my chair.  "And Tamela said not to have sex with him, no matter how drunk I get,"   I tell her, and then think back, and wonder if I should've said it that way at all. 

The bartender looks a bit shocked, but she's laughing loudly now.  Isaac is suddenly behind me, both palms on my shoulders, and I startle.

"What are you saying about me?"

"She hates him,"  I add on, like a whisper, like that explains everything — or who Tamela is,  or why in the world I haven't fucked Isaac.  And then, I vaguely catch a thought that says,

well, Tamela isn't here tonight.

Oh, that's not a pleasant thought.

The bartender snorts, leans closer, eyes watering with mirth,

"And who is Tamela?"

"Bossy." I drawl out, "She's bossy, bossy, and cool.  I don't deserve her."

"Stop telling the bartender your life story,"  Isaac is laughing into my ear, just as he was in Rodney Knowles' ear  — only moments before, and then he asks,  "What do you want to drink next?"

—

In most movies, I watch the person who cares for someone else — when they're inevitably hurt by them, cry.  They cry endlessly, in their bedroom — in the bathroom, clutching their knees in the bathtub.

That's how I handled my love for Lucas.

But Isaac is yelling. 

He says he cares for me, but he's yelling.

I don't know how it's escalated into this.

We're both drunk, and fighting, in the back of the bar where the music plays too loudly, where it grates at my ears —

All because he tried to kiss me. 

That's all.  We danced, and I was terrible at it, we were laughing, and he tried to kiss me.  It's happened before, and I've just turned my cheek, and we laughed it off —

But this time, without a reason why, I reacted with a shove that sent him stumbling back into one of the speakers.

"You know what,"  He's louder now — harsher than the music.  Everyone is too busy to notice us, too drunk and too happy and too in lust with the person that they're with.  Thank God.  "Fuck you and your mixed signals.  I'm so sick of them."

There's something about men yelling — something that instantly brings tears to my eyes.  I feel stupid and embarrassed, and I glance to the side to make sure we're still in our own world.  Isaac is still trying to right himself, has poured alcohol down the front of his button-up shirt.  Isaac isn't Lucas.  I don't crumble at his distaste, and maybe if he knew that, he would hurt even more.

"You fucking lead people on, Milan!"  He snaps, "and then you do this!  You always do this to me!"

"Lead you on?  How?"  I'm not in the mood for Isaac or the way that my voice cracks when I try to voice my side of things.  I sound angrier than I intend to, regardless.  "Who the hell asked you to try and make a move on me?"

Isaac's eyes widen, then he scoffs, rolls his eyes heavenwards, and swings a hand towards the entrance.

"I've been taking you out for weeks."  He seethes, "I've been — at your beck and call for years now.  When exactly was I supposed to wait to make a move?"

"Oh, spare me."  Sarcasm is drenching my words because I just don't believe it.  I know pining.  This isn't it.  "You were just trying to get with Rodney — not even five minutes ago.  He didn't work out, and what?  Was I the backup plan?"

My heart is pounding; adrenaline is surging with the glare that he settles on me.

"Rodney was — "

"Rodney didn't let you sleep with him!"  It's nothing but snide because I'd been battered to pieces once this year already, at McLaughlin.  I didn't stand up for myself then.  I won't let it happen again, and I won't spend nights wishing I had voiced something different.  "And now I'm your one true love?  Bullshit, Isaac."

"You were never the backup plan."  He reaches for me, and I dodge it, shrug him off.  He has the decency to at least look a bit troubled by that.  "If you weren't so fucking cold — you'd see that. If you'd get out of your head for once, maybe you'd be enjoyable to be around!"

"Oh, and since I'm so terrible, you thought you'd kiss me."  I'm laughing, mean and reckless, and my hand is in my pocket, on the threaded piece of cloth that was gifted to me.  I run my finger over the seams, over the distant shape of Venus that glows behind a red, neon bat.  "You thought — wow, Milan is so cold, and his company is utterly unenjoyable.  Let's kiss him."

The insult behind it reminds me of another kiss.  A kiss that shaped my life — of Lucas, at fourteen, my face too close to his underneath the light of the tv screen.  I remember that kiss.  My first kiss.  The only kiss.

"You forgot, bitter."  Isaac tacks on, evidently thinks he's downright ruthless.  "You forgot spoiled, bitter, and a fucking alcoholic.  What a surprising treat you are for whoever you finally let unwrap you."

I don't know when the night turned to this.  And maybe I really am that self-centered, because I didn't notice any of this.  A moment passes, where I reflect, and Isaac looks as if he might apologize.  I won't let him.  I don't,

"Well, then.  What a fucking idiot you are,"  I spit back, and watch him recoil the slightest bit, "for wanting me anyway."

I've spent enough time crying over the words of men.  I leave the bar.  I ignore Isaac, who is gracelessly chasing after me.  I flag down the first taxi, run through the snow, and trip into the backseat.

I haven’t sobered a bit, an hour later. 

But I think of how...  Isaac is right.

I think this, propped in the backseat of a taxi that smells like old vomit, and next to the rattling subwoofers of the man parked next to us at the stop-light.  I think of this as my eyes chase each shape and shadow that ducks between Huxley's trailer park, looking ominous only in the night time.  It's a strange time to have a realization so significant.

I've never let myself see what I've turned into, and I've never tried to be more — just because I'm too afraid to be more.  What do I want to be?   Who do I want to be?

Do I always want to be described that way?  Cold? Bitter? Passionless?

I've never let myself become close to someone else, because then, maybe I'd have to voice how ugly I am — how I don't know how to change.   But, perhaps others could see it easily.

It's a sickening— gut-punch sort of feeling.

I watch each stray cat wander freely from gas-station to closed supermarket, and the taxi-cab driver locks the doors as he turns the corner too slowly at W 67th.  I'm not here for a break, I tell myself.  This time, I'm here for myself. 

I tell myself that several times. 

My hand is on the cloth again, and I close my eyes — And exhale.

I'm here for myself.

I repeat that to myself.

I repeat this as I walk through another bar, a grimier one, past the stares and the smoke and the grainy sound of angry music.  I can smell liquor that's been spilled and left sticky on tables; I can smell chemicals and sweat.  No one stops me or questions me — most in their jackets, a red bat arching its wings on their backs.

‘We all want something here.’

I'm at a red door, and I'm thrumming with something different — I've turned my heartache into something different.  My knuckles are rapping against it with some sort of desperation that I can't pick apart.

I need someone.

The red door opens.

I need someone who —

Ez's venom melts and shifts, his grin unfurling into something different — a code I haven't dissected yet, haven't learned.  His eyes say less, and the blood in the one is gone.  They're bright as ever, narrowing down at me,

Someone worse than me.

"Angel."  He says, and his dimples deepen, grin stretching into something shark-like.  He raises his arm above his head, curling around the door-frame as he leans forward, predatory and inviting all at once — the lights behind him are all red and blinding,  "what're you doing in a place like this?"

"— I couldn't,"  I say, and touch the cloth one more time, fingers curling inside of my winter coat.  I pull it from my pocket and hold it out for him.  His arm drops, and his body shifts closer. He takes the Venus from my outstretched hands, his inked fingers grazing mine with intention.

"You like it?" He asks, and I raise my eyes, meet his, and for the first time in my life, I'm honest with my desires.

"I couldn't stop thinking about it."

--

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