Wicked Boy (21) (Patreon)

(A/N:  Okay, something less angst-filled because today is great day, and I wanted to start bringing in other characters that aren't as detrimental to Milan's mental health!)

"Oh, honey, you didn't." Abram sighs, beanie pushed too far back from his graying head of hair.   I briefly consider the fact that he looks like a garden gnome but keep that thought to myself.

"Hush."  I don't know why I say it. The word isn't in Abram's dictionary, though there are several instances that I can recall where I wish it had been.

"You didn't." Abram ignores me, as usual.  He's clenching a dishrag between his hands, sympathetically gazing at where Ezra is lounging. "You are gonna be wrecked."

"...Didn't?" I ask, a bit offhand, as I count quarters from my pocket. I glimpse back at Ezra and his conquering presence, way too wicked an air to be perched in the sluggish, city-sunlight of Pennbrook's cafe. Instead of his usual cigarette, a flimsy coffee-straw is busying his mouth, "Didn't do what?"

"You're hopeless." Abram bestows me a hard once over, tawny eyes meandering over the frame of my neck. Abram's just as tall as Ezra but likely much older than us both, and his beard is always groomed. I like how he makes coffee — and occasionally, despite how forward he is, he makes me laugh.

".... Please, tell me you did not have a sleepover with Mr. Corruptor over there,"  Abram sighs, forlornly, "You're asking for a heartbreak, pet."

"Oh.  Heartbreak?"  I roll my eyes.  "...Don't think that's in my cards."

"Uh, yes, it is. Monumental heartbreak.  That man is 20,000 leagues out of our sea, if you catch my drift."

"Alright.  Glad to know you think highly of my desirability, Abram."  I glare.  "I did not have a sleepover, like that, at least — and he's not the least bit interested in my heart, or breaking it, so wrong and wronger."

"You're stunning, none of that self-hatred."  Abram flaps his hand.  "But that?  That's sex."  He flings his rag-hand in Ezra's direction.  "That's... I'm just saying, he looks like he's packin' heat and all, but nobody's banana jamma is worth—"

I shoot Abram a bewildered look, hushing him once more. I dismiss a penny that plunges and swirls under the barstools.

"Don't talk about his banana — and keep your voice down." I risk a peek back to Ezra, who is watching us, straw between his teeth, eyebrow raised. I send him a grin, false and strange on my face — more worried that I look delirious than anything else.  He grins back. "he's just. Nevermind.  I can't explain it. Could I have two americanos, please?"

"Don't you never-mind me. Tell me what's going on, or I won't give you shit."

"I...” My nose wrinkles. What is going on? How did this suddenly become my life? "Well. I don't know.  I need coffee, that's all."

"And?"

"Okay. Fine. And I'm pretty sure my heart is in my throat," I breathe, trying to straighten out my sweater. It doesn’t do much for me, or my anxiety. "and it sucks, and I hope it chokes me."

Abram drags my hands towards him, and I stumble. He leans in with new and sudden vigor,

"Oh?  You hope it chokes you or he chokes you?" I blink at the filth that's just slithered from his mouth.  Abram taps the tops of my wrists lightly, winks, then whirls around to wipe the already clean countertop as a stall for a response. "Ah, this is exciting."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't, excuse me." Abram chuckles, mocks innocent with a pout — mocks me.   "I know tall, dark, and handsome is your thing. And you're buying his coffee.  Never seen you buy nobody's coffee before."

"It won't be going anywhere." I look down at my quarters, "he's a — I guess...  I guess he's a new friend. That's all."

"You don't have friends."

"I do." I glare. Abram snorts.  "...Occasionally."

"Won't be going anywhere..." he shakes his head. "Hell yeah, it will. He's virtually leering at you right now."  Abram hums, "I'm a little jealous."

"He isn't leering."  I refuse to steal a glimpse of Ez, but I do peek to make sure the coffee shop is still vacant near the check-stand.

Thankfully, it is.

"He wants to fuck you.  I can see it.  And you reek of sad and virgin."  Abram simpers playfully, flicking his wrist over my shoulder.  "Do the math, baby."

"I didn't know virgin had a smell."  I hiss, restarting my count, appreciative that no other patrons are nearby.  "Watch your language."

"Virgins smell like sweater vests, vanilla shampoo, and quarters that they count out to pay for a playboy's coffee."  Abram leans in on his elbows; eyebrow lifted with pride as he slides each coin to himself noisily. "S. A. D."  He spells out, "Awe, look. It says sad."

"Ya' forget your coffee order?"  Ez is abruptly behind me, and I jump, change clattering against the countertop.

"I'll keep that; consider it a tip for my fuck-boy advice fee," Abram smiles merrily, gathering the change and depositing it into the drawer. "Smooches."

"I'm fine."  I attempt to telepathically tell Ezra to go back to his seat and Abram to behave simultaneously. "This is my friend, Abram. Abram, this is Ezra."  I introduce, head down to hide my knowledge of impending doom.

"Oh, you're calling me a friend now?" Abram brightens, smile massive, "finally.  Only took four years of escorting you to every bar known to man."

"Abram?"  Ez questions, and I blink at his ringed hand that's outstretched in welcoming, which Abram accepts appreciatively, "...Nice shop."

"I have exceptional taste."  Abram hums with a flutter of eyelashes.  "Ezra?"

"Ez is fine."

The bright-eyed man waits curiously for an outcome of their exchange, but Abram relishes in suspense, popping a cup on its front.

"Okay, Ez. You like befriending icy rich boys?" Abram's smile is sunny and candid, a definite polarity to the dagger he's just thrown. I startle at his protective sort of interest, anxiety surging through me as the corner of Ez's lip lifts. "... Sorry, I'm just so not convinced that you have that much in common.  What's the appeal?"

"We ain't friends."

"Oh?"  Abram's hard-eyed gaze is unrelenting.  "Then why're you here with him, baby?"

Ez leans over the counter, his arms crossed over it lazily. He grins at Abram, who has a moment where he looks a bit rattled by the reaction.

"Wouldn't ya' love to know?" Ez winks.

Abram turns to me; curiosity settled — one finger bouncing off the air in front of me.

"Choking."  He pretends to whisper.  "Knew it."

I cough.  Ez's regard shifts to me, sly,

"Choking?"

"Please, ignore Abram." I palm my flushed face, weaving one hand through my hair. Ez's eyes track the motion.  "He likes to run through all scenarios in which he could get himself fired."

"Fire, who? Little ol' me?  We were just talking about Milan having a distinct type, is all," Abram supplies for me, and I narrow my eyes in the hope of deterring him. He seems to have a minor bit of sympathy, gaze alleviating for only a moment. He cups his mouth,  "you fit the bill."

"Yeah?" Ez's head tilts curiously. "Wanna tell me more?"

"Maybe? Take me for a drink, and I'll tell you all you want to know." Abram coos, and I sigh.

"There's nothing to know."  I counter.

Ez nods.

He pushes back from the counter before he lays his palm against the small of my back. It feels unexpected and warm, and my body suddenly aches like it's starved for a comforting touch. He pinches the fabric and gives it a small tug.

Abram stares, lips twisting in something that looks like consideration.  Ez dips his head closer to mine,

"Think ya' can find your way back to the table?"

"Um."  I swallow, clasping the metal on my change purse. "Yes."

"'Kay." Ez nods towards Abram, who is finally working on filling two paper cups, before taking his leave.

"I'm going to kill you."  I gripe, snatching the receipt from Abram's hand.  He gasps.  "You're the worst.  The worst."

"Can I bottle your sad virgin scent?"  Abram is now the one leering, as Ez saunters, unbothered, towards his seat. "It works wonders."

--

Previous chapter  |  Next chapter  | First Chapter