WICKED BOY (25) (Patreon)

(A/N:  I wanted a little more insight into more of Milan's relationships (since there have only been a few scenes), mainly to emphasize how differently he interacts with people who aren't Ez.  I do love my icy, sad, rich boy. Also, I just love writing Tamela.  Haha! Time for Ez to begin his escorting services!)

—

"I've blown money for a date I don't want to go on." The crash beside my door is the only indication of Tamela's entrance. I startle, lurching forward. "Again!"

"What are you doing here?"

"I only bought this pallet for the yellow — it's called mimosa or some other fuck-all of a name," Tamela may be rushed — but she shrugs off her coat gracefully, never letting it brush the floor, and pinches it above the tag to hang it on my coat rack. Her dexterity is admirable. "Use that. God forbid you ever see me in any of these shit-greens. Supposedly it's in."

She tries to make air quotes around the inflection of the word 'in,' but bags occupy every limb and finger. She either hasn't heard my question or has decided to ignore it.

"Uh?" I sit up from my place on the couch, talley the usage of two curses in place of a greeting, and come to the conclusion that Tamela is livid about something. Something that's she's not telling me, and Ez will be here in an hour, and I don't have time for her to be livid.

5:58

Crap!

"You heard me."  Tamela takes a swig of her coffee that was previously precariously teetering on my shoe rack, all but glowering at my ceiling.

"I did." I frown. "I'm not following."

"My makeup for tonight?  Greens don't suit me," Tamela shakes her head, muttering in the way she often does before she's forced to intermingle with promising young men. "Frankly, they're uninspiring. Tactless at best. Therefore, they're a waste."

I stand, closing the book that I was reading before her sudden interruption, and lay it on the bare counter as I approach.

"Everything suits you."

"No," Tamela huffs and makes a show of rolling her eyes, then pops her knuckles. "I need to look like a ray of fucking sunshine in that dismal-ass museum.  Dismal-ass situation.  So.  Mimosa it is."

"What's the situation?" I hum, pulling pens and folded sticky-notes from work out of my pocket in an effort to feel more comfortable.  "Is your dad trying to pawn you off on Georgie Cargil again?"

"It's my mother's doing this time. Don't know what their obsession with his pasty-ass is. If I hear about his sportscar one more time..."

Tamela slices at her neck with a quick hand. I laugh, though my eyes chase the stovetop clock behind her.

Shit.

"Didn't he lose his virginity to it?" I derail, hoping to add some humor to her frantic wandering.

"I swear that he did. There's no other reason for a fixation like his. Where's your food?" Tamela still hasn't met my gaze, rummaging through my cabinets. "God. I hate him."

"Then why are you buying make up for a date with him?"  My brows furrowed.  "What's happened?"

"Christ, Milan." She groans. "What hasn't happened? First of all.  I haven't eaten since noon. This shapewear is carving into my soul."

The brunette whips open another cabinet,

"What do you eat?  This is terrible."  It slams.  "This is hell."

"You didn't say you were coming over," I say this — finally, after three failed starts. I sigh when she pushes a small satin clutch into my hands and then a much larger sack of makeup. "I don't usually have any incentive to feed the uninvited.  They might make it a habit."

"What? I was invited." Tamela glares. It's a glare that says we had plans that she imagined and hadn't told me about. Or... "You said you'd do my makeup three weeks ago. Were you that rat-arsed at Manuela's birthday?"

"Oh."  Likely.  I try to waltz back out of the hole that I've plummeted into. "Anyway... You scared me,"

"Why?"  She pauses, eyeing me with skepticism as she fusses with her clothing. I bend down to help her unbuckle one of the straps to her boot,

"I thought you were a burglar."

"I'm not climbing two sets of stairs to rob anyone poorer than me," my friend gives me a pointed look, balanced on one foot to remove her thigh-high boot. "My outfit is worth more than your apartment complex."

"Oh.  Hardly."

"For someone so apprehensive about burglaries, you sure as hell don't know how to work a lock.  Who were you expecting besides me?"

I blink. Her eyes finally meet mine, inflexible and suspicious. I swallow.

"There's heels in there."  Tamela points to the bag abruptly, and I obediently begin scouring through it. "I want my makeup to match them — not my horrid, elegantly boring dress."

"Where is the dress?"

"Hanging in my car.  Forgot it."  She patters away, over to my room on bare feet. I hurry to follow her. "I'm tired.  I'll grab it later."

"What's this in here?" I pull out something silky, dark grey, and light from a folded gift bag.  Tamela spares a look over her shoulder. "Someone's birthday?"

"It's for you.  You should sleep in something besides work clothes. So, I bought you a sleeping robe: a dressing gown — whatever you call it."

I regard her like she's sprouted three heads because Tamela doesn't do gifts.

"...As compensation," she shrugs as if she's read my mind, plopping down onto the bench in front of the vanity in my bedroom. "I don't like owing anyone favors."

"It's nice." I set the bag of makeup on the desk, holding the fabric up. Then add with a tease, "And surprisingly thoughtful of you.  Why is it so short?"

"These apartment complexes are so hot on the top floor.  Anyway," she fans herself.  "Figured you needed a new one. Considering," Tamela turns the lights above the vanity on, pulling at the skin near her eyes. "Apparently, you've started to keep overnight company."

"What?"

"At least.  From what Isaac is spreading."  She's practically yanking at her skin now.  Oh.  This is why she's upset.  "He's rather fanciful in his depictions of your sordid love affair with a tattooed lothario."

Something hot unfurls in my chest.  I roll the robe between my fingers, fold it, and set it on my bed as if to put distance between me and the approaching subject.

Fucking Isaac.

"Oh, that's amusing.  He should write harlequin novels instead of trying to crawl up my dad's ass." My voice is a frigid thing. I can't help it. It turns that way, often when I feel wronged. Tamela frowns at the shifting tone. "Perhaps he'll find his true calling there."

"Isaac is rotten, and I've said that all along," Tamela huffs, turning on me suddenly. I pretend not to notice her urgency. "Whose company you should never have kept.  I'm your friend."

"I'm confused at what exactly you're angry with me for. Is it Isaac?" I laugh, cold and short. It's not a laugh that Ez would say is cute. "Or is it my overnight company that you have no business knowing?  Are you in a huff because I didn't tell you first?"

"No business?  Look at me, Milan. I would never believe Isaac before I believed you, no matter what fiction sprouts from his," she throws a hand up in exasperation, somehow as elegant as ever, "moldy center."

"Then what's the problem?" I level her with a look just as icy as hers is furious and then spread through my makeup brushes. "Please, tell me so that we can be done with this conversation."

"Ez," Tamela says softly, and I stiffen.  "Ez is the problem."

"Is that name supposed to mean something to me?" The lie is quick and hot on my tongue. Tamela flinches.

"Don't lie to me." Her jaw sets. "Milan.  The problem is — is that it's an uncommon name. One I remember from a particular night in Huxley."

"Oh. That is a problem, isn't it?" I lay a swatch of dark foundation on the back of my hand to compare to her cheek. She tries to catch my gaze, but I avoid it easily. "For who, though? You?"

"Milan. Don't get nasty with me." She inhales sharply.  "You have to know that this isn't a good move."

"Did you tell him?"

"Did I tell him what?" Tamela scowls. I roll my eyes. "Who, Isaac?"

"Did you tell him that Ez is an escort?"

"God." Tamela crosses her arms, uncrosses them, and then shoves at my midsection in frustration.  It's funny, the ways people want to touch me when they're angry.  I wonder if it's something only I bring out. "No! No? Why in the hell would I?"

"And why not?"

"Because it would damage your reputation?" She looks at me like I'm crazy. "Because your dad would lose his ever-loving shit? Because you're my friend?"

"Why do you keep repeating that you're my friend?"  My nose wrinkles, "I'm aware that we're friends.  Our friendship has nothing to do with my personal life."

"Because you seem to forget that.  I was hoping that as your friend — that only cares for your best interest — that I could come here and talk some sense into you."

"I'm an adult," I say simply, softly, and she hands me a tube of primer. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

"Adult? A poor one at that." Tamela pouts at my rebuttal. "Look at how you live.  It's lonely."  She waves to the emptiness of my bedroom.  "I want to. I want to make things easier for you, the world pleasant for you — and every time I try..."

"I make my own choices." The primer slides over my sponge easily. "The world isn't pleasant.  I'm not either.  So, I don't know why you always sound so guilty."

Tamela quiets.

"So.  That's it?  Your choice is to...  Sleep with prostitutes? For what?"  Tamela peers at her hands.  "What will that do for your happiness?"

"I haven't slept with anyone." I snort a little. Tamela's eyes chase mine, and in them, she must find something to trust because she relaxes ever-so-slightly. "Nor do I plan to."

I think of the Ez from my dream.  The one that crawls between my legs, of the imagined heat of his weight — then blush and undo the plastic of Tamela's new pallet.

Ludicrous dream.

"Then what is it you're doing letting him lurk around your apartment?"  She pouts, her arms crossing.

"He's just good company."

"You don't like company."

"I like his company," I declare it quicker than I mean to, startling myself, and stare down at the brush in my hands.  I like his company.  It must surprise Tamela just the same because she hesitates.

"How much do you pay him?"

My chest aches.

"...Milan."  Tamela touches my hand, and I try not to recoil from her warmth.  Let her have this, I tell myself.  Don't be unnecessarily selfish.  "You worry me sometimes."

"I worry myself."

The conversation ends there.  Tamela doesn't seem placated.  Not the slightest bit.  She watches me warily through the vanity mirror as I apply the primer to her eyelids.

Several minutes pass, and by the time we talk again, her face is fully made.  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I can't think of who else it might be — who else besides Ez.  My attention shifts noticeably.  Tamela deflates.

"... I can't believe I'm turning twenty-nine next month. This is a mess."  The superiority has crept back into her tone, the change of subject righting the lean of our awkward exchange from before.  Her posture straightens.  "Terrible, really."

"It isn't."

"Oh?"  She snorts loudly,  "In my father's eyes, I'm basically unwed on my deathbed."

"How archaic."

She hums. I clean the brushes from the counter.

"... Is he coming soon?"  Tamela's voice drops, the conversation zigzagging again.  I clear my throat.  I nod.  She taps her empty coffee cup against the desk.   "Then, I should meet him."

"Tamela."

"You never do anything I —"

"It's not in our contract."

"I just...  Please.  I just — I need some peace."  Her eyes are imploring.  I stop, gather myself, and nod again.  She exhales shakily.  "Fantastic.  Do you have more coffee?"

"Isn't it late for coffee?"

"It's the perfect time for coffee." Tamela squints, her irritation and apprehension finally discarded. She hums.  "And for you to tell me that I look pretty."

"You're beautiful." I pull the stool from my makeshift desk.

There's another lull of uneasy silence.

"... What's the lighting like?"

"Museum lighting.  Blah lighting."

"You'll stand out."  I smile along when Tamela laughs.  It sounds like defeat.  She runs a hand over her shaved head.

"...What's Ez like?"

"Persistent. Intimidating...” I smile a little when her eyes narrow.  "Like you."

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