WICKED BOY (26) (Patreon)

(We’re skimming the top of Ez and Milan’s first night! Milan is cracking open a little more each chapter. I want you guys to notice the considerable differences between how he interacts with his father, Isaac, and Tamela in contrast to Ez, so his characterization or perceived coldness does shift a bit depending on that. I don’t want it to be jarring.  You ever get emotional over being frustrated for too long?  Milan.

Oh! To forewarn you, Tamela isn’t meant as a bad person; she just has a limited worldview and cares for Milan (in her own way). She is definitely not meant to be portrayed as entirely sympathetic or villainous. She’ll have her character development later in the series!

Ez’s no means no is applicable to everyone’s life! Say no when you’re uncomfy! It’s ok!!)

"You're upset that I'm staying. You're practically radiating the word 'leave.'"

The silence that follows Tamela's observation is tense. I don't know how to react to it. I run the back of my palm across my mouth like I'm trying to wipe away a sour taste.

"I said that I'd let you meet him," I frown. Her bright, sunny makeup doesn't suit the mood that radiates. "If that's what you want. Let's drop it."

"But you're clearly upset." Tamela repeats, the inflection of her tone reading as nothing other than vexation. "...Why?"

"I just don't think..." My flat smells like roasted hazelnut coffee and Tamela's perfume.   I can't remember the last time I've had the chance to grow used to anything besides her — or myself.

Tonight was supposed to be something different.

My mouth feels sticky with words that sway and linger and die. It takes me too long to gather them, and they lack the proper amount of vitriol.

"I don't feel comfortable springing this on him. At all, really."

Tamela's frown deepens with my too-late admission. She's pulled up too close to the kitchen island and stooped over the beverage she's asked for but hasn't touched.

"I'm not comfortable with him." She snaps back. She crosses her arms against her chest like if she reigns in all of herself, her words will hold more conviction. "And what are you springing on him? A colleague who wants to make sure you're safe?"

"That's not the point. He's paid." I pull down another cup, and my sight lingers on the vodka that's stored on the shelf adjacent. I fill my mug with coffee to busy my hands and evade her gaze. "To — to see me. Not a friend of mine... and not to entertain your suspicion. I didn't even ask him."

Tamela laughs, quiet and curt.

"Okay." She inhales loudly. "Look. I'll fling a little more money his way for the difficulty of it all."

"Tamela."

"I'm sure he'd love that. So don't fuss."

"Why can't I just tell you I don't want to do this?"  My jaw sets as I turn, and I put the mug down too heavily against the island. It clatters and sloshes coffee up its sides. Tamela's eyes widen.  "How could he love being looked down on?"

"Milan," Tamela leans in, "there isn't any way you can tell me that you don't comprehend where I'm coming from. You employed a Huxley-bred escort."

"Yes? And what's going to reverse that if you meet him?"

Tamela is uncharacteristically silent. She neatens her blouse.

"This was predictable. To shove me out for caring." She scoffs. I recoil a little, my nose wrinkling with the declaration. "Just let me have this so that I know —"

"I don't —"

Tamela speaks over me, louder, frustration building,

"So that I can at least contribute to a police sketch if needed!"

I sigh, reaching for a napkin to clean the inescapable ring of coffee from the mess I've made.

"Listen.  I know you believe that you have good intentions..." I trail off while I ponder those motives. Tamela softens. My brows gather. "I just don't think it's right to make him uncomfortable because you're displeased with my choices."

"No."  Tamela gives a frustrated huff. "No.  It's not even your choices. You're not the sort to — affiliate yourself with people who," She flaps her hand about like she's struggling for a word that won't annoy me further. "Who are — from seedier areas. Who don't live quite so honestly."

"Oh?" My gaze shifts to meet hers then averts again. "I wasn't aware that the people of Pennbrook are the pinnacle of virtue."

"This Ez could be taking advantage of you, or he may solicit you, or — or sell your information..."

I think of the agreement Ez had me sign. A non-disclosure arrangement. I would've never thought to make one myself. I want to correct Tamela, something burning hot inside my chest, but I shake my head. It surely conveys all the disappointment that I mean for it too, because she withers.

My phone vibrates.

Incoming Message (Ezra):

Up in 5 x

"He's here," I say, dismissive as best. I shove my phone into my pocket, reaching for my coat.  "I should meet him downstairs."

"You shouldn't."  Tamela straightens, almost stands from the barstool but then rights herself again. She clears her throat, clearly appalled by her outburst.  "I mean. Have him join us here."

I roll my eyes, pulling up the zipper of my coat. I grab my shoes.

"It's only polite." I counter. "If you'd text me before your arrivals, I'd meet you just the same." I tack on, muttering about the inconvenience of it all.

"The difference is that I'm your friend.  I'm sure you're paying him enough that he can go up the stairs without assistance."

"I'd like to at least explain to him why... My friend is here."  I grab the door handle.  "If you don't find the motivation to somehow mind your own business, I'll see you in ten."

"Fine."  Tamela harrumphs, tapping her manicured nails against the marble countertop.  "Fine. I'll be here, prematurely graying!"

—

I should be seething.  The smallest bit upset, even.

But I descend the stairs quickly, with some childlike sentiment, wondering if I could call the warmth in my chest and the energy blooming inside of me anything other than excitement.

I don't know what to do with that revelation.

You ignore it. That's what.

I open the entryway to my apartment complex with an elbow pressed against the handle. The two lights above me switch on with the door's motion, lighting the front row of the parking lot.   The temperature has started to rise, and the roads have finally cleared of the mucky, grey dusting of dirty snow.  It feels humid, like it may rain.

You can't be excited.

I swallow my anxiety, filling and clawing, and then, I bare my throat to the dark outside.

I find him immediately.

"Ez?"

The man in question is perched on his parked motorcycle, back to me, a puff of cigarette smoke rising above him.   The bat on his jacket stretches across his broad shoulders, shifting as Ez exhales another strip of smoke.  I swallow.  He turns his head, grin catching.

I find myself stock-still, nearly every time I see him.  I wonder when that feeling will fade, or if it will grow and become something ugly and unwanted by him.

"Hey,"  I say, so stupidly casual that I bite my tongue.

"Hey, angel." I stare as he breathes out again, tipping his chin back, the way his bright eyes narrow to watch the smoke be carried off by the chilly, Pennbrook breeze.  "How've ya been?"

Ez is made for the night — outside of the harsh fluorescents of both my new studio apartment and the lights at Impresso Espresso. His eyes flash under the front stoop's light, like some sort of stray cat.  I almost forgot how much the near-dark suits him, even with the city awake and stealing the starlight behind him.

"Um."  I check my watch hastily, tugging at the sleeve of my sweater to reveal its face, mostly to stave off my gaze.  There's something about the calmness that surrounds Ez that I could watch for moments too long and too heavy.  Something curious about him that I can't dissect. My heart is thrumming wildly in my chest.

"Your shift doesn't start for ten more minutes,"  The words run together.  There's a ridiculous urgency present that springs from my flustered state — and I want to slap myself.  "There's something I need to tell you now."

"My shift?"  Ez snorts, straightening as he swings his leg over his motorcycle, perching it against the smooth pavement.  He chuckles quietly, the traffic from two streets over a constant that nearly drowns it out.  "You're a trip."

"What else would you have me call it?"  I tug my sleeve back down, a leftover defensiveness to my words that carry from my previous chat with Tamela.   Ez steps closer, "It's work.  You're working."

"Alright, brat."  Ez eyes me evenly as he enters my space, his boots dragging noisily against the apartment's sidewalk, a narrow of his gaze that says he doesn't much care for the change in my tone.  His cigarette hangs, immobile between his teeth.  He plucks it out with a grin.  "Then I have a pretty damn good job, don't I?"

I fluster, subconsciously touching the side of my neck.  It feels warm — my face is growing warm, and Ez's eyes follow the blush.  My lips part.

How much do you pay him?

Right.

"There's an issue."  I clear my throat, begin again, and Ez chuckles humorlessly like he just knew there would be.  "I wanted to address it before — before you felt like it was part of your job to be okay with it."

Ez is bizarrely silent. My eyes that had dropped down to his chest chase back up to him curiously.

He takes a drag of his cigarette and smiles.

"Go on."

Not a smirk. Not a grin — but a slight ghost of a smile.

"It's just my friend," the words sound strange, even to me. My stomach turns with something fluttery.  Ez's head tilts. "Showed up. She's still upstairs — she wants to meet you."

"'Kay?" He shrugs carelessly, turning, and whatever flowery feeling there was dissipates into the Pennbrook chill.  Ez butts the hot end of his cigarette against the spherical ash-tray by the hedges and tucks the remnants inside. "When she leavin'?"

"She's ah.  Not." I cross my arms because I don't know what to do with them. I don't know where to look. "She wants to speak with you. That's the problem. The issue."

Ez hums in mock understanding.

"... I'm sure a lotta people wanna speak with me."  He rounds back to his motorcycle's compartment box, unlatching the plastic top. He looks back up at me, eyebrows lifted.  "When's she leavin'?"

"She won't."  I huff, exasperated between the stubbornness of the two. Something that was meant to bring comfort — has unexpectedly twisted into a very large headache. I look over my shoulder if just to make sure Tamela hasn't followed me down. "She knows you're an escort."

"So.  She knows she's wastin' my time."  Ez juts his chin towards the top floor.   "...Ya' want me to speak to her?"

"No. I mean — yes."  My shoulders droop.  "... She wants — she wants you to speak with her,"  I admit, softly.

"And do you want me to?"  Ez's eyes narrow.  "Yes or no?  Simple as that."

"I just think..." I hesitate.  "I mean.  It's not part of our contract.  And I didn't forwarn you — or ask."

"And?"

"And.  I'm... not comfortable with it.  At all.  It's not going to go well."

"So no."  Ez supplies.  I straighten the lapels of my jacket, eyes averting to the gravel.  "That's a fuckin' no.  Ya' get that, right?"

"Well — she seemed upset when I..."  I chew my cheek, then huff.  "And the more I tried to explain myself... I don't know.  It just gets worse with her when she's set on something."

"Alright?"  Ez shrugs.  "Boohoo.  She can fuck off."

"Tamela's..."  I glance towards my window.  "I don't think she'll drop this."

"Your lil' friends seem to have a hard time hearin' ya' say the word no."

"Well then."  I kick at the pavement with the top of my shoe and sigh.  My eyes are watering.  I feel childish, always strangely open in his presence.  "...I don't know what to do.  What do I do?  She's not going to listen."

Ez cocks his head, reaches into his compartment — and pushes a motorcycle helmet into my hands, brow arching with my confusion.

"...It's a helmet, babe."

"But — why?"  I turn it over, wiping quickly at my eyes, then look back at him, another spark of exhilaration dawning with the implication.   I laugh, nervous and misplaced—his lip lifts.

"Why do ya' think?"

A small smile is starting to tug at the corners of my mouth, no matter how hard I try to stifle it.  Ez notices.  His grin grows with something devious, all teeth, and then drags his helmet over his head, shielding himself from view.

"Turn your phone off.  We're gonna go for a fuckin' ride."  He turns, shoulders broad, his jacket zipped.  He pats the seat behind him.

"What?"

"Ya' cool with that?"

I glance at my apartment again.

"Is that okay — to...?"

"To say no once and expect it to be enough?"  He squints.  "Sure the fuck is."

My heartbeat is frantic.

A motorcycle.

I'm blowing off Tamela for...  A motorcycle.

I nod abruptly, hoping I don't seem too eager, but I feel like I'm walking towards him much faster than I can consider casual.  Thoughts of Tamela's disapproval are left somewhere far behind me, and the ache in my stomach subsides.

"I've never done this,"  I say, and I try to swallow the warmth of my words.  My leg hooks over the seat behind Ez, and I touch his shoulder to steady myself.  I haul on the helmet, fastening it.   "Oh.  I mean.  I've never been on a motorcycle."

"No shit?"  Ez teases, his laugh loud and reckless, like he's found amusement in my readiness.  He twists the key of his ignition, and I reach for his shoulders, my hands hesitant in their placement.  He shifts, reaching up — his hand hovering over mine.  "Guess I'm poppin' that cherry."

My cheeks heat again, throat abruptly dry.  I try very hard to dismiss the vague recollections of an unwanted dream.

"Ah.  Can I touch ya' for a second?"  Ez implores, and my eyes widen, unseen.

Great.

"Yes,"  I whisper, and his hand encloses mine — his skin rougher than my own.  He pulls it down to the area above his hips.  He seconds the movement with my other hand, and I chew my bottom lip.

He's warm.  Touching someone else — is warm.

"That's it, angel."  Ez's grasp moves back to his handles. "Hold onto me.“

Tears well in my eyes a second time, but this time, for a reason entirely different.  My grip tightens.

--

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