Wicked Boy (32) (Patreon)

(Okay I hope this BEHEMOTH of a chapter makes up for the lack of updates for Wicked Boy this month.)

(PS.  The tables have turned.)

—

I twist my fingers against the fabric of the couch.  My gaze is unwilling to leave Ez, who speaks my desires with a forked tongue, smiling in a way that says he knows — that one day I'll ask him again.

I bet I don't kiss like one of your posh pricks.

"Well," I clear my throat.  My eyes flicker to the television screen, and my brows jump in surprise that the title screen presents there, present on top of warm, billowing magnolia trees.  "Iron Magnolias."

"... Pretty and ya' can read."  Ez's smile grows, and he lazily sinks back into the couch.  I shiver, even though the room is warm.  His regard, when I catch it, goes straight down my spine.  "Watch out, world."

I shift awkwardly.

"So."  I wish I could slip back to the first time I met him, or even before the drive here, where I felt as if I was without this strange air of budding affection.  "The questions..."

Ez shifts so that his ankle crosses over his knee, spreading back against the armrest.  My heart skitters with his mannerisms.

"Ask one."

I should distract myself.

"When you sent that movie,"  I turn towards him, openly curious.  Whatever tension we fell into tonight lifted long ago and turned into a different sort.  For the first time, I realize that there's no constant hum from my cellphone from incoming work emails, Tamela, Isaac, or my colleagues, "there was no disc.  Did you forget it?"

"Did I forget it?"  Ez laughs, tips his head back against the edge of the couch, and stares, "I wasn't gonna send ya' my copy."

I almost smile at his joke but think better of it.  I'm unsure if it's his home and the warmth that its wooden and floral interior brings, the drive here that was absent of city smog and metal, the intro of the movie playing softly in front of us, or Huxley itself.   But I feel each part of me that has grown taut softening.

"Regardless, I had another question.  Why'd Daphne give you my address?"

There's no bite behind it.  I'm happy, I realize, that she did.  There's not a reason for him to know that.

"Why did she?"

"Couldn't that get her in trouble?  You realize it's creepy, don't you?  So was showing up at my apartment."

Ez startles, his eyes sliding to mine.  He makes a sound, and then his shoulders shake like he's chuckling, but his teeth show,

"I know."  He drolls.

"Good, then."  I pat down the waist of my sweater, adjusting the watch on my wrist.  Ez's mouth twists between curiously amused — and irritated by the comment.

"...You guys sound close.  You and your sister."  I want to relax alongside him, to look at ease in a house that isn't mine, but I'm wired with questions.  My interest won't settle, "I almost didn't think so with the way you two were at the diner."

The other man scoffs, his lip curling downwards and eyes narrowing.

"We ain't close."  He twirls the remote in his hand, and I watch him do so.  "Stick to first impressions."

"Why's that?"

Ez hums, and the remote stills.  His eyes flicker over the screen and up towards the ceiling.  I watch his jaw flex as his teeth grit, and then,

"I lied."  He says the words so carefully.  It's unlike him, so much so that I frown.

"What sort of lie?"

He laughs.  It should be nonchalant.  It's empty.  I forget that Ez has these barbs to him, like a chicken-wire fence.  I haven't seen them since that day in W 67th  — in the red light of his room there.

"Not a small one."

"Um.  The bubbles."  I try to change the subject.  I feel like I've stepped into something discomforting.  Ez doesn't say to stop prodding, but there's an indifference towards Daphne, an abnormal apathy, that says to do so.  "On the porch?"

"Wanna play with 'em or somethin'?"  Ez squeezes the fabric of the couch cushion from where his arm is draped between his thumb and his index finger.  His tone is still biting.

"I won't make you answer anything too personal."  I front with this because I feel like I should've said it earlier.  I think of the chalkboard with old, colorful scribbles.  "I want you to know that.  Let me know if I overstep."

"You can't make me do shit."

There's nothing venomous to it.

His eyes close.

"Do you..." I glance towards the dark hallway to our right.  It looks as if he has more than one bedroom.  Ez's eyes open with the pause, and they follow mine.  "Do you have children?"

"Kids?"  Ez snorts,  "Nah.  Why?"

"What do you mean, why?  You have bubbles and chalk —"

"And you wear khakis and a fuckin' watch."  Ez juts his chin towards my pants, not shy about the humor he finds in our derailing conversation.  "Do you have kids?"

I scowl in return, tugging down my sleeve.

"I've never been married."

He smirks, his head tilting.

"Do ya' have to be married to fuck?"  Ez leans in, smarmy as ever, his investment piqued.  He dips one finger into the first undone button of my sweater vest, smirking at the drag of his finger over the dip of my collarbone.  I feel my eyes lid, my heartbeat loud and drowning, "Ya' waitin' for a ring?"

I huff, blushing with his proximity.  I feel it spread from my neck to my ears — and hope the light from the movie screen does nothing to expose it.

I pull away.

"I don't have children."  I swallow, my voice thin, and Ez's eyes drift to my neck.  I button my collar, my fingers shaking.  "Obviously."

"Didn't answer my question."

I shake my head again, but I don't offer any words for him to twist and play with.  Ez rolls his eyes, plopping back against his corner.

"Daphne's kids."

I blink.  Every night that I was at the motel, Daphne was working the night shift.  Sometimes — in the morning, I'd find her there too.

"She has children?"

"Two of 'em."  Ez's attention shifts to the television, and I realize that I've likely retreaded into dangerous territory.  I push my palms over my knees, flattening the creases of my trousers.

"Um,"  I dip my toes against the carpet beneath his coffee table.  "Did I ask too many questions?"

"Nah,"  Ez doesn't seem to be lying. "I just didn't expect them to be so rapid-fire."

I flush.

"I'm sure you've got another one."  Ez waves two fingers.  "Shoot."

"Do you live with anyone?"  I pick at a fuzz on the cushion next to my leg, rolling it between my fingers.

Does he have a roommate?  A close friend?

Maybe even a — very easy-going significant other?

"Nope,"  Ez says simply.  "Don't want one.  Not a neighbor for a mile."  His eyes catch mine again, the yellow in their green stunning beneath dark lashes that narrow and trap, "don't have thin walls like you do, either."

"Oh. Okay."  I inhale sharply, and Ez's lip lifts.

"Why don't ya' ask something a lil' more ballsy?" Ez lifts his elbow to the armrest, sinking his chin into his palm.  His regard is steady and indecipherable.  I feel the subtlest uncertainty.

"...Why'd you join the Goules?"

"Easy."  Ez shrugs, unbothered.  "I like money."

I frown; my interest is oppressive.

"Nothing else?"  I question, and I find that I'm now the one growing closer to him.  "There wasn't any other reason?"

"What if you don't like my reason?"  Ez peers at me from where he rests his head, his eyes lidded and severe, "what if it's not very nice?"

"You said..."  I touch the top of my arm.  Ez's words are quieter, gravel to them, and there's a different heat creeping into my stomach.  "You said you were just as ugly as I am.  I haven't seen — I haven't seen any of that yet."

Ez's brows draw together, and he watches me for another quiet moment like he's testing the waters.

"Ya' wanna' see ugly?"

I curl my toes, thinking of every reason I shouldn't.

I nod.

"There's a dominance to sex work."  He twists his rings with one hand.  "That I like."

"A dominance...?"  I watch his brow lift, calm, his gaze on his rings before it flicks upwards and demands mine.  I feel my nerves buzzing.

"Mhm,"  he hums.  "I like watchin' rich fucks get real worked up, real hot and bothered, sweatin' and pamperin' someone they'd usually call trash.  It's fun."

The words take a minute to process, and my brain is pooling with insecurities, drowning with distrust.  My stomach turns, nauseous.  I avert my eyes, fingers digging into the couch.

Ez laughs, short and sudden.

"You thinkin' that I mean you?"  He sinks into my space, and I swear I didn't see him move; he closes the distance between us so easily, his palms bracketing me.  He leans over me,

"C'mon, Milan. Picture the richest, meanest goddamn fuck you have ever met."  Ez seethes, and my eyes shift up to his, my lips parting, and there's a strange desire — a fear, a longing, a confusion.

I inhale, my body an itch, an endless nerve.  To rid me of the things I want, I listen to Ez.

I think — I picture.

"Who is it?"  Ez smiles, his voice in my ear, and I sink into the cushions with a nod and a creak.  There's a minute where I think,

No — don't say it.  You don't know him.  If Tamela doesn't know — if no one knows,

"My dad."

The words shake, I flinch back, and Ez's brows gather, and something in his eyes is vicious — and something in the wrinkle of his nose says he's piecing everything together.

He glares.  I close my eyes because the truth feels incredibly hollow.

"...Wouldn't ya' love to make him feel small?"

Ez's voice is quieter. I don't — I don't expect his words—the plainness of them.

"Powerless?"

I nod, but I don't open my eyes.  Instead, I cross my arms over my face, my heart fluttering, sucking in a shallow breath.  I think of that often.  I think of — crawling out from my father's shadow.  I think of trading every raised hand, every shout, for something better.

On the other hand, I think of different things.

Worse things.

"I want that more than anything."  They never tell you that confiding in someone feels like passing the weapon.  There's something jagged, barbed and splintering, that's sprouting tonight.

I want to crawl into Ez's lap and tell him that I like his ugliness.  That I agree with it.  That I want his arms around me.  I want him at my throat, his hands there, his sharp eyes as brilliant as ever.  My skin is singing with heat and humiliation.

"But.  How can I make him feel small?  ...When I know I'm much smaller?  That I don't have any power?  How can I take his?"

Something must hit the remote.  The movie starts with the sound of chirping birds, old country music, and people laughing.  It interrupts the stillness like a strange omen, like Huxley has bloomed inside of the resentment in the room.

"Your question doesn't sound like it wants an answer."

I chew my cheek.  I squeeze my eyes closed tighter, until I see spots behind them.

"That contract."  I hold my elbows, my nails digging into the fabric of my shirt.  "I know you think it will help.  If I — do the AA meetings."

"It will help."

I grit my teeth.

"No, it won't. I'll wake up.  Go to work — and I'll owe it all to him.  I go home.  I owe it to him.  It's empty.  Because of me."  My chest shudders.  "I don't even — I don't even have the energy to buy groceries.  There's nothing to me.  I don't have anything."

"...Ya' wanna be an actuary? "  Ez asks, and it's so simple.  He questions it in such a simple way.  "Yes or no, remember?"

I tilt my head back, watching his profile from underneath my arms.  My shirt drags up my waist, and Ez's eyes slide to it without shame.

Do I?

I don't.

"... No.”

“Quit.”

“But it's not like.  You're insane. I can't quit."

Ez laughs, harsh and abrupt,

"Yeah?  Why?  Ya' got some savings or not?"

"Well.  It's,"

"Anyone you'll miss?"

I shake my head.

"I'm not tellin' ya' to put in a two weeks notice.  Quit."  Ez annunciates each pause so rigidly, so coldly.  "Don't show up.  Cut your lease.  Turn your fuckin' phone off.  Leave."

"What?"  I haul away my arms deliberately, sitting up.

Ez — he's too drastic.  It's too extreme of an idea.

Where will I go?

Where will I work?

"You're telling me to run away from my problems."  My brows gather in confusion, my hands on my knees once again.

"No, I fuckin' ain't."

"Then what?"  I snap back, irritable.

"If you're sayin' you can't get better, can't be happier, healthier — because of the place you're in," Ez stands.  I hear him behind me, in the kitchen, the sound of the cupboard — of plastic crinkling.  "Change it.  Or do ya' wanna feel small forever?"

"Okay.  That's easy to say, but I don't..." I turn back to watch Ez, who is sliding a bag of popcorn into the microwave.  "I don't know where I would work. I've only been an actuary, an intern — I mean.  Once I worked at a library."

There's a tiny part of me that feels fascinated at the thought, by talking about it.  It's a small part that swells, and eclipses, and becomes something that turns inside of my stomach.

Could I?

Could I leave Pennbrook?

"People get jobs with less,"  Ez hand drops from the buttons of the microwave, the beeps short and loud blips of noise behind him.  It whirs to life.  I brighten.

"I've been in Pennbrook this entire time."  I narrow my eyes, "Where else would I go?"

"What the fuck are you on about?  Don't you like Huxley?"  Ez leans against the counter.  My heart is thumping.

Why...?

"Well, liking it is one thing, moving here is a fantasy," I wave the thought away,  "I've tried to do this before —  I spent all my time at work or school.  I ended up taking showers for free at a gym because I had no running water.  I had no food.  My dad had to buy my textbooks."

"What were ya' in school for?" Ez's nose creases, like he knows the answer,

"For hospitality..."  I blanch, frowning.  I stare at the cuffs of my shirt.

"Ya' wanted to do that?  Go into hospitality?"

Why was I there?

"I wasn't just," I look down at my lap.  "I was used to going to school.  And I needed a different degree —"

"Sure.  Ya' wanted to shove it in your Pop's face."  Ez undoes his belt.  I watch his fingers loop through the metal and the leather.  He yanks it through dark denim with ease, the dip of his forearm visible.  "Did ya' think about yourself?"

"Oh.  That wasn't it."

"Yeah?"  He snorts, coiling the belt between his hands neatly.  "Then why didn't you go in for cosmetology?"

"I just —"

"Quit dancin' around truths.  Here.  I'll spell it out, " He exhales loudly through his nose.  The timer sings from the microwave.

"Don't kill yourself for college tuition when ya' don't wanna be in fuckin' college.  It isn't goin' to impress anyone."

"That's harsh."

"No it ain't, Angel.  Come to Huxley.  Everyone's always desperate for workers.  There's cheap rent," he twists the cap off of a reusable water bottle, swigging back the contents without care.

"Or."  Ez wipes his jaw with the back of his hand, "I ain't home much.  Stay here."

"Here?"  I watch him carefully, digging for a hint of a tease,  "... I couldn't ask that.  We're — we're basically strangers."

"Weren't you just beggin' me to kiss ya'?"

I flush.  I want to dip down behind the back of the couch.  With Ez's clever eyes on me, I barely restrain myself from doing so.

"I really don't want your excuses.  We can call it a role reversal,"  Ez snickers, his dimples deep and dark.  He shrugs and turns back towards the microwave.  "I'll be your sugar daddy.  In return.  Go to fuckin' AA meetings."

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