Wicked Boy (50) (Patreon)

"Fine,"  I blow out a puff of air.  "Then.  How do I get you to sleep with me?"

Tamela's eyes widen owlishly, the way her smeared eyeshadow falls making it just that much worse, and she blinks hard.

Shit,

"Whoops."  My friend whispers, sinking back in her seat, and Ezra's unbothered quietness shifts into a satisfied grin,

"You're a piece of work."

Shit.

It's hard to gather thoughts when they're swimming along with neon drinks, stress, and now, the abrupt desire to fling myself from a moving vehicle,

"I meant for him to sleep with me on the bed." I turn too quickly in my seat to look anything but panicked.

I crane towards Tamela as best that I can while trapped inside my seatbelt as she scrolls reverently through her phone, the light of it catching her features in the pitch. She doesn't appear all too impressed by my explanation.

"He wanted to — he wanted to go to a different bed."

That sounds worse.  I can't bring myself to look at a likely offended Ezra, so I don't. My cheeks feel like they're warm with something other than the cozy comfort of the car's heat.

"...Okay?"  Tamela's dark eyes shift up to mine, her brow perking in a way that suggests that she isn't entirely convinced, and I fluster at her disbelieving tone. I shake my head in clipped warning, but her smirk grows playfully, "So you wanted Ezra in your bed, instead?"

"Tamela."

"...Is that it, or not?"

"No, it isn't it," I scowl, hoping that my particularly blistering grimace will properly convey that this isn't the time for jokes at my expense,  "What I meant to say was that — Ezra needs somewhere to sleep. I meant,"

That he doesn't need to drive back to the rest stop, with practical strangers occupying the entirety of his house.

Why couldn't I have said that?

"You meant that he needs to sleep with you. In your bed." Tamela nods, her face pinched in the way it usually is when she's withstanding the urge to laugh. I don't find it particularly funny at all; in fact, I'm boiling in my mortification, "I understood that the first time. Ezra, did you not understand him?"

"No." I cut in. A strange, frustrated, and petulant sound leaves my throat. "That's not it — Tamela.  Stop teasing me.  You're going to make him uncomfortable,"

"Oh, you're right. I don't want to tease you." Tamela's lips twist, but a giggle escapes. "You should save all the teasing for when we get there, shouldn't you?"

"Tamela, there won't be any teasing!"  I suppose I'm not the best at thinking before I speak, especially when thwarted by the lingering effects of vodka.  Ezra is quiet in the driver's seat beside me, which makes everything so much worse.

"That's the third time you have Tamela'd me. I just believe my suggestion would be for the best." My friend croons. "Don't you?"

I sigh loudly, a second time, and my eyes roll.

"Why don't you — just pick another song?"  I smile, hoping that it doesn't seem more like a sneer, voice dropping for negotiation, "We can turn the volume up.  We can turn it up as high as you'd like."

"Why?" Tamela hums, her bottom lip showing and sly gaze lifting over the top of her cell.  She tucks it against her chest as her brow lifts, "no one sings with me, anyway. So why should I?"

"... I suppose," I wring my hands together, glancing towards the road and then back to the sequined Devil currently occupying Ezra's backseat, "well. That's not true. I'll sing."

Tamela cackles, a mega-watt smile greeting me,

"What?  Okay, this is the best."

I huff.

"What?  I'll sing with you.  Do you want me to sing with you?"

Perhaps I should've taken the seat next to Tamela so that a swift pinch could've avoided situations like these.

She's really in need of one and —

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, after all.

"Nah."  I slump, defeated, as my friend's eyes light with delight,  "It's a waste,"  Tamela cackles then, and I brace myself, "save your voice for bedtime."

Jesus Christ!

"You need to drink some water." I inhale as her lips curl with humor, my friend's drunken stare finally diverting back to her playlists. I reach for the water bottle between my feet and toss it at her, perhaps with the hint of a threat behind it, but my aim is impaired by vertigo.

She ducks, even though it hits the floorboard a good breath over from where her feet are and glares.

"Milan!  You're a mean drunk."

"Drink lots of water.  Now."

I slowly sink back into my seat, adjusting the watch on my wrist, and staring out the window at the familiarity of the roads near Huxley's Rest Stop that are coming into view. I hope that Ezra has long tuned out of this horrid exchange but somehow doubt it.

"Don't mind...." I hesitate, but Ezra nods to show that he's listening.

"She likes being ridiculous," I follow, quieter, as a new song begins to play. I cautiously glance at Ezra, whose eyes are on the road, the few lights near Huxley's center passing shadows on his face. "That's not what I meant.  I wanted you to sleep in the bed with me.  No.  I meant... I didn't word it —  don't feel uncomfortable."

"... Don't feel uncomfortable?"

"Yes.  If you want to go back to the rest stop,"  I wave a hand towards nothing, watching a stray cat dart into the field ahead of us,  "You should absolutely do that.  Okay? If you don't want to drive, you can sleep on the pull-out with me.  That's all.  The rest is — really not what I meant."

Ezra's head tilts, like he's considering the conversation. His hand shifts over the steering wheel. I study the length of his fingers, distracted by the ridges of his knuckles,

"You two," there's a quiet sound, like a breath of a laugh, and his eyes slide over the scenery ahead, unbothered. I watch him, "... Are turnin' out to be a handful."

"I'm —"

"Ez."  Tamela perks up, shoving herself between the two of us a second time. "Duet. I'm starting the song over — so be prepared this time? Yeah?"

—

"Mr. Ez.  Your house doesn't suit you in the slightest," Tamela kicks off her flats on Ezra's front porch, and she slides her bare feet against his floor as if she hasn't the energy to lift them as she walks.  "I meant to tell you that last time."

I lean against the door-frame, pushing my toes into my heel with a frown, and wishing my shoes were as easy to remove as Tamela's.

My drunkenness felt as if it were subsiding in the car, but everything is less stable when standing.  I sigh bitterly, my head falling back against the wall.

"It doesn't?" Ezra's voice clouds my thoughts.  He bends down, his hand at the bend of my knee, thumb pressed into the back of my thigh.  I inhale in surprise, but he simply lifts my leg upwards and, at the same time, pulls my shoe from my foot.

"Oh, you don't have to...."  I don't know what else to say.  Should I be embarrassed by this?  The warmth and strength of his grip stuns me, almost as much as the ripple of desire,

"It's very domestic,"  Tamela hums, interrupting the swarm of butterflies in my stomach before throwing herself onto his sofa.  The sound of her descent distracts me from Ezra's touch, "your decor has three kids, a golden retriever, and prayers before dinner feel."

"Hmm.  Does it?"  Ezra smirks.  It's strange — to see him from this angle.  His eyelashes are long.  His dimples are deeper, and why —

Why does he keep touching me like that?

"Yeah.  It doesn't suit the whole sleek car, sexy motorcycle; devil may care vibe you have going.  I'm just saying."

"Well.  I think it suits him."  I counter, and Ezra pauses, his eyes flicking upwards from his crouch beneath me to meet mine.  The suddenness of his bright gaze puts me off-center, and I grab onto his shoulders to keep from swaying onto the floor.

His brows lift, and my fingers gather fabric,

"You'll say anything to argue with me because I teased you in the car,"  Tamela peeks up over the couch, her nose wrinkled with a false glare, "what about it suits him?  The birds nest wallpaper in the hallway or the Conway coffee table?"

"All of it.  It's not prayers before dinner,"  Ezra lifts my other leg as I struggle for words.  His eyes are still chasing mine when my attention slides back to him.  It feels incredibly intimate, the way that he's looking at me, and I feel myself reading into his gentle help, and the way that his hand slides from my thigh before he releases his grip, "it's comforting."

"Blah, blah, blah."

I don't know if it's the alcohol.  I don't think I would be this brave without it, to return Ezra's stare with my own or to not worry over the breathlessness of that final word.  I'm gripping his shoulders, barefoot and without reason.

Ezra smiles lazily up at me, and when I blush, he winks.

"I should go,"  he mouths.  My fingers spread over his shoulders, fingers sliding to the base of his neck, and I touch the tattoo there timidly, cautiously.  His skin is warm.  It feels nice.

His hair is soft,

Ezra's eyes narrow.

I should go?

I'm really much more disappointed by that than I should be.  I slump.  I touch his cheek, my index finger pushing curiously at the dip of where his hidden dimple would be.

"Ah — I guess it does actually look like a home where someone lives."  Tamela sighs,  "Not like one of those god-awful Mclaughlin homes."

"Wait.  Not a home.  Those aren't homes; they're showpieces. Do you remember Richard Lovell's house?  It was all black and metal; he even had a plastic cover on his couch.  What's the point, then?"

"Right..."  my voice doesn't carry, and Tamela shuffles against the couch a second time, before deflating back onto the cushions.  Ezra touches my hand on his face, a light tap to my fingers, and I dumbly think to release him so he can stand.

"Sorry."  I'm hyper-aware of his proximity when he does.  I fidget beside him, listening more than looking, and irrationally pondering how I can get close to him again,

"Wouldn't it be easier to just..." I bite the inside of my cheek as he rounds me to grab a lanyard from his key rack.  I don't move because I want the nearness, "stay?"

Ezra eyes me for a minute.  It's near-silent, even with Tamela humming quietly from her perch,

"You're a flirty drunk."  He murmurs, at last.  His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips,  "... Spend too long around ya', and I'll wake up tomorrow with the wrong idea."

The wrong idea?

"... There's a pack of extra toothbrushes in the bottom drawer of the guest bathroom."  He strolls out of my space before I can register the thought and into the kitchen. I cross my arms to keep from following.  He's opening a cabinet above the counter to show us the inside, "don't use the oven or stove drunk."

"Yes, sir."  Tamela pipes from the living room.  I wish I were as bubbly as she or could match the inclusiveness of her humor, "no fires in the farmhouse!  Noted!"

Ez pauses, leaning back against the sink before huffing out a chuckle,

"The cups are here if you need somethin' to drink."  I nod.  Tamela squints sleepily from where she's strewn and snickers, "by somethin', I mean water."

"Oh?  Water?  I like you," she hangs haplessly from the arm of the couch.  Something surges in my chest at her simple admission, something warm and validating.

Why?

"Ya' like me, huh?"  Ezra regards her with a particular slyness.

"Yep.  You're bossy... but do you have snacks?"

Ezra's eyes narrow at her audacity before he snorts.  He points to another cabinet, one that's closer to the fridge,

"Knock yourself out."  He shrugs, "but if you gotta vomit, do it in the toilet.  Don't wanna see that shit."

--

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