Page 11 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
Chapter 3
Sebastian
“There is in every one of us, even those who seem to be most moderate, a type of desire that is terrible, wild, and lawless.”
~Plato
Laughter brought my head up, in the direction of Mr. Michaelson’s bedroom window. I leaned forward a bit in my seat, picking up two other people in the room smiling up at him from a seated position as he paced, speaking animatedly. Closing my journal and slipping it onto the table next to me, a smile of my own formed; I skirted my fingers across it.
Smiling was fast becoming a natural occurrence as of late where he was concerned. A bright young man with a curious nature that burned even brighter. The way he examined the world around him, evident in his scrutiny of his environment and everything in it. He reminded me of my past. The best and only good part of it. He reminded me of Alex.
I spared a glance into my empty house. A symbol of so many things.
Getting into a comfortable laze, I crossed my ankle to knee and focused my attention on the scene in the home across from me. I recognized the girl as one of my students and Mr. Michaelson’s friend. I assumed the other young man was a good friend as well if I had to go by the way he watched Mr. Michaelson with an indulgent grin. Whatever Mr. Michaelson spoke about was of little consequence to him.
My movements triggered the pool light sensor, which must have caught in his peripheral view because his gaze turned on me. He waved timidly, and I returned the gesture, frowning at the zing of excitement that arced across my insides. I eyed my hand suspiciously before dropping it.
Having finished my daily journal entry, I picked up the book I’d set aside earlier. I got about three chapters further when the sound of a plank in the fence being removed reached my ears. Phoenix’s svelte form slipped through, and he wore an apologetic look.
He walked around the pool to hover a few feet away with his hands in his back pockets. “You might want to fix that if you want to keep the strays out.”
“Noted, Mr. Michaelson.” My eyes flickered to his bedroom to find it empty. “Fun night out?”
He pushed his curly hair, in need of a trim, off his forehead. “The best.” He beamed. “I went to a poetry slam. Never thought I’d be into poetry, but it was amazing.”
“Hmmm. Makes sense,” I said. “Poetry predates written text. It appears among the earliest records of most literate cultures. Some of our greatest writers were poets in their own right.”
He analyzed my words, no doubt making plans to investigate my claims later. Excited to learn more. “What are you reading?” His chin pointed toward my hardcopy ofThe Da Vinci Code.
“Dan Brown,” I said, holding it up for his inspection.
“Huh,” he said, his head held at an angle.
“What?”
“I’d never peg you for someone that read anything of this century, let alone a thriller.”
“Why, Mr. Michaelson, are you calling me old? Or worse, boring?” I faked offense, and he sputtered, only calming when one side of my mouth upticked. “It’s all right. Thrillers are my guilty pleasure when I’m trying not to think.” My statement felt heavy even to my own ears, but I still followed it up with, “Especially at night. Overthinking keeps me awake.” Certainly too heavy and too revealing of a thing to say to someone I barely knew.To a student.“Sorry. I’m sure you’re not interested in my sleeping habits.”
“No.” His hands flailed. “I mean no, it’s no bother. It’s fine.” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his head. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Please.” I motioned to the chair next to me. “So, Mr. Michaelson, what brings you breaking and entering?” I asked, and he chuckled, releasing the shy tension he came over with.
“I don’t know. We’re neighbors. You were sitting outside, I didn’t feel like being inside.” He shrugged a slender shoulder, not meeting my eye.
“I see.”
“Is this... inappropriate?”
At the moment it seemed harmless. “It’s fine.” We stared out into the night, in comfortable silence. “Have you startedMacbeth?”
“I haven’t had the chance,” he said guiltily, making promises to get it back to me as soon as possible.
“Take your time.” I removed my glasses, setting them on my thigh and rubbing at my eyes.
“One of your eyes is darker than the other.”
“Excuse me?” I replaced my frames.
