Page 21 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
Running through our interactions thus far, I tried to pick up on any moments when his words might now take on new meaning. There were many. Too many caught looks and a begging of the eyes to count. The real question: had I suspected all along? And what I’d feared most was not what Mr. Michaelson’s actions meant, but what I now felt I had the right to feel. The voice that whispered in my head said I no longer needed to pretend that I didn’t know Phoenix watched me from his window. That I didn’t need to pretend I didn’t know who the body of the blurred-faced man in my dreams belonged to. The man who sat next to me, who calmed me.
Needing to move, I went over to the window and rested both hands atop my head. What was I thinking? I’d sat with him for hours last night and many nights before that. Talking and listening. And all the while something in me was being pried open. Like a crowbar to a little door inside me that had been sealed for too long.
Emily.I was married. My hands dropped to my sides as I took in the room I now panicked in. I was a teacher. His teacher. I was twice his age.
Drawn to the door, I flinched at seeing Phoenix there watching me with growing eyes.
“Mr. Michaelson, what are you doing here?” I bit out. He retreated a step. I removed my glasses, squeezing the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry. Come in. Did you need something?” I went over to my chair and waited for him to gather himself and take the seat in front of me. His eyes were the same blue as the ocean in Anguilla. His hair lighter, almost bronze as if physically kissed by the morning sun. His rosy cheeks betrayed his discomfort and naïveté. I graced him with an inquiring look after an acceptable amount of time had passed in silence.
“I sent my essay and application off. I was wondering if you knew how long it would take to hear back?” He fidgeted with the straps of his bag.
“I believe the application stated four to twelve weeks.” My voice came out steady, and I counted down from ten to further even out my pulse and add some normalcy to the conversation.
“Yeah, that’s a pretty wide time frame. Thought you might have some insider info.” He smirked, abandoning his straps.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have my hands in that side of things. Your essay was one of the best I’d ever read. Don’t start doubting yourself now,” I said, and he preened from my praise. He reminded me a great deal of my teenage self. Wanting to be seen. Funny how that didn’t wane with age.
“Is everything all right, Bash?” he asked in a lowered voice, gazing at me with freshly licked lips. Then bit them nervously.
My nostrils flexed with the surge of my breathing. He’d never addressed me informally before, and not only did he do that now, but he’d shortened my name too. Given me one that was his alone. It felt like being claimed. He was testing the waters, pushing for something more than what we had been up to that point. I had about a two second window to correct him. To stop the crumbling of an already thin wall. “Everything’s fine,” I said instead, shutting my eyes and cursing myself. “It’s...been a hell of a day.”
A soft hand reached across my desk and landed in mine. My stare flew to his, the closed door, and then back to him. He smiled and squeezed. “See you tonight?”
And God help me, but I squeezed back. “Yes.”
Chapter 7
Phoenix
“There are two things a person should never be angry at. What they can help, and what they cannot.”
~Plato
I’d been thinking about Mr. Wicked before Mason arrived for our date. Or Sebastian, or Bash—as I took it upon myself to rename him. I’d made it clear more than once that he could call me by my first name, but he’d never shown me the same courtesy. Maybe addressing him as Mr. Wicked when we were alone served as a backup wall he needed in place as the others fell down. But when I’d called him Bash, he didn’t correct me, as I feared he would. And so now, in my head at least, he’d forever be Sebastian, or some variation of.
I’d put thoughts of him aside, intent on being present and not causing Mason to feel bad by having wayward thoughts. So imagine my surprise and horror when Mason surprised me with tickets to see Shakespeare in the Park. I couldn’t say how the show went, because I spent the whole time on pins and needles, praying Sebastian didn’t spot me. Luckily, he had a seat upfront, so I was able to watch him from the back row and duck accordingly anytime he turned his head.
Getting out of the park without being seen after the show ended was the tricky part. Sebastian lingered near the main exit that led to the parking lot, so I’d had to convince Mason that being spotted wouldn’t be a good idea because I’d promised “Mr. Wicked” that I would spend the weekend studying for a makeup exam.
“Ow!” Mason whisper-shouted as I dragged him behind another alcove of trees and shrubs and pushed him behind a tree. “I highly doubt he’d be that upset, Phoenix.”
I poked my head out to see that Bash had finally lost interest in his phone and walked off. My forehead landed on Mason’s shoulder as my stomach contents worked their way back south. It then dawned on me that I was plastered to Mason’s front, and I stiffened as something hard shifted below his waist, knocking into my sudden hardness. Seemed a good dose of adrenaline and teenage hormones could make anything possible. I stepped back an inch, and Mason curled a finger through my belt loop, holding me in place. I swallowed hard.
“No one can see us,” he said.
It was dark out now, and the few remaining stragglers were making their way out of our area. “Wha-what did you want to do?”
His gaze moved to the left of my shoulder, some of his confidence fading at having to answer my question. “We can touch each other.”
Yes, that I could do. I’d watched gay porn and had become an expert of sorts at touching myself. Touching someone else should be more of the same. I nodded, and we fumbled with each other’s zippers and boxer slits until we held the other in hand. I gave him a testing stroke, making sure that I did it with the right amount of pressure. Mason moaned and sank back against the tree, tugging me with him. I winced.
“Oh, sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay. Keep going.” We were a bit uncoordinated, but we developed a rhythm after a spell. I dropped my face into the crook of his neck and panted. I wouldn’t last long.
“...Mr. Michaelson?”
My breath took a time out, and Mason and I halted.
