The Rent Boy (EDITING)

Bonus Chapter: Sequel Preview-

A/N: (Full A/N at the end) yooo! Feels weird updating this story. My head hurts from writing this little extract. It's a scene from the sequel *squeals* this scene, well, I just really couldn't get it out of my head, so here it is! 

 

    If I had it my way – if – I'd wrap the stupid prick up in my arms and tell him it would be alright, keep him close to me, so close he'd need my air to breathe. I'd let him cry and cry and cry. Until my shirt was soaked in his tears, and even then I wouldn't push him away.

    But no. Instead he chose to sit on his own, crouched up in the furthest corner of this tiny room that we called a bedroom, where the orange glow of the artificial light cast an aura around him that made his features look young and vulnerable.

    And god how the urge itched inside of me to walk over to him, to force him to look at me. To force him to talk. I just couldn't. I didn't have the courage to look him in the eyes, and allow him to see how much I really did care for him. How much I wanted him to look at me in the same way.

    I wanted him to accept my love for what it was, to allow himself to accept that kind of love. He never would. I knew that from the beginning, and I still fell for the bastard.

    For the way he shuts his eyes against the world when everything gets a bit too much, and for the way the space between his brows crinkles – only slightly – as he tries to push out the thoughts.

    For the way he talks and how he slurs when he's reached his alcohol limit, to the point where every sentence is just a mumble of notes. The way he purses his lips almost naturally, sits there with his eyes up at the ceiling, just staring.

    Silent. Peaceful – that was the only time I ever identified that word with him; when he was just staring, as if he had mentally taken himself out of this world, and placed himself in another.

   And then there was the way he would try to hide the storm in his eyes, but I'd always catch a glance of it. The tears sitting on the edge of his lids, and he'd quickly blink them away because god forbid anyone ever see him be weak.

    Tyler Errand. The epitome of my entire universe, so broken and fragile and all I could do was sit here and watch him fall ever more apart. My heart ached for the boy. That's all he really was; a boy. He liked to act all strong and grown up, but he wasn't. He was just like me. He was hiding, mostly from himself.

    I breathed in, and the air scraped down my throat and left it raw. My lips trembled and my hands shook nervously as I clambered to my feet, with foolish thoughts buried stubbornly at the forefront of my mind. God, what the hell was I doing?

    I slid down the uneven wall, settling by Tyler's side, arms hugging my knees tightly. I felt like an intruder invading his space. I wanted to crawl away before he noticed I was there, but my heels dug in with refusal and I found myself leaning into his side, barely, just enough to feel his shirt against my skin.

    “Wha' a' you doin', Mitch?” His gruff voice rose from where he now had his head tucked behind his knees, buried beneath his lithe arms.

    “I, erm,” I stammered, palms beginning to sweat. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

   He rolled his face until his eyes were meeting mine, his cheek resting gently atop of his overlapping forearms. “Am fine.” He spoke through salty lips.

    The strands of his hair threaded through each other messily, the sharp spikes of his fringe falling into his eyes at a slant, from the angle of his head. It softened the sharpness of his gaze, only slightly.