cheap thrills

wesley. police officer. all about that compulsion life. // you were a low moon, steady with wintry calm. somewhere inside the fire of your youth went dark.

[gorgeouscuteboys]

[roman-padgett-blog]

Decaying boards creaked beneath his feet, the seagulls sweeping above his head. Roman remembered when the scent of cotton candy had overpowered the fishy seawater, when tourists covered the pier instead of only a stray bird strutting around here or there. Too many shops on the boardwalk had closed down in recent years; not enough business to keep most places afloat. Roman wasn’t even sure why he’d managed to wander all the way down to the boardwalk. He’d been reading too much Tennyson at work, he supposed. 

Break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, o sea, he thought as he looked out at the waves. His poetic reverie was shattered by a plop on his shoulder, a lovely gift from a seagull passing overhead. It was a hazard of harbor life, not the first time it’d happen, and not the last. Still, washing bird shit off his shirt had not been a part of his plans for the evening. 

“Really?” he asked skyward, his tone resigned, the seagull already long gone. “Must you? Aim for someone else just once.” The unmistakable creak of footsteps sounded behind him. Roman froze and slowly turned. “Ah… birds, you know?” he said helplessly. 

[wesleydeiss-blog]

Wesley was cold. Cold and pissed off with it, hands jammed into pockets, his shirt sea-spray damp against his chest. There were no girls around to be impressed by the cling of the police uniform to his muscles, which increased the misery of the situation by at least 200%. Honestly, at this level of irritable, he’d have even welcomed the sight of a nervy boy to mess with. Intimidating them was its own kind of fun—not quite as enjoyable as a good flirt, but still amusing in its own right.

Instead Wes was stuck watching as Roman Padgett dollied his way down the boardwalk, stopping to stare as if love-struck across the waves. Wes had never been quite sure what to do with people who lived so much in their own heads; his own life was so enduringly physical he wasn’t much cop when those around him encouraged him to introspect. He decided to wander closer anyway, desperate for a distraction from the boredom of ‘patrolling’ a deserted boardwalk—and was rewarded almost instantly by the sight of Roman being decisively shat upon by a passing seagull.

“Horrible things,” he agreed amiably when Roman at last seemed to register his presence. The sight had been pretty funny, but an officer of the law was sympathetic first and a dick after—mostly, anyhow. Wes pulled his hands from his pockets, crossed his arms, and eased his weight against the wooden railing behind him. “It’s high time the government set about culling them, don’t you think?”

[wesleydeiss-blog]

Wes strode away from the growling Ferrari, every muscle quivering. Rich kids like the one in the car drove soley to show the world how careless they could afford to be—screaming down the highway only to make a point of how little a ticket mattered to them. How it wouldn’t even scrape the sides of the bank account they mined endlessly. It made him sick with jealousy. He thought he’d put that frantic wanting aside. He’d thought being here in Colby, knowing what his voice could do, had made all that go away. But that knowing only made it hit harder and stronger, the fact that he still wanted all of that and had never had it.

He slammed himself into his car and tore off, blowing past the still-idling Ferrari and into the treeline. He didn’t bother putting his siren on—talking himself out of the trouble it would get him in was just a natural part of the evening these days. If the chief wanted to put him on road babysitting duty then frankly he deserved to have Wes’ silver tongue used against him. 

The frenzied drive back into town calmed his temper. His pulse was singing a calmer song by the time he’d shucked his uniform, said his honeyed goodbyes to the receptionist and headed towards Red Hook. It was hardly the Ritz but it served its beers cold and its secrets hazy, and was therefore one of Wes’ favoured spots. He slid into place at the bar, his hand already raised and expression meaningful to get the bartender’s attention. 

“Whatever beer you have that isn’t Bud Light,” he ordered. He’d had higher standards, once. Then he’d stuck around in Colby. Waiting for his beer, he turned and propped one casual elbow up on the bar. Red Hook was fairly busy tonight. The prospect of a decent night still hung in the air, heavy and meaningful. All he needed was an in. Somebody to get to work on. Somebody with a good secret, just waiting to be spilt.

[hotstudsdaily]

Matthew Noszka (x)