The rate for his services was high. His quality was high. His acting skills were good enough that he could be a completely different person, and you'd never know.
However, the role he was least comfortable playing was Oliver.
Oliver Addams was a b...
The mall was virtually empty, except for the occasional horde of gossiping teens. Cal stayed close to me the entire time. He was bordering on being a bit too close. I think Cal's closeness has something to do with his obvious need for control, along with his grossly prominent god complex.
Speaking of his god complex, I don't have enough evidence to reason that he possesses one. But just look at him.
"Can we go in American Eagle?" I ask, pointing to an American Eagle store. Not because I have a secret, unrequited love for the chain, but because it's the closet shop. I want to be done with this trip as soon as possible.
I've always hated shopping. For some reason, people have never understood this about me. Probably because of the stereotypes they hold surrounding gay men. I, a gay man, hate shopping, have no sense of style, and can't dance to save my life.
Cal shrugs before answering with a nonchalant "I don't care."
We go into the store after we both politely listen to the women in the front of the store trying to get us to sign up for an American Eagle credit card.
"I'll pick out some shirts. You go find some pants, " Cal says before he starts walking away. I don't even get the chance to tell him that my size before he disappears into the shorts section. Cal's not gonna pick shirts that I like because he dresses like he's always ready for a business meeting.
I let out an exasperated sigh and wander to the pants. Everything is overly expensive. I grab a couple of pairs of jeans and a pair of sweats.
"Ready?" Cal asks, popping up from behind one of the racks.
"Let me see the shirts, please," I say, reaching my arms out for the clothes.
"Why? Do you not trust my style?" Cal asks me as he puts his hand over his heart to feign hurt.
"I feel as though I am contractually obligated to either lie to you or not answer," I tell him, a grin spreading across my face.
"Oh, you think you're funny, don't you?" Cal pushes me teasingly on the shoulder after his rhetorical remark.
"I think I'm goddamn hilarious. If I wasn't an escort, I would one hundred percent be a standard up comedian," I explain, crossing my arms across my chest with a no-nonsense look on my face.
"Like John Mulaney or Bo Burnham style?" Cal asks.
"Probably Mulaney, because I can't sing worth a shit."
"Well, I know what we're doing tonight," Cal says with a smirk.
"I swear to God if you say karaoke, I will chuck myself off a building and then haunt you forever, " I threaten.
"Hmm, then we're not going to karaoke. It's just a very brightly lit bar," Cal says with a sly smile.
"Liar. Let me see the shirts, and you're forgiven," I bargain.
With a sigh, Cal hands me the shirts he picked out. None of them are atrocious, and surprisingly, most are decent.
"Damn, don't look so surprised," Cal scratches the back of his head, looking a little embarrassed. His accent has noticeably thickened. God, there was something about an English accent that was incredibly hot.
A blush crawls to my cheeks. I immediately school my features into a neutral expression. I've never had so much trouble keeping a neutral face.
"Sorry. They look good, " I assure Cal. He still looks a bit defeated. I don't know why. Maybe he internalized that comment about his shirt taste.
"Glad I have your approval," He scoffs.
"No need to be bitter," I grumble, placing my arms on my sides.
"Whatever, let's go check out," Cal mumbles. He seems incredibly bitter still.
"Can we get Auntie Annie's?" I ask. We walk over toward the register, and I hand the cashier my pants while Cal gives shirts he picked out.
"Do you know how many carlories are in those? 480 in the pepperoni pretezels. 470 in the cinnamon. You might as well just inject fat into your bloodstream." Cal hands the person at the counter his credit card. It's black and looks like it could buy me and sell me.
You know what, never mind.
"Why do you know that? That's some calorie counting bullshit. You better not be all anorexic under all those button-downs," I say as the cashier stuffs the clothes into bags with American Eagle logos all over them.
"Sorry, I don't put absolute garbage into my body." Cal sighs.
"You should try it sometime. It's delightful, really." I smile sweetly at him. "So? Pretzels?"
"Fine. Are you buying?" Cal asks, taking back his credit card and sliding it back into his wallet. We walk out of the store, both of us with a bag in our hands.
"You're the billionaire, not me. You can afford to pay for my company, so the least you can do is buy me some cinnamon pretzels." I smile, linking my arm with his.
"Fine." Cal leans in and kisses my cheek.
"What was that?" I mumble as my cheeks begin to redden.
"Paparazzi, five o'clock. Smile and look cute. This will be on the cover of People's Magazine tomorrow morning." Cal slips a hand under my cheek and holds my face for a moment.
Distantly, I hear the clicks of cameras. I'm not really sure why the paparazzi gives a shit with what rich, British assholes are doing.
"Oh." I'm a bit flustered now because he is still lovingly holding my face like we're some kind of couple, and I'm not an escort that's being paid handsomely to be here.
Cal lets go of my face and trades it for his hand in mine. He holds it unnecessarily tight, almost like he's afraid I'll let go. Although I am still contractually obligated to grab Cal's hand and look cute.
I use his hand-holding as an opportunity to drag him to the pretzel stand.
"One cup of cinnamon pretzel bites and a small lemonade, please," I say chipperly.
"Oh, and a side of diabetes with that ninety-nine calorie lemonade," Cal adds, earning a shove from me.
"You are so dramatic."
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
