Boyfriend For Hire

Regrettable Comments

"Oliver, come sit back down." There is no emotion behind Cal's face. I can't believe him. He could at least beg. After hearing him call me a whore, my entire opinion of him has shifted. Cal pulls me back toward the table gently, not roughly as he had grabbed my hand before.

"No, you know what. I don't even know if the money is fucking worth it." I don't sit back down, but I slam my hands down on the table. Cal looks at me like he's unsure of what's happening.

My god. He must be dense.

I look down at him. I pull the chair out and sit back down. Maybe he thinks this was okay. He might think that telling me that I am a literal whore, is a way to make a joke.

We both know what my profession is. It's not like I hadn't been doing it for years. This time was supposed to be us fooling the paparazzi for five years, and then at the end of those five years, we'd "break up" for People's Magazine to cover.

Am I ashamed? Yes and no.

"What's the big deal?"

"What's the big deal? What's the," I let out a huff instead of repeating myself again. "Ya know what, I'll see you at the goddamn castle you all a home." I throw my hands up in the air and turn on my heel, beginning to storm away. This time, I have no intention to turn around.

"It's not a castle."

This motherfucker. I turn back around with enough fire in my eyes to send the entirety of the Western Hemisphere up in flames.

"That's what you took from that? Are you fucking stupid? I'm going to cool off. Maybe I'll meet you back at your place. Or perhaps I'll just go whore around in a Target." I grab the half-full lemonade cup off the table and rip the top off.

Now, this is a moment I'm not too proud of. I poured the contents of that drink on Cal's head. Effectively ruining his undoubtedly expensive outfit.

"What the fuck!" Cal is seething. If my rage could light the Western Hemisphere ablaze, then his anger could have obliterated the Eastern Hemisphere as well as the rest of the solar system.

I don't stay to face the repercussions of my actions. Instead, I flee out of the nearest mall exit.

I hate running. My physique is very rarely used to flee for sexy billionaires. So, my body is panicking, and my lungs are threatening to leave my body through my throat. I wouldn't be surprised if, as soon as I stopped running, the mall pretzels came up in puddle form.

"Oliver!" Cal screams.

I make the fatal mistake of looking behind me. I continue to doge mall-goers as I lock eyes with a furious man, one who is not used to being treated like this. He is sopping wet and clearly sticky. I let out a giggle. As the laugh leaves my mouth, I turn back to face forward, only to be tackled by Cal.

I let out a groan as my body collides with his.

"Well, this is certainly not how I imagined my first time under you would look." I let out a muffled laugh because, after my quip, Cal presses my face to the ground like a cop in a cliche movie.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a security guard giving Cal a look that says, "If you don't get off of him, you're both being kicked out." The paparazzi, on the other hand, are having a field day.

"You are a dead man." Cal mumbles in a lower octave than I knew possible.

Hundreds of sick fantasies gloss over my mind. Then I immediately flush red. Maybe I'm just horny, but goddamn, Cal would look good in some leather.

After Cal pushes off me, I turn around to face him on the floor. I reach out my hand like a child for him to help me up. Cal scoffs but heaves me up.

"Now, if you're done throwing a fucking temper tantrum, let's go home." Cal makes a big show of dusting himself off. He aggressively grabs my hand and pulls me away from the scene of the crime.

"I'm sure the press is going to love this," I grumbled. I pull my arm out of Cal's grasp before I cross my arms across my chest in protest.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am a professional, but when you insult the very same person whose company you're paying, for I will snap.

"My publicists are already on it." Cal won't even look at me now.

Cal and I are now both sticky from the delicious lemonade that I wasted while making my point. I don't know about anyone else, but if my entire career is being an escort, then I'm to be a goddamn classy one.

And yes, I am aware that my use of goddamn makes me not very classy.

The walk back to the car is dead silent. Partly because I can't muster up the courage to say anything and half because I don't know what to talk about now.

Despite seething with rage, Cal still pulls open the door for me. I get in first, and then Cal slides in next to me. At some point in our quarrel, Cal must have had someone take my bags from shopping back to the car.

The bags sat at my feet on the undoubtedly expensive floor mats. I remember those price tags and suddenly am struck with a bit of guilt. Maybe I shouldn't have dumped lemonade on the guy who is now paying for me to live, just a thought.

"You're really immature, you know that." Cal breaks the silence after a few minutes on the road.

"I'm not the billionaire that needs to waste money on escorts to find someone actually willing to spend time with him. No offense, but the press has always labeled you as socially distant from the public. In fact, I found one gossip column completely dedicated to sources saying they've seen you outside your house and regularly scheduled sightings. Before I met you, I was almost positive you were a hermit."

I guess I didn't feel that guilty. 

Sorry about the wait, I'm just a piece of garbage.