Taming Arrogance (MalexMale) 《COMPLETE》

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

My feet compulsively pace back and forth, back and forth from the living room to the kitchen of the hotel's suite. I don't know what's stressing me out more – the fact that Blake hasn't made a sauntering return...or the fact that he still might.

Tick.

Tick. Tick.

The seconds turn into minutes. I anxiously scratch a hand down the side of my cheek. What little nail I have leaves behind a burning sensation. Being in here suddenly feels suffocating.

I need to get out, but my feet keep pacing, back and forth, back and forth.

"Fuckin' bullshit," I spew under my breath.

Does Blake seriously expect me to just sit around the hotel, obediently waiting for him to return like some pathetic lap dog? My gut tells me that's exactly what that man wants. After the outburst I just pulled, a miniscule – and I mean miniscule – piece of feels I owe it to the guy to not cause him any more stress.

The rest of me is patting my ego on the back for stopping that insanely gay moment in its tracks. I'm not attracted to men. I can't be.

A deep breath pushes past my lips. I turn towards the wall, leaning my head against the cool surface. Never in my life have I allowed a man's looks, charm, or persona register in my mind as anything other than competition in winning over a woman. Competition I always win, might I add.

Is it because I'm not used to being around gay men aside from my own brother?

Do I not know how to act around them?

My fingers thrum against the wall, a nervous tic to mirror my racing thoughts. It's evident I don't know how to act around gay men. Maybe if I have more practice, the weirdness will wear off, and I won't get stuck with my tongue down Blake's throat again.

I push away from the wall and walk back into the living room. The hotel phone sits on the table, facing me, as if knowing this is exactly where my thought process would lead. I pick up the receiver and hit '1.' My cheeks puff out as I hold my breath waiting for someone to pick up.

"Come on," I mutter. "Pick up. Pick –!"

"It's a wonderful day at the Sheraton hotel, Mr. Benson. How may I assist you?"

The man on the other end must have an automated service to link up room numbers with names. He thinks I'm Blake. A personal touch of professional service no doubt, but in my case, it's just the break I need to slowly breathe out my nervous breath.

"Blake. Right. I was wondering – could you get me the address to the nearest gauurrr-..."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

The phrase 'gay bar' gets stuck in my throat. It sounds like a weird gurgle rattling against my vocal folds, and I grip the phone angrily to try again.

"A gay bar," I say, spitting out the words with a bit too much force.

He doesn't miss a beat. If anything, the hotel employee acts like this is a type of question he gets all the time. I hear a few pages flipping in the background along with fast fingers flying over keys on a keyboard.

"Oh, absolutely, Mr. Benson. You know, there's a great little bar that opened not too long ago. It's called Francisco's. It's just down a few blocks east from here. Drinks can be kind of pricey, but the high prices drive away huge crowds. Or – are you wanting a busier place?"

I blink up at the painting on the wall, its bold colors of black and white so modern and chic. My eyes follow the smooth lines of the painting, inspecting its every curve. I squint at the intricate brush swipes, silently wondering if this is the type of artwork Blake has at his upscale, fancy apartment back home.