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.
A scowl clouds over my features at the ridiculous thought.
"Mr. Benson?"
"Ah, yea. I'm here. Franciso's is fine. Thanks."
"You're very welcome, sir. Is there anything else I can do to assist - ?"
I roll my eyes and hang up the phone. It doesn't matter if he's offended or not; he thinks I'm Blake anyway. I move away from the phone and reach for my bag, rifling through it until I find a dress shirt and my sunglasses. The dress shirt is slipped over my casual t-shirt and buttoned up second from the top.
I slip the sunglasses onto my face and ruffle a hand through my hair.
Here goes nothing.
__________
Walking into Franciso's feels like stepping into another world.
First difference?
There aren't any women in sight. Like – none.
Second difference?
The men in here don't give me envious glances or angry once-over's. Instead the multiple pairs of eyes trained on me take their time in studying me from head to toe, the sanctity of the bar walls giving them all the comfort they need.
My palms are creating enough sweat to supplement the west half of the Pacific Ocean. I keep my sunglasses on, refusing to make eye contact with the small handful of men eyeing me as I make my way to the bar.
As much as my brother annoys the shit out of me, I've heard him say a time or two that when it comes to men, all it takes is a look. One look is all it takes to seal the silent deal of a night of passion.
With how things went with Blake earlier today, that's the last thing I need on my plate – some gay dude thinking I want to suck his dick.
I shudder at the thought and slide onto the center bar stool. It only takes a few minutes before the bartender walks over to me, leaning his masculine hands on the bar and raising a brow.
"What'll you have?" he asks.
He's dressed in a plain, black t-shirt that hugs his torso just enough to show off the lean body hidden beneath it. My gaze travels up to his face. He's young, no more than a few years older than me I'd wager. Soft features blend with a cleanly-shaven, chiseled jaw line.
My nose scrunches up in confusion. I mean – he doesn't look gay.
Green eyes stare back at me with practiced patience, and a small grin slips onto the bartender's thin lips.
"First time in here, huh?"
My cheeks redden from his knowing question.
"I'm not gay," I defend myself.
The bartender smiles and the skin on the sides of his eyes crinkle. He holds a hand out to me from across the bar in introduction.
"I'm Cade," he says.
"Callum," I respond reluctantly, allowing his hand to grasp mine.
"Callum," he says shaking his head and trying my name on his lips. "That's unique. Never fucked a Callum before."
My jaw drops and Cade tilts his head back to laugh. It's a loud and warm laugh, the type you might hear at a holiday party when everyone has had too much to drink. I lick my lips in frustration and lean forward.
"But I'm not – "
"Gay," Cade finishes for me, his laugh tapering off. "I know. You already said that. I'm sure at one point, all the men in here 'weren't gay' too."
I grunt. What a fuckin' asshole. The confrontational side of me wants to tell him that I'm really not gay. I'm just trying to learn how to be normal when I'm around gay men. There's a difference.
Instead I just keep my lips clamped shut, my irritation from his comment straining my ability to speak.
Cade puts two shot glasses on the top of the bar counter and fills them with Vodka. Then he takes a slice of lemon and cuts it in half, carefully dipping the end of each piece into a hidden bowl of sugar.
"Lemon drop," he says. "On the house."
I watch a single drop of Vodka slide down the side of the overly filled shot glass. Cade nods his head towards it, silently encouraging for me to take the shot with him. My nostrils flare and I pick it up, debating whether I should drink it or throw it back in his condescending face.
Cade lifts his shot glass too and lightly taps it against mine.
"To a good night," he says.
He tips his head back and swallows the shot down with ease. My eyes catch the rise and fall of his adam's apple, and I find the sight...slightly attractive.
Well. Shit.
That's all the internal encouragement I need to grab for my shot glass. The bitter liquid spreads across my taste buds and down my throat. I try not to grab for the lemon too fast, but my fingers have other plans. They swipe up the small piece of bitter fruit and stuff it into my mouth.
The lemon/sugar combination douses away the flavor, but my eyes still burn from the raw taste of alcohol.
Cade grins and grabs my empty shot glass. With his other hand he pulls out a small towel, wiping away the sugar and alcoholic remains from the surface of the bar. The dim light bounces off the shiny, smooth marble.
"You from around here?" Cade asks me, turning his back to clean out the shot glasses.
"No."
"Didn't think so."
"Why?"
Cade turns to face me a second time, propping his elbows on the bar and giving me a knowing smile.
"Just a safe bet."
"Hmm."
Cade gestures to the empty bar stools on either both sides of me. "Business is slow, Callum. And you're not from around here, so you won't have to worry about running into me again. Why don't you tell me about him?"
I scowl. "There is no him. I told you. I'm not gay."
Cade rolls his eyes and chuckles. "I know. If you were, you'd be coming in here – sunglasses off and eyes on the prowl. Which means you're not in here for you. You're in here for the previously mentioned 'him.'"
My lips thin out into a mulish line. If my disapproving look goes noticed by Cade, he certainly doesn't acknowledge it. He doesn't even flinch. Asshole. His green eyes probe every line of my face, waiting patiently for me to respond.
I sigh, and Cade laughs again under his breath.
"C'mon," he says, this time talking like the two of us have been buddies for years. "Tell me about him."