AllFreeNovel
Share Us
So, what’s the angle? Because there has to be an angle. I’m not gay or bisexual, and no person in their right mind would proposition one of their father’s staff in broad daylight unless they were a terrible judge of character and completely desperate.
My doorbell makes my heart jump into my throat. Seven minutes till. He’s actually early. Setting my drink down, I consider downing it to ease my nerves, but I should probably keep a clear head for whatever is about to happen.
Opening my front door, I notice the contrast in our appearances immediately and feel overdressed. In snug jeans and a Washington State t-shirt, Cameron looks his age now more than ever. I’m surprised he didn’t go to some Ivy League institution for the reputation alone, considering the level of snobbery of his family.
“Hi,” he says, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I didn’t realize you live in Bridle Trails, too. I live like four streets over.”
It’s official. I need to move.
“Are you going to come in, or did you want to do this on my porch?” I ask, hoping my display of impatience will get him moving.
“Oh. Um, yeah. Thank you.” Wide-eyed, he steps over the threshold as though it’s a booby trap.
Shutting the door, I get a view of his profile as he takes in the layout of my house. Can he see my cameras? Is this going to work? I hate how dishonest it feels, but remind myself that I wasn’t the one who made some off-the-wall sexual discovery proposal in the workplace.
He turns, glances at my feet, and then takes a knee. He’s… untying his tennis shoes.
The act reminds me of how bothered I was wearing my suit in only my dress socks while I awaited his arrival. Seeing a Fairway on his knees in front of me, however, is too surreal a sight for me to care about my own state of disorder. Can it be possible that one of them actually has some manners? And why does he live in the Bridle Trails neighborhood of Bellevue? It doesn’t seem fancy enough for a Fairway.
I’m staring at his nimble fingers undoing his laces… like a peeper. Shit.
I don’t need to watch this. Shuffling past him, I gesture toward one of my couches. “Have a seat. “Can I get you anything?”
“Um, water maybe?”
Keeping an eye on him as I make my way to the fridge, I’m stupefied by his clear lack of confidence. His skittish movements, the way he studies my place like he’s never seen a home before, and the way he wrings his hands are not behaviors I’ve ever witnessed from Randy or John Fairway. Cameron is either a very bad actor or… maybe he actually is gay and meant what he said, which would make him a complete idiot for looking for companionship in his father’s domain.
Rounding one of my couches, I enter the U-shape they make in the living room. I prefer the aesthetic of three of them to a sectional, although they never get used. Strange that the first ass to plant itself on the one on the east side of my living room is Cameron Fairway.
Handing him a bottle of water, I’m not sure what to make of the little flash of a smile he gives me or the way his gaze snaps to where his thumb brushes against my index finger. I often worry that my OCD makes me appear robotic, but watching Cameron’s mannerisms reminds me of that film, A.I. Artificial Intelligence, where every interaction is fascinating and new to a just-born robot boy.
Maybe the fact that I know my cameras are on has me reading too much into things. I need my damn drink, after all.
“So, you’re gay?” I call over my shoulder from the kitchen, when his silence does me in. He wouldn’t shut up in my office today, but now he’s got nothing to say?
“I…I don’t know. Maybe?”
That sounds like he’s asking me. What the fuck? I knew it. Of all the odd ways to go about scamming someone.
“Maybe?” I challenge, carting my drink back over, but I stop next to the couch across from him. Someone’s supposed to remain standing during an interrogation, right?
“Y-yeah. Yes. I am. I know I am.” He lets out an audible breath, as though the weight of the words freed up space in his lungs. “I’m sorry.” He winces, glimpsing up at me under his sandy lashes as he picks at the label on his bottle. “I’ve hid it for so long, I…didn’t know how to answer. I don’t want to hide anymore, though.”
That was almost sellable, but I scoff at the irony, gesturing to my house with my drink. He doesn’t want to hide, and yet he closed my office door today. Now he’s sitting in my living room for a clandestine meeting.
“What do you call this?”
“The first step?” he chuckles nervously, answering with another question that shouldn’t be a question.
It’s now that I notice his cringes aren’t cringes, but rather an anxious bearing of his teeth. It’s a guilty, fearful mannerism, something my niece does when she admits fault.
Hanging his head, he blows out a long breath. His fingers wreak havoc on his water bottle label. The look on his face is pained.
Shame. That’s shame.
I know all about it, all about being embarrassed for being something you can’t control. For the first time, I think I believe him. Except why would he be ashamed about his sexuality? Loving who you want is a natural thing, so very different from seeing germs everywhere that no one else does, or having an insatiable need for order.
As he runs his palm down his face, I watch his knee bob and his hand tremble. Is he actually gay? Actually, gay and admitting it to me?
