Page 16 of Bad at Love

“Fuck it.”

I’m going to snoop. What else am I supposed to do while I’m here alone?

Of course I make sure the door is locked first, this way I’ll hear him if he comes back. The guy would have a coronary if he saw me walking around in places I shouldn’t be. Maybe going through the house isn’t right, but I don’t care. I’m going to be living here, I have a check for his rent, and he left me alone. So, what the hell else am I supposed to do? Did he think I wouldn’t do this? Wouldn’t he do this if the roles were reversed? I’d expect him to.

I’ve already seen the living room and the kitchen/dining room, so I move down the short hall that’s across from the front door. The stairs go up along the right side, and there are two doors. One across from the stairs, on the left, and one behind them. I check the one behind the stairs first and find an office. Bookshelves line the walls, stuffed full with books. A large window allows me to see into the backyard, the dark curtains pulled wide open. The desk is in the middle of the room, the chair pushed in, and everything on it is neatly in place. There’s a large calendar with nothing written on it, a penholder with two pens, and a laptop set in the left top corner.

Closing the door, I go to the other and find a full bathroom. There isn’t a single hair to be found, and honestly, just like the rest of the house, it looks like a showroom and not something that’s used. I wonder if this one is supposed to be mine? Don’tthink my ass has ever touched something so clean before. Lord knows I don’t clean like this and neither did my mother growing up. Going deeper into the room, I spot fan doors that I open and find a washer and dryer. The shelf along the top has a stock of toilet paper, paper towels, laundry detergent, dryer sheets, and some cleaning products.

I go back down the hall, glancing at the bare walls, and look around the living room and kitchen again, hoping for another door—for my bedroom. But there isn’t a door down here that I haven’t tried, meaning the only place left is upstairs. Facing the front door, I move to the window and peek outside to make sure Gabe isn’t back. I will not hear him from upstairs and I won’t be able to get down here quick enough if he shows up. The driveway is still empty, so I hurry upstairs to see what’s up there.

There are three doors up here. One ahead of me and two on the left. They’re all closed. I choose the one in the middle first and find a bathroom. It’s much bigger than the one downstairs, but just as clean and tidy. I back out of it and go to the room on the left, which is a decent size and decorated in light colors. The spread on the bed is light blue and there are a few paintings on the wall with the same color. I can’t tell if this is Gabe’s room or the guest room—AKA my room. I close the door and go to the next one. This room is the biggest so far, just as neat, but decorated much darker. Navy blue and dark grey. There’s a smell in here that’s different from the rest of the house. Nothing bad, but it smells like a person—like him. The way a bedroom would smell if someone spent a lot of time in it. So, this is his bedroom…

There isn’t a thing out of place, the bed perfectly made, and there is nothing on top of the dressers. The nightstands hold lamps, while the one on the right has a clock and a charging station for a watch and phone. There is no TV in here. Hardwood floors, like the rest of the house, with a plain grey throw rug thatcovers a lot of the open floor. I’m not sure what I expected to find in his room, maybe a mess. Something to tell me that he isn’t as perfect as he seems. That there is a part of him that is relaxed, but it looks like that isn’t the case. This guy is wound tighter than a bowstring. Poor thing. He needs to get laid—and no, not by me. I’m not in the habit of pity fucking people.

I leave the room, satisfied that I know the layout of the house. I make my way downstairs and sit on the couch, twiddling my thumbs some more while I wait for Gabe to get back. After waiting another hour, I call him—because what the hell is going on?

It rings three times before it goes to voicemail. I try again, but it goes right to voicemail. Not a single ring. One more time—same thing. Bastard shut his phone off. Great. He’s ignoring me. So what am I supposed to do? I look at my stuff, then glance up the stairs.

I guess I may as well put my things away. If he doesn’t like it, too damn bad. He should have been here to facilitate.

I don’t have much, so putting everything away doesn’t take long. The only thing I have left in my bag is the stuff that will go in the bathroom. But since he was so crazy about that in the emails, it’s best to wait. He already may flip out once he sees me in here. Wild that I don’t even know this guy, but I’m already walking on eggshells around him. Pretty sure this is a red flag… maybe I should leave while I have the chance.

There are two dressers in here and a small closet, which gives me plenty of space for my clothes and my work stuff—that gets its own dresser. I’ve never been so organized in my life and maybe living here will rub off on me and I’ll learn to put mydirty clothes in the laundry basket and not find months-old haphazardly tossed underwear under my bed. Maybe not. Time will tell.

I sit on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. Feels like a hotel room. Like it’s not mine. It’s too… not me. What am I going to do, though? I can’t leave. Well, I can, but I won’t. Guess buying things to make it feel like mine could help. But what do I buy? Band posters? Black lights? I’m not fifteen.

Coming here, across the country, was for my mother and I’m sticking to my plan. If something happens to her and my ninety days are up, I’ll go back to Boston. But as long as Mom is alive, this is going to be my home. I’ll just have to find a balance of respecting Gabe’s wishes and his house while making this place comfortable enough that I can feel at home. And what better way to feel at home than to make some content? I’m still behind, I have the house to myself, so it shouldn’t be a problem. There is a problem though, and it’s that the door doesn’t have a lock. Gabe doesn’t seem like the walk-in-without-knocking type of guy, but you never know. With all the jerking off I’ll have to do in here, it’s best I get a lock. I’ll talk to him about that.

I get up to shut the door, then think better of it. What if he comes home, the door is closed, and I don’t hear him? He could bust in here and catch me. If I leave the door open, I’ll definitely hear him.

Kicking my shoes off, I get comfy at the top of the bed, leaning against the headboard. This mattress is nice. Soft but firm. Expensive. The camera on my phone is already open, so I start recording. Over my jeans, I rub my dick, focusing on seeing myself get hard through the lens.

“Making myself at home in my new place,” I say. “What do you think about my room?”

I pan around some of the room, showing off everything but the door so it doesn’t show out into the hallway. Anything that letspeople understand the layout of your house is dangerous, so I avoid that as much as possible, and why I enjoy making content in hotel rooms. I can be more free and open with what I record since I won’t be there by the time I upload the videos. As I’m showing off the room, I pull my dick out.

“I like it,” I continue, then bring the camera to my dick as I stroke it. “Yeah, I like it a lot.”

I’ve perfected holding the camera still as I jerk off. It’s something my fans appreciate. They comment about it often. Stupid thing to talk about while my dick is in view, but whatever.

I work my dick hard and fast, wanting this to get over quickly. The thrill of being caught has me excited, but really, I don’t want to be caught. Gabe would lose his shit, and then things will be awkward between us forever.

My dick throbs at the thought of him though… Oh, so we like Gabe, do we?

He’s good looking. Handsome, actually. Sexy in an old-fashioned way. If you slapped a suit on him, he’d fit right in on Mad Men. Gabe has these full lips that are so plump and I bet would feel amazing trailing up and down my cock. His tongue is probably soft and warm. My dick would fit perfectly in his mouth as his dark grey, almost sad, eyes look up at me, pleading for my cum.

“Fuck,” I mutter, so damn close to coming.

I stop for just a second, brushing my fingers along the underside of my dick, making a show of it pulsing. People like that. I like that people like that. When I go back to stroking myself, it feels better than ever and I’m right back at the edge. Best I let go now, before it’s too late.

“Yes. Oh, yes,” I mutter. “I’m going to come everywhere.” Using the hand with the camera, I tug my shirt up so I don’t make a mess on it, then focus back on my dick just in time.

“Oh, fuck!” I call out as the first rope of hot sticky cum hits my stomach, only it isn’t my voice that I hear.

It’s Gabe’s. Because he’s standing in the doorway, staring at me, looking a mix of disgusted and intrigued. But I can’t stop now, so I keep jerking off until my orgasm is through and my dick is spent.

Chapter Nine

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