Awkward - 1. Chapter 1

I smile at my reflection. I’m pretty fly for a white guy. Damn, I have hair that women would spend good money to glue to their heads, with its natural thickness and volume. It’s as tamed as it is luscious.

My man Keith has got the shits, due to the laxative I put in his tea earlier. Teach the lazy privileged bastard to make his own tea in the mornings, I’m on an agenda. I should be studying, I have finals next week, but here I am plotting and scheming to bring down that rich bastard with the runny guts.

I recite the mantra ‘just too cool for school, who’s too cool for school? You are, you handsome devil.’ I blow myself a kiss and wish there was two of me just so I can fuck myself, I’m so hot. Or maybe a bigger dick, which would work just as well. One last look at my awesomeness, I run my fingers through my gorgeous mane and I’m off to meet my future sugar daddy.

Keith is my roommate and chose today to rub me up the wrong way so I added a little extra to his tea to teach the scab a lesson. Unfortunately, he had arranged to do some interview with some mega-dollars tycoon I’ve never heard of, for some extra credit on the school newspaper. I volunteered to do it for him before I go to work if he bought me the results for my final exam, and wrote my essay. I nearly crapped my pants when he told me the interview was a hundred and sixty miles away in downtown Seattle. Guess that’ll teach me to get the details first before offering my services. He's some big shot CEO of Blake blah, blah, blah, Inc. Apparently he’s a benefactor of our university.

Big whoop.

“His time is precious,” Keith says “I was lucky to be granted an interview with him.”

“Huh? Dude, my time is precious too, a hundred and sixty driving miles precious, you feel me? You owe me.”

“Anything, what else do you want from me?”

“Let me get back to you on that. For now you're going to have to call in a sickie for me, there’s no way I’m going to make it back for work.”

“Alan, thanks for doing this for me man.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, and smirk at his crumpled frame in the fetal position, clutching at his stomach. I’m so bad. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. The truth of the matter is I feel justified in my actions. Maybe I should have used a lower dosage. That said, he was full of shit, and now he’s less full of shit. He should be thanking me.

“Well, I’m off. I‘ve got a date with destiny.”

“No, his name is Dennis, Dennis Blake. Please get it right.”

“I wasn’t calling him destiny—oh whatever. Catch you later snot.”

“Wait, you need the questions. Take my recorder so I can transcribe it later, and Alan? Stick to the script, no ad-libbing.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m outta here, gotta drive one hundred and sixty fucking miles. Thanks.”

Okay, I'm off to see if I can seduce Daddy Warbucks. If he looks good for an old dude. I have a way with the oldies, if you know what I mean?

They like my special kinda steel.

With my backpack on my back, I throw the car keys in the air and run down the five flight of stairs to the car. I’m driving Keith’s Mercedes Sport, which is just as well. I can almost guarantee Juanita (my clapped out pinto) wouldn’t make it a hundred and sixty yards, let alone a hundred and sixty miles. Is anyone else getting the message? The mileage is a big deal. That’s two times a lot of fucking miles, for a shitty interview.

I drop the top on the Mercedes and don Keith’s designer shades I found in the glove box, along with a hundred dollar bill. Sweet, lunch on Kevin. I have the wind in my hair as the car eats away the miles on this clear stretch of road from Vancouver, Washington. Seattle I hope you’re ready for this, because here I come. My interview is at two. At the rate I left my dust in the air, if I’m not stopped by the law, I could be there with an hour to spare. I’d do the math, but that would involve me having to think.

When I get to my destination, I crick my neck, staring at this damn tall building with a curved tip, oops I meant top. Why I have no fucking idea, and now my neck hurts. This pointy glass and steel building makes quite the phallic statement. I wonder what Freud would have made of the architect. As I rub my neck and walk through a door with Blake House written in some kinda glitzy grey matter etched into the glass over the glass front entrance. The sign is an eyesore if you ask me, but then no one did, so I’ll shut up.

I’m fifteen minutes early, according to the clock on the wall. I’m pissed. I hate being early for anything. Its either right on time or fashionably late, depending on what it is. Early just screams desperate, and honey I’m a lot of things, but desperate isn’t one of them. I walk across the highly polished grey granite floor of the lobby and over to the ugly ass counter, which is made of the same grey stuff.

I do some butt cheek exercise because the guy behind that ugly grey counter is fine with a capital F. His hair is as black as the night, but in a ruffled ‘I just got out my fucking bed to come sit in this grey ass building so I can eat’ style. A look I love, by the way. He’s wearing a smart tailored suit, a crisp white shirt and my balls on his chin. God dammit the last bit is wishful thinking. You know, the bit about my balls and his chin. Anyway, those perfect white teeth with the ‘suck my dick smile’ make the long drive worth it.

“I’m here to see Mr. Blake. I’m Alan Steel for Keith Kavanagh.” I say, staring unblinking into his eyes and licking my lips. Added a few more butt crunches. I want my ass tight when I walk away.

“Excuse me one moment. Mr. Steel,” he says in his silky, buttery voice. Oh my god, my pants are suddenly too tight. He arches his eyebrow as I stand there soaking him up like gravy on a biscuit. I’m beginning to wish I’d borrow some of Keith’s Ivy League shit. Not feeling so dapper anymore in my distressed hipster jean, shocking pink Def Jam tee and distressed leather jacket adorned with chains. I’d have made more of an effort if I had any clue I would be meeting the other future Mr. Steel. ‘Psyche, I’d be freaking fabulous in a black bag.’ I flick my hair over my shoulder, and lower my gaze and pretend I don’t want to mount the counter and ride this Miles McMillan lookey likey, like a rodeo cowboy.

“Mr. Kavanagh is expected. Sign here Mr. Steel.”

I scribble my life away and grin back at him, as I hand him the pen and slide my finger along one of his. He clears his throat and stutters. “Take the last elevator to your right and press for the twentieth floor. Someone will meet you there,” He says handing me a visitor’s pass. Like anyone here needed telling I’m a visitor, seeing as I’m the only one who knows there is a world of colors out there other than kill-the-mood grey.

I thank him and sashay away to the elevators. I know he’s looking at my ass because I can feel the burn, but I don’t look back. As I approach the last elevator as instructed to take, I pass by two security guards wearing a different shade of grey. What the fuck, how many shades of grey are there in this place?

Can I get some color up in here!

Riding high on this mirrored out elevator. I’m as happy as a pig in shit to see myself from every angle. I strike as many poses as I can on this fast ride to boredom city. Listening to some old fart talk about how he made his money is not my idea of fun. I’m in my latest pose with my ass stuck out and tilted up while pouting when the door opens.

I blinked, am I in the freaking twilight zone. I know I’ve just wasted a good three minute of my life riding this elevator. To nowhere, obviously, as I’ve hadn’t even left the lobby. Same grey high polished granite floor covering, and glass walls. The same Miles Mc—Oh no, wait a minute this Miles looky likey at the same looking shitty grey counter, hair is neater, shorter and way more wavy than the other one. Dressed in a similar, but a more expensive grey suit. He rises to greet me with his painted on smile and outstretched hand.

“Mr. Steel? Can you wait over there?” he says and leads me to a plush seating area, of yes you guessed it, light grey leather chairs. In a spacious glass tomb. I’m visible for all who care to view, from all sides. On display like a giant goldfish. I shouldn’t complain, the view of Seattle from this height is freaking awesome. I can only guess how fantastic the view is at night.

Instead of checking out the view I really should be going through the questions asleep in my backpack. I have no clue about the dude. To be honest I don’t care two shits about anything, other than whether or not his dick is as big as his wallet. I’ll fish the questions out later if he’s so ugly not even the green dollar signed halo above his head would make me want to fuck him.

I’m hoping he’s a forty something single chickenhawk looking for a good time. If I can’t snag me a young, rich dude, an old one is just as tempting. Whatever, I’m sure he’ll be just my type. Male… Yep, that’s it, what else did you think I was going to say?

The building, although modern, looks sterile and clinical. Everything, even the staff, were different shades of grey. What a depressing sight. I think Mr. Blake needs someone like me to bring color into his life.