Fire Balls Page 2

  “Thanks.”

  “When you going out?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Gonna do some intellectual thing, like a concert or something?”

  “No. Just dinner at Rick’s.”

  Jerry chewed and grinned. “Is he cute?”

  “Yeah, actually he is. Tall with dark hair and wire-rims. He’s adorable.”

  “I want to meet him. Give my stamp of approval.”

  “Hey, if he sees you, what would he want with me?”

  “You kidding?” Jerry sat up in his chair. “Hey, man, you’re the adorable one, and you’re smart and way talented. I never hear you sell yourself short so much. What’s going on with you?” He was more perceptive than his laid-back manner suggested.

  Rod shook his head. “Nothing. Just tired of playing around. I guess I want a serious honey and don’t seem to be finding one.”

  “Ready to settle down? Hey, maybe this college guy is the one.”

  “Maybe.” If he could get those deep, fire-fighting eyes out of his mind. “So how’s the surf been, baby?”

  “Flat, man. Barely worth haulin’ my board and my ass to the beach. Goin’ down to Doheny tomorrow and—”

  “Excuse me, aren’t you the guy I met at the festival? With those beautiful paintings?”

  Holy crap, Rod knew that voice. But he was frozen.

  He slowly raised his eyes and feasted on a sight he’d never enjoyed this close up. Hunter Fallon stood at the table. That face. Nearly perfect structurally. Slim nose, cheekbones so high they left hollows, a carved chin with a slight cleft. His eyes were ice blue, but lashes lined them like he’d stopped by the makeup counter for a touch-up.

  And dimples. Oh, be still my heart. So deep he could lose a fingertip in them.

  Jerry seemed as stunned as Rod felt, but he recovered. “Yeah, man, you were admiring the gorgeous guys in the paintings.”

  Hunter shrugged, still smiling. “More the painting style, but yeah. They were pretty gorgeous, now that you mention it.”

  “Well, this here is Roman. The guy who painted them. You said you were a fan.”

  The crystal eyes turned to Rod. Oh shit. Rod wanted to say something. He had to say something.

  Hunter blushed. Yep, pink across the cheekbones. He glanced at Rod, then away. Seemed ill at ease. “I really admire your work, Mr. Roman. It’s exceptional.”

  “Uh, Rodney. Rod.”

  “Oh, but the paintings….”

  Rod swallowed. “Rodney Mansfield. Ro-man.”

  “I see. Your nome d’arte.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, have you eaten?” Jerry asked, apparently recovered. “Why don’t you take a load off? Sit.”

  Hunter looked around, visibly nervous. “Thanks. I ate with my sister, but she had to leave so I was having a drink at the bar.”

  Rod practically fainted from relief, and Jerry laughed. “Your sister. Way cool, she’s your sister. So come have a drink with us.”

  Subtle much? Jeez, Rod wanted to die, sink into the planter next to them, or anything to disappear.

  “I don’t want to intrude. Maybe another time.”

  Jerry almost jumped out of his chair. “Hey, no intrusion. I’ll call the waiter and have him bring your tab.”

  Hunter’s eyes flicked toward the bar. The guy was not comfortable. Finally he shrugged and pointed toward the mass of humanity packed into the narrow space at the other end of the restaurant. “You’ll never get his attention. Let me go settle my tab. Then, uh, I’d love to join you.” He glanced at Rod.

  Jerry chortled. “That would be great, man. Just great.”

  Hunter turned and threaded his way through the tables. Jerry grabbed Rod’s arm. “Bitchin’, man. She’s his sister. And he thought your guys were gorgeous. Shit, this is lookin’ gooood.”

  Sadly, Rod had to agree. The guy probably came over and made contact because he was interested in Jerry. Not as likely a straight guy would have done it. But he didn’t seem very comfortable, so maybe Jerry had railroaded him. Either way, Rod didn’t want to be around to watch. “Okay, darling. I’m going to leave and give you two some time to get to know each other.”

  Jerry’s fingers tightened. “No, man. Don’t leave me. I don’t know what to say to a guy like him.”

  “What do you mean? What do you say to your other dates?”

  The surfer flashed that mischievous grin. “Let’s fuck?”

  Rod shook his head. “You’re right, that won’t work here.”

  “So you’ll stay? Help me?”

  Since he felt like crying, that might not be the best idea. “No, I’m leaving. But here’s what you do. Just ask him questions about himself. Ask what he does and then think of all the stuff you ever wanted to know about being a fireman and ask that. Ask his hobbies and what sports teams he likes. You know what to do, Jerry. You’re a great friend. People love you.”

  Jerry’s blue eyes widened. “They do?”

  “Of course.”

  Across the restaurant, Hunter was taking his wallet from his pocket.

  Better move. “So have a fun evening. Make my apologies. Just tell him I had to go… paint. Bye, darling.” Rod blew Jerry a kiss and took the long way around the restaurant to the front door.

  He didn’t want to run into Hunter on the way out. What would he say? Hey, I’m ripping out my heart so you can get to know Jerry? I want you so bad my teeth hurt, but I know you’d never be interested in a freak like me?

  He pushed open the door. Deep breath. Yeah, California nights. Twenty degrees cooler than the daytime. But he was a lot colder than the air.

  HUNTER GLANCED over from the bar and watched the little queen leave. Good. He might be a great painter, but what the hell. If guys from the station saw Hunter sitting with the flamboyant artist, they’d get ideas… bad ideas. Yeah, the whole station knew Hunter was gay, and some of the men, like Mick, didn’t like it. Most were pretty easygoing about it, but they thought of Hunter as an athlete and an alpha kind of guy. Not a flaming queer. He didn’t want to be prejudiced himself, but shit, he already took enough abuse. Some days he wished he’d just stayed in the closet. The fire department was not exactly flying the rainbow flag, even in Laguna Beach.

  The other guy, the surfer, was great. Handsome, athletic. No one would ever think he was gay.

  But damn, the artist was talented. And he sure had beautiful eyes. Deep and dark, like he could see things others didn’t.

  Hunter sighed and carried his drink toward the table.

  THE RUNNY egg white slid down into the bowl. Maybe an egg-white omelet for lunch. Shame to waste it. Rod plopped the yolk onto the palette paper next to the pile of white paint. Slowly he folded two shades of white together with the yolk. He loved thick white. It created texture, his signature. Thick paint defined the otherwise soft, impressionistic contours of his beautiful men.

  He picked up the empty tube and scooped the white into the unsealed end. After stuffing it, he rolled the end of the tube tightly to seal it.

  He jumped at the knock. Rattle, really. His screen door was loose. “Who is it?”

  “Hey, Rod man, it’s me. I gotta talk to ya.”

  Well, shit. Painting had taken his mind off his great personal sacrifice—yeah, right—and he really didn’t need Jerry stirring up his feelings again. “Okay, Jerry, come on in. But I’m busy, darling.”

  Jerry pushed open the screen and ambled into the studio, flashing his bare torso with its cut abs and broad shoulders. He really was pretty. Have to paint him again soon.

  Jerry rounded the mixing table and headed straight for the old broken-down couch Rod kept for posing and occasionally sleeping, if he pulled an all-nighter. Muted sunshine gleamed through the skylight and side windows so he could paint in natural light if he wanted to. He always painted Jerry in natural light. The guy was sun swept by nature.

  Rod sighed. “What’s up?” He grabbed the new white paint and went to the big easel that dominated the room. The pa
inting was lookin’ damned good, if he did say so himself.

  Jerry pointed his chin at the painting. “Who’s the guy?”

  “A tourist, actually. I met him at the festival.”

  “So you showed him your etchings?”

  He smiled. “Yeah.”

  “Pretty.”

  “He was here a week. From Kansas or Iowa or something. The poor guy was about to get married to a woman and was trying to find out if his fantasies meant he was gay. He said it was tough to be gay where he was from.”

  “Shit, dude. That’s killer.”

  He added a couple of strokes of Payne’s gray lightened with some of the white. Just deepening a shadow. “Not much of a lover. He was way too conflicted. But I got a good model out of the deal.”

  He kept painting while Jerry hummed tunelessly, but you could cut the tension with a palette knife.

  Finally Jerry cracked. “Shit, man, aren’t you going to ask me how it went? Don’t ya want to know what happened?”

  Rod exhaled as quietly as he could. “Of course I do. I just didn’t want to pry if you didn’t want to tell me.”

  “Man, you seen me naked. Who else would I tell? You’re my best bro.”

  Well, damn. He hadn’t realized Jerry thought of him that way. The guy’s heart lived on his sleeve, and you had to love him for it. Rod set down his paintbrush and pulled a straight-back chair over to the couch. He sat on it backward, channeling Paul Newman. “So, come on. Dish. I’m dying to know.”

  That earned a huge smile. “You were so right, man.” He scooted to the edge of the couch and leaned forward, more alert than his usual posture. “I asked Hunter questions and more questions. He’s from Oregon originally. Seems like he’s got some great family unit up there. His dad’s crippled, I guess. Some kind of accident. He seems real close to the guy. Says his mom knew he was gay before he did. Don’t know how. I mean, he’s really kinda straight gay.” He wiggled a finger at Rod, then back to himself. “We didn’t even know he was gay for sure. But I guess Momma knows best. And I guess he became a firefighter because it was his old man’s dream or something.” He leaned back on the couch. “Anyway, he’s dreamy, straight-up divine. Sweet and nice and smart. Shit, man, have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

  Too much. Rod got up and went back to the easel. At least he didn’t have to stare into Jerry’s smitten face. Crap, he wanted to be happy for the guy. He really did. “He’s beautiful, all right.”

  “And guess what? He asked about you.”

  No breath. “He, uh, did?”

  “Yeah. Said you were so talented. See, I told you not to leave.”

  “Didn’t want to be a third wheel.”

  “Hey, my man, you’re my brother from another mother. What I got, you got. So I’m going on another date with him, and he loves to read and shit. Could you tell me some stuff to talk about?”

  Oh dear God. “So what have you read, Jerry?”

  He looked at his hands. “I, uh, read a few romance novels.”

  “I think it’s okay to talk about those, but you have to know some other writers too. So think. What did you read in high school?”

  “Comic books.”

  “Graphic novels?”

  “Yeah. Man, I love Watchmen and X-Men and Batman.”

  “Comic books.” He walked over to a bookshelf he kept tucked away in the corner of the studio. When he rested on the couch, he loved to read himself to sleep. “Have you ever heard of Lord Byron?”

  Jerry shook his head. “Sounds like a rock star.”

  “He kind of was for his time. He was a poet.” He took out a slim volume and began to read from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. “Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; man marks the earth with ruin—his control stops with the shore.” When he got to “unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown” he looked up.

  Jerry’s big blue eyes shone with tears. “Hey, man, that’s awesome. Probably not a surfer, I guess. All the ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ sound kind of old. But that dude knew what a surfer feels, man. We ride on top of the—what did he call it?—deep and dark blue ocean. And we know we can sink and never be heard from again, man. Axed. It’s how we want to go if we gotta.”

  He had to stop underestimating this man. Rod walked over to the couch and handed the book to Jerry. “Just be yourself. He’s got to love you.”

  “Wow, thanks. But I’ll read this, man. Every word, or at least the words I understand, okay?”

  He smiled. “Okay.”

  “I sure do like the way you read it, though.”

  Rod laughed, took back the book, and began to read.

  “HEY, THAT was some save you did yesterday. Congrats.”

  Hunter looked up at Cameron from his squat by the truck tires. The big blond with the sunny, slightly pockmarked face was vigorously wiping headlights.

  “Thanks. No biggie.”

  “Hell, the chief was all over it. Said you’d done everything right to save that guy’s life. Sounds big to me.”

  “Thanks.” Funny, he felt embarrassed by anything he did as a firefighter. Praise just didn’t feel natural. He wiped the wheel.

  “So how’s your love life?”

  Cam always amazed Hunter. “Have I ever told you how much I appreciate the fact that you, the straightest of straight males, is willing to ask me questions as if my life isn’t a freak show to you?”

  Cameron laughed. “It’s because I am that straight. I love sex, my man, and I think everybody ought to have whatever kind they like. The idiots who have a problem with you being gay ought to look at themselves a little closer to make sure they’re not just lusting after your godlike ass.”

  Hunter felt himself blushing and laughed back. He sloshed some more water from the bucket onto the tires. Slow afternoon. He was off in an hour and could think about his date. “I met a guy.”

  Cam’s crew-cut head popped around the truck’s front. “Seriously? He must be some paragon if he got you to ask him out.”

  “He kind of asked me. But we had one date and it was fun, so I suggested we go out again.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Really sincere. Inquisitive too. He asked me a million questions. I haven’t talked so much about myself in… a long time. But he didn’t seem bored at all. Great-looking. Tall, tan. Surfer.”

  “I wouldn’t see a surfer dude as your type. How’d you meet him?”

  “That’s the funny thing. He was manning a booth over at the festival for an artist. Brilliant artist but pretty flamboyant. You know the screaming-queen type? Really can paint. I was admiring his work when I met Jerry.”

  “That makes more sense. I didn’t see you out hanging ten or whatever.” Cam ducked back around the truck.

  Hunter wiped the wheel clean. “So how’s your girl?” He raised his voice so Cam could hear him around the rig.

  Cam’s voice bounced back. “Which one?”

  Hunter laughed and settled into the rhythm of washing and polishing. At least it passed the time.

  “Make that brightwork shine so you can see your pretty face, Hun-ter.”

  He froze. Damn, he didn’t want to see Mick right now. He just wanted to finish his twelve hours, go on his date, and forget that assholes like Mick existed.

  He kept washing. Maybe Mick would go away.

  “Got a hot date, Hunnnn-ter? Some cute little twink with a bubble butt?”

  Cameron leaned around the rig. “Yeah, he’s got a hot date with your brother. You want to stand in line to be next?”

  “Nah, I’m waiting for your mother, Cameroooon.” But the guy’s eyes shifted, and his smile looked tight. He went into the station.

  Hunter threw the sponge in the bucket. Shit. Wet jeans. He liked his job. He had to. No one would ever be a firefighter for the money. Plus, more guys thought he was weird for reading poetry than for being gay. Still, they put up with him, trusted him; some even liked him. But one guy like Mick could poison a l
ot of good days. “Thanks, Cam.”

  “Hell, that guy would have to crawl up about five feet to be an asshole. He knows if you hit him, you’ll go on report, and he makes sure the captain never hears his bullshit. Not many of the guys like him. Too mean. I’m sorry you have to put up with him.”

  He shrugged. “There’s a crab in every tide pool.” He wished he really felt that blasé about it.

  “Hey, look. It’s four o’clock. Punch out, my man, and go find the surfer in your tide pool.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I think I will.”

  Chapter Three

  ROD WALKED past the galleries and shops up the narrow sidewalk to Rick’s. Evening traffic honked and jostled on the busy Pacific Coast Highway that ran improbably through the little art colony. He was just that teeny bit late. Didn’t want to look too anxious. Of course, the clothes were perfecto, so that could be seen as trying hard. His best skinny jeans and a T-shirt he’d tie-dyed himself, under a blue voile see-through jacket. He’d even put a couple of blue streaks in his platinum hair, replacing the pink. Too much? Nah.

  He heard the chatter of the crowd on the open-air dining porch he passed on his way to the entrance.

  “Rod. Over here.” Bill was leaning over the railing, having commandeered one of the prime locations in the restaurant.

  Rod waggled his fingers and scooted inside, trying hard not to wish a certain firefighter was waiting for him instead. He assured the maître d’ that he knew where he was going and passed between the diners to get to the porch, where Bill sat at a table large enough for four but set for two. He stood when Rod arrived.

  Rod put his hands on his hips. “Who did you kill for this table, mister?”

  Bill laughed and stage-whispered, “I came by earlier and bribed the maître d’ to hold the table for me.”

  “You did not.”

  “Yep. I did, actually.” He held the chair for Rod. “You look gorgeous.”

  He glanced over his shoulder as he sat. “Not bad yourself.” That was the truth. Bill’s tall, slender frame looked great in slouchy jeans and a crisp white shirt. “You’re not wearing your glasses.”