Fire Balls Page 7

  She stood in front of the painting. “I had to see what everyone was talking about. God, Rodney, it’s magnificent. You really put your heart and soul into this one.”

  His cheeks heated, an unusual sensation. “Uh, thanks.”

  “Roman. Hey, Roman.”

  Jerry. Rod’s shoulders slumped. Jerry meant Hunter. Shit, could he hide? He’d hoped this moment wouldn’t come. He’d hoped Hunter would just stay away from the festival, and he sure as hell had hoped he wouldn’t bring Jerry. Rod sighed.

  Jerry jogged across the lawn, pushing a man in a wheelchair, an older guy with a husky upper body. He looked tall, though his legs appeared shrunken. Handsome, though. Hunter walked behind with a beautiful woman, probably in her late forties, who looked so much like Hunter she had to be his mother.

  So the guy in the wheelchair must be the fabled father for whom Hunter lived his life. Shit.

  Jerry bounced up breathlessly, pushing the chair.

  “You should have gone around the lawn, Jerry darling. That must have been a bumpy ride.” Might as well beard the tiger in his den. He stuck out a hand. “Hi, I’m Roman.”

  “Hey, Roman, this is Matt Fallon. Hunter’s dad.” Jerry stepped back. “I’m gonna go get us some Cokes, okay? Then I’ll show you my pictures.”

  Mrs. Fallon smiled absently. “Yes, dear.”

  The older man gave Rod an appraising look but shook hands firmly. “Matt Fallon.”

  “Delighted to meet you. And you must be Mrs. Fallon.” Again he extended his hand. Yeah, he knew she should offer first, but he and Emily Post were only kissing cousins.

  She took his hand but kept gazing past him. “Hello.” She shook his hand. “Hunter, that’s you,” she whispered.

  Hunter stared at the painting like he’d seen a rattlesnake. “I didn’t know you were going to show it here. Dammit, Rod. I wouldn’t have come, and I certainly wouldn’t have brought my parents.”

  Well, hell. “I didn’t know you were going to be here, Hunter. And if you’re so damned ashamed of it, why the hell did you pose in the first place?”

  The high cheekbones colored. “I didn’t know it would be so—”

  “Beautiful,” Hunter’s mom whispered, smiling. “Roman, it’s simply gorgeous. I can’t begin to tell you how extraordinary I think it is.”

  Matt Fallon gazed at the painting with an unreadable expression.

  “I knew that damned picture looked familiar. Moonlighting for a little porno, Fallon? Make some movies too?” The snarky voice came from behind the Fallons.

  Rod looked. Ah. The asshole from the fire station.

  Hunter spun, his face flaming. “Leave it, Mick.”

  “Leave what, fag? Your cock? It’s all over the place.”

  Hunter’s parents turned to stare at the big blond with the pugnacious jaw. The idiot defined bad news. Rod couldn’t stand him, and they hadn’t even met.

  Mrs. Fallon’s eyes went wide, and Mr. Fallon appeared confused. “Excuse me, young man. I thought you were a firefighter. I saw you at the station.”

  “Yeah, I’m a firefighter. But I joined up when there were just real men on the force. Not homo queers.” That fucking guy didn’t seem to respect the fact that the man was in a wheelchair or that there were women present. The pissant. Okay, bloodshot eyes and slurred speech, but the guy wasn’t drunk enough to justify being this big a reptile.

  The drunken ass stepped closer to the painting. “I always figured you had some profession you were better suited for than firefighting. And here it is. Porno model.”

  Hunter’s eyes shifted from his abuser to his parents and back. His fists clenched. He looked like he wanted to hit the guy but didn’t want to make a show in front of a crowd.

  Okay, my turn. Rod stepped past Mr. Fallon’s wheelchair and looked up at the drunken idiot. “This is my space, and you’re not welcome in it. Go elsewhere, darling, or I’ll ask the security guards to remove you.”

  The man called Mick looked like he had seen something repulsive. “And what have we here? Is this your costar in the porno movies, Hunnnn-ter?”

  The statement was a little too close to home, which made him madder. “Please leave!”

  The big idiot stepped toward Rod, hands balled. One massive fist shot toward Rod’s face. Rod sidestepped.

  The drunk caught himself and pulled back for another hit. “Suck my cock!”

  Okay, enough. Deep breath. Mawashi geri. One upper roundhouse kick. Tobi geri. One jumping kick. The satisfying connection of foot to softening tissue. Wap! Oof.

  The asshole wavered, his head cocked to the side; then he fell like an axed tree. Looky-loos scattered behind him. Mrs. Fallon and her husband stared openmouthed.

  Quick and efficient. Rod took a deep breath. “Sorry, darlings. I so hate violence.”

  Two security guards rushed up. The smaller man, Hank, asked, “What happened, Roman?”

  “Sorry to make a scene, dear. He was more obnoxious than a body could bear.” People around nodded and murmured in agreement. “Will you get him out of here and call the police, please? I don’t know what they’ll do since he’s a firefighter and I’m a fag, but I’ll file a complaint if necessary.”

  Hank frowned. “He might sue you, Roman. Lethal weapons and all that.”

  He stuck a hand on his hip. “I doubt he wants the whole world to know I beat him up, considering his attitude. No, he’s more likely to grab me in a dark alley with four other fag-haters like him. But I don’t expect he’ll sue.” Rod laughed as they carried the man away.

  A man from the back of the crowd that had gathered called out, “Hey, kid! Can I buy that painting? It’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw… and I’m not gay.” Everyone laughed and a few people nodded.

  “Thank you, kind sir.” Rod did a little bow. “Actually, I’m only displaying it at the festival. It will be on sale at the Underwood Gallery on Forest Avenue.” He grabbed a card from the small table. “Here’s their card. You can call about the show they’ll be having that will feature my work, including this painting.”

  A couple of other people reached out for cards. A woman said, “I’d like to buy that painting right there.” She pointed to a portrait of an African American man stretched out on a patch of grass. She handed him a credit card.

  “Don’t you want to know how much it is?”

  “Don’t care. I must own something by the gay karate painter.” People laughed.

  He took her card. “Excuse me a minute.”

  Mrs. Fallon extended a hand. “Thank you so much, Roman. If Hunter had hit that man, he could have lost his job, or at least been put on report, although I’m sure they would understand the extremity of the insult. But you made it unnecessary. You were brilliant, really.” She beamed.

  He shook her hand. “Thank you so much. I’m so sorry this happened. I really do abhor violence. But some people just can’t stand a little diversity.” He flipped his bangs and grinned.

  Matt Fallon stuck out his hand, and this time he was smiling. “You can dish it out, son. And you paint pretty damned good too.”

  Rod took his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  But Hunter Fallon just stared at him with a stony face.

  HUNTER PACED in the shadows behind what he hoped was Rod’s van, having seen it at the gallery. Where the hell was he? Hours ago he’d embarrassed Hunter to death by displaying his naked body for the whole damned festival to see. That included every dignitary in the damned city, including the fire chief. Of course, nobody would have known Hunter was the model if not for Mick. But still that didn’t excuse Rod laying the asshole out. Who the hell knew the little guy was some black-belt karate master, for Christ’s sake?

  Rod had to agree not to show that painting anymore. It was too much. Hunter paused and leaned against the van. Of course, his mother loved the painting. Shit, him lying there with his cock hanging out. His dad even said it was a good job. And of course, it was. A masterpiece, really. But still….

  Shuf
fling footsteps scraped on the rough asphalt of the parking lot. The lights were few and far between, but he could see Rod struggling with the huge canvas. Good. Maybe he’d fall on his face.

  Damn, that wasn’t fair. Hunter had more or less volunteered to model. Even if Jerry had talked him into it. Jerry. He’d think about Jerry later.

  “Here, fuck, let me help you.”

  Rod stopped. “Hunter?”

  “It’s not Smokey the Bear. Let me take that.” He grabbed the canvas and pressed it above his head. “Where are you putting it?”

  Rod pulled out keys and opened the back of the van. “It fits in here. Where are your parents? Where’s Jerry? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I took my parents to my sister’s, took Jerry home, and came back to talk to you.” He set the painting carefully in the van. “Could I buy it?”

  “On a firefighter’s salary? Forgive me, darling, but my big paintings go for six figures.”

  Oh crap. He couldn’t ask Rod not to sell it. It was his livelihood.

  “Are you that embarrassed about it? Most people will never know who the model is.”

  “After tonight? Hell, half of Southern California knows what happened.”

  “Come on. We’re not that important.”

  Hunter sighed. “There was a reporter in the group. He tried to interview me after.”

  Rod sat inside the back of the van. His feet didn’t touch the ground. “I know. He interviewed me.”

  Holy crap! “No! Why did you do that?”

  “Two reasons. First, if I didn’t talk to him he’d make shit up and that, darling, would be worse than the real story, I assure you. Second, it will increase the price of the painting.”

  “As long as that damned painting is around, no one is ever going to forget what happened. Everyone in the department—hell, the city—will keep talking about it. Me with my cock hanging out and having to be defended by a… someone else.”

  “Say it, Hunter. By a pipsqueak homo fag, right?”

  What the hell? “No, I was going to say ‘by another man.’ Hell, I would never say that, what you said. I’m a homo fag too, you know.”

  Rod sighed. “No, you’re not, Hunter. You’re a man who has sex with men but you’re straight gay. You aren’t a homo fag, and you hate the idea of being one. It’s fine. But I know I embarrass you, and I’m sorry, darling. I am what I am, and while I may hate it sometimes, at least I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “I’m not ashamed.”

  The wide brown eyes cut him a glare. “Really?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Whatever you say.” Rod hopped off the back of the van, slammed the doors, and started to walk toward the driver’s door.

  Shit, the little asshole. “I’m not!” He grabbed Rod’s arm, remembered he might get karate chopped for his efforts, took hold of the other arm and pinned them behind Rod’s back, then pulled him close, front to front.

  Oh hell, big mistake. The small, lean frame pressed against him had one big lump in it, and Hunter knew what that cock felt like slamming into his ass. Instant hard-on. His erection poked Rod at about belly level.

  The pretty lips smiled just a little. “Now that you’ve got me, what do you want to do with me?”

  Crap, he knew the answer to that question. He held his breath and tried not to reply.

  The world spun as Rod turned Hunter like a top and now held Hunter’s back against his front. How had he done that? Rod’s lips couldn’t quite reach his ear, but he whispered, “You took too long to decide. My turn.”

  Rod pushed him forward until Hunter’s hands rested on the van’s side. He didn’t resist. Yes, in a full-on fight, Rod would have to hurt him to beat him, but fighting just didn’t register on Hunter’s radar.

  Rod reached around, loosened Hunter’s belt, then unbuttoned his fly. Is this happening? They were in a parking lot, for God’s sake. But he didn’t stop Rod. Couldn’t. Rod pulled down Hunter’s zipper with dexterous fingers. Oh no. Oh yes. This was all he’d dreamed about since the day they’d fucked. Dreamed while asleep, while working and eating and fucking Jerry. He’d dreamed of those fingers doing that. He moaned. Had to stop. Had to….

  Rod ripped Hunter’s pants and boxer briefs down his legs, grabbed his right leg, and pulled it out until stopped by the trouser legs. He slipped questing fingers between Hunter’s gaping asscheeks until they found his hole and began to circle it. Hunter moaned again.

  Rod reached around with his other hand and found Hunter’s cock pressed like an iron bar against his belly. Pump. Pump. Hunter’s moans came like clockwork, and he thrust forward into that hand. Every pump sent fire up his spine to his brain, frying it.

  Both of the hands stopped their work. No! Then the fingers returned to his hole all wet and juicy. How the hell had Rod done that? Didn’t care. Hunter pushed his butt out farther to get the fingers in. God, he needed to feel those fingers.

  “Oh yeah, we like that. Don’t we, darling?” His pushed inside with two wet fingers and screwed back and forth, stretching him. But not enough. Not near.

  “Put it in me.”

  “Oh, the pretty bottom is getting pushy. What do you want in you, Hunter?”

  “You know.”

  “Yes, I know.” Rod didn’t move.

  “Shit! Put your cock in me. Do it!”

  “Ooh, bossy. And since I’m just a poor, weak creature, I guess I’ll have to obey.”

  Rod pulled his fingers out and filled Hunter with his cock in one ramming, soul-satisfying, ass-searing thrust. Shit! Good. Yes. Do it!

  Then they fucked. Rod wrapped his arms around Hunter, one hand on his cock, the other holding him close. He pushed back and Rod surged forward, sinking his cock deeper until Hunter practically felt it in his throat. So good. What he’d wanted his whole fucking life. Shit.

  Rod sank his teeth into the meat of his shoulder, not hard but just enough to remind him he was pure animal. Enough to remind him he loved fucking in the middle of a parking lot, with a man pounding his ass raw and him taking it, never wanting it to stop. “Oh crap. Fuck me. Fuck me.”

  “Forever, darling. Forever.”

  No! That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Couldn’t stop. Oh shit. The ramming, the pumping. Heat, fire. God. “Rod, no….” Hot spurts of cum shot out of him onto the side of the van.

  “Good night, Mary. Thanks for helping me.” Voices came from the stairs that led to the festival grounds.

  Oh shit, someone was coming. What was he doing?

  “Oh God, yes!” Rod pistoned into Hunter. His hands dug into Hunter’s hips, and Rod relaxed behind him.

  Someone would see them. Could be the reporter, confirming everything Mick had said at the festival. He was a homo fag doing porno with the artist who painted him.

  Rod collapsed against Hunter’s back.

  He pushed. “Someone’s coming. We gotta get out of here.”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s coming.”

  “Don’t panic. It’s dark. The van is hiding us. Relax.”

  Footsteps, scuffling as someone walked across the lot.

  “No. Hell, I’ve got to get out of here.” He grabbed for his pants.

  “Shit, Hunter, let me get the condom out of your ass first.”

  Well, at least Rod had used a condom. Not that Hunter had the brains to have checked. The slimy latex oozed out as Rod’s cock withdrew.

  Loss. That was the feeling. No. Damn. He pulled up his pants, then fastened the fly and belt. “Gotta go.”

  Rod zipped his fly, went to the back of the van, and opened the doors. He dragged out a couple of feet of the canvas.

  What the hell? “What are you doing? I just put it away.”

  “Take it. Take the painting. Burn it. Do whatever you want with it.”

  Tears flashed to Hunter’s eyes. What the crap? “I can’t do that.”

  “You wanted to buy it. You can’t afford it. Take it. I can’t keep it. I’d have to look at it
every day, and that would be…. Well, I don’t want to do that. So either I have to sell it or you have to take it. Makes no difference to me. I just want it out of my life.”

  The words slammed like a blow. Rod wanted to get rid of him, even Hunter’s image. Of course, he’d been nothing but a pain in Rod’s ass. And Rod had been nothing but ecstasy in Hunter’s. Shit. The little prick! “Sell it. I hope you make a bundle.”

  He left Rod and everything he represented. Weirdness. Yeah, and wonder.

  Chapter Eight

  ROD GATHERED another armload of paintings and took them to the van. The ruckus at the festival had lit a fire under his sales. He’d always done well at the art show, but hell, people had decided he was some kind of superhero and were standing in line for the chance to buy stuff. Superhero. Yeah. Fag-Man.

  He’d have to do some serious painting soon or he’d be out of inventory before the end of the festival. That was a no-no. Like every exhibiting artist, he’d had to assure the powers that be he’d have enough product to sell. He’d thought he was fine. He hadn’t counted on being the man of the hour—an hour he’d like to give back.

  He rested on the bumper. He’d be okay. Hell, he’d always been a survivor, and once again, he’d come through.

  He looked up at the scrunch of auto tires on his driveway and smiled. “Hey.”

  David waggled his fingers through the windshield, then got out. “Hey, conquering hero. Shit, I am so sorry I missed it. From what I hear, you’re the one who should be named David. They say you felled a giant Philistine.” He laughed.

  Rod sighed and shrugged.

  “That’s not the reaction I was expecting. Are you being modest, or do you regret taking out the homophobic asshole of Laguna Beach?”

  “Do you know the guy?”

  “Yes, actually. He played some volleyball with Gareth and Edge on the beach one day. He heard the boys were gay and made a snide remark. Edge ran him off the court, bless him. My born-again gay boy. That fireman’s got quite a reputation as an intolerant idiot, so don’t worry that you demeaned him.”

  Rod shook his head. “I’m not worried about him.”