Volley Balls

by Tara Lain

  One huge portrait of a nude guy caught his eye. Holy crap, that’s gorgeous. The figure’s back faced the viewer. The light caught the curve of his spine and the bulge of his buttocks, while most everything else blended into the black background. Gareth closed his mouth with effort.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Gareth glanced up. A tall, really handsome guy so buff he could have been on their team stood a couple of feet from the portrait. His voice in no way matched the visual—high, breathy, and effeminate. Gareth nodded. “Yes, it stopped me dead. Really beautiful.”

  “It’s by Roman. He’s one of the most respected and popular artists in southern California. We show him in our gallery. You should stop in some time. There’s quite a collection.”

  “Your gallery?” Gareth looked at the sign on the display wall. It said Underwood Gallery. He cocked his head. “Uh, is your shop on the main street?” He pointed vaguely toward downtown Laguna.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” The big man smiled and ran a hand through his spiky hair that had streaks of pink.

  “Is there a guy who works for you? Kind of tall? Not as tall as you, but light brown hair? Slender?”

  He laughed. “Oh, you must mean David. He doesn’t work for me. I work for him. He owns the gallery.”

  “No shit?”

  “David Underwood. Do you know him?”

  “Oh, uh, no. Just saw him in the shop, I think. He seems young to have—”

  “Jesus, Gar, what the hell are you looking at?” Edge grabbed his arm. “Come on, man. You made us hurry to get in to this fag fest. Let’s get on with it.”

  Gareth ripped his arm out of Edge’s hand. “Hang on.” He glanced at the man with the soft voice. His wide eyes gave Gareth the willies. Just like the guy he called David had looked when they stood outside the shop. Shit. He made himself sick. “Thank you so much for telling me.” He turned and walked away—straight back to the life he’d created.

  A FIRM hand gripped David’s penis and moved it to one side. David looked down, unable to see over Rodney’s currently red mane of hair. “Excuse me, darling, but what the hell are you doing with the body makeup down there?”

  Rod glanced up and winked. “Well, darling, you’re much better hung than Michelangelo’s version of David, so I have to make this cock look like a part of the statue. Let’s say they couldn’t have used a fig leaf on you, sweetie.”

  David laughed. “Flattery will get you everywhere, and I will confess that, sadly, this is the most action that cock has had in quite some time.”

  “See, that’s why you have to come tomorrow night. You won’t forget?”

  “I said I’d be there.”

  “Voilà.” Rodney stood, pushing David toward the mirror in the crowded, messy dressing room.

  David smiled. Well, okay. His reflection showed that, as promised, Rodney had outdone himself with the body makeup. He’d mixed some subtle shine into the matte white used to simulate marble, and he’d applied it extra thick. With the curled white wig on his head, and the white sling in his hand, David was… David. The image of the great Michelangelo masterpiece. In real life he was a bit prettier, not quite as masculine as the statue, but in this makeup, the resemblance was total. Of course, if anyone could do it, Rodney could.

  “Wow. That looks cool,” Mike said. He was one of the other pageant performers who’d agreed to pose nude and had been assigned the special “nudist” dressing room.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to admit our Rodney has exceeded my expectations.”

  Rodney proceeded to bow grandly until another one of the statue models snagged him for a touch-up.

  “Places for the classical series.”

  The scratchy public address system was barely coherent, but David and the others mounted the stairs to the stage, where the impressionist art series would have just finished. Even when the backgrounds were so soft and dreamy and the figures diffuse, the amazing combination of set painting and miraculous lighting created the impression of an actual life-sized oil painting on the stage. The illusion was so complete people came from all over the world, year after year, to see the famous Pageant of the Masters.

  He stood in the wings as Venus came off the stage, her skirts dragging and bare breasts bouncing in the white makeup. She winked at him. “Give ’em hell, gorgeous.”

  He walked onto the stage in the near darkness, stepped onto the pedestal, positioned the sling in his hand, and cocked one knee. Taking a deep breath, he became still. He was ready.

  GARETH SHIFTED uneasily in the darkened amphitheater. Another scene change. The effects were lovely and sometimes awe-inspiring, but he’d gotten the idea in the first half hour. He was ready to go.

  He glanced to his left at Edge, who seemed fascinated with the show. Intriguing, since Edge had the attention span of a gnat. The other guys were more restless, jabbing each other when the bare-breasted art pieces appeared, but they managed to stay on the near side of rude.

  He settled back for the duration. Maybe a little catnap. The lights came up as he started to close his eyes. He heard an indrawn breath and looked up. Holy, bloody, everlasting hell.

  In the center of the vast stage, on a rotating platform in a single perfect spotlight, was David, the masterwork of Michelangelo. Gareth had seen it in Florence several times, and every sense he had told him he was looking at the actual statue, although his mind knew this was a human being. Glowing, luminous, absolutely still… sweet bloody Christ, how could someone do it? How could they have found a person so perfect?

  He noticed a deep stillness in the audience and also among his mates. Edge was absolutely motionless. Unusual for him. But the statue, the guy, was just that beautiful.

  Gareth cocked his head. The model’s legs were not as big and muscular as the Michelangelo. This “statue” was a bit leaner and even more graceful. The pedestal kept turning. Gareth squinted. Bloody hell, he’d seen that perfect ass before. He peered into the pool of light as the David rotated. He’d seen those amazing cheekbones.

  It was the guy from the beach and the shop. Gareth rifled through his program for the name. David Underwood. The one who owned the gallery. The fag. Gareth shifted onto his hip, leaning away from Edge. Wouldn’t do to let his pouf-hating friend see his massive erection.

  “NIGHT, DEARS.” David kissed the air next to the cheeks of Bobby and Robin McMillan, brilliant artists and JJ’s most favorite twin twinks. The twins posed as the Two Fridas—masquerading as women in the pageant. David waved. “See you tomorrow night.” Volunteering for the pageant ate up time, but hell, it wasn’t like he had a whole helluva lot else to do, and it really made a person feel a part of the community. A Laguna insider.

  David walked down the pathway from the backstage area into the festival grounds. People were leaving, and JJ would likely have closed up their booth. Better check.

  He skirted around two of the display walls toward their installation. Since the festival was a juried art show, it was a huge honor to be chosen. He was a relatively new artist compared to the old-timers who had been here since the sixties and seventies, so he chose his space later than they did. As a result, he got a decent location but not prime.

  He wound through the displays toward his booth and—stopped. Holy shit. The guy from the beach—the beautiful dark-haired one—stood in front of his booth staring at the Roman portrait he’d featured. Where the hell had he come from? More important, why was he there? Did he see the pageant? No, no way. Not the type. Some jock from down under. Still, the wistful expression on the guy’s face as he stared at Roman’s portrait made David’s belly clench. What was he thinking? Could he love art?

  The guy’s shoulders rose and fell like he just took a big breath. A sigh. He shook his head, shoved his hands in his warm-up suit pockets, which forced the fabric to cup under his world-class ass, and walked slowly toward the exit. Where were his friends? Why did he look like he’d lost the best one of them?

  David hurried to the booth, where JJ was pulling
down the most valuable pieces and packing up the small, stealable items. The grounds were guarded at night, but JJ, bless him, didn’t leave their profits to chance. He looked up at David and flashed his sweet smile. “Hey, how did the show go?”

  “Great. Need help?”

  “Nope. All done.”

  “Uh, who was that customer I saw leaving?”

  JJ grinned. He might be naïve but he wasn’t dumb. “Hard to miss, isn’t he?”

  “Yep.”

  “He asked about you.”

  “Me? How the hell would that guy know me?”

  JJ must have registered his frown, because his voice got breathy. “He said he saw the gallery and I assumed he’d been in, uh, because he described you. I told him your name.” His hands started to flap like they did whenever he got upset. “I hope that was okay. I mean, it’s the name on the gallery, and he seemed nice and acted like he was admiring the painting and—”

  “It’s okay.” He put a hand on JJ’s arm. Don’t panic. He saw you—twice. Don’t scare JJ. “Yes, actually I saw him on the beach, and then later he was outside the gallery. I was just surprised he’d remember.”

  JJ fanned himself. “Oh, good. I sure wouldn’t want to help some stalker.” He sighed. “But my, he could stalk me anytime.”

  Sadly, he half felt that way himself. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Are you doing something fun with your one night off—I hope?” JJ grinned.

  “I’m doing something.” He raised an eyebrow. “The jury’s out on whether it’s fun or not.”

  “Rodney?”

  “Oh yes, God help me. Rodney.” They both laughed.

  “AND THEN I completely reorganized the accounts payable reporting system, and my supervisor was ecstatic. I mean, it was a whole redo of the Excel, and she said you can’t have too many Excel shortcuts to suit her, and….”

  David stifled his sigh, hoping Mark, his blind date, wouldn’t hear. He liked accounting, honest, but Mark had an enthusiasm for the subject that qualified as superhuman. Rodney, the little turd, had sent his apologies for feeling “under the weather” and unable to join them. Probably became afflicted after spending five minutes listening to Mark extol the virtues of tax records.

  Since Mark was now explaining his system by drawing on the white cloth table cover, David let his eyes steal around the restaurant and bar and froze. Dark, silky, wavy hair. Tall. Really tall. Shit, was that…? He blinked and the dark-haired aberration was gone. Did he really see him? Hell, he was shrinking from shadows since that guy yelled at him yesterday.

  “David?”

  He looked back at Mark, who now gazed at him with disappointed puppy eyes.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I got distracted because, frankly, I need a men’s room and couldn’t quite remember where the facilities are in this place.”

  Mark looked a little mollified. He pointed toward the entrance by the bar. “I think it’s over there. Shall I order another round while you’re gone?”

  If he had the balls of a mosquito he’d say “No, I have to leave,” but he was a wuss. He’d been kicked in the teeth so many times by guys that he couldn’t bear to do it to someone who was only trying to be nice. “Sure. That’d be great.”

  Since he knew exactly where the men’s room was, he walked straight toward it. He could stand to pee, and he could stand a break from Excel spreadsheets. He went in, used the equipment, and washed up very slowly. The men’s room door opened, and the bar’s music sounded louder.

  David grabbed a hand towel, dried, and turned to leave.

  Leaning against the wall by the door, blocking his exit, was “the friend.” The delicious, terrifying, dark-haired beach guy, sporting an inscrutable expression—part grin and part grimace.

  Holy shit. This could not be another accidental meeting.

  Scared and pissed—an adrenaline-intensive combo. His heart beat like a bass drum and goose bumps covered his arms—and his dick. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he shouted. Best defense and all that.

  The dark-haired guy shrugged and kind of ducked. “I hate to admit it, but I followed you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. I went to your store to see you and saw you walking over here, so—” He shrugged again. “—I followed you.”

  David’s stomach turned. “Shit! Jesus, get away from me.” But he couldn’t force his leaden legs to pass the man. In fact, he fell back a couple of feet.

  The guy pushed off from the wall and stepped toward him. “Is that guy your boyfriend?”

  “None of your business.” David put up his hands. “You can’t get away with beating up gay men in Laguna. This isn’t some Neanderthal country. You’ll get arrested.”

  The guy paused and frowned. “Who said anything about beating you up?”

  “How about your fucking friend?”

  The guy took another step toward David. “He’s not me. Understand?” It sounded like understend. “I mean you no harm, mate. Honest.”

  David pressed back against the wall. Trapped. Maybe he could slip to the side. “Then what do you want? Why are you following me?”

  The guy stopped. “I don’t usually act this way. All stalkery.”

  “Thanks a fuck for reserving it for me.”

  “It’s just I saw you three times and—I guess three’s a charm like they say. I want to take you out—like to dinner.”

  David gasped. “What?” He turned only his eyes toward the Aussie. The guy was gazing at David’s face like some painting in his gallery.

  “I saw you last night. At that art thingy. I thought you were perfect. Those cheekbones, that ass. Sorry. I’d like to take you out.”

  “Out? As in on a date out?”

  “Yeh, that’s the idea.”

  Of all the fucking nerve…. David shoved off the wall, hands firmly planted on his hips. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re gay? Running around harassing innocent people with that band of delinquents, and you’re a closet case? Give me a break! Haven’t you heard? It’s chic to be gay. We can get married and everything. Get into this decade.”

  “Sorry. It’s just I’m a volleyballer. And Australian, at least currently. We don’t come out. But I’d really like to take you out.”

  “As your pal? Right.” David flipped his hair. “No, asshole. Get away from me. I do not do this. I don’t go with men who aren’t proud of who and what they are. Not anymore. Never again. Go back to your closet and play with your volleyballs.”

  His exit was sweeping, dramatic, and for one lovely moment, absolutely perfect. Outside the door his knees weakened, but not as much as his resolve. Have you lost your mind? Did you see that guy? He just wants to take you out. Shit!

  Taking a deep breath, he managed to get himself back into the restaurant and to the table. Mark looked up with big eyes. “I was about to come see if you’d drowned.”

  He sat down and tried to smile. “I’m so sorry. I ran into an acquaintance, and had trouble getting away from him.” Truer words were never spoken. “Thanks for ordering the French seventy-five for me.”

  “The bubbles are probably gone.” Mark was definitely pouting.

  “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. Say, why don’t I take you to dinner to make up for being such a rude companion?”

  Mark’s face lit up. “I’d love that, thank you, and I can tell you about some plans I have for….” He glanced over David’s shoulder.

  David turned his head. The big Aussie stood over him, his beautiful face somber. He leaned down a little. “What if I tell them? What if I do that? Will you come out with me then?”

  David’s heart did some kind of wrenching twist. “You’re clearly insane. You don’t even know me. Why would you want to rip your life apart for me?”

  “That’s my business.”

  David’s pulse beat so hard he could barely hear. “No, it’s mine. I don’t want you doing anything because of me. If you don’t value yourself enough to do it for that reason, th
en don’t come around using me as an excuse.” He turned back to Mark and felt more than saw the dark-haired man—the gorgeous, sexy, perfect man—walk away. Double shit.

  Chapter Three

  FINALLY OVER! Jesus, the night to end all nights. David walked away from Las Brisas. One more spreadsheet—and one more recrimination about being so mean to the Aussie—and he’d barf. He’d finally thrown in the towel. When Mark suggested they go to a club, David just bailed and said he had to go back to the shop. He’d almost said to do inventory and caught himself just in time. He didn’t want to be even meaner, but when Mark suggested another date, he waffled—and Mark finally got the message. This wasn’t a match made in gay boy heaven.

  Just to be not totally a liar, he walked across PCH toward the store. His apartment was only a few blocks up the hill, but if he stopped in the gallery, he’d feel a teeny bit less like a slug. Still, tomorrow he’d kill Rodney. Maybe Mark wouldn’t have been so unbearable without the obvious contrast with the beautiful guy David had mortally insulted. Oh well, I’m not ready to date anyway.

  It was still earlyish, and a few couples walked hand in hand on the sidewalks. David watched one cute gay couple stop in the shadows of a door for a fast kiss. Sigh. Nice to see such sweetness really exists.

  As he approached the gallery, a figure stepped away from the building. He sucked wind, stopped, and slapped a hand over his heart. Shit. Not Phil. Not Phil. He swallowed hard.

  The Aussie stepped closer. “Sorry to scare you. Are you okay?”

  Couldn’t quite catch his breath. He nodded, but his inhale sounded in his ears.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry, David. I keep fucking this up. I should just leave you alone like you asked me.” He shook his head, turned, and started walking away down Forest.