Games

by Cooper West

  Jack’s heart plummeted.

  “Do you mean Jack Martinez?”

  “Yeah, I do. I… uh.”

  “You…?” The interviewer prompted, almost gleeful about the revelations.

  “I love him. Still do. Wish I hadn’t ruined this for us. And that’s all you’re getting out of me today.” Art unclipped his microphone and left the interview area, and the crowd beyond parted wordlessly for him.

  “I HATE you with the force of a thousand blazing suns, but I

  can’t kill you because the media coverage for this is phenomenal.” Gavin spoke with a tone of awe as he tabbed from one website to another.

  “And of course, that was my plan all along.” Art lay on the couch with a cold compress on his head. He did not remember getting home, only getting in the back of his rented limo at the Games and opening up his purloined bottle of whiskey. The nearly three-hundred-mile drive from Los Angeles to Las Vegas was barely a blur anymore. It happened; he was sure of that because he was now at home with the mother of all hangovers and a less-thansympathetic best friend. He just hoped he’d given the limo driver a really nice cash tip.

  “Good plan. Almost as good as if I’d thought of it. Of course, I would have held out for a bigger-name interviewer, but what the hell. Got the job done.”

  “My misery exists only to serve your mad plans of world domination.” “God, you sound so emo and traumatized, I can’t even hear your high pitched whining. I might respect your pain if I didn’t know damn good and well it’s a hangover. We went through this with Derrick, remember?”

  Art closed his eyes, enjoying the darkness. “Same story, different verse.” “Whoa, way to mix metaphors there. Anyway, I’ve got Harold’s team handling the deluge of requests for pictures and interviews. Seriously, if I get you into Vanity Fair it will be a coup that will remake the sport. Not to mention leaving Tony Hawk to weep with envy,” Gavin crowed happily, completely in his element.

  Art figured Tony Hawk could not possibly care less about Art appearing in Vanity Fair, and really, neither did Art. He mostly cared about his raging, unforgiving headache and the remote possibility that his impromptu interviewfrom-the-heart had done some good. Somewhere.

  He heard a glass set down on the coffee table and looked up to see Maria putting a Virgin Mary there, along with a bottle of aspirin.

  “You are a saint,” he said, sitting up, but she shook her head at Gavin and left. After he had finished most of the drink and decided on a second round of aspirin, he noticed that Gavin had stopped talking and was just looking at him.

  “What happened to Phil?” Art shook his head. “Ran away from home a year later. Heard rumors, here and there, but by then you and me were tight and skating was my world. Nothing good, I expect.”

  “Damn shame.” Art nodded, because while Phil had not been the love of his young life or anything, no one deserved what had been done to him. By his own family no less.

  “You know someone, somewhere, is trying to dig up your father for an interview.” Art started to laugh but it hurt, so he took a deep breath instead. “Let ’em. He’s probably still a fundamentalist, bigoted bastard and I’m sure he’ll give them the interview of a lifetime.”

  Gavin laughed quietly. “Okay, then. Just checking.” He turned to close up his laptop. “You heard from Jack?” Art closed his eyes briefly again. “No. Don’t expect to.” “I suffer from being your average, stupid straight guy without a romantic bone in my body, but even I know what you did yesterday was a love letter.”

  Art looked at him. “That… no, that wasn’t it. I was just fixing things I had fucked up, as much as I can fix them. Which isn’t much.”

  Gavin gave him a disbelieving look before obviously changing the subject. “Oh, Mark called, though.”

  Art groaned. “He’s in Japan.”

  “Which shows how much traction that interview got. He’s pissed, by the way.”

  “He is?” “Specifically about you hiding in the closet. Apparently his best friend is gay and read him the riot act because of you. So yeah, pissed. Something about you being a moron, and he hopes it isn’t genetic.”

  “He’s been saying that for years.”

  “I think he means it this time. Anyway, just letting you know, he is aware of what’s going on.”

  Art lay back down, groaning every centimeter of the way. He heard Gavin snickering. “Die in peace, my brother. I just stopped by to check on you. I’m going home and telling my beautiful daughter how I will never be as fucked up as her Uncle Art.”

  “Just you wait until she’sin Japan.” Which made more sense in his head than when he said it, and set Gavin off with honking, snorting guffaws for several minutes.

  Gavin laughed all the way out of the house, and part of Art was glad he was gone. But then the house was cold and quiet, and he lay in the silence feeling morose and stupid for being such a drama queen about the whole thing. On national television no less. Groaning, he rolled off the couch and squinted at the sunlight pouring in through the glass doors facing the pool. It was a gorgeous day out, and Art knew that it was hot as hell in the sun. He clambered over to the doors, intent on possibly falling in the pool. His headache was receding, but it was still a good day to move slowly and possibly spend hours floating on his back with sunglasses on.

  As he walked over and started shucking his clothes, he stopped, staring at his collection of skateboards sitting unused in the small side room. His head throbbed with the very idea of riding one, but something else inside of him sparked. His whole career was predicated on the simple fact that he had started seriously skateboarding in order to escape his father because he could not afford a bike at the time. He had always owned a board, but when he hit puberty, it went from being another toy lying around the house to being his primary means of freedom and selfexpression.

  He went over and opened up the room, sliding back the glass doors so the chilled air from the house spilled out into the late-morning summer heat. Some of the boards were no more than mementos, but there were three he was willing to ride, and he grabbed the closest one, intending to carry it over to the ramps. Instead he stopped, dropped the board, and rode it through the pool area. His body knew what to do, even when slightly off-balance from the hangover, and he managed the “obstacles” that were deck chairs well enough to get through to the ramps without stopping. He began on the small humps, and never got up much speed, focusing more on technique than being flashy. It was a homecoming, something more intimate and private than sex; it was his entire world, to ride his board over the course, zenning out on the feel of the wheeled world under his feet.

  He stopped when he fell down the third time, realizing that his dizziness was probably a combination of hangover and summer sun. He went into the house and drank water, ate some fruit, and lay down on his bed for a couple of hours. It was weird how much it felt like being a teenager again, but in a good way, as if he had pulled all that he hated from those years and thrown the crap out so all that was left was good. After getting up around dusk, he turned on the bright lights in the skate park for the first time in years and went back to riding. Maria brought him a sandwich before she left, and he sat on top of a ramp with his board propped up next to him while he ate, eyeing his next move and wondering why it took humiliating himself on national television to remember who he really was.

  JACK knew exactly when he was going to see Art again, down to the hour. It was the last planned event of the summer, the finals for the UrGames circuit. Diana was in top form and was a top contender, her archrival a skinny but fearless boy from Chicago. Jack guessed in another two or three years their vicious hatred of each other might morph into grudge fucking, but that would mean Diana would have sex at some point in her life and that was just too much for Jack to contemplate, so he thought about Art instead.

  Art was committed to show up at the event, a “special appearance” that was nothing more than a few hours spent signing autographs and posing for pictures in front of
one of the event banners. Great press for all involved with just a small time investment. Jack put his new assistant in charge of directing that part of the event, hoping to avoid any opportunity for press to try and get both Jack and Art in a photo together. It had only been three weeks since Art’s spectacular coming-out interview at the X-Games, and the issue had died down a little at the national level but was still a hot topic within the community.

  Art’s appearance was timed to happen right before the main finals event, so Jack set about making himself scarce while still trying to be on the sidelines for Diana’s competitions. He was skulking around their “office”—a rented RV—when Diana burst into the room.

  “He’s riding! He’s doing an exhibition!”

  Jack stared at her. “Who?”

  “Art Nichols!”

  Jack picked up the printed schedule, looking for that event. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Because it’s not planned! He’s just… doing it!” Diana swung her arms around before turning to run back out. “What, now?” Jack ran after her. “Now!” she yelled, outpacing him. He caught up with her at the course, where the crowd had come to a quiet standstill. Jack heard the skateboard on the half-pipes before he saw it, Art in a helmet and gear over jeans and his long-sleeve button-down shirt, riding lazily around with the grace of a man who had been doing the exact same thing for twenty years. There was nothing risky to his moves, nothing flashy—it was like watching a professional ballet dancer doing warmups, elegant and unselfconscious and yet still breathtakingly beautiful. A run of old-school freestyle moves on the flatland caused people to start cheering. Art waved laconically at his audience, completed a dance-like series of freestyle tricks from one end of the course to the other, and then simply stepped off his board with absolutely no flourish whatsoever, waving again as he walked off. The whole crowd stood up and began clapping and stomping; Jack waved frantically to the DJ to get something energetic on the sound system to keep the energy going while Diana jumped up and down wildly next to him, yelling and cheering.

  Everyone knew Art Nichols did not do exhibitions anymore, not for any amount of money. Whatever might happen in the finals competition, Art had once again made history almost accidentally, and the press was going nuts trying to report what had happened. The video crews were doing fast edits on their files via iPad and the bloggers sat down where they had stood to watch, tapping madly at their netbooks.

  Jack was pissed off. He found Art’s trailer, a small rental with a security team around it. They parted for Jack, who went up and walked right in, fuming.

  “What the hell, Nichols? Is it always about you?” Jack yelled at Art, who was standing at the small sink washing his hands. He looked back at Jack with a surprised, guilty expression, but did not reply.

  “Because really, you seem to be showing up every event you go to.” Jack crossed his arms, refusing to think about how Art had not changed into some kind of ogre during his absence from Jack’s life. In fact, if anything, he seemed more graceful and muscular than he had been when they were together. If they ever were really together, which was something Jack had his doubts about.

  “Some kid asked me to ride.”

  Jack opened his mouth like a guppy then shut it hard enough to feel his teeth clack. “Some kid asked you to ride?” “Yeah. Young, seven or eight. His older brother is competing, he was getting my autograph, and the kid said he couldn’t wait to see me ride. He didn’t know any better.” “And so you just… did it.”

  That finally got a reaction. Art finished drying his hands and slapped the towel into the sink angrily. “I’m here for the kids, Jack. I’m here for them. I’ve got enough money, and hell, you aren’t even paying me for this gig, it’s all about the promotion. The kids want to see an old man fuck up a casper, then fine.”

  “You didn’t fuck up the casper,” Jack said automatically, then cringed. “Not the point. You don’t ride anymore, you don’t do exhibitions. Hell, that’s in our business agreement.”

  “I thought I was done. But I’m not.” Art leaned against the counter, staring him down. “What does that even mean?” Jack snarled, frustrated with the conversation. He knew he should be thrilled by the impromptu show, but he was too angry at Art about everything to give him an inch.

  Suddenly Art was right in his space, moving fast to push him up against the cabinets behind him. “I thought I was done. But I’m not,” he repeated before kissing him. He put his hands on Jack’s chest to hold him still while he went at his mouth, but Jack did not fight him off. He kept his hands at his sides, leaning forward, pushing at Art’s mouth to get closer. Art groaned and shifted his hands to Jack’s back, pulling him into an embrace, and after a moment, when he felt Art’s tongue swipe at his lips, Jack grabbed at him, nearly yanking him off his feet.

  “Hey!” Art laughed, turning them so they both rested against the cheap cabinets. Jack snarled a little, still angry and frustrated and confused but also turned on. Art looked at him and got it, his expression turning serious and dark before he slowly kissed Jack again, cramming him back up against the cabinets. Jack wanted to protest, but not too much, and instead grabbed at Art’s shirt with a push-pull that ended with Art grinding his hips against Jack.

  “Fuck!” Jack gasped, his cock quickening with heat and blood, the adrenaline running to all points south and making his heart hammer.

  “No time, no time, here….” Art practically gnawed on Jack’s neck as he fumbled with his pants. “Wait, wait, wait! Let me… ow!” Jack shifted, trying to get his own hands on Art’s pants, their hips and hands banging against each other awkwardly.

  “Fuck, Jack, would you—” Art batted at Jack’s hands. “Shut up!” Jack surged forward, grabbing Art’s waistband with both hands and yanking him close. Art whuffed out a breath of air as their chests collided, but Jack did not let him do more than that—kiss him aggressively, all tongue and teeth until Art grabbed his hair to pull him back.

  “Okay! Okay, here, dammit.” Art did not let go of Jack’s hair, reaching down with his other hand to open his pants. Jack almost whimpered—almost—when Art’s hand shoved into his boxers and grabbed his dick. Art kept tugging at Jack’s hair, his hips shoving at Jack with small, uncontrolled thrusts as he jacked him off with long, steady strokes of his hand.

  “Art… oh… fuck, please….” Art let go of his hair to wrap his arm around Jack’s shoulders, shoving his face into Art’s chest. Jack bit at Art’s shirt while Art’s hand kept at the same maddening pace until Jack felt himself whining. Art’s motions sped up and Jack bucked his hips trying to match the faster, ever-faster rhythm until he felt Art pause between strokes, squeeze his cock, and rub his thumb over the head. Jack gasped and came, his body stuttering as his cum spurted out into Art’s hand.

  They stood frozen against the cabinets, which were about all that was holding Jack up.

  “Art?” “Wait, just….” Art shifted his free arm to grab hold of Jack’s bicep and press him harder into the cabinets, Jack’s softening cock still held gently in his hand, and started to thrust against Jack’s thigh.

  “No, no, no, no.” Jack nearly laughed, fighting off Art's determination to rut against him in order to undo Art's pants, pulling them down to match Jack’s. Art groaned as skin met skin, his thrusts going hard and fast until he curled up, his eyes closing, his mouth falling open as he came on Jack’s hip. He gasped after that, pulling in sucking breaths while his body still shook.

  “Not done yet, huh?” Jack smirked.

  “Maybe for a few minutes, yeah,” Art said solemnly before tipping his head back to laugh out loud. The word “minutes” stuck in Jack’s head, though, and he froze up. “Fuck! Diana’s last competition! What time is it? What time?” He grabbed at Art’s wrist to read the time on his watch. “Fuck! Fuck! I got to, we got….” He stumbled, his pants still down around his knees.

  “Steady. Button up.” Art helped wipe him down with a paper towel, pulled up his pants, and then pulled up his
own, all with his one clean hand. They jostled at the sink to wash their hands, Jack mumbling “hurry, hurry, hurry” the whole time while Art laughed at him.

  They stumbled out of the trailer in a rush, Art still straightening up his shirt as they made a dash for the course in order to catch Diana’s run. Several video cameras caught them walking out, and Jack stalled for a moment, knowing that they both looked flushed and rumpled and freshly fucked. Art stopped next to him, and put his hand on Jack’s lower back.

  “Nowhere near done, Jack,” he said, and leaned over to kiss Jack sweetly and chastely on the lips, right there in front of the trailer with everyone watching. Jack wondered if the kiss would end up nationally broadcast. He did not think it mattered though, because obviously Art, who was smiling at him and licking his kiss-reddened lips, did not care if it did.

  Jack grinned, grabbed Art’s hand, and pulled him through the crowd toward the games.

  About the Author COOPER WEST lives in Florida and wishes the weather was more like the Pacific coast, or maybe Hawaii, but is in graduate school to become a sexy librarian so is unable to make that real just yet. West has a cat and a lot of books and spends too much time reading slash fan fic when not riding a bicycle or doing yoga or napping.

  Visit Cooper at

  http://www.cooper-west.com.

  You can contact Cooper at

  cooperwest.wtr@gmail.com.

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Copyright

  Games ©Copyright Cooper West, 2011 Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  382 NE 191st Street #88329

  Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.