Fire Balls

“Hey, Brady! Get your pansy ass over here.” Loud, grating laughter followed the slur. Clearly, Mr. Bigmouth thought he was funny.

Rodney glanced toward the fire station as he sauntered past. Saunter. Funny word. Actually, stalk was more accurate. But the object of his stalking wasn’t in sight. Just that bigmouthed asshole called Mick. Yeah. He’d been around before on Rod’s strolls. The guy got on his last nerve.

Sigh. No Hunter. The line of carefully assembled fire gear—pants inside boots, other paraphernalia stacked alongside—looked serious and ready. Shoot. Where was he? This was usually his shift, or so Rod guessed, based on his observations.

One more minute, then he had to go. He paused. Try for elaborately casual, darling. Nothing. No Hunter. Shit. Had to get back to the Festival.

Rod took off at a run up Laguna Canyon Road and covered the couple blocks in a few seconds.

“Hi, darling.” He waggled fingers at the attendant as he pressed through the turnstile and into the Festival grounds, maneuvering through the crowds. Some serious art patrons and lots of tourists were crowded around the high, slanted walls of art displays that edged an open lawn of tables and chairs. The Festival was an art fairyland after the busy traffic on the road outside.

“Rodney! Who’s minding the store?”

He skidded to a stop before rounding the corner of the wall of art. Heidi was waving from her stall. Loved her stuff. Really gorgeous jewelry. He fingered the six gold hoops in his ear, many of which were Heidi’s creations. “Hi darling. Kiss, kiss.” He smooched the air in her direction on the other side of the lawn. “Jerry’s watching it for me. I just had to pee.” A couple art patrons’ heads turned toward him. OK, maybe TMI. A failing of his. He looked at Heidi, who grinned. He shrugged. “Gotta get back before he gives away my best portrait.” He waggled his fingers. “LOL, darling. See ya.”

He started to jog and then stopped himself. OK, Rodster, slow down before you run into someone. David was always telling him to just ease up a little and he’d live longer, but hell, who wanted to live longer if you couldn’t live fast? He laughed and sped up.

He cleared one of the rows of art displays and turned to cut over to the next and saw… His heart stopped beating. Holy shit. He dove behind the wall. Here. He was here!

While Rod had been wasting time stalking, the object of his obsession was standing in front of Rodney’s booth talking to Jerry. Oh God, beautiful. At least six two, with dark brown hair and wide, light eyes. The man was a walking work of art. But he was with a woman.

Rod had never seen Hunter with a woman. Of course, firefighters didn’t often invite their girlfriends to hang out at the station so Rodney wouldn’t necessarily have seen her while making his forays past the fire department.

He sighed. He’d kind of hoped. Of course, hoping was fucking stupid. Why would somebody like Hunter Fallon be interested in a little pipsqueak like Rodney Mansfield? Why would the most gorgeous human on the planet want to cozy up to the Runtback of Notre Dame?

Curious about the conversation, he cut around the display and came up to the spot on the other side of the wall that backed against his own booth, beside the wall of “Roman’s” art. Rodney Mansfield. AKA Roman. Painter of huge, semi-impressionistic nudes of magnificent men. Yeah, yeah, he saw the irony in a miniature human painting huge nudes of gorgeous guys. Freud would’ve had a field day with him.

Maybe he could hear if he just oozed around the corner a little. He scooted a little closer. He picked up a copy of the art show program and turned his back, pretending to read while sneaking toward his display.

Bingo. He heard that soft, low voice he sometimes caught on his walks past the fire station. Shivers. Oh God, the man was sex on a stick.

“That’s the most beautiful brushwork I’ve ever seen. It looks like oil rather than acrylic. Is it?”

OMG, Hunter liked his painting. Passing out was an option. Rod fluttered the program.

Jerry giggled. The surfer dude voice rang out, and Rodney cringed. “Shit, man, I don’t know oil from vinegar. I don’t paint this. It’s Roman. I’m not Roman. I’m just watching the booth for him for a few, man. Hang around and you can meet him. They are really pretty, aren’t they? I mean these guys’ asses are radical. I’ll tell you a secret man. I even posed for a couple, but not this one. Don’t know who this dude is, ya know, but ya wanna buy it?”

Shit. Rod wanted to rush around the corner. He loved Jerry but sometimes he just didn’t think real clearly. Maybe a few too many drugs in childhood. But Rod couldn’t interrupt. What would he do if he met Hunter face-to-face? Faint city.

A pretty female voice said, “Darling, you should pose for this artist. He’s the only painter I’ve ever seen that could do justice to your beauty.”

Rodney’s heart skipped. Paint Hunter? Jesus. And the woman called him darling. Shit! But of course Rod called everyone darling so maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe.

That melodious voice laughed. “Give me a break, kid. Don’t let the guys hear you calling me beautiful. Us manly men are handsome or nothing.”

Jerry chimed in. “Hey man, I think you’re beautiful too. Or, uh, handsome.”

Oh, Jerry, you don’t think.

After a pause, Hunter said, “Uh, thanks. Look, if the artist comes back, just tell him I’m a new fan and I think his work is brilliant.”

“Sure, man. No problem.”

Rodney let out a breath and leaned against the wall. A fan. The guy is a fan. He thinks my work is brilliant. OMG.

“Hey, Rodney, what you doing?” His friend Harry was walking by.

Rodney waved the program. “Just checking the exhibitors.”

The guy laughed as he continued moving. “You ought to know that by heart.”

Yeah. He did. He took another deep breath and walked around the corner to his booth’s front. “Hey, Jerry. Sorry I took so long.”

“Oh my God, oh my God, Rod, you missed it, man. The most beautiful guy on two feet. I’ve never seen anyone like him. Fuck, man, I wanted to hold him down and lick him all over. Oh, Rod, this guy is so great. I tried to keep him here so you could see him. I gotta see him again, I just gotta.”

Rodney held up a hand. “OK, I get it. You liked some guy.” Shit, Jerry never got excited about much.

“Not just some guy, Rodney. This guy was, like heaven, man.”

“Was he gay?” Might as well keep pretending.

Jerry looked like someone killed his puppy. “Nah, he had a chick with him. Really pretty. Damn, why are all the good ones straight?”

“I think straight women say ‘why are all the good ones gay’?”

Jerry slumped on the tall stool, then brightened as apparently a thought struck. “Maybe I could turn him?”

Rodney had to laugh. “You don’t usually like to work that hard. You think he’ll consider being gay for you?”

“Oh man, dude, it would be so worth it. This guy is special.”

Rodney adjusted the cards on the small plant stand beneath his paintings and glanced at Jerry. Talk about your gorgeous guys. Jerry had streaked blond hair to his shoulders, surrounding an effortlessly beautiful face with full lips, wide eyes, and a cute, turned-up nose. The classic boy next door gone surfer dude. He wasn’t exactly an intellectual giant, but no one cared. Jerry was warm and fun. Friendly and unchallenging. He was great, and Rodney enjoyed having him around. Yeah, and the guy had even made him some money. Two paintings of Jerry in the buff had gone for top dollar. “Hey, darling, I owe you for booth sitting for me. Can I take you to dinner tomorrow?”

Jerry unfolded himself from the high stool. “Man, you don’t have to do anything for me. You know you help me out so much.”

“Indulge me, darling.”

“OK, yeah. That’d be great.”

“We’ll go over to the Mexican place you like.”

“Cooool. See ya tomorrow.” Jerry ambled through the knots of people toward the Festival’s exit.

“Great, Jerry. Yeah.” Rod turned back to the guest book and ran his fingers over Hunter Fallon’s signature. Did he have time to walk past the fire station before karate tonight?