Long Pass Chronicles 01 - Outing the Quarterback

To my honey who teaches me about football and, most of all, about love.

S
HIT
,
HE
was late. Will drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, stared at the light, and tried to ignore his throbbing cock. He toggled his feet back and forth between the gas and the clutch on the Ferrari. The brake was for amateurs. Damn Orange County summer traffic.
Come on
! Rainbow wouldn’t wait long.

The red light shone steadily. He should take this as a sign. Forget Rainbow and get to class. No way he wanted to be late. That class could mean everything, including the scholarship. But sticking his dick into Tiffany Baxter didn’t do it for him a lot of the time, and it had been two fucking weeks since he’d gotten off worth a damn.

The light changed.
Yes!
His brakes squealed and three seconds later he pulled into the nearly vacant lot at the park. No kids playing soccer, no moms supervising rug rats on the swings. Perfect. Tuesday morning between runners and playground a.m. He didn’t recognize that old Civic two spaces down.

He pulled down the mirror and ran a hand through his blond curls. The curls that made the cheerleaders scream, the press liked to say.
You don’t need this
. Cock throb.
You can leave and go to class
. Cock throb.
Shit!
This wouldn’t take long. One touch of Rainbow’s talented tongue and he’d be off. At least he’d be able to concentrate. He threw open the door, slammed it behind him, and clicked the remote as he ran toward the cement block bathroom.

No stopping. No thinking
. Breathing hard, he rounded the block wall that provided privacy to the men’s room. Nobody. He leaned down and looked under the beige metal dividers. A pair of sequined tennies moved slowly out of the back stall.

OMG. An overly made-up, sharp-boned, but still pretty young transvestite’s face surrounded by phony red hair stared back at him.

What the
—
?
“Who the fuck are you?”

The guy leaned his skintight-denim-clad hip against the opposite wall. “Think of me as Rainbow Two.”

Will didn’t know this guy. What was going on? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Rainbow’s sick. She sent me.”

Breath caught somewhere between his sick belly and his throbbing cock. Rainbow Two wore bright red lipstick. Man, what that color would look like ringing Will’s prick.

The guy stared at Will with a smile, showing crooked white teeth. “You sure are pretty. Rainbow said I’d enjoy the fuck out of this one.”

Will’s hands trembled.
Stay or go?
Shit, those lips could get him off in five seconds. He’d be fifty bucks poorer and several ounces of cum lighter. And he needed to come!
Damn, too risky.
“I’ve got no idea what you mean. Sorry, lady.” His feet ran while his cock tried to stay behind.

The guy’s slightly accented voice called out, “Hey, baby, don’t go. I’ll make you feel good.”

Feel good
.
Shit.
Out of here
. The car door beeped. He slammed his butt on the seat and had the Ferrari moving before the door was fully closed. Racing through gears, he screeched out of the residential area and roared onto the ramp for the freeway.

Where was Rainbow? What had he been thinking sending a stranger? Shakedown time? Didn’t Will pay the guy enough? He took a breath
. Chill. Rainbow has no idea who you are or who your parents are. He knows nothing about football.
He shuddered. When it came to SCU, everybody knew a little about football.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Wasn’t fear supposed to get rid of a hard-on? But the damned thing just kept throbbing.
Hate this
! He slapped the steering wheel. His whole life balanced on a pack of lies. With one big confession, he could blow the whole thing away—no more lies. Yeah, and no more life.

He sucked in air.
Work the plan.
He hated plans
. Work the plan
.

He pulled off the six-lane freeway onto the off-ramp for Laguna.

Resolution. This was it. The last time. He was done. No more risks. Nothing but females from now on. If Tiffany didn’t do it for him, he’d find some girl who did.

That dumbass idea got rid of the boner real fast.

The Laguna Canyon Road looked like a parking lot. It took a full half hour to get out of Irvine and down to Laguna College of Art. Twenty minutes late for his summer class with no orgasm and one near heart attack to show for it.
Shit
.

He parked, pulled his art supplies out of the trunk, and carefully extracted the large wrapped package from his passenger seat. He had to be careful. His fucking future was in that brown paper. Balancing his precious cargo, he walked down the pathway to the office of the college. He had to set down the package to let himself in, then picked it up and crossed to the counter.

The lady behind the desk smiled. “Is that a Milton scholarship application?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Lovely. You brought it to the right place. Let me take it off your hands.” She reached over and he handed her the package.

He must have looked worried. She smiled. “Don’t fret. I’ll take good care of it. You’re Will Smith, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I always remember since it’s like the movie star.”

He cringed. Why had he used that stupid name?

“I’m Cora Johnson. I’m so glad you’re entering. I saw some of your work and it’s very effective.”

He flashed his expensively straightened teeth. “Thank you. I think you just made my day.”

“Most welcome. Of course, final recommendations from staff will be added to the entries at the last minute.”

That made his stomach flip. “Thanks again.”

She smiled, and he left the office and headed for the studio. He’d had a class there before so he knew right where to go. But this class was with Masterson. It made him sweat just to think about studying with the guy. Masterson was the right name, because the artist was a master. He only taught one or two classes a year. A few other hours a year, he made a lot of money painting giant portraits for rich people. The rest of the time he did what he wanted. Wild, surrealistic, haunting, edgy, ass-dropping art. Will wanted to paint like that. Yeah, and his folks wanted Will to paint not at all. But if he could get the scholarship, he wouldn’t need their money. Masterson’s name on a recommendation would be a big fucking deal.

He ran up the stairs and paused outside the door to the life class.
Swag, man. Stay cool
.

He pushed open the door.

There was Masterson, just like his pictures. Longish brown hair, thin face, thin body. Good looking in a Cassius-lean-and-hungry kind of way.

Will’s eyes moved past the teacher. Lots of easels, students already working, supplies all over the place and—
holy shit
.

The artist’s model sat naked on a small platform in the middle of the room. But not just no-clothes-on naked. We were talking gleaming, pale beige skin, shining hair, and hard-as-stone butt-cheeks naked.

Will’s deprived cock did a happy dance.

The model’s back—read, bare ass—faced Will while his graceful spine curved away.

The beast in Will’s pants started to grow.

The guy’s long brown hair flowed over his shoulders and outlined his profile, perfectly presented to Will’s artist eye. High-bridged nose, prominent cheekbones, pointed chin.

The damned traitor prick pushed so hard against Will’s zipper he probably had teeth marks on his cockhead. Why was it every time he decided to go straight, some cosmic joker had to twiddle his fucking finger and prove beyond a shadow that William Elliott Ashford III was as gay as a circus tent?
Shit!

“Are you in this class?”

Will focused his eyes back on Masterson and clasped his hands in front of his crotch, still holding his tackle box. “Yes, sir. Sorry I’m late. Traffic.”

Masterson glanced at Will’s folded hands and sucked on his cheek like he was trying not to laugh. “Name?”

Will shifted to get the animal to go back in its cave, but no matter how hard Masterson stared at Will, the model still sat there in all his fucking glory. “Will Smith, sir.”

Masterson glanced at a paper on his desk, made a check mark, and pointed toward an empty easel with a folding table beside it and a rickety chair. “There’s a place in the back, William.”

“Will.”

The man smiled and the lean, almost harsh face softened. “Will. Made any good movies lately?”

Oh my, so very original.
Will smiled. “Yeah.”

Masterson waved his hand toward the easel and looked at the model. “You can move, Noah.”

Will walked back to the empty place.
Do not stare at that guy. Don’t stare. His name is Noah. Noah.

Weird. Usually life models were “interesting” looking, for lack of a better word. Fat or craggy, old, and character-filled. Not perfect, smooth beauties like this guy.

Will set his tackle box on the floor, opened it, and pulled out brushes. Masterson walked up beside him with a canvas. “This is gessoed already so you won’t have to waste any time.”

Will set it on the easel. “Thanks.”

Masterson crossed his arms. “I’ve seen the work you submitted when you applied for the master class. Promising.”

Wow. Music to his ears. “Thank you, sir.”

Masterson grinned. Who knew dimples could live in cheeks that thin? “Try Dwight so I don’t feel so old.”

Will smiled. “Thanks, Dwight. I wouldn’t want to suggest something that’s not true.”

The instructor winked at him and walked back to the beat-up desk in the corner. Winked. Will had read that Masterson was gay. Had the teacher just been flirting with him? Or shit, maybe he’d been coming on to Masterson. When you spent your life in the closet, every interaction was a fucking minefield.

Will sat in the chair and looked up at the model. His breath caught.
No way
. The beautiful guy had repositioned himself and now sat facing Will, his legs crossed, leaning forward with his arm resting on his thigh. Everything shimmery and perfect—if you didn’t count the six-inch scar that ran from the right corner of his mouth up to the edge of his very blue eye. It skipped the eye miraculously and continued above it on his forehead, disappearing into his hair. The puckered skin pulled that eye closed a slight bit more than the other. Funny. Without it, the kid would have looked almost too angelic. As it was, the eye gave him a permanent touch of cynicism. Yeah, anybody who’d picked up that badge of courage in his life deserved to be a cynic.

That must be why Masterson had chosen the guy as a model. What a challenge to capture that strange mix of beauty and ugliness, innocence and wisdom. Truth. The model’s face had to be pretty damned captivating to keep Will from staring at his prick, which managed to peek up like some engraved invitation between his crossed legs.

Will leaned down to grab some paint. He’d need a lot of Caucasian flesh tone for this, with a little yellow ochre and maybe some warm gray. He stared at the tubes. God, he loved to paint. Some days, living the next year in a double closet made him want to puke. But if he could just get through it, he’d be free, living his life like a fucking bird. He had to hang on. He had to.