Long Pass Chronicles 01 - Outing the Quarterback (27 page)

Come on, Zajack. Your whole future hangs in the balance. Get your brain off the jockoid.

He walked up the stairs and into the studio. He stopped. Three people, two men and a woman, sat at a rectangular table on the far side of the room. Mrs. Johnson, the lady from the admin office, stood behind them. In the center, the life model platform was set up like it was a regular class. A woman sat on a chair, wearing a robe and talking on her cell phone. Two easels stood at the front, facing the model, with canvases already primed. Beside them stood taborets loaded with paints and brushes. What the fuck was going on?

Mrs. Johnson bustled over. “Oh, hello, Noah. Very prompt.”

“Uh, I thought I was here for an interview.”

She smiled, but she looked uneasy. “They’ve decided to do something a bit different. It will be a paint-off. As a last test, the two finalists will both paint the same subject, and the judges will determine the winner.”

Noah frowned. “They watch too much TV.”

“Yes, well, you’re both so talented, I don’t envy them the decision.”

He didn’t have to ask. “Will Ashford?”

“Uh, no, Will Smith. The tall boy from your master class.”

“Right.”

“We’re waiting for him and for the last of our panel of judges. Since you’re here first, please take whichever position you prefer.”

This was a load of crap. Making artists compete head-to-head. Fucking gladiator mentality.

And there was the gladiator. The door opened and Will walked in. My God, Noah had forgotten how gorgeous the jockoid really was. Sunlight from the big studio windows glinted off the blond curls—a little longer now, and twining around his ears and onto his neck. Broad shoulders, long legs. The only thing not perfect was the big fucking bandage on his right hand.

Crap, how could Will paint in this jerk-off contest they’d thought up?

Will stared straight at him. Noah glanced at the judges table and hurried up to Will. “Hi. How’s your hand?”

“Really sore.” He kind of smiled.

“They’ve thought up this dumb paint-off competition. Can you paint with your hand?”

“Probably.”

“You’re not sure?”

Will shook his head.

Noah gritted his teeth. “I hate football.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not playing anymore.”

“What?”

Mrs. Johnson rushed up. “Oh good, Mr. Smith. Did Mr. Zajack explain?”

“Not exactly.”

“You’ll both paint the model. The judges will evaluate your work as your final
—
oh dear.” She stared at his hand, then looked up. “Can you use it?”

“I think so.”

Noah crossed his arms. “He managed to pass a fucking football with it.”

Mrs. Johnson’s eyes widened.

“Sorry.” He looked at Will. What did he mean about not playing football?

“Please set up, then. Our final judge should be here any minute.”

Will walked to the empty easel and stared at the paints. He looked different. What was it? Older? Calmer. Sadly, still as gorgeous.

Noah sorted the colors. The woman on the platform pulled off her robe and sat on the stool. Not remarkable. Maybe forty-five, just a little sag and age showing in the lines of her body. A challenging choice. This model didn’t have the crags and lines of an old woman or the freshness and bloom of youth. He needed to see beneath the stereotypes and find the essence.

Behind him the door opened. Noah looked up and saw Will’s face first. Those green eyes widened, then narrowed.
Son of a bitch
. Noah turned and saw just what he expected. Dwight Masterson sauntered across the room toward the judges’ table. He turned. “Good afternoon. I hope you like the challenge we designed for you today.”

Fuck
. “We” meant he. Dwight had thought this up.

W
ILL
STARED
at Masterson. Diving across the room and punching the simpering bastard in the gut felt like the right approach to the “challenge.” Masterson planned to get even one way or another. Since he couldn’t deny them both the scholarship, he’d be sure they had to duel for it. One would win, one lose. The bloodier the victory, the better.

He turned and looked at Noah, who frowned as he sorted paints and looked up at the model like he was considering an approach. Yeah, Noah got on with it. He did what he had to do for his art.

“Gentlemen.” The lady judge stood behind the table. “I believe the rules have been explained. You’ll have three hours to capture this model on canvas in your own unique style. Feel free to visit the restroom, take a break, go for a walk, whatever you need. We know you won’t have time to finish the work, but you’ll be evaluated on the quality of what’s completed.”

Will glanced up to the art rail above her head. Noah. His portrait of Noah stared down at the judges with that slight narrowing of the eye that saw so much and judged it harshly. What did Noah think about this circus?

Of all the things he’d left behind him in the last two days, that portrait wasn’t going to be among them. He walked toward the table and Masterson looked startled.
Yeah, worry, you SOB. I might just hit you if I can use my left hand
.

He crossed behind the judges and plucked the portrait from the rail. “Excuse me.” He stared at Masterson. “This is mine.”

He walked back to the easel. Noah gazed at him.

So talented, dedicated, focused. All the things Will wanted to be. He looked down at his hand. The bandages wrapped tightly around his palm, but the fingers were free. He flexed. Pain, but not awful. Not like two days before. Carefully, he brought his fingers together like he was holding a brush. He picked up one of the small, fine brushes with his other hand and slipped it between the damaged fingers.

Could he do it?

With a quick squeeze from the tube of Payne’s Gray, he picked up some color from the palette paper onto his brush and applied it to the canvas. A tingle ran up his arm.
Oh man
. It would be fun to dive into a painting. He hadn’t painted for days, since his last master class. Maybe he could find a tiny studio where he could sleep and paint. But where? He had to decide so he could start.

If he won the Milton—

He stopped, the brush still against the canvas. If he won it, Noah lost it, just like Masterson planned. What the fuck did he think this was? Football?

Just as he glanced over toward Noah, the man looked up. A thrill like art ran up Will’s spine. So beautiful and smart. So valuable.

He set down the brush and picked up his painting of Noah. “Excuse me.”

The judges looked up.

“I really appreciate you considering me as a finalist. But I know a lot about competitive sports, and art isn’t one of them. Noah deserves to win and I think he would win even if I paint my very best. He’s a brilliant artist and devotes his life to nurturing and improving his art. I admire him. Thanks so much for everything.”

He walked across the big studio, then paused at the door and turned. “By the way, Masterson, I’ve been manipulated by experts since the day I was born. You’re not even an also-ran.” And he walked out into the sunshine.

Okay, time to get on with his life.

Footsteps. He caught his breath.

“Will, wait.”

He stopped. Funny. He’d been dropping pieces of his heart like bread crumbs on the ground. Look who followed them.

He turned and found Noah running across the dust and leaves of the parking lot, carrying his backpack. He stopped in front of Will. “That was quite an exit.”

“Yeah. Funny how once in a while you say exactly what you wish you’d said.”

“Sorry about my lame message.”

“Message? I haven’t listened to any because I didn’t want to hear from my father. Hang on.”

“No, you don’t have to listen. I just thought if you had—”

Will sorted through the six messages from his father until he found the number he so should have seen. He clicked, listened, then smiled. When he clicked off, Noah stared at his feet. Will touched his arm. “You really want to help me learn to paint with my left hand?”

Noah glanced up. “Yeah. Maybe it’ll make you less competition.”

How hard could your heart beat before it attacked you? Noah had called to help him. He’d called. “Thank you.”

Noah shrugged, then looked behind Will. “Where’s your car?”

Will pointed at the Toyota with his hurt hand. “There.”

“What happened?”

“Jamal says I probably got my head stepped on instead of my hand, but I sold the Ferrari, bought this POS, and mailed the rest of the money to my father.”

“Mailed?”

“Yeah. I’m staying with Jamal’s family right now.”

Noah cocked his head. “Until—”

“Until I get a job and find a place to live.”

“Holy shit. What about school, football, glory, and honor?”

Will grinned. “All gone. I walked out after the last game. Hey, shouldn’t you be inside painting?”

“No. I told them you were every bit as great a painter as I am and they should find two other Christians to throw to the lions. So you really tossed it all?”

Will nodded.

“Wow. That was a lot to give up.”

“No. I just gave my father his life back.”

“Good call.” He stared at Will. Silence. Will wanted to drown in those baby-blues and never recover. Suddenly, Noah turned his head and stared at the portrait in Will’s hand. “Do I look like that?”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

“I know right where to hang it.”

“Where?”

“Above my couch next to the other one. Before and after.” He laughed.

Will looked at the painting. He loved it because it was Noah. “So you think I ought to give this to you?”

“No.”

“Loan it?”

“No.” He crossed his arms and cocked his hip. “I thought you should hang it over your couch.”

“But—” His mouth opened and closed.

“See, I figure if we share the rent on my piece-of-shit apartment and you handle transportation in your piece-of-shit car, we both have more money for school. Maybe by fall next year, we can afford to move to the city and take classes at UCLA. Meanwhile, the restaurant where I work the most needs a new waiter. If those hands are good enough for football, they can probably carry a tray like a son of a bitch. We can both take classes here at the college, and I know somebody who might give us studio space in the canyon.”

Will reached up to wipe his wet face, forgot it was the bandaged hand, and bumped his nose. “Ow, damn!”

Noah caught the sore paw gently between his hands, brought it slowly to his lips, and kissed it. “Thing is, I’m a mad planner. Now that you’ve escaped your father’s fantasy world, don’t let me railroad you into living my life.”

Will sniffed. How stupid did it look for a six-foot-three football player to be sniveling like a little girl? Fuck if he cared. “Think there’s a chance that your life and my life might happen side by side?”

“We always said we were so different.”

“Not since I became a gay painter.” He laughed.

Noah laughed too. “Want to give me a ride?”

Will nodded and they walked to his piece-of-shit car.

When Will pulled up at the exit to the parking lot, he looked at Noah.
Did he mean it?
“Where to?”

“Let’s go get your stuff, okay?”

Will smiled.
He meant it.
“I need to quit school. I imagine there’re papers to sign and stuff, so I might have to do it in person. Shall I take you home first?”

“No. I want to hold your hand. I’ve got hours, since I thought I’d be tied up with this Milton thing.”

“You sure you don’t want to go back in and paint their socks off?”

Noah smirked. “If they’ve got any socks left after looking at our applications, they haven’t been paying attention.”

“Then on to SCU.”

“You can bring me straight back to the restaurant and apply for the job while you’re there. Got any references?”

“I used to wait tables at the country club when I was in high school.”

Noah laughed. “That should be a resounding recommendation.”

He held up his bandage. “Hey, golden hands, remember?”

“One more errand.”

Will glanced over at the flashing blue eyes. “What?”

“On the way home, we can stop and buy a bigger bed.”

W
ILL
GLANCED
at his watch. Noah’d be home soon. He ran his hand over the pristine daybed. They’d bought a queen size on sale, and it was going to be delivered this weekend. The new one would be great for the long term, but he’d miss this cozy space.
Cozy
. That was one way to think of the apartment. Miniscule was another. He looked at the single room with the tiny bathroom attached. His new home. He’d had play forts when he was a kid that were bigger.

His phone rang—again. He stared at the screen. Could he do it? Yeah, maybe he could.

Click. “Hi, Dad.”

“Will, for fuck sake, what in hell are you doing? I’ve been calling you for forty-eight hours. Where are you? What’s the meaning of this cashier’s check and the credit cards? What the fuck is going on?”

“Sorry to worry you, sir. I just realized I had to live my own life.”

“What were you doing before?”

“Living yours. I don’t want to go into business. I’m a painter. I’ve been a painter since I was a boy and you know that—”

“You can’t make a living dabbing color on canvas—”

“No, I can’t make
your
living dabbing paint on canvas. I can make mine. I’m really good. I’m going to art school next year, and maybe I’ll get a teacher’s credential so I can feed myself while I’m trying to sell my art. I don’t have any illusions, sir. But I’ve got to try. Going into business is not the future I want. All that I’ve learned in business school may help me open a gallery or something someday.”

“You’re going to be sorry about this when you want to support a family.”

Will sighed. “I already have a family. I’m gay, Dad. Maybe someday I’ll adopt kids because I really love them, but they’ll have to work for their education just like their father will have to.”