Long Pass Chronicles 01 - Outing the Quarterback (7 page)

A honk brought his head up. Dwight’s Volvo pulled up to the curb. The window swooshed down. “Hey, gorgeous, going my way?”

Noah grinned. “Yeah.”

“So get in. I’ll give you a ride.”

Noah nodded and slipped the pack off his back. Crap, why did he have such mixed feelings about this man? How hard could it be fucking a good-looking, talented, influential artist? He should be jumping Dwight’s bones. Why wasn’t he?

He opened the car door, careful to not scrape it on the high curb, and tossed the pack on the floor, then slid in. Dwight leaned over and kissed his cheek. Noah smiled. “Good timing.”

Dwight pulled away from the curb into the flow of traffic heading north on the busy four-lane road that ran through the center of Laguna Beach. “I drove by your place, but it looked closed up tight so I took the chance you’d walk on PCH.”

“You stalking me, Mr. Masterson?” He grinned when he said it, but it weirded him out a little to have somebody looking over his shoulder. He’d been alone most of his life and liked it that way.

“I’m a benign stalker.”

What did that mean exactly? Noah stared out the window at the crowds of tourists lining the sidewalks and crossing the street to the beach. “What’s on tap for class today?”

“I have another model. Everyone who started a study last class can keep going if they prefer or switch over to the new figure. You can do what you want.”

“Any promising talent in the class?” Yes, he was fishing.

Dwight turned onto Broadway and stopped and started his way down toward the Laguna Canyon Road and the college. “Quite a bit, actually. That fuzzy-haired girl, Donna, has real style. The older guy, Mason something, might develop into a good expressionist if he can restrain his sentimentality. And you saw that blond god’s picture last time. There’s a talent. When he walked in and told me he was Will Smith, I about dropped my teeth. Who’d ever dream a guy who looks like the cover of
Men’s Health
could paint? Never assume, I guess. And there’s your lovely self, of course.”

“Glad to make the list.”

“I’m anxious to see what you can accomplish in the class. Your work has great promise.” He pulled into the parking lot and chose a slot reserved for faculty.

Noah stared out the window. “As much as Will Smith?”

Dwight’s voice got that funny edge Noah heard sometimes. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

“Thanks for the ride.” Noah pushed the door handle on the Volvo. A hand gripped his shoulder and he looked back.

Dwight smiled. “I’ll be happy to drive you anywhere, you know that.”

Noah shrugged, dislodging the hand. “Walking keeps my boyish figure.”

Dwight slipped an arm around his waist. “And I’d like to see more of that boyish figure up close and personal.”

Noah sighed and let Dwight hear it. “I don’t think sleeping with my teacher is a great idea.”

“Hell, if I’d known you’d feel that way about it, I’d never have let you in the class.” He said it with a smile but there was a lot of truth in it.

“If you endorse me for the Milton, people will say I slept my way to the top.” Noah flashed his dimples. Was he being a manipulative prick? Probably.

Dwight paused. His voice had an edge. “That’s simple. I just won’t endorse you.”

Instant karma. Noah frowned. “That’s not fair.”

“Then stop setting stupid rules. I like you, you like me. No fucking problem.”

Wrong. He had a very big fucking problem.

T
HE
FIRST
thing Will saw when he walked into the painting studio was Noah. The second thing was Masterson hanging over his shoulder. Will’s stomach tightened. How did he feel about that? Simple answer. Jealous. But what of? Masterson’s approval or Noah’s attention?

He pulled his eyes away and carried his paint box across the room to his assigned easel. A frizzy-haired girl smiled at him. He nodded. She pulled a partially completed study of Noah down from the railing where they stored their paintings.
Wow
. Damned good. This class really was the big leagues. What chance did he have of getting any special recognition?

The weight of that pushed down on him.
No way
. He had what it took to be a good painter. He knew it. An evil voice whispered,
But can you be a great one?

He slapped his palette paper down on the small stand next to his chair. An old man had moved up onto the platform in the center of the room. He must have been experienced, because he seemed completely unconcerned as he pulled off his robe and took a seat on a bench that had been placed there. Potbelly, spindly legs, stooped shoulders. Altogether a much better life model than the too-beautiful Noah.

Will stared up at the piece he had started last class. The perfect bone structure made fascinating and compelling by the wildly unexpected scar. Forget it. No way he was looking at that face for the whole class. He glanced at the real Noah, who was gazing at the model and moving his arm as if sketching in the outline of his subject on his canvas. Noah was working. Time Will was too.

He focused on the old man and let the folds of skin and intricacy of the wrinkles pull him in until all that existed was light and dark. A world of brilliance and shadow. Everything and everyone made of the same stuff, and it all flowed from his brush.

It seemed like only a minute before the model stood and put on his robe. Will looked up. Wow. Break time. The first half had gone quickly. He set down his brush and stretched his arms, then got up and did the same for his back.

He looked toward Noah. The guy was still painting. Masterson appeared to be critiquing work as he walked around the room. Will started to amble in the opposite direction. He paused behind the girl who had smiled at him and looked at the almost photo-realistic impression of the old man. “That’s really great. You have amazing technique.”

She smiled. “Thanks so much.” She stuck out her hand, realized she was still wearing paint-smattered gloves, and pulled it back with a laugh. “Sorry. I’m Donna Rios.”

“Glad to meet you, Donna. Will Smith.”

She smiled and he shrugged. Why had he chosen such a dumb name? “I’m just scoping out the competition.”

“Competition?”

Easy, boy. She might not know about the Milton. “Oh, I just meant in the big talent pool in the sky.”

“Are you applying for the Milton scholarship?”

Shit
. “Uh, yeah, probably.”

“Good. I noticed your work. You’re really talented. I’m going on to Pratt and my tuition is handled, so I’m not applying.”

“Family?”

“Partly. And a scholarship from a women’s organization. I’m a passionate feminist.” She raised a fist in the air, which looked pretty funny in light of her plump, sweet-as-a-kewpie-doll appearance. “Right on, sister!”

He chuckled. “Up the revolution.” He gestured toward the rest of the room. “I better continue my scope-out.”

“Oh, sure. Let my screaming radicalism drive you away.” She grinned. Now this was a cool lady. He liked her.

Appear nonchalant
. He wandered past the other artists and easels. Some good work, some not as great. Finally, he got to Noah’s station. The guy was still totally absorbed. Will walked behind him and looked at the easel. His breath escaped in a long exhale.
Well, shit.
Or maybe “yay.” The work was amazing. As different from Will’s slashing, bold style as an artist could get. Lovely, soft, impressionistic. The old man’s body became a study in light, barely realized out of some cosmic soup of color. The painting glowed, lived. It attacked your heart and sucked you in. What a talent.

Noah’s eyes looked like a part of the painting—misty and barely focused—as he turned his head up to Will. “Hi.”

“Your work is amazing.”

“Thank you. So is yours.”

Where was the angry, attacking cynic Will had seen at the restaurant? Did painting change Noah this much? “How long have you been painting?”

“Since before I was born.”

Will laughed. “Yeah. Me too. My mom’s uterus is probably black and white.”

Noah’s eyes focused as the crease popped out in his forehead. “Then how the fuck can you hide your art? Pretend you’re some dumb jock?”

Shit
. There was the attack dog. He glanced around. Who had heard that? “I don’t want to talk about that now.”

Noah’s damaged eyelid narrowed even more. “Of course not.”

“I’ll tell you another time, okay?”

“Sure, sure.” Noah turned back to his easel.

God, this idiot was bad news. Dangerous. In-your-face. Why didn’t Will run? Why did it feel like getting Noah to like him was worth doing?

He turned toward his easel and found Masterson standing there staring at him with an expression Will couldn’t read. Neutral? Maybe the dark side of neutral.

He plastered a smile on his face and walked toward the instructor. His life was one big frigging game. Do what his father wanted so the old man would keep paying the bills. Stay on Masterson’s good side so he’d give Will a glowing recommendation. When did he get to do what Will wanted? Stay on Will’s good side?

As he walked up, Masterson looked back at his canvas. “Nice work. Not quite the same level of commitment I saw in your piece last class.” He glanced up at Will. “Perhaps you were inspired by the model?”

Will shook his head. “I’m just a little distracted today.”

Masterson shrugged. “It happens, but I do want to see your best.”

Will frowned. “Of course.”

Masterson waved a hand toward the room. “So what did you discover on your walkabout?”

“There’s some great talent in the class.”

“Yes. Any in particular?”

This was a test. “I especially liked Donna’s work.” He took a breath. “And Noah’s.”

Masterson nodded. “Yes, good. You have an excellent eye.” He glanced at the canvas. “Keep your work up to that standard.”

Masterson walked away to the beat of Will’s fucking heart. Not good. If Masterson thought he was slacking, it could mean the end. What if he wasn’t good enough? God, what if he had to spend his life working in his father’s company and dabbling in painting on the weekends? Shit, could he live like that? A businessman in the closet and married to someone like Tiffany?

He shoved his hands between his thighs to make them stop shaking. He didn’t have a chance.
Leave now and avoid the humiliation
. He looked at his open tackle box of paints. All the colors sang to him. Begged him to choose them, use them, make them live. He’d die if he couldn’t paint. Melodrama. Not his thing. Just truth, man.

He picked up the paintbrush and went to work.

N
OAH
HIKED
up his backpack farther and hurried across the parking lot. Dwight was counseling students or some such crap. Noah just wanted to get home. But damn, even that wasn’t private anymore. Fuck! He’d have sex with whomever he wanted and damn if anyone was going to shove his ass into bed—even if Dwight was a big-shot artist. He ran a couple of steps.

“Hey!”

Noah heard the voice over a deep rumble behind him. He stopped and turned. Will Smith was leaning out the window of a fucking blue Ferrari.
Wouldn’t you know?

The guy didn’t exactly smile. More like his lips screwed over to the side. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

Say no. Say no
. Noah glanced toward the building. “Yeah. Sure, why not?”
Oh, you idiot
. He walked around the side of the car and opened the door. “Whoever heard of a blue Ferrari? I thought these things only came in red.” He grinned to show he only half meant it.

“Custom color.” Will stretched out a hand. “Give me your pack.”

Noah swung it in and Will tossed it over the seat into the small storage space. Noah slipped into the seat. Like butter. He closed the door with a satisfying
thunk,
and Will took off as Noah fastened his seat belt.

Will pulled to the exit of the parking lot that led out onto the Laguna Canyon Road. A steady stream of cars filed past in a beachward direction. Will gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward, staring to his left at the traffic.

Noah peered over Will’s shoulder. “Good luck getting out of here.”

“It’s always a challenge. Hang on.” Tires squealed as Will gunned the Ferrari into a small space between a sedan and an SUV.

Noah gripped the seat. “Nice work!”

Will laughed and relaxed against the back of the seat as he toggled the pedals in the stop and go traffic. “I’m used to Laguna craziness. Where to?”

“I live at the southern end of town. You can take Glenneyre or PCH.” Noah watched Will’s hands on the wheel as he turned onto the Coast Highway. Big, strong, callused, and scarred. Not like his own at all. Not an artist’s hands. “So how did you learn to paint?”

Will glanced over. Man, those eyes were green. “I just always could. I used to paint when I was really little. My mom still has some of the paintings I did. The ones the school psychologist said were too sophisticated and disturbing for a five-year-old.” He laughed. “What about you?”