Naked Hero - The Journey Away

magnificence that was so close. He really was breathtaking, even when fully clothed. The camera didn’t do Lee Porter justice. There was wavy light brown hair that had been cleverly cut to give it an ‘I never bother with it’ look, the bluest of eyes that seemed to look into his heart, and a smile that was disarming and ever so charming. A week in the sun had given the face a slight tan which suited his strong fleshy features. And there was a waft of musk that came from the man which at a social function ought to have been banned because it was causing havoc in Lewis’s trousers. “Chantal,” he eventually suggested, struggling for control and avoiding the truth. “She must have told me. She mentioned that she’d met you.”
    Lee looked at him doubtfully. He had certainly made a point of speaking to Chantal Duboir before Lewis’s arrival, but had taken care not to mention his name, so Macleod obviously knew him through some other means, and Lee could hazard a good guess as to how. It was hardly an issue – the whole point of his raunchy website was to grab attention and advertise the men that were there – Lee included, in a tasteful way of course. But Lee could appreciate that someone like Lewis Macleod might not wish to confess to such, and there was no point in embarrassing the tennis player by pressing the point, so Lee decided to let it pass for the moment. “I thought you handled that well tonight. Couldn’t have been easy,” he replied changing the subject.
    Lewis nodded and threw another half smile before returning his eyes to his drink, inwardly chastising himself for his shyness when given his status he should have been full of bluster and doing his best to get this man into bed. But it was all too awkward given what had happened, and way too dangerous given the background Lee had. He might be the manager but he was still part of the troop – a bloke who paraded his scantily dressed body on the net and in the flesh, and perhaps even sold it if the price was right - an unfair suspicion which wasn’t actually true, but after what had happened a few days ago, Lewis’s eyes were now tainted with an extra layer of distrust. “Why are you here? I mean in Sydney… The Mardi Gras?” he asked.
    “That’s right,” Lee replied. Then indicating to the room, he added, “These are my lads here tonight… Not our normal sort of thing. We usually perform at clubs, and big events like Pride. You might have seen us. No?”
    Lewis absorbed the question and he absorbed the man – seeing him and breathing him and finding him so fine. But he knew the danger, and suspicion was rife, so with a shrug of his shoulders he gave his measured answer. “No. As I said: the tour is a tough master. I don’t get the chance to get out very much, despite what the press might say.”
    Lee nodded his understanding. “ I suppose not,” he agreed. “So how do you relax - TV, the net?”
    “A bit of both,” replied Lewis.
    Lee took a sip of his drink – a low calorie cola – then eased the conversation seamlessly full circle. “I do some stuff on the net myself. I’ve got this website that takes up a lot of my time. You should have a look... plenty of hunky men like the guys here tonight. You probably know the sort of thing.”
    “Yes, I’ve seen it...” The words came out unawares, before he had time to check them, but Lewis didn’t want them recalled. He returned his eyes to the glass, considered it, but left it there.
    Lee gave it a moment then made his move, concealing his delight that Lewis had taken the bait and finally admitted his little secret. “Ah! Then you’re probably aware that one of the things I do on the site is running a sort of journal: reports from the clubs, anything that might be of interest and get people to log in and make the advertisers happy. I know what you must be thinking, because I’d probably be thinking the same… but this isn’t an interview… I’m not trying to dig up more dirt or create some by setting you up with one of my lads. I just thought… Well, I thought you might want to talk to somebody… somebody who’s not going to criticise, or judge you… But that’s what they all say, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I’ll go.”
    He moved off the stool slowly, hoping for a response - hoping that he’d guessed correctly, and wasn’t over playing the hand.
    “No. Sit down. Please!” urged Lewis, animalistic attraction winning over his wary suspicion that had been