The Fortunes of Fausto (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  The Fortunes of Fausto

  Recently retired professional football player Fausto Mardones-Gil is a celebrity who seems to have it all: fame, fortune, and a promising “second career” as an actor. The one thing missing from his life is another man to share it with. But Fausto has never forgotten his first real love, Gene.

  Now, twenty years after they first fell in love, the two men are unexpectedly reunited, and the erotic heat between them flares up all over again, as though scarcely a day has passed since the last time they were intimate. But neither Fausto nor Gene is a naïve young man any longer. Both men now have pasts and bring emotional baggage to their reinvigorated relationship.

  Can they overcome all that has happened to them during the past two decades and be given a second chance at love?

  Note: This book contains brief drug use.

  Genre: Alternative (M/M or F/F), Contemporary

  Length: 74,028 words

  THE FORTUNES OF FAUSTO

  Roland Graeme

  EROTIC ROMANCE

  MANLOVE

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Erotic Romance ManLove

  THE FORTUNES OF FAUSTO

  Copyright © 2011 by Roland Graeme

  E-book ISBN: 1-61034-549-5

  First E-book Publication: July 2011

  Cover design by Jinger Heaston

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

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  THE FORTUNES OF FAUSTO

  ROLAND GRAEME

  Copyright © 2011

  Chapter One:

  A Personal Appearance

  “Only this, gentlemen—we must perform

  The form of Faustus’ fortunes, good or bad.”

  —Christopher Marlowe, The Tragicall History of Dr. Faustus

  Upon his arrival at the bookstore, Fausto Mardones-Gil was, as usual, confronted with multiple images of himself. The shop’s plateglass windows facing the street were covered with posters, all of them identical, all featuring the same photo of Fausto. A banner hung over the entrance proclaimed—Appearing Here in Person Today! Fausto Mardones-Gil, NFL Great and Star of the Hit Series “Gradivus!” More posters adorned the walls inside the store, and the same photo could be seen on stacks of leaflets, announcing Fausto’s appearance for a book signing that day, and of course on the dust jackets of the books themselves. His autobiography was selling well, so the publisher had ensured that ample supplies of the book would be on hand.

  Fausto fought back a grimace as he entered the store and shook hands with the manager. At first, he’d liked the publicity photo, which had been taken by a famous photographer. The guy had made Fausto look more like a male model than a football player who had recently announced his retirement from the game. The head shot projected a sullen, glowering sensuality. It probably helped to sell copies of the book. But now, two weeks into the promotional tour, Fausto was finding it increasingly difficult to live up to the glamorous, airbrushed image. Today he felt distinctly bleary-eyed from jet lag, and although he’d done his best to pull himself together and make himself presentable, he hoped that none of his fans who came to the book signing would notice the discrepancy between the idealized photo and the slightly shopworn reality.

  He’d had to leave his hotel room early that morning, for an appearance on a local radio talk show, followed by an interview for a local television station. Fortified by a quick lunch, Fausto was ready to risk writer’s cramp again, by signing hundreds of copies of the book.

  The routine, by now, was familiar—the table and chair, the stacks of books, the supply of pens, the queue of patient fans. Smile, maintain eye contact, get the spelling of the name right, accept their compliments graciously, answer their questions diplomatically. The questions, too, were familiar. Had he really retired from football for good? Didn’t he think he had a couple of good years left? Would he accept an offer to play for another team, if the right kind of offer came along? Or, now that he was enjoying some success as an actor—Did he intend to concentrate on that, as his “second career?” What about his personal life? Did he have a boyfriend? More than one boyfriend, maybe? And, from the bolder ones—Was that story about the drunken gay locker-room orgy true? And if it was, who were the other players involved? How about that other story, the one about the movie star who collected Fausto’s used, sweaty jockstraps? Was it really B___ D_____?

  Not all of the reaction to the book and its author had been favorable. A couple of cities ago, a wild-eyed man had burst into the bookstore, shouting, “You may think you’re gay now, but take my word for it, Mardones-Gil—you will not be gay in hell!” He had proceeded to grab a volume from the display of books, open it, and use a disposable cigarette lighter to set the pages of the book on fire. “This is how your soul and the souls of your fellow sinners will burn in hell!” the man had shrieked, as panicked customers fled from the store.

  A television crew had arrived in time to film not only the nutcase being hauled away in handcuffs, but Fausto coolly signing copies of his book for the firemen and the police officers. The footage was air
ed on news programs across the country, and Fausto’s agent, Jake Armitage, had phoned him long distance, squealing with delight. “You can’t buy publicity like this, Fausto, baby—not at any price!”

  Nothing so dramatic was likely to happen today. This was a polite crowd. Although Fausto in fact lived in Los Angeles, this was his first visit to Seattle, and he liked what little he’d seen of the town so far. The fans here had a laid-back attitude, lacking in aggression, that Fausto found refreshing. After an hour, though, Fausto caught himself stifling a yawn, and he begged the obsequious store manager for a cup of coffee.

  Of course, you wouldn’t be feeling so fucked out right now, Fausto lectured himself, if you hadn’t got laid last night! The memory warmed him as much as his sips of the coffee did, and was at least as stimulating.

  As usual upon his arrival in a strange city, he’d taken a taxi straight from the airport to his hotel, and, after checking in, had asked the desk clerk if he could recommend a good restaurant in the neighborhood. The clerk suggested one within walking distance, and Fausto decided to try it out.

  He was recognized, of course, and the staff made a bit of fuss over him. So did some of the other diners. But Fausto’s waiter ran interference for him, politely but firmly steering the fans away from his table, and telling one persistent autograph seeker, “If you leave that piece of paper with me, I’m sure I can persuade Mr. Mardones-Gil to sign it for you later. Maybe after he’s had his drink and appetizer?”

  Fausto asked his rescuer what his name was.

  “Marc. With a C.”

  “Well, Marc with a C, I’m starving, so what do you recommend tonight?”

  As the waiter took his order, Fausto studied him. He was young, perhaps no more than twenty, nicely groomed, and neatly turned out in his black trousers, crisply ironed white shirt, and dark red bow tie. He was good-looking, but in a subdued way, and had an alertness about him that was appealing. As Fausto, pretending to scrutinize the menu, checked the boy out, he quickly concluded that he also had a firm, athletic body and a nice ass.

  The meal was excellent, and Fausto decided that Marc was worth putting his diet aside for, at least for one night, so he ordered dessert. He engaged the waiter in conversation.

  “My Dad has always been a big fan of yours,” Marc volunteered.

  Fausto smiled. “And you’re not?”

  “Oh no, that’s not what I meant. But I have to admit I’m not really all that into football. I like mixed martial arts. And I never miss Gradivus. It’s so weird. Which I mean as a compliment. And you’re very good in it.”

  Marc wanted to know where he was staying and how the book tour was going, and this gave Fausto the chance to question him in return. No, Marc had never played football in school—he was a swimmer. He still lived at home with his father. Waiting tables was hard work, but it was a good way to earn money. No, he hadn’t read Fausto’s autobiography yet. Was it as “raw” as everybody said it was?

  When he paid the bill, Fausto gave Marc an exceptionally generous trip. “It seems to be slowing down,” Fausto observed, glancing around the dining room.

  “Yeah. I get off work in an hour or so,” Marc said—with an unmistakable, wistful innuendo in his tone of voice.

  Fausto smiled. “Good for you. Well—enjoy the rest of your evening. Me, I plan to go back to my room and go straight to bed. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow, and at my age I need my rest.”

  That was his way of letting the kid down gently. Still, Fausto had enjoyed their harmless flirtation.

  Fausto walked back to his hotel, and, feeling restless, window-shopped as he passed some store fronts. He was tired—and not just physically tired. For one thing, he was tired of people, however well-intentioned, asking what he planned to do, now that he would no longer play football. Fausto had his pat answers prepared. He might travel, he might do sports commentary on television, he might start his own business. And of course he would continue to do product endorsements. There was also what he tended to refer to, casually, as “my acting gig”—the cable TV series Gradivus, which Marc had mentioned. It was a success, but privately, Fausto still couldn’t help thinking that the whole idea of him as an actor was a joke, or a hoax.

  But, in fact, he didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do. He was financially secure. Having grown up poor, he’d continued to lead a modest lifestyle, for a professional athlete, and had saved and invested his earnings.

  His sense of thrift, along with a certain work ethic, had been instilled in him by his parents. They continued to run their mom-and-pop grocery store on a corner in the old neighborhood of Fausto’s hometown. They wouldn’t consider retirement, even though their son had taken pains to make certain they were financially secure, as well.

  Every time Fausto went home for a visit—which he did often—his father would look at him quizzically and ask, with a laugh, “So—when are you going to jump off this merry-go-round, and get yourself a real job?”

  “No sé, Papito,” was Fausto’s standard reply. “When they wise up and stop giving me money to do nothing, I guess.”

  So far, though, “they” hadn’t done that. The money kept coming in, from one source or another. Fausto earned it, all right. He was no shirker. He did what was asked of him. But, deep inside, he couldn’t help thinking of himself as a bit of a fraud.

  Football had always been fun, even after he’d turned pro and had been forced to accept the fact that it was also big business and that he, Fausto Mardones-Gil, was in reality just another commodity. His value was defined by the amount of revenue he helped to bring in, from television advertising and ticket sales. He truly loved the game, and this, at least, had prevented him from becoming cynical or burned out.

  As for acting—Fausto still wasn’t quite convinced that he wanted to pursue it as a long-term commitment. It had all begun while he was still playing ball, when Jake suggested that, instead of taking a vacation during the off-season, Fausto should accept an offer to appear in an action film, playing one of the bad guys.

  “But I can’t act,” Fausto protested. “Even back in high school, when I was in the drama club, I was so bad that I spent most of my time building the scenery—not standing in front of it trying to deliver lines without making a complete ass of myself.”

  Jake was undeterred. “They don’t need you to act,” he insisted. “They just want you to stand there and look big and ugly and menacing. And I can think of a couple of dozen linebackers who’d be happy to attest to the fact that you’re well qualified to do that.”

  “Maybe. I do object to the ‘ugly’ part, though. Thanks a lot, Jake!”

  “Don’t take it personally. I meant, you’ll be suitably ugly after the makeup department is done with you. That’s their job. Just like mine is to decide what’s good for you. Anyway, I think you should do it. These guys’ movies always make money,” Jake added, referring to the director and the leading actor. “And it’d be good exposure for you.”

  And so Fausto had agreed to make the film. It was an interesting experience. He immediately lost any illusions he may have harbored about acting being a glamorous, exciting profession. He saw at once, on his very first day on the set, that it was essentially a lot of hard work. It also required a lot of patience, because he and his fellow actors spent a great deal of time either waiting around, or rehearsing and shooting the same scene over and over again. And, unlike some celebrities from other areas who were given a crack at cinematic fame, Fausto kept his head. Admitting he knew absolutely nothing about what he was supposed to be doing, he showed up on time, did what he was told, and worked hard, without complaint. As a result, he endeared himself to the director, his fellow actors, and the crew.

  Not only was the movie a success—Fausto’s performance, to his astonishment and to Jake’s glee, received some favorable reviews.

  “I told you so,” Jake said, smugly. “Next time, shut up and don’t give me such a hard time.”

  The “next time” had arrived sooner than
either Jake or Fausto could have anticipated. Brent South, the actor who’d played the seemingly indestructible lead in the movie, had enjoyed meeting Fausto and working with him. Shortly after the film’s release, Brent had called Fausto.

  “Guess what, buddy,” Brent said. “This cable TV production company wants me to star in a new series—and a big-budget series, for a change, not the kind of low-budget crap I usually get offered.”

  “Good for you,” Fausto replied. “Congratulations! What’s it going to be about?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Brent admitted. “I mean, I’ve got the script for the pilot episode right here, and I can’t make heads or tails of it. It’s some futuristic sci-fi thing about macho guys and tough broads kicking the shit out of each other in outer space. Kung fu with laser guns, as far as I can tell. Only there’s all this weird supernatural and mystical stuff mixed into it. I’d like to be on what the guy who wrote this must’ve been smoking.”

  Fausto laughed. “It sounds like fun, though.”

  “It sounds like a lot of hard work,” Brent said, cynically, “but I’ve let myself get talked into signing up for worse projects. Listen, Fausto. This thing has a pretty high body count, so they’re going to need a lot of bruisers to play tough guys—expendable and otherwise. How’d you like to hop on board and do one of the bit parts in the pilot?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Sure, why not you? You were great in the movie, everybody who’s seen it has said so. I’d love to work with you again. Come on, Fausto, tell me you’ll do it. We could have a few laughs. And if you’re really serious about retiring from football, like you told me you were—why shouldn’t you give the occasional acting gig a try?”