Naked Hero - The Journey Away Read Free

him a few minutes of privacy for a change.
    “Vodka and tonic please, mate,” he said to the barman as a stool was drawn up and parked on. “Better make it a large one,” he quickly added, feeling the need to throw caution to the wind.
    “Sure, Mr. Macleod. It’ll be right up,” the man answered with a friendly sort of expression that actually looked real.
    Lewis watched the barman as he turned to fix the drink, taking the opportunity to admire his fine rear – a habit he could never quite break. Then with a shake of his head where warning bells were ringing, he swivelled round to take in the reception properly for the first time.
    ‘Should have brought my shades!’ was the immediate reaction. It was a flamboyant affair and no mistake. Joey wasn’t the only one who had made a bit of an effort – a large number of the guests were done up to the nines, giving the impression that Mardi Gras had arrived in Sydney a month early. The men outnumber the women by about three to one, with an age range that was wide but majored in the centre – the thirties and forties being the norm. As a matter of course, Lewis checked out the talent, the warning bells still ringing but being obstinately ignored. A few of the younger guests were certainly of interest to him - fit looking men who on a different occasion might have warranted some serious attention. But it was the hired help who really caught Lewis’s eye: six guys in total, including Joey, all similarly dressed in white trunks and tennis shoes, yet radically different in their physical appearance; each and every one an incredible male specimen. The costumes alone made them stand out in the crowd despite some serious competition, but it was their gym perfected bodies that the skimpy outfits displayed that really made the impact.
    Discreetly examining the eye candy from his corner vantage point, it suddenly struck Lewis that one of these men looked vaguely familiar. He was the tallest of the group, six foot four at a guess, short black hair and pale white skin which was a bit unusual considering they were in Australia at the peak of its blistering summer. Lewis watched his progress around the room, enjoying what he saw. He had a sort of crooked smile, and a set of teeth that would need some work to put right, but in a way it added to his attraction - it made him real, this imperfection. It should have also made him memorable, and annoyingly it did – but for the life of him Lewis couldn’t place the guy.
    Puzzled, he turned to the bar where his drink was now waiting. A gulp was downed; then glass in hand he swivelled back to checked out the room again, this time behaving by taking in the décor rather than the men. A sort of monochrome effect was dominating the walls, which counterbalanced quite nicely some of the more outlandish outfits on display elsewhere. He noticed the framed posters on each of the walls leading away from the bar: pictures of various sports men and women, all black and white in keeping with the theme. Billie Jean and Martina were easily recognised – pioneering icons from an earlier era. A few of the others were familiar with names that could be guessed at, but most were unknown to Mr. Macleod. Until his roaming eyes reached the far wall where two much larger spot-lit posters dominated the room - and these two people Lewis knew all too well.
    A nother swig of his drink was taken as he considered the poster to the left. It was Chantal Duboir, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, holding aloft the Australian Open Trophy which she’d won the year before. It was her first major title, coming five years after her only previous appearance in such a final.
    Lewis smiled as he remembered the day . He’d watched the match with a fair amount of trepidation, dreading the onset of nerves that had blighted Duboir’s career, denying her the success that her abundance of talent deserved. But the collapse didn’t happen. She had kept her cool all the way to the end