Longing (Unexpected Attraction) Read online

  Longing

  Unexpected Attraction

  Jaylen Florian

  Published by Jaylen Florian, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  LONGING

  First edition. May 26, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Jaylen Florian.

  Written by Jaylen Florian.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  More by Jaylen Florian

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Author's Note

  More by Jaylen Florian

  NOVELS, BOOK BUNDLES, and novellas include:

  Antonio's Mask

  Arousing Euphoria: Rugby Team Bundle

  Baseball Star's Gift

  Coaching the Neighborhood

  Cobra De Capello

  Covet

  Daring the Neighborhood

  Garage

  Ghost Town

  Guarding His Fortunes

  Guarding His Jewels

  Hollywood Tease

  Lured

  Macho

  Patrolling the Neighborhood

  Prowling the Neighborhood

  Scorching the Neighborhood

  Serving the Neighborhood

  Straight Taste: Gay Book Bundle

  Tempting the Neighborhood

  Thirst

  Uncovering Machismo

  Untame

  Uplifting Sports Romance: College Gay Bundle

  Welcoming the Neighborhood

  Please join my newsletter mailing list at JaylenFlorian.com for announcements on new releases and book specials.

  Chapter 1

  Magnetic fields, of all things, occupied Pierre's thoughts on this celebratory day.

  Jazzed about moving into a penthouse suite at 2000 Soleil Terrace, a glass and steel condominium complex perched on the majestic Bluestone River, he would've expected to be contemplating furniture arrangements, purchasing original art pieces for his bare walls, or choosing when to host his first dinner party.

  But Pierre's relocation had been stimulating unexpected musings. Maybe this was from excitement, or perhaps due to fatigue, or a combination of reasonable factors, so he let his mind wander as it pleased.

  Was overpowering and incontestable attraction among two people a real phenomenon or just a myth? Pierre assumed the truth was the latter. He was fairly well versed on hormones, pheromones, codependency, infatuations, and sheer primal lust. He was certain he'd never marry. He didn't really believe humans were capable of mating for life.

  Then he thought about magnets for some reason, as he observed a young couple on the opposite side of the workout studio. What did he know about magnets? They involved natural properties and forces. They could pull or repel. They possessed unrevealed might.

  And magnetic fields were invisible. Who knew when magnets might erupt and heave toward their destination and purpose?

  Thoughts like these, of longing and irresistible allure, tumbled in Pierre De Bellefort's mind while he continued discretely watching the couple. To not interfere with their genial connection, Pierre stole glances at them in the mirrored wall as he completed sets of squat thrusts with the heavily-weighted barbell.

  It was the simple signs of the man and woman's profound adoration for each other that intrigued him most. The extended eye contact. The playful smirks. The way they stood so close to one another as they took turns doing curling exercises with dumbbells. The frequent, light gliding of their hands and fingers across each other's backs, shoulders, and forearms when they moved about the mats.

  Both had vibrant red hair and they glowed with joie de vivre. Neither seemed to want to be anywhere else on Earth than right here, in the condominium's modest basement workout center, at each other's side.

  Unbeknownst to Pierre, the ends of his lips had turned up in a smile as he speculated about them. They probably have a dog and a cat, he thought. They cook meals together. They hold hands when they watch movies. They probably even bathe at the same time, massaging their scalps with some environmentally-friendly and delicious-smelling biotin shampoo. And, best of all, Pierre was sure they fell asleep in each other's arms every single night.

  Suddenly aware of his sentimentality, which was quite unusual for him, Pierre waved the mental images away and moved to another station where he could do sit-ups on a rubber mat. There was no use letting fanciful ideas creep in and tug at his heartstrings. He didn't have time for that. His life on the road precluded anything close to it. Blissful romance—if it was anything more than an illusion anyway—was absolutely not in his future. Pierre assumed he just wasn't wired that way, for lovey-dove notions of daily moments of euphoria. There was no soulmate out there waiting for him, he was sure of that, nor did he ever imagine he could ever be the one who would could fulfill another person's life—beyond a wild night or rapturous weekend here or there.

  No, sex was not love.

  Love was only an instinct, Pierre reminded himself, occasionally necessary to draw humans close together so they could protect their young.

  Really, all of these thoughts were just too much nonsense, and Pierre rationalized them away as being the result of jet lag and weariness from so much travel and upheaval.

  At that moment, two things happened, almost simultaneously. First, the lovebirds broke out into a fit of laughter. Feeling it was apt ridicule for his current state of sensitivity, Pierre shot a look in their direction and had some relief that the couple wasn't paying him any attention at all. Second, a bold man in his late twenties stepped directly in front of Pierre's line of sight. He had long hair with ash blond highlights and acne scars on the lower portions of his face, and he wore a Batman emblem on his stained t-shirt.

  "It is you," the blond man said, his eyes widening in triumph. "I felt sure I'd seen you before somewhere!"

  Pierre instinctively maneuvered up the collar of his athletic shirt to hide his distinctive tattoos, which were designed like embellished laurel leaves that wrapped in a wreath-like shape around his neck. He said, "No, buddy, I've never met you."

  "What's the French Cobra doing here, in Rugged Heights?"

  Pierre frowned, and replied, "Sorry, you've got the wrong guy."

  "I swear you're a dead ringer for him," the man said. "It's uncanny!"

  "Nope, not me."

  "You've got the Cobra's eyes, dark blue and intense. His beard and short hair, tattoos and huge muscles."

  Despite Pierre's protestations to the contrary, the man persisted and continued studying his face. The man introduced himself as Logan and Pierre reluctantly shook his hand. Pierre didn't offer Logan his name or any further information. After a minute of Pierre ignoring him, Logan finally left him alone. Pierre finished his sit-ups and decided that close call with being identified by a stranger was his cue to
wrap up his workout and get back to his condo. He was relieved that the only other people in the gym—the loving couple and an unmemorable man with a horseshoe-style nose ring and scraggly beard—seemed to have not heard or noticed his encounter with Logan.

  Pierre ended his routine with a hundred pushups and deep breathing exercises while stretching out his arms. He sauntered to the men's locker room, vaguely aware that someone was a few paces behind him, but Pierre didn't turn around to see who it was. He continued past the lockers to the row of sinks at the bathroom to wash his hands and face with cool, soapy water. He heard a shower running and checked to confirm that three of the four private shower stalls were available for him to choose from. But when Pierre went to his locker, Logan was there, near the opposite row of lockers, holding a vinyl bag on a wooden sitting bench. Pierre nonchalantly nodded at him, but felt uneasy. Something was off. Logan was acting strange. There was no need for him to hold a bag that was already set on the bench.

  Pierre fidgeted with his padlock, opened his locker, and peeled off his damp shirt and hung it on a peg extending from the back of the locker door. He kicked off his sneakers and pulled off his socks, and he was about to slide down his shorts, when he abruptly looked over his shoulder at Logan.

  "What are you up to?" Pierre asked him.

  Logan recoiled. "Nothing."

  "You're trying to film me, aren't you?"

  "No!" Logan yanked his bag off the bench and protectively set it behind his feet.

  "You must have a camera in there."

  "I swear, I don't."

  Pierre took a step toward him.

  "I'm sorry!" Logan said, his voice emitting a squeal as he leaped upright and started for the door. "I'll erase it, I promise."

  A bit rattled by Logan's unpredictable actions, and suspicious he might return, Pierre opted to delay his shower and keep his shorts on. He secured his locker and walked barefoot, around a wall, to the sauna. Pierre had the small, dry room all to himself. He chose a corner so he could lean way back and prop his broad shoulders against the perpendicular walls which were covered with thin wooden beams. The seating angle gave him a limited view through the door's dark window, since neither the shower room or locker room were directly visible, but it was adequate to watch for another sighting of Logan, or anyone else, approaching the sauna.

  Pierre's eyelids got heavy after a few minutes and images of the couple from the gym swam through his mind again. He was not physically attracted to either one of them, yet envied their bond. Pierre drifted deeper into unconsciousness for awhile, then woke with a start and lurched forward. But he was still alone. His shorts and jockstrap were now soaking with sweat. He jumped off the wooden seating platform and bolted out of the sauna, eager to clean his body off in one of the shower stalls.

  But the moment Pierre re-entered the vacant locker room, a sense of dread washed over him. His locker was ajar and his padlock was missing. He swung the locker door open, peered inside, and cursed so loudly that his shouts echoed off the tile walls.

  Chapter 2

  Police Detective Matthew Simon arrived a few minutes after two o'clock at 2000 Soleil Terrace. The doorman, noticing his swift approach, held the swanky entrance door wide so Matthew could dart inside, then directed him to the elevators on the left side of the lobby. Seconds later Matthew reached the top floor, turned to the right, and found the unit he was seeking at the far end of the hall. The door, inexplicably marked with various colors of chalk, was cracked halfway open, revealing a brawny man in a bathrobe pacing back and forth among stacks of cardboard boxes, all the while staring at the empty spaces on the floor in front of his large, bare feet.

  "Mr. De Bellefort," Matthew said, leaning forward, his head poking through the doorframe.

  Startled out of his reverie, Pierre froze, paused a few beats, then collected his composure and welcomed the officer into his foyer.

  As he was trained to do, Detective Simon scanned the robed man's face and body for any sign of an altercation. Mr. De Bellefort's forearms and shins, not covered by the robe, showed no cuts, wounds, or evidence of damage from needles. The clean white robe contained no stains or other blemishes. Mr. De Bellefort's height matched Matthew's, at a couple inches taller than six feet, and Mr. De Bellefort's wide face and formidable features also appeared to be free of any injuries.

  Detective Simon, however, was concerned about Mr. De Bellefort's eyes. They were extremely intense, a deep ocean blue that seemed to invasively bore right through him, and he wondered about possible impairment or traumatic shock.

  Detective Simon asked, "Do you need to sit down, Mr. De Bellefort?"

  "No, I'm fine, under the circumstances." Pierre led him further inside, into a great room with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The only furniture was a floor lamp beside a lush recliner and a copper-topped coffee table. Stacked boxes, most of which appeared to be sealed, were scattered around the edges of the room, away from the windows.

  "When did you discover the break-in, Mr. De Bellefort?"

  "About a quarter of an hour ago, when I returned from the gym."

  "What's the name and location of the gym?"

  "It's here, in the building's basement."

  "Tell me what you observed."

  Pierre rubbed a hand through the thick, closely-cropped dark hair on his scalp. "In the gym downstairs or up here at my penthouse?"

  "Let's start with what happened up here."

  "When I returned from the basement my condo door was partially open. I searched every room in here for an intruder, but he'd already left."

  "What's missing or damaged?"

  "I believe he just got my cell and my wallet, in addition to what he stole from me downstairs," Pierre answered. He described his wallet and said it had contained about two hundred dollars and all of his major credit and debit cards. "But that's it, I'm pretty sure. All of my boxes scattered about are numbered. Several of them in my bedroom have been moved around, like he was looking for something in particular, but none are missing."

  "You just moved into the building?"

  "Yes, from Tampa Bay."

  Detective Simon looked up from his notepad with a slight wrinkle on his forehead. "I'm sorry for this brutal welcome to our town. Doyle is recognized for having a low crime rate and this neighborhood community—Rugged Heights—has the least amount of crime in the whole state."

  "I know that. I'm pretty familiar with this area."

  "The intruder is the one who marked up your front door?" The detective had noticed the words "Forgive Yourself" written in blue chalk, encased by the outline of a heart in red chalk, on the outside of the condo door facing the hallway to the elevator.

  Pierre chuckled, shook his head, and said, "That's likely completely separate. There's apparently an overly cheerful kid or someone else around here who likes blanketing empty surfaces with inspirational messages. You might've seen the ones on the pavement outside before you came in the building?" When Detective Simon indicated he hadn't spotted them, Pierre continued. "The doorman told me it's been going on for awhile—a graffiti bandit, if you will—but the chalk is easy to wash off and they haven't been able to catch the culprit."

  "Hmm," Detective Simon grunted. "Install your own security camera outside your door, and in here, too."

  "I'll definitely do that."

  "Back to the break in, moments ago you twice referred to the person as 'he' and that suggests you already suspect the identity of the person who stole your wallet and phone."

  "Yeah, I'm fairly sure who it was." Pierre described in detail what had occurred in the gym, including the burglary of his locker while he'd been resting in the sauna, just minutes after being interrupted by the blond man wearing the Batman shirt who'd called himself Logan.

  "Who else has a key to this penthouse?"

  Pierre flinched, and said, "Nobody. That was the whole point of my story. Logan broke into my locker, took my key, and then let himself inside up here."

  "You haven't m
et this man before?"

  "No."

  "You've seen him around the condominium complex?"

  "No, but I've just been here a day."

  "What about the three other individuals you mentioned in the gym during your workout?" Detective Simon asked. "The couple with red hair and the man with the nose ring and beard? Had you met or seen any of them before?"

  "No. I very highly doubt any of them had anything to do with it."

  "Why?"

  "They weren't paying any attention to me. In contrast, Logan recognized me and confronted me."

  Detective Simon lowered his notepad. "Please explain, Mr. De Bellefort."

  "I'm a fighter, a pro fighter."

  "UFC?"

  "No, wrestling. The International Power Wrestling League."

  "That's why you look familiar to me," Detective Simon said, smiling.

  "Through the years I've picked up some nicknames, usually having to do with cobras, because of my supposedly tranquilizing stare, and my French heritage. The French Cobra, or Pierre the Cobra, or whatever else the league announcers thinks will get the crowd riled up on any given day."

  The detective dropped his guard further. "Your eyes are unique. Frankly, when I first walked in, I was suspicious you were . . ."

  Pierre nodded. "I hear this, or something like it, all the time. People usually think I'm angry with them."

  "So it isn't just me, or the circumstances? Good to know."

  Pierre hesitated a second, then shrugged.

  Confused by the gesture, Detective Simon quickly glanced over his notes, then said, "We need to talk about enemies. Has anybody got it in for you? Have you had a bad business deal recently? A relationship breakup?"

  "None of that. There's nothing I can think of."

  Pierre sat in his recliner and soothed his temples with circular motions of his index fingers while Detective Simon scanned the room for fingerprints, called police headquarters, and filled out forms. Before leaving, Detective Simon left one of his cards on the kitchen counter in case Pierre could provide any additional information, then asked to use Pierre's bathroom. A minute later he was ready to depart and had one last question.