Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3) Read online

  Maybe it was muddled societal norms and expectations clouding the obvious, Rodney thought. People latching onto only one template of handsomeness or prettiness, without enough regard for the celebration of individual differences. And what he'd told Marshall about the power of energy and confidence he wholeheartedly believed—and it seemed to Rodney to be too self-evident to merit much argument to the contrary.

  Putting that aside, there was the matter of that kiss. Rodney knew it was electric. He and Marshall had even more sparks than he'd expected, and maybe that's why he felt so poorly about being a cad and deceiving him. In another time and place, in another dimension, Marshall Clay was the kind of man he could fall for and adore. If Marshall hadn't been so nasty in his column, and if Marshall lived in Doyle and worked in some other field besides the arts, Rodney could imagine pursuing him.

  Loneliness was his constant burden. Rodney had too many secrets, even with those like Christine and Patrick, who cared for him deeply and worked diligently on his behalf.

  Yes, too many secrets, too many illusions, and too many missed opportunities to develop anything special with someone.

  Loneliness, however, beat ever going back to his old patterns, which Rodney had sworn to never repeat. Years ago, he used to let his hormones rule his behavior. Two patterns had emerged, both of which caused him misery. First, he'd latch onto guys for rocket ship infatuations that soared for several weeks before burning out and crashing. Second, he'd forego any dating and just mess around with strangers at the docks near Halo Point after sundown. The Halo Point docks didn't have bars, taverns, glory holes, or spas. But for generations it'd been known as a cruising locale for lonely men seeking anonymous blowjobs once the workers on the river had gone home for the night.

  No, infatuations and anonymous sex were part of his past. Just as Rodney wouldn't return to past eras in his art, he wouldn't return to past eras in his sex life. The essence of his core was to propel forward, surging ever ahead.

  Ironically, he understood, his flirting with Marshall on the train was a temptation toward his past. Rodney intended contemplating this further but the bus came to a halt at his stop, near the intersection of Soleil Terrace and Emily Street.

  Unlike the downtown arts district in Doyle, which was nestled in one city block in decades-old buildings, the art galleries in Rugged Heights were dispersed intermittently. Many of them blended in with the boutiques along the north side of Soleil Terrace in modern buildings. The galleries and boutiques were positioned to attract the high-end condominium residents who lived in high rises on the south side of Soleil Terrace, on the river's edge, as well as the tourists who strolled the riverside boardwalks and parks.

  Swaledale Gallery, Rodney's destination, was the most elegant, expensive, and luxurious art gallery in the entire region. It occupied an expansive H-shaped structure with front and back garden courts. Glass walls were tinted enough to block out ultraviolet rays, yet transparent enough to lure visitors with views of the grandiose artwork for sale inside.

  It had been some weeks since Rodney's previous visit. Stepping in through the doors, which slid open automatically, he entered the center atrium. This prime space connecting the gallery wings was reserved for the most dynamic, flamboyant, and marketable paintings and sculptures. Rodney was disappointed not to see any pieces he'd created in the atrium this time. He'd usually have at least a few of his works right up front, visible to every customer.

  Instead of wandering the gallery's wings to search for his creations, Rodney walked toward the back of the building where the gallery's owner had her office.

  Daphne Swaledale, impeccably attired in a navy dress and blazer suit, sipped an Italian soda from a slender glass bottle while studying art for sale on her computer screen. She was barely forty, dainty in stature, formal in her elocution, and blessed with superb posture. Despite her genuine passion for the arts, her personal style did not include any makeup or jewelry. Daphne had wise, hazel eyes and pronounced eyebrows, and she frequently expressed her femininity with graceful and whimsical hand gestures.

  Noticing Rodney standing by her open doorway, Daphne smiled and jingled her fingers at him.

  "Redfern, get yourself in here. Sit down. I'm trying to decide on some new artists to include here and I need to take a break."

  Rodney knew she didn't like to be touched. He resisted his instinct to offer Daphne a handshake and briefly bowed instead, before sitting in the contemporary velvet chair across from her.

  "How've you been?" Rodney asked.

  "I can't say we're booming, but we're doing well enough to keep the lights on." Daphne typically answered such questions in relation to her business conditions, not her personal feelings.

  "I think you're killing it and making a fortune."

  Daphne grinned. "We have our share of good days. Bless the buyers! They make everything possible."

  "I saw Flora's new statues in the atrium," Rodney said, referencing the female nudes, both acrobatic and classical, created by Flora Miles, one of his co-finalists for the Doyle bridge honor.

  "Do they appeal to you?"

  "I think they're spectacular. The best work she's ever done."

  "Agreed."

  "The other works I noticed out there were impressive, too—even Kenneth's rustic roof pieces. They're not my cup of tea, but I can appreciate what he's trying to do." Kenneth Blakely's latest efforts were yet another version of wind directionals resembling the weather vanes commonly seen atop country barns and farmhouses.

  Daphne put her computer in sleep mode and gave Rodney her full attention. "What you're not saying is, where are your own creations in my gallery?"

  "That did cross my mind."

  "I'm waiting for your new line. I hope you've stopped by to tell me your sculptures are finally done and ready for display. I've sold everything else from you I could get my hands on, with some exceptions. We've had these pieces forever and the customers just aren't pulling the trigger on them, even with price reductions. So we've relocated them to the northwest wing."

  "Daphne, I wish I could say my new sculptures were ready."

  "You promised me I'd have them months ago!"

  Part of him wanted to confess his recent artistic struggles. He and Daphne had a good rapport and warm business relationship. Nevertheless, Rodney couldn't divulge his stagnation issues with her. It was too risky to tell her the truth. He couldn't afford to lose her faith. Daphne believed in him. Disturbing her trust could jeopardize their bond.

  "What stage are they in?" Daphne asked.

  "Final stages," Rodney answered, not daring to blink or fidget and give the truth away. "I'm polishing them up and putting on last touches."

  "The sooner they're ready, the sooner you make money. It's simple how that works."

  "Speaking of money, is there any chance you'd consider giving me another advance?"

  "No, Rodney. Don't ask this of me. That was a one time thing only, to lift you out of a funk. Are you tight on funds yet again?"

  "I am."

  Daphne shook her head. "I swear, money flows like sand through your fingers. You're making way too much to be struggling."

  "It's expensive being an artist."

  "That's what all of you say! Bunk! What's expensive is running a fine art gallery. My monthly bills pile a mile high. Why don't you meet with a financial planner and let her advise you on a budget? That could do you a world of good. Unfortunately, I'm not in a position right now to give you another advance."

  Rodney leaned forward and put his elbows on her desk. "But what if I offer you an exclusive on the first few pieces in my new line?"

  Daphne perked up and clasped her hands together. "Wait, you've always refused exclusivity before."

  "I'm softening on this, provided the rest of the sales agreement is reasonable."

  "This might change the equation in regard to your request for an advance."

  Rodney said, "Six months exclusive on six sculptures, our same typical split."

/>   "One year exclusive on a dozen sculptures," Daphne countered, "plus five percentage points for me on the split."

  "I think we can nail this down."

  Rodney bartered with Daphne on the terms and eventually accepted her insistence for one year of exclusivity on the first ten pieces in his upcoming line, in return for a generous advance. Daphne also won a higher sales split and conditioned the agreement on Rodney providing the first three sculptures by August. If he failed to complete them in time, the deal was off. He'd owe her the full repayment of the advance in one lump sum, with interest.

  "This is going to work for both of us," Daphne said, at the conclusion of their discussion. "Permit me a final word, even if it's a suggestion?"

  "Sure."

  "I really didn't expect to have you tying yourself up in knots, like a pretzel, when Doyle's nationally-televised races are coming up at summer's end. Soon, I believe, you won't have to bargain so deeply on your terms again. But if you don't fix your spending problems, it won't matter how much you make or what honors you win. Heed my advice, Rodney. Buckle down on your personal finances to reduce your stress. That's how you crawl out of the quicksand of being forever broke."

  Chapter 9

  Though Friday afternoons were infamously known for being "news dumps"—the time when governments, companies, and celebrities publicly released unflattering information in an attempt to evade the scrutiny of a regular weekday news cycle—no one at The Port Cole Pioneer seemed to see this coming.

  Marshall Clay sure didn't. He'd joined his peers in the company's newsroom for what everyone had assumed was just another regular monthly staff meeting to review journalistic ethics or new building safety protocols.

  Even when Arlena Blanca, editor in chief, hurriedly rushed in a few minutes late to address them, her face tight and distraught, the gravity of the situation was still not evident. Marshall figured she was about to announce a personal matter, such as her transfer to another news agency or personal leave for a medical matter.

  Arlena, however, was not one to sugarcoat truth. She'd simply declared, without preamble, "I terribly regret to inform you that the agency is suspending all operations, effective immediately."

  Marshall had gasped along with the others. Every person on staff knew the struggles that all newspapers were having in the digital age with falling subscriber rates and declining advertising revenue. But they didn't know disaster for the newspaper was imminent. A private company, it hadn't released public data on its financial status in years.

  Marshall had always held out hope that the company would figure out how to transition into the digital age before going extinct. But Arlena had confirmed the battle was over. Too shocked to retain her exact words as his brainwaves spun in distress, Marshall half heard her mention her extreme condolences, something about severance packages and professional references for employment applications, and some final comments expressing gratitude for their contributions to the field of journalism.

  Then Arlena was gone. She'd left the room—after sincerely appearing hurt for everyone—and it felt like the aftermath of a bomb attack.

  It had all happened in the blink of an eye. Marshall grumbled with a few others as he packed up the personal items in his cubicle. Some reacted with anger and Marshall didn't want to be around that. He was immensely sad and disappointed, but not enraged. So he opted to decline invitations to join the others at nearby watering holes to drown their grief with alcohol and speculation.

  Taking the bus home, Marshall's mind was stuck on all of his unfinished projects. So many loose ends! These included multiple program reviews, a profile on the new director of the local symphony, a column about museum collections, and a popular recurring article about high school students earning art-based scholarships for colleges and universities. None of that research would now see the light of day.

  His roommate, Colin Brewster, was watching television when Marshall charged in and went directly to his room. He and Colin shared a two bedroom apartment half a mile from the train station. Built fifty years ago, yet looking even more ancient from frequent graffiti, the two story apartment building was a plain box with inexplicably minuscule windows, kitchens, and closets. At least one noisy train woke Marshall in the middle of every night. On the positive side, an old mall was only two blocks away. Like newspapers, malls were decaying fast and fossilizing, though this one still had an array of affordable restaurants and a food court with options Marshall liked.

  He and Colin had been roommates for less than three months. They met through a LGBTQ app linking people needing shared housing. Both of them were independent, tidy, and nonsmokers. They also matched up because neither was accustomed to bringing men home for hookups. Colin spent half or more of his nights at his boyfriend's house on the other side of town. Colin was also willing to give Marshall occasional rides in his car for emergencies. Neither of them had decorated their rooms with much enthusiasm. They only had a six month lease and hadn't yet discussed whether to renew it or find another place to share costs.

  Seeing his somber carriage, Colin guessed at once what had just happened to Marshall and followed him to his room.

  "My heart goes out to you."

  "Thanks, buddy. This is not my best day."

  "You'll land on your feet. Don't forget that. I've been fired more times than I can count. No matter what, I've always bounced back fairly well."

  "I'll survive," Marshall said. "Technically, I wasn't fired—not that it matters. They laid us off."

  "All of you?"

  "Everyone."

  "I stopped buying the paper years ago, but I check its web site now and then," Colin said. "They're killing off the web site, too?"

  "Yeah, everything's over. They couldn't figure out how to monetize the web site enough to justify continuing it."

  "Damn, man, I feel for ya."

  "I've got enough saved to cover rent and utilities until I can find something else."

  "I wasn't worried about that. Don't plan on just hiding away in here the rest of the day, sunk with sorrow."

  Marshall said, "That's what I'm probably gonna do."

  "No, keep on your feet. Don't wallow in the mud. Nothing good ever comes of that."

  "I appreciate your intentions, but I don't need babysitting."

  "Wrong. Guy and I were planning on a movie tonight. It looks like a dud, though. We'll take you out for pizza and beer instead."

  "You don't need to do that, Colin. You really don't."

  "Who doesn't like pizza and beer? Be ready to head out the door in about an hour. I insist."

  GUY CAMP STRUCK A CLOSE resemblance to his boyfriend, Colin Brewster. Both men hovered around thirty years of age and had blue eyes and trim physiques. Their similarities also included rosy skin tones, large foreheads, and goatees. Marshall thought they could easily pass as brothers or cousins, but they were from different families. The biggest difference between the men was that Colin had dark blond hair and Guy had strawberry blond locks.

  Dinner at the pizza parlor was the first instance that Marshall spent much time around Guy, who rarely visited their apartment. Guy, a former tennis pro who coached athletes and made additional revenue from private tennis lessons at country clubs, owned a cozy bungalow with a pool. So it was no surprise that he and Colin spent most of their time together at his place instead of the apartment. Guy and Marshall had always been cordial during their fleeting passings in the apartment, and Marshall'd stuck mostly to his own room.

  The first sign of trouble at the pizzeria was with the pitchers of beer.

  Marshall was seated in a booth across from Colin and Guy. Classic rock hits from Aerosmith, Def Leppard, and Journey played over the sound system. The vinyl tablecloth imitated a red and white plaid picnic blanket. Pizzas were served on elevated metal stands, garden salads filled wooden bowls, and foamy beer was delivered in pitchers. To Marshall's relief, Colin and Guy didn't pepper him with questions about his lay off or his future plans. Instead, they discu
ssed music, recent store closings at the mall, and original new television series on Netflix and Amazon Prime.

  Marshall and Colin did most of the talking. Guy seemed most focused on the beer. He'd top off their glasses constantly, making it difficult to keep track of how much they were each consuming. Guy also kept signaling the waitress to bring them more pitchers without asking if the other men wanted to have more.

  Marshall, sipping slowly, wasn't concerned with getting drunk. He didn't worry about driving, either, because they'd taken an Uber to the restaurant. Guy, however, was getting louder on the few occasions when he spoke. His staring at Marshall also escalated. Guy gave him hungry looks with numb smiles. Colin didn't seem concerned with the amounts his boyfriend was imbibing, so Marshall figured both of men were accustomed to knocking back lots of alcohol.

  Then Guy's behavior became more troubling.

  The first incident took place when Marshall left the pizzeria's restroom. He strolled down the skinny hallway back toward the booth. Guy passed by him, reached back, and pinched low on his butt.

  The second occurrence happened when they were back in the booth. Guy tried to play footsie with Marshall, aggressively rubbing the tip of his shoe against Marshall's shins and ankles. Marshall solved the problem by widely splaying his legs to each side, out of Guy's reach, and flashing stern glances at Guy warning him to cut out the nonsense.

  The third episode occurred when Marshall was once again in the pizzeria's bathroom and standing at the sole urinal. Moments after Marshall unzipped and began relieving himself, Guy burst into the restroom and approached him.

  "Scoot over," Guy said, unfastening his own pants and trying to crowd beside Marshall. The restroom had only the single urinal, designed and intended for one person at a time, and two empty toilet stalls with doors.

  "No," Marshall said, holding his stance and not budging. "Use one of the johns."

  "Too late." Dick in hand, Guy was urinating on the tile wall.

  Marshall moved aside so Guy could steer into the porcelain basin, then used one of his hands to block Guy from gawking at his dong. Marshall grumbled and said, "You're totally crossing the line tonight, Guy."