Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3) Read online

  "Relax. We're friend, aren't we?"

  "I don't share my cock with my friends."

  Marshall finished as promptly as he could, washed his hands, and returned to the booth. He debated what to say to Colin, saw Guy returning, and decided the safest course of action was to wrap up the evening.

  "I'm beat," Marshall said. "Let's get outta here."

  "Okay, I'll be ready when I finish this beer," Colin said.

  Marshall gestured for their waitress, who packed their leftover pizza slices into take home packages. The three men were out the door ten minutes later. Marshall sat in the front passenger seat on their Uber ride home to keep some distance from Guy.

  Back at the apartment, Marshall thanked Colin and Guy for a night out, refrigerated his leftovers, and went directly to his bathroom to brush his teeth and shower. Marshall then slipped into his room and crawled in bed to watch some television, but he couldn't find a show he was in the mood to watch.

  Guy's behavior at the pizzeria had really pissed him off.

  Marshall despised cheaters. Even more, he loathed the types of people who relished flirting and cheating under their partners' noses. It was sick, he thought, to delight in such cruelty and degradation. Guy had proved himself the kind of person who got his rocks off on betraying those, like Colin, who dared to love and trust him.

  It was one of the ugliest forms of self-destructive behaviors and Marshall was disgusted by the antics.

  Marshall's personal feelings on the subject were still quite raw. Two years earlier he'd caught his own boyfriend having sex outside of the relationship. Marshall, home early from the newsroom, heard grunts and groans coming from his backyard. He'd dashed to the living room window overlooking the yard and discovered his boyfriend getting rammed silly by a married neighbor in a lawn chair on the back patio.

  Enraged out of his senses, Marshall's first instinct was to grab a knife. Fortunately, he took a different tack. He hoisted out the fire extinguisher stored in the kitchen pantry, charged into his backyard, and sprayed the fuckers down full blast as they squealed and screamed to escape. The trauma of the experience suppressed most of Marshall's memories from the rest of that night. He remembered causing some minor injuries and being detained by police officers. Ultimately, though, Marshall wasn't arrested because neither man pressed charges.

  Returning his thoughts to his present predicament with Guy, Marshall wondered how he should notify Colin. He'd certainly want someone to inform him if he had a boyfriend acting out of bounds. What sucked was that Marshall suspected Colin would be very hurt to hear of this. Marshall dreaded having to see Colin's reaction to the disclosure.

  Marshall drifted off with these concerns jabbing at him, on top of the rest of the day's shock and anguish.

  He was roused from deep sleep by a creaking floorboard near his bed.

  Marshall popped open his eyes. His room was dark, but the glare from the television screen illuminated a man's nude body, just over an arm's length away. The body was sleek and moderately hairy, and the man's erection pointed straight out—at a ninety degree angle—aimed at Marshall's face.

  Guy's drunken voice was a breathless attempt at a whisper. "Fuck me, Marshall."

  Marshall maneuvered upright, clenched his fists, and said, "What the hell are you doing in here?"

  "Shh." Guy knelt down by the bed and set a finger over his lips, imploring Marshall to speak quieter, then added, "I can't stop thinking about how huge your dick is."

  "What's wrong with you?"

  "Nothing. I just wanna get pummeled."

  "Not happening!" Marshall said. "Where's Colin?"

  "He passed out."

  "Get out of my room."

  "Are you sure you don't want it?" Guy asked. "I don't offer second chances."

  "I don't want it."

  Guy rose to his feet, and hissed, "Your loss."

  "This is repulsive, Guy. How could you do this to Colin?"

  "Hey, it's our secret. Don't say a word . . ."

  "Nope. No secrets."

  "Colin's right," Guy said. "You really can be an asshole."

  "An asshole, yes. A cheater, no."

  That was the last word. Guy left the room and Marshall locked his bedroom door. He stewed over Guy's audacity, eventually fell asleep again, and woke at the first sign of dawn.

  Marshall put on clean clothes, packed a duffle bag, skipped breakfast, and silently exited the apartment. He headed for the passenger train station. He didn't know where he'd go. He needed a getaway, at least for a few days, to absorb the shock of his lay off and to ponder his career path.

  He decided to review the morning train schedules and just make a destination choice on the spot.

  Chapter 10

  Without fanfare, Doyle residents and commuters woke to eye-catching changes on the arched bridges linking downtown to the Quilley District islet in the Bluestone River.

  The original plan was that the city of Doyle would have a formal unveiling ceremony for the sculptures. A combination of factors altered these intentions. Stung by Marshall Clay's exposé, Rodney and city leaders were less enthused about staging another press event. Perhaps even more important, the city realized it could save money by moving up the installation date weeks in advance, using a work crew on hiatus from another city project preparing for the national kayak races.

  The sculpture installations had been completed in the dead of night, far ahead of schedule, with Rodney Riggs Redfern on hand to help supervise. As expected, the works of art fit precisely on the foundations, requiring only tiny adjustments. Rodney and the city workers had cheered the completion, sticking around to observe the wondrous shapes begin their constant transformations.

  Rodney had won the city's competition with deceptively simple concepts that best complemented the city's old arch bridges. While the other contenders submitted elaborate designs involving electricity or glass, attached to the bridge arches or parapets, or affixed to the pillars in the river channel, Rodney's plans spared interferences with the historic bridges. He concentrated on the approaches to and from the structures—the front and back end points of each bridge. Two large sculptures per bridge—one at the north end, the other at the south end.

  Rodney's six works succeeded in being unique and cohesive. They stood nine feet in height above their concrete bases, making them easily visible from the roads, plaza, or river channel. They were made of stainless steel, painted a rich golden amber, which shimmered in the sunlight and harmonized beautifully with the light golden stones of the arches and contrasted with the dark blue of the river.

  Each sculpture was a kinetic wonder, moved by the wind, fragment by fragment, creating kaleidoscopic effects that were constantly new and intriguing to the eye. With hundreds of slivers and shapes, on multiple posts, the visual combinations were nearly infinite. And Rodney had designed an extra feature that uplifted the sculptures from being completely dependent on the power of the wind. They had bearing weights, hidden among the shards, that propelled constant movement and metamorphosis.

  Specifically, the six sculptures had organic or representational elements combined with abstract elements, helping them more naturally blend into their locations. The sculptures on the Devon Bridge included shapes of flocks of birds. The sculptures on the Mason Bridge had flower-like petals in various stages of bloom. The Sylvia Bridge had a rotating series of vertical and diagonal lines that resembled multiple kites in flight.

  The overall polarity—the staid old stone bridges enhanced with the fragility of the transitioning kaleidoscopic artwork—exceeded Rodney's expectations. He was too jazzed to leave the scene. He rested on a park bench in Bigbury Plaza the rest of the morning hours until the sky changed, then wandered over the three bridges to watch the impact of the dawn light on the metallic surfaces.

  Rodney liked observing the startled reactions of people strolling by his artwork. He was especially encouraged by how many early risers were already stopping to gaze, photograph, and film his kin
etic sculptures. One of the spectators arriving before the morning rush hour was Mayor Dimitri Ustinov. He and Rodney crossed paths on the pedestrian lane of the Mason Bridge.

  Mayor Ustinov blurted out his congratulations. "Stellar! Mind-blowing! Astounding in every way!"

  "I'm very pleased, too," Rodney said, trying not to gloat.

  "Forget being pleased, this is just breathtaking, it really is. I remember the three dimensional versions you showed us on the computer renderings. But seeing this in real life is a quantum leap higher, and better, than I'd ever given your concepts credit for. What an achievement! What a sensation for Doyle!"

  RODNEY HAD A PRODUCTIVE breakfast meeting with Christine Blatt, his assistant, and Patrick Castle, his manager, at Castle's home on the outskirts of Rugged Heights. Their top agenda item was an overall plan for handling press inquiries, new customers, repeat customers, and art gallery requests.

  An aura of joy surrounded the trio. For all of them, the visual impact of seeing Rodney's sculptures in the early morning light had been profound. This project was a success beyond their expectations, that was clear, and they wanted to be fully prepared to maximize it.

  Patrick strongly urged Rodney to stay off camera for the time being.

  "We need to all but eliminate your media exposure right now," Patrick said to Rodney. "You must be scarce, hard to find, elusive, and thereby ever more in demand. No interviews today or for the rest of the week. We want the media stories to be about your art and the impact it's having on the viewers, not on exclusive content they try to wrangle out of you from quotes and their probing questions."

  "I agree," Christine added.

  "That's fine with me," Rodney said.

  Patrick had drafted a short, vague statement to release to the press to serve as Rodney's sole response to media inquiries. It eluded to no personal glory, but only to Rodney being deeply honored to contribute to the city and participate in its thriving arts community. Christine suggested a few minor alterations, which Rodney approved of, and then Rodney signed off on the final version for release.

  They handled the rest of their tasks with similar efficiency, checking them off one by one without much debate. Christine had compiled an extensive listing of Rodney Riggs Redfern sculptures available for sale in galleries throughout the region, as well as in Austin, Texas; Little Rock, Arkansas; Omaha, Nebraska; Santa Fe, New Mexico; and Yellow Springs, Ohio. She'd converted the list into a form that could be shared with new and loyal customers, including thumbnail images, and gallery web site addresses and phone numbers. Across the top, in bold red letters, the heading indicated the list was accurate as of eight o'clock that morning. The heading created a sense of urgency, even though some of Rodney's sculptures had been available for sale at these galleries for years.

  "This is a great touch, Christine," Patrick admitted. "Good job."

  "Thank you," Christine said. "I've also taken the liberty of adding an email collection form to the home page of the web site so we can collect contact information and grow the subscriber base for Rodney's monthly newsletters."

  Rodney and Patrick approved her changes to the web site and then they discussed how to handle requests from art galleries that might want to begin selling Rodney Riggs Redfern sculptures. When Patrick pressed Rodney for an update on the status of his new line of nature-inspired sculptures, Rodney confessed his obligation to exhibit his next ten sculptures exclusively at Daphne Swaledale's gallery.

  That's when the meeting fell apart.

  Christine covered her face with her hands and Patrick bolted from the table and left his own house without his cane. Rodney chased after Patrick and caught up with him outside on the sidewalk.

  "Please, Patrick, don't give up on me."

  Patrick turned around at him and roared, "A goddamned exclusive without guarantee of payment until they're sold? Have you freaking lost your mind?"

  "I had to do it."

  "It's unconscionably one-sided in Daphne's favor! And the timing of this terrible capitulation couldn't be any worse! Don't you remember you agreed to leave contracts up to me, a professional negotiator? You assured me of that when you hired me."

  "I didn't intend to hurt you," Rodney said, "nor minimize your role. My back was against the wall when I did it. I didn't have a choice."

  "You picked the dumbest possible option and it's going to stunt your career. Don't you understand that?" Patrick's temper wasn't cooling. "So I take it you're broke, yet again, and went to Daphne for an advance."

  Rodney nodded.

  "I could've lent you some money," Patrick said.

  "No, I mean I'm completely broke," Rodney said. "I needed fifteen grand."

  "Fifteen! What are you spending money on I don't know about?"

  Rodney wasn't about to go into all the costs of his studio, private retreat, junior one bedroom apartment, art supplies, and heath insurance. Instead, he said, "I needed to buy myself time to get work produced. I don't have anything ready and I'd assured her of some pieces months ago. She's our top seller."

  "Which is even more reason you should've let me do my job. Tell me right now, Rodney, why I shouldn't quit as your manager this very second. Convince me that working for you isn't an inevitable train wreck!"

  "I'll give you four reasons I can think of, off the top of my head. I trust you, we have a history, my career may be ready to take off, and I vow to do better. Please don't throw in the towel."

  "I swear, I never want to work with artists again," Patrick said. "I only want to work with people who use reason and common sense. If you succeed further, it'll be despite yourself."

  "Let's go back inside your house." Rodney tried to take Patrick's arm. "Christine's waiting for us."

  Patrick pulled away. "Screw her. She forgives you too easily and let's you off the hook for your brash and idiotic decisions."

  "You don't mean that. She's smart as a tack, loyal, and devoted to this. Christine's in this with us for the long haul."

  "Us? Don't include me. I'm still prepared to walk away."

  "What do I have to do to keep you on the team?" Rodney asked. "Swear a blood oath I'll never negotiate on my own again?"

  Patrick sighed and cursed. "There's only one condition I'll accept, and it may be impossible, considering you can't get out the nature stuff you announced prematurely. Since you don't work fast enough, ten works to Daphne for a year basically precludes selling pieces to anyone else. I'll only stick around if you absolutely commit to creating an additional ten of those things or a second line of sculptures—something brand new or an updated version of your past works—so I can actually cultivate sales growth and expand your reach into the art market."

  AS RODNEY STROLLED toward his retreat on Hercules Road, he realized he was plunging himself deeper and deeper into obligations and problems.

  Patrick's ultimatum was effectively twenty nature pieces or a whole new second line. And Rodney had pledged to do it.

  When I can't even crank out even a single work for the new line? Madness!

  But he had to keep Patrick on board. Being a great artist wasn't enough. Patrick's skills had opened up opportunities for him to boost his sales and increase his collector base. Patrick was essential on the team. Christine, too. He had to have them both if he wanted this to all work out in the long run.

  Rodney also understood he'd been wrong to underestimate the impact his agreement with Daphne Swaledale would have on Patrick. Patrick truly had been on the brink of, basically, firing him. Despite how amazing they'd felt after seeing the sculptures on the bridges, the team members weren't invincible. He couldn't take them for granted. Rodney resolved to himself to improve staying in bounds and focusing on his creativity, thereby leaving everything else to his team.

  He was also relieved that he didn't have to spend the day taking press calls and interview requests. He had to break out of his funk and immediately produce a vast quantity of art. Rodney hated the idea of going backwards and rehashing old phases of his career
, but if it came down to that, he might have no other option. He simply had to produce results, without delay.

  Devoting the rest of his morning and afternoon to painting in his dome might finally blast him off creatively so his art could involve in new directions.

  Passing through his front gate, Rodney noticed an arranged, colorful bouquet of flowers in a glass vase by his door. His instant thought was it had to be from his ex, Dennis Petersen, the art supply store owner, who probably had already heard buzz about the bridge sculptures. Rodney picked up the bouquet and took it inside his dome. He set it on a wooden table by his stacked canvases, where direct sunlight shined down on it from one of the overhead skylights. The flowers were ripe, resplendent, and full of vitality.

  Rodney opened the attached card, which was suspended among the flowers on a green plastic stick. The card read, "No one—and I mean no one—was prepared for what you've accomplished today. Congratulations are deserved in the highest order. Truly, Marshall Clay."

  Chapter 11

  After leaving the flowers on the front stoop of Rodney Riggs Redfern's dome, Marshall Clay had his Uber driver take him back to downtown Doyle. He arrived in the nick of time to catch a water taxi on the Bluestone River and ride westbound. He departed the boat at Halo Point, then walked a few blocks north into the Rugged Heights neighborhood until he reached the intersection of Marigold Parkway and Horizon Ridge Drive. At the northwest corner, tucked behind a gas station and convenience store, was an old shopping strip containing a nail salon, watering hole, and swimming pool supply company.

  Sigaro, the watering hole, was Marshall's destination. He'd read about its history and how it had transitioned from a whiskey and cigar bar into a beloved neighborhood sports hangout in the mid 1990s. In the early 2000s it had changed into a pub specializing in microbrew and craft beers. Now, returning to its roots, Sigaro was once again a neighborhood whiskey bar—minus the cigars, as no smoking was allowed—with loyal patrons.