Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3) Read online

  The previous owner of Sigaro, who had navigated the establishment through all of these eras to remain profitable and relevant, was none other than Rodney's father, Ralston Flynn. He'd sold Sigaro two years ago before retiring to Fort Myers, Florida, with Gina, Rodney's mother. Through the decades the Flynn's owned and operated several other bars and nightclubs throughout Gardener County. But Sigaro, Ralston's first establishment, had been his favorite, according to an interview in a Chamber of Commerce publication Marshall had discovered in his research. Prior to becoming the owner, Ralston had bartended at Sigaro, and even after purchasing it he'd occasionally reassume bartending duties when his employees called in sick or took leaves of absence.

  Marshall's trip to Sigaro was not for a defined purpose. He didn't expect to find a specific person or revelation there. Rodney Riggs Redfern, however, weighed heavily in his thoughts. The connection between Rodney and his father's bar might have been tenuous, but Marshall wondered if Sigaro could somehow offer a glimpse into Rodney's world. Nothing Marshall discovered in his research indicated Rodney had ever worked for his dad at Sigaro. Nonetheless, the watering hole had been integral to Rodney's family.

  Marshall had nothing better to do anyway. He'd sampled many of the pubs and nightclubs in Doyle while unwinding, always limiting himself to one or two drinks. He didn't have any friends in Doyle or Rugged Heights. The purpose of his getaway was to get his bearings and arrange his thoughts. Marshall realized he needed to process the loss of his job at the news agency and form a game plan for his future. The sooner, the better. His severance pay wouldn't last long, and traditional newspaper jobs were evaporating at an astonishing rate.

  For a split second while getting settled onto a barstool in Sigaro's L-shaped room, Marshall felt creepy. He had to remind himself he wasn't a stalker just because he was acutely interested in Rodney's history. What was wrong with getting a drink at Sigaro? He'd always admired the beauty and cleanliness of the Rugged Heights area, and he'd enjoyed the water taxi, riding downstream and seeing the neighborhood's new residential high rises popping up along the river's edge.

  Marshall leaned down on the bar, made from distressed reclaimed wood, and ordered a Jameson, an Irish whiskey, with a single ice cube. Sigaro's interior was cozy and minimal, with upscale flourishes. Dark wood paneling covered the walls. Illumination was limited to the creamy light coming from hanging glass fixtures. The barstool and booth cushions were black, without a sheen, and drink napkins were olive green. There were no television screens suspended from the ceiling or wall adornments, except for some framed photographs near the front door of Sigaro's interior through the decades. Sophisticated adult alternative songs played at a pleasant volume, low enough for Marshall to eavesdrop on some of the nearby conversations.

  His first sip of whiskey soothed his nerves. Despite being a stranger, he felt like he belonged there. The other patrons showed no signs of being pretentious or rowdy. Marshall figured most of Sigaro's customers likely lived within walking distance from their tony homes, townhouses, and condos, and appreciated high quality alcohol in a relatively tranquil setting.

  Marshall's thoughts returned to Rodney. Had he ever been seated right here, at the bar, on this very same barstool? Or had he helped his dad by cleaning tables, removing glasses, sweeping the floor, or counting the money in the tip jar at the end of the night?

  These questions seemed relevant somehow to Marshall. Rodney's art, based especially by what Marshall had first observed from his motel room that morning in downtown Doyle, was not reductive or based on imitation or flattery of another artist.

  Rodney's artistic voice was undeniably new.

  Marshall was convinced of this now, despite prior suspicions that Rodney was essentially a fake and phony. He wasn't just another "wannabe, but will never be" artist mimicking others' styles and insights.

  From his years studying and reporting on the fine arts, Marshall had developed a theory that groundbreaking artists had fundamentally different world views than their peers. He had once explained this idea to his ex boyfriend by equating great artists to cats and birds. These animals perceived their surroundings and possibilities in vastly different ways from the rest of us. Felines live in a vertical world. They're able to agilely jump and climb, viewing ledges and platforms and other elevated surfaces as accessible heights for them to explore and rest on. Gravity is even less a burden for birds, who soar into spaces with almost awe-inspiring freedom of movement.

  In other words, Marshall had extrapolated, groundbreaking artists possessed mindsets that—once ignited—were not constrained by mental barriers limiting their imaginations.

  What Marshall had seen that morning in Doyle—first from his motel room window, then from the plaza and on the bridges themselves—had given him chills. He'd seen the sketches and computer renderings of Rodney's bridge installation designs at Doyle's artist selection ceremony. He'd thought he could conceptualize the visual effects. Seeing the sculptures in person, though, moving and alive, was far beyond his wildest expectations. Even beyond beauty, they were an epiphany.

  Marshall had felt compelled to acknowledge his powerful reaction to the achievement to the artist himself. Unable, at present, to write about the sculptures and share his opinions with readers, he'd struggled with how best to respond. Both he and Rodney had acted despicably toward one another in the recent past. Any further communication between them was likely to be misconstrued and misinterpreted. So Marshall settled on delivering a bouquet of flowers with a short note and not worrying how Rodney would react.

  Pondering his choice now, while seated inside Sigaro, Marshall was proud of himself for making the gesture. It hadn't been an olive branch to Rodney. He expected they'd likely never cross paths again anytime soon. Instead, it was a simple and classy act, he believed, to recognize an artist's greatness, despite past animosity.

  While finishing his drink, Marshall switched gears and contemplated his situation back home in Port Cole. He really needed to call Colin, his roommate, to tell him about Guy's behavior and give him an estimate of when he'd be returning to the apartment. But Marshall wasn't in a hurry to get back. Without his job giving him a purpose to be there, everything about Port Cole seemed dreary and suffocating. The rundown area, the decaying mall, the noisy night trains, his inability to maneuver well through town without a vehicle. Marshall expected this was very much related to his feelings about getting laid off. Yet maybe he should think bigger and think differently—like Rodney, in a peculiar sort of way—and really make a big change in his life.

  The bartender set a second glass of Jameson on ice in front of Marshall, and said, "Compliments of the man at the corner."

  Glancing in that direction, several barstools away, Marshall immediately recognized Kenneth Blakely. He'd been on stage with Rodney Riggs Redfern and Flora Miles as one of the finalists at Doyle's artist announcement in Bigbury Plaza. Marshall had briefly interviewed Kenneth after that ceremony, but had only received bland answers that he couldn't incorporate into his column.

  Kenneth smirked at Marshall, partially lifting a glass half full of some type of transparent bubbly fluid, as if gesturing to make a toast. Kenneth had on a bowler hat and its softly-rounded crown contrasted with the sharp angles of Kenneth's beak-like nose, narrow eyes, and thin lips. His tight shirt was unbuttoned low enough to reveal thick tufts of chest hair and his short sleeves bulged over the top portions of his biceps. His right ear was pierced with an onyx stone earring.

  Marshall picked up the new drink and sipped, then stood up to change seats. He took the empty barstool to Kenneth's left and the men shook hands.

  "Thank you. But buying me a drink was a poor investment. I'm no longer employed at the paper, nor anywhere else for that matter."

  "Aw, shit," Kenneth said, making a joke of the revelation. "Now I'll never know what the cost of a drink could buy me from you."

  "It couldn't buy too much. I'm old school, you could say. I value ethical standards of impartiality i
n journalism."

  "Ha! What you did to Redfern was sweet! You're our hero. You belted him down a few notches and exposed his bare ass for all to see. He had it coming."

  "I'm no hero."

  "Most of the artists around here would disagree. Redfern's been idolized for too long."

  "There's rampant jealousy, huh?" Marshall asked.

  "It's beyond jealousy," Kenneth answered, rolling his eyes. "He's undeserving of all the acclaim. He usually crowds out other local artists at the galleries, though that's beginning to change because he's not prolific enough recently to provide new pieces for sale."

  Marshall was more curious than anything at this point. Knowing he was off the record, so to speak, since Marshall was unemployed, Kenneth was now spilling his true feelings about Rodney Riggs Redfern. Marshall was close enough to occasionally smell a minty aroma on Kenneth's breath, with no hint of alcoholic vapors.

  Marshall decided to withhold his opinion about Rodney's talent and dive in a bit deeper with Kenneth. This newfound candor from Kenneth wasn't being spoken in anger, but with a level of disgust, like when people at a tavern complain about the government or rising fuel prices.

  "Have you seen the sculptures on the three bridges today?" Marshall asked, using a neutral and passive tone of voice he'd perfected over the years when he wanted to elicit candid responses.

  "Flora and I think they should be toppled into the river," Kenneth said, chuckling and shaking his head. "Flora was right all along. He ripped off my designs." Kenneth went on to explain how he'd worked exclusively on wind directional sculptures for numerous years. He admitted none of his pieces were as elaborate, on a technical level, as what Rodney had done with the bridge installations, but Kenneth clearly believed artistic license had been strained to the limit.

  Marshall maintained a poker face, despite not buying for a second that Rodney's work was a rip off of any Kenneth Blakely wind directionals. Marshall said, "Are you talking about the same Flora—Flora Miles—who was also a finalist in the Doyle competition?"

  "Yeah."

  "The two of you are close?"

  "Pretty close," Kenneth said. "We've been friends for years and once even exhibited together at a joint show. She and I haven't collaborated on any specific works, though we've discussed trying it in the future."

  "When are you going to collaborate with Flora?"

  "Maybe never. Artists don't always play well together, no matter how friendly they might be out of their studios."

  The men then got involved in a discussion about art sales, new gallery openings, and the upcoming kayak event. Marshall was sucking on his melting ice cube when he realized he and Kenneth had their knees pressed together. He also noticed that Kenneth kept his arms prominently bent to show off his muscles. Marshall pushed aside his empty glass and pulled his knee away.

  "Another whiskey?" Kenneth asked.

  "No thanks, I've gotta go." Marshall glanced at his watch. "If I bolt now I can make the next water taxi on the river without having to wait."

  Kenneth gulped down the last swigs of his drink and slammed his glass on the bar. "Where are you headed?"

  "Downtown Doyle."

  "I'll give you a lift. That's where I'm going, too. I'm gonna meet up with Flora and her husband."

  "I have to ask," Marshall said, "how much have you had to drink?"

  "Just Sprite. I don't like alcohol. It jams my clarity and creativity."

  "Yet you're hanging out at a bar . . ."

  "Unlike Redfern, I don't play games with my customers," Kenneth said. "I don't pretend to be flying around the world to collect awards and commissions. I'm just me. A plain guy with a talent. I frequent many local hangouts in Rugged Heights, because this is where the money really is in Gardener County. I like to meet people, and you wouldn't expect that to result in sales of my art, but it actually does on occasion. I know this place—Sigaro—used to be owned by Redfern's dad. I don't care. It's not like I hate the guy. I'm just glad you exposed Redfern for being a big phony. So, it'd be my pleasure to give you a lift downtown."

  Marshall accepted the ride. Kenneth's Mini Cooper was a cramped fit because both men were too tall for the seats. However, the vehicle was spotless, despite logging more than 70,000 lifetime miles, and they resumed an interesting discussion about trends in art prices until arriving at Horace Hotel.

  Marshall thanked Kenneth for the ride and agreed to Kenneth's request that they exchange phone numbers.

  He didn't expect to think much about Kenneth the rest of the evening. But that changed a short time later when Marshall undressed for bed and happened to look out his window.

  Chapter 12

  The Horace Hotel was a relic from the last century.

  It had once been the grandest lodging house in downtown Doyle. Like the old courthouse it faced across the distance of Bigbury Plaza, it had a brownstone facade and ornate architectural touches. The hotel still possessed an impressive lobby with antique lighting and a quaint meeting area amidst lush furniture and abundant plants. Ceilings ten feet high offered more spaciousness in its rooms and hallways than could be found anywhere else in town.

  But now, after decades of inadequate restoration, Horace Hotel was the choice of budget-conscious visitors like Marshall Clay. Doyle's newer establishments offered more frills, including restaurants, pools and saunas, workout centers, business centers, and breakfast buffets. By comparison, Horace Hotel was a no-frills accommodation option with squeaky and uneven floors.

  Marshall, though, appreciated the hotel's history. The daily price for his room was a steal. Located on the second floor, it picked up more street noise than the higher floors, which had more spacious rooms. A display in the lobby explained that Horace Hotel's second and third story rooms were significantly smaller than the suites on the fourth and fifth floors. This was because the hotel had originally been designed for the wealthy to bask in luxury in the upper floors, while their assistants and other personal staff resided on the lower floors.

  Besides the noise, Marshall was aware of other shortcomings in his room. He chose, however, to see the positive in each circumstance. For example, his primary windows faced a narrow alley behind the hotel, but he had a corner unit, and one window faced north with a decent view of the bridges linking downtown to the islet in the Bluestone River. He also noticed an occasional spider by the bureau or in the bathroom, yet his room was otherwise sparkling clean beyond his expectations.

  After Kenneth Blakely dropped him off at Horace Hotel following drinks at Sigaro, Marshall skipped using the slow elevator and instead went up the stairs to his room. He munched on a packet of cashews, pecans, and walnuts, downed with a bottle of water, to reduce the effects of the whiskey. Marshall stripped out of his clothes to shave and shower, which he often liked to do before slipping into bed. This way he not only went to sleep clean, the next morning he could get started on his day just that much faster.

  His phone began ringing just as he dried off in the bathroom. Marshall padded through his room with wet bare feet to answer it before the call would be sent to his voicemail. Picking up his phone, he learned the call was from his roommate, Colin, and it was past ten o'clock at night.

  "I've been meaning to buzz you," Marshall said, answering without the usual formalities. "You beat me to it."

  "I'm just glad to know you're alive," Colin said, then laughed. "It crossed my mind you could be facedown in a filthy ditch somewhere and rotting away, for all I knew."

  "The apartment's all yours for at least a few more days. I needed a getaway to clear my head. I decided not to start applying for a new job until I had some sense of what new direction I should take."

  "I get it. Where'd you go?"

  "I'm in Doyle. It really is a charming place. A hidden jewel for those of us who don't care for metropolises."

  "I've never been there," Colin said, then increased the volume of his voice. "This may not be the best time to tell you this—or maybe it is, since you're making future plans
—and it's about our apartment. I can't renew on the lease with you, Marshall. I'm gonna move in with Guy when our lease expires."

  "No problem," Marshall said. "I'm pretty sure I need a change, too. Not from you, but from my past lifestyle and all that."

  "This should give you enough time to figure something out."

  "In the spirit of complete candor here, there's something I wish I didn't have to tell you. It's one of the reasons, frankly, I hadn't phoned you yet. It's about your boyfriend."

  "Something happened at the pizzeria, didn't it?"

  Nothing happened there," Marshall said. "Nothing at all, in fact, but Guy was hitting on me."

  Colin laughed again. "I know he's a dork."

  "It actually wasn't amusing. He creeped into my room that night, stark naked, and asked for sex."

  "Did you bang him?"

  "No!"

  "Okay, well, that matches what Guy told me. He said you refused him."

  "Of course I refused."

  Colin said, "I told him it was hopeless. You wouldn't play. But he wanted to give you a try."

  Marshall flinched. "Wait, are you saying you knew he was going to hit on me?"

  "Yeah. He just took it further than I thought he would. I didn't know Guy would try to coax you . . . in your room . . . in the nude. He's fearless when it comes to getting laid."

  "You sound like you're okay with this, Colin."

  "Whatever. Guy and I don't have a possessive relationship."

  "But what about boundaries . . ."

  "What about them?"

  "All right," Marshall said. "Never mind. This boggles my mind. Yet I'm in no situation to judge your relationship."

  "Listen, I'll talk to him. I won't let Guy spend the night again at this apartment. I'll also tell him to back off and leave you alone when you get back."

  MAYBE IT WAS DUE TO the jarring phone conversation with Colin. Marshall wasn't in the mood to surf the internet, read his novel, or watch the news on television, and he wasn't sleepy enough to lay his head down on the hotel bed pillows. He found himself perched at the room's north window, lost in his thoughts, mesmerized by the Rodney Riggs Redfern sculptures on the downtown bridges. Luminous from the flood lights shooting upward from the bases of the sculptures, the golden kinetic movements against the night sky resembled miniature fireworks displays.