Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3)

by Jaylen Florian

  "Don't worry about that. If anything, you're providing me with balance—and lots more. I don't like being coy when it comes to this stuff, Marshall. I'd rather wear my heart on my sleeve and let the chips fall where they may."

  Marshall said, "I strive for that level of honesty. For a long time now I've been grappling with trust issues because of a bitter betrayal in my last relationship. It's taken me a while to realize that the stronger course of action is to not seal off my feelings. The strongest course is to not let past actions from other guys cage me off from having something wonderfully special with someone new."

  "You and I are moving at light speed."

  "Are we going too fast? And being too reckless?"

  "I don't think so," Rodney said. "Imposing an artificial time line on a relationship just hinders it."

  "I think you're probably right."

  "You were once the guy I despised and feared. Now, you're the guy I'm starting to fall in love with, and so, here's the ultimate truth. I'll bend over backwards to make this work and give us a really good try, Marshall. If you're willing to take this first leap with me, I'll stretch and flex the best I possibly can in order to be with you, whether you return home or stay in Dole or go somewhere else."

  Marshall got on his knees, leaned forward, and kissed Rodney. It was the softest contact they'd had and Rodney felt deliriously happy. This was the answer he wanted.

  They both stood up and Rodney added levity by saying, "We're an item now—a couple in the making. We're hitching our proverbial wagons together."

  "Absolutely," Marshall said, then jokingly added, unable to keep a straight face, "But it's too bad the sex is so damn horrible."

  When they finished laughing and kissing again, Marshall collected his clothes and started to dress.

  "It's a crying shame to cover that body up," Rodney said, still enjoying the buoyant ambience that followed their breakthrough conversation.

  "As you did last night, I'm picking the perfect time to make my exit." Marshall reached for his shoes and smiled. "And I don't want to get in the way of you continuing your real work in here."

  "I'm done for the day. Let's do something together and have a shared experience."

  "Then get changed so we can leave, Rodney. I know just what we've gotta do."

  WHEN MARSHALL'D SUGGESTED going to the Hercules Road dome so he could see the paintings, Rodney's resistance evaporated.

  Rodney had two foremost thoughts on this. One, Marshall was familiar with his primary sculptural pieces and understood that the paintings were only intended as a support step in Rodney's creative process. Marshall would hopefully not have a diminished opinion of his overall talent based on his relatively amateurish skill with paint. Two, if he couldn't share his paintings even with Marshall, how could he expect the two of them to share other sensitive aspects of their lives in a relationship?

  Nonetheless, Rodney felt uncomfortably fragile as he and Marshall entered the retreat. He slid open the panel separating the entry corridor from the dome where he painted and stored the large canvases, and gestured for Marshall to enter on his own.

  "Have at it," Rodney said. "I'm going to step outside and check in with my team. Their messages are filling up my phone."

  Marshall charged inside the dome. Rodney slid the door closed behind him, then went outside and sat on the shaded portion of the front stoop.

  Rodney pulled his phone from his pocket and called his manager.

  "Rodney, congratulations," Patrick Castle said. "If you can get off your ass and start making new pieces—anything we can sell—you're going to be a rich man! If that's not reason enough to get your shit together, I don't know what is."

  "I've actually made some progress."

  "Hurray! Now don't let up. Keep your momentum going. Imagine never having to take out a loan again. No more paying your bills and running up your credit card deficits. Focus on being free of monetary stress and just get it done, as nimbly as you possibly can."

  "I'd settle for being able to have a car and not having to negotiate for an advance again from a gallery."

  "No, I'm talking much bigger than that. This whole thing with the freaking bridge incident is turning in your favor. Seize the moment, or lose it—so make your decision and act accordingly. I can't force the art out of you. You have to make it happen yourself. I have faith you can do it!"

  "Why such confidence, Patrick? Why dangle out that I could get rich?"

  "Turn on your television and watch local news. The story's growing. The culprit is unknown and the case is unsolved, so speculation is running rampant. People are protective of your sculptures on the bridges and want the city to do more to ensure their protection. It's opened up a broader discussion of the need to safeguard public art. Best of all, for us, the calls and emails are flooding in. Galleries I've never even heard of, from states I've never visited, want to sell your pieces. Your loyal collectors, too, are eager to enhance their collections."

  "I had no idea . . ." Rodney trailed off, then rushed in with another comment so Patrick wouldn't go on another spiel. "I saw the barricades and come crowding around the bridges . . ."

  "This is booming in your favor. It sounds like you haven't spoken with Christine yet, either. Call her. She has news about your web site traffic and several expensive pieces that've sold in the past twenty-four hours."

  "Didn't she tell you about the work I wrapped up this morning?" Rodney asked. "I thought she'd already have sent you the pictures."

  "If she sent some, I haven't seen them," Patrick said. "I'm drowning in texts and emails and calls. I'm gonna do as much as I can for you, and I'm encouraged to hear you might have something ready soon. The final thing I am going to say is, dither any longer and your career is going to swirl down the drain. Frankly, at this point, I don't care if you craft clay pots or glue ceramic tiles together or whatever suits your fancy. Just produce art! We need things to sell. If you can't do it, there's no reason to keep plodding along with Christine and me. Art can be your hobby or your career. Only you, Rodney Riggs Redfern, get to make the ultimate choice."

  The lecture was overkill and Rodney'd had enough. He'd heard this all before. He abruptly told Patrick he'd phone him again later and disconnected the call.

  He was about to contact Christine. He asked himself if he really wanted to hear about the number of visitors to his web site. The answer was no, not right now. And as much as he'd love to hear about the pieces that sold, he didn't want to get caught up in hysteria and endure any lectures or prodding from her, either. Rodney knew his team meant well. They weren't babysitters or parental figures, though, as far as he was concerned. At times, they blurred the line. He'd let that happen on occasion and he knew it was his fault.

  Instead of calling his assistant, he took a walk around the block. His head banged from the pressure. Rodney had expected this range of intensity once the televised kayak races were underway. The pressure had come early.

  By his third trip around the block Rodney's chin was up and he felt his resolve in every step. Absolutely, he could do this. He didn't have to convince himself he was remarkably gifted with fortitude and able to handle success or failure, whatever fate had in store for him.

  Returning to his retreat, his canvases had been rearranged. They were no longer stacked, but ordered vertically, and a few were pushed up against the wall for display, filling the room with color. Marshall stood in the center with his back to Rodney, studying an abstract acrylic painting that blended dozens of shades of blues, greens, reds, and yellows. Rodney remembered painting it. He'd devised his own colors, by hand, to experiment with some vivid hues. From this vantage point, behind Marshall, and imagining seeing the painting from his eyes, Rodney appreciated the liquidity of the flowing lines and colors. It almost seemed cosmic, as if streams of psychedelic oils were oozing and seeping across the canvas, yet still sophisticated, every color combination maximizing the overall effect of infinite vastness.

  Marshall said, "I caugh
t a glimpse that day, Rodney, when I first came here to find you. My impression was the painting you'd been working on was mystifying and ethereal. I was right. Trust me, they are beyond anything I've ever laid eyes on before in abstract art. I really mean that."

  Rodney walked up behind him, wrapped his arms around Marshall's waist, and pecked a kiss on his upper neck, just below his ear. "They look different through your eyes than they do through mine."

  "That's not an uncommon theory," Marshall said. "Many artists I've interviewed have alluded to that sentiment in one way or another. You release your creations and it's up to others how they end up perceiving them. Their responses to your work are not under your control."

  "So my paintings are worth letting people see them?"

  Marshall turned to face Rodney and they locked eyes. "Sell them now, without delay. They're going to dramatically change your destiny."

  "If you believe in them that much, I'll do it."

  Chapter 24

  A pattern for Marshall and Rodney developed over the following days. It was a practical one, leading to productive daylight hours apart and gratifying evenings together. While Rodney worked in his studio, Marshall sent out resumés and applied for jobs, sat for interviews, and used spare time to scout out new neighborhoods and business districts in Doyle. By six or seven in the evenings they'd reunite for dinner. Rodney took Marshall to restaurants off the beaten path that were known by locals to serve the most delicious food at the best value. It didn't go unnoticed by Marshall that Rodney no longer worried about wearing caps, sunglasses, or anything else intended to disguise his appearance in public.

  Based also on a number of practical reasons, their evenings together were in or near Marshall's room at the Horace Hotel. That made transportation easiest, since neither of the men owned a car. Downtown they had more options for dining and evening strolls. And Rodney's junior one bedroom apartment near the campus of Niven University lacked creature comforts. This hadn't surprised Marshall. He'd met numerous artists who lived minimally, without much nesting or decorating, focusing their talents into their works at the expense of their living conditions.

  One of Marshall's meetings was at police headquarters with Detective Sergeant Matthew Simon. Media reports indicated divers had finally found the broken sculpture in the Bluestone River, damaged beyond repair. As far as he could tell, Marshall didn't have the silver bullet that'd aid the police investigation into solving why Rodney's sculpture had been destroyed on Sylvia Bridge. Marshall, however, did have detailed notes from his meetings with Flora Miles and Kenneth Blakely, and giving the information to the sergeant could help him compare whether their versions of events were aligning with details gleaned from their police interviews.

  It had given Marshall some pause to release the conversation he'd had with Kenneth at the downtown square fountain to the police. He'd said to Kenneth at the time of their talk that he wouldn't use Kenneth's words against him. After analyzing the ethics of the predicament, though, Marshall hoped it wasn't a breach of his word. He based that belief on Kenneth mentioning at the time that he wouldn't tell Marshall anything he hadn't already told the sergeant.

  Apart from this interaction with the sergeant, Marshall didn't make additional headway of his own on the case. For Rodney's sake as much as anything, Marshall wished he could solve it outright, or at least unearth the vital clue for the police. There were some factors working against him. One, being just a private and unemployed citizen, Marshall didn't have standing to interview uncooperative witnesses. Two, he wasn't privy to the police investigation beyond what was released in the media. Three, Rodney seemed tepid about encouraging him any further on it. Rodney had told him that his only concern was that local officials protected the five remaining sculptures from vandalism or destruction.

  Last but not least, Marshall wanted to focus most of all on establishing himself in Doyle to build a future that could include Rodney. That meant getting employed and making some money before he used up all of his meager savings.

  Marshall's job search landed one immediate response full of great promise. The Doyle Art Commission had been established by the city's Office of Cultural Affairs. The Commission's wide-ranging mission included nurturing the art community, improving civic awareness, fostering creative enterprise, and generating cultural-based tourism. Marshall was interviewed for one of the open leadership positions by the commissioners—separately, since each possessed her or his own agendas and priorities. While the commissioners were unpaid volunteers, serving two year terms at the discretion of the mayor and city council, the staff they provided oversight for were paid as city employees with generous benefits. The open positions paid substantially more in salary than Marshall'd been making at The Port Cole Pioneer.

  Overall, Marshall guessed his chances of getting hired by the commissioners and the city was about fifty-fifty. The other applicants had more knowledge of the city. Marshall did, however, have extensive knowledge over many fields of discipline in the fine arts and advanced research skills. He seemed to receive positive encouragement from most of the commissioners that he was in serious consideration for a post.

  So recent days had been busy. Moments alone for quiet reflection were few and far between. During these periods of introspection, the irony of being with Rodney—the man he'd once deemed a fake—wasn't lost on him. Not only was he crazy about Rodney, falling for him harder than he'd fallen for any other guy before, he was now devising his life around him.

  The breakneck pace of developments was dizzying!

  Yet when Marshall evaluated his circumstances, step by step, it quelled his panic. He was ready for massive change. It was time to spread his wings professionally and try something other than reporting.

  Most comforting of all, his connection with Rodney was based on much more than just sex. They were equally in tune during their discussions and activities together as they were in bed.

  In the end, taking everything into account, Marshall'd made his decision. The risk was worth the reward.

  If betrayed yet again, so what? He'd be devastated, but he'd survive. It was better to free himself from his past and remember that the future was out of his control.

  Ultimately, loving Rodney—sincerely and openly, without games or fear—was the best chance he had for meaningful happiness and fulfillment.

  Epilogue

  One Month Later

  Rodney whistled to Vance Joy's Saturday Sun blaring on the stereo of his new Ford Explorer as he parked along the curb on Emily Street in Rugged Heights. He kept humming the chorus—"no ray of sunlight's ever lost"—as he approached Swaledale Gallery. The automatic doors opened and the sight of ten of his nature-inspired sculptures basked in the atrium, filling the prime exhibition space at center left beside the receptionist's floating counter.

  Daphne Swaledale, the gallery owner, stepped forward and broke her own rule of no touching by greeting Rodney with a hug once he was inside. Her hazel eyes sparkled with alacrity.

  "Redfern, I swear, you're well on your way to taking the industry by storm. Tell me you're thrilled with every second of what's happening to you, not only with the bridges, but even more with your paintings."

  Rodney pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them into the chest pocket of his button down shirt, and said, "I'm keeping my feet on the ground."

  "But savor it!"

  "I am, Daphne. Every new day seems to bring more astonishing news. I hope I'm worthy of all of this. And I'm so overwhelming grateful that I'm in love with someone amazing, and I can share success with him."

  "Clay's already making an impact for Doyle." Daphne tended to refer to everyone by their last name or titles, regardless of her familiarity with them. "The mayor was here yesterday. He said he and the commissioners are extremely happy they took a chance on Clay and gave him the city's top job for cultural promotions."

  Rodney beamed. "I'm really proud of my partner."

  Rodney'd been aware from the moment Marshall was awarded t
he lead position in the department that Marshall was putting his soul into his work. Marshall had impressed everyone by releasing a mission statement as his first act in office. The public statement was a blueprint for a commitment to fairness, diversity, and a paramount goal of fostering artistic growth for people at all stages in their lives and careers. Privately, Marshall had informed the commissioners he would recuse himself from any decisions regarding his partner, Rodney Riggs Redfern, as part of his commitment to avoiding even the appearance of a conflict of interest.

  Marshall's professionalism was elevating the standards of conduct for the whole department. Before the city voted unanimously to commission a replacement sculpture from Rodney for the south side of the Sylvia Bridge, Marshall spoke at the hearing to assure those in attendance that he'd not contributed in any way to the debate.

  "Why did Mayor Ustinov drop by here yesterday?" Rodney asked Daphne.

  "He wanted to buy one of your new sculptures for his home."

  Rodney grinned and lifted his hands toward his sculptures in the atrium, and said, "He didn't like any of these?"

  Daphne's pronounced eyebrows danced up and down. "Darling, they're sold."

  "All ten?"

  "Yes! A new collector purchased them as a set for his new villa just outside of town. They're getting picked up and delivered to him this afternoon."

  "Fantastic! Who's the buyer?"

  "Pierre De Bellefort, the professional wrestler who moved here from Tampa Bay and now owns an architecture firm. He paid full price. No haggling. He didn't try to wheel and deal at all. He just said he had to have them all for his villa, no matter the cost."

  "Please tell him I'm happy to thank him personally."

  Daphne gestured for Rodney to follow her to her office, and said over her shoulder, "No can do, Redfern. I'm sold out of your stuff. The last thing I need is to have you distracted from getting me new pieces to me." When they reached her office, she closed the door behind Rodney, and added, "Castle says your abstract paintings are sold out. Is that optimistic spin from your manager or the real truth?"