Faking A Groom (Marital Bliss Book 3)

by DJ Jamison

  Faking a Groom

  DJ Jamison

  Faking a Groom

  Marital Bliss: Book 3

  Copyright 2020 DJ Jamison

  Published by DJ Jamison at KDP

  Cover design by Garrett Leigh @ Black Jazz Design

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return Amazon.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content suitable for mature readers.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  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

  Epilogue

  Thank you for reading!

  About the Author

  Books by DJ Jamison

  Author’s Note

  I must apologize to the state of Maine. Liberties have been taken with the political landscape and legislative timeline for the purpose of telling this story. While Faking a Groom has state politics at play, it remains at its heart a romance and a journey to self-acceptance. I had no idea when I began this novel that Avery Kinkaid would be the precious character that he is. But he’s stolen my heart, and I hope he’ll win over yours too.

  1

  Avery Kinkaid sat in his gray Aston Martin, parked on a side street across from Prism in Portland, Maine. Rainbow-colored neon lights raced around a track that outlined each letter on the sign. There was no mistaking Prism for anything other than a gay club.

  His pulse skipped erratically as he thought of what he’d find inside. Men. Touch. Sex. Not intimacy, but…connection. He needed that so damn badly.

  Just someone to cut through this loneliness—

  Don’t go there. Once that pit opened, it’d swallow him for days.

  Avery checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. His gelled dark blond hair was artfully messy. He’d shaved his jaw baby smooth. It might have been smarter to leave a layer of stubble to subtly disguise himself, but he wore enough masks without adding facial hair. And, anyway, it wouldn’t work with his plans for tonight. If he went through with them.

  As a Kinkaid, there was always the danger of being recognized. Avery had to be so, so cautious. Usually, he arranged hookups via an app and was careful to arrive by Lyft, rather than his own car, and to always, always meet at the other guy’s place.

  Discreet was the word of the day. The word of the decade, really.

  And even then, he had to keep a part of himself locked away. Because if he were to be discovered…well, being gay was one thing. Being perceived as femme was another.

  Reaching for the glovebox with a trembling hand, he rooted around until he found the tube of gloss. He slid it over his lips, rubbing them together, then checked his reflection.

  There. He looked more like himself. He looked...gay. And not the man’s man kind of gay that his father believed him to be, but the real guy inside him. The one who wanted to sparkle. He’d never let anyone see him like this. Not a single living soul. Not even the one guy who came closest to knowing him, who’d kept Avery’s heart and his secret even as he’d walked away.

  Going in there tonight was like a dare. A dare to be himself, a dare to let people see the real him.

  Maybe he was even daring them to recognize him, to out him.

  He sure wasn’t brave enough to out himself.

  Avery’s phone rang loudly in the silent interior of the car, making him jump and fumble the gloss. “Shit!”

  He checked the phone display, stomach clenching when he saw it was his father. Face burning, he rubbed his lips off on his sleeve before answering, as if Drake Kinkaid would somehow know his son was wearing makeup. A splotch of pink marred his sleeve. He’d have to make sure his father didn’t see. Drake was well aware of Avery’s sexuality; not like he could just explain it away on a nonexistent date.

  “Dad?” he answered. “What’s up?”

  “Just calling to remind you about the gala tomorrow.”

  Avery grimaced. Gala was one word for it. Kissing-ass fest was another. “I think I’ll skip it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” his father boomed in his ear. “It’s a good opportunity to network. We need to lay the groundwork for your legislative run.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Sure, you do.” Drake interrupted him, always so sure he knew best. “It’s time for me to relinquish your mother’s seat, and I know you’ll want to carry on her legacy.”

  Avery sighed, dropping his head back against the headrest.

  His father’s terms in the state senate had kept Avery in the closet for years, always waiting for the right time to come out—to be determined by the all-knowing Senator Kinkaid, of course. Now, he wanted Avery to take his seat so he could make a run for governor. The seat that had originally been held by Emma Kinkaid. Avery knew his father was manipulating him, bringing up his mother. She’d truly believed in being a public servant, in giving back. She’d run as an independent and had been true to that ideology, while his father merely paid lip service to it these days. Avery didn’t want to let her legacy die, but he also didn’t want to trap himself in the closet for the rest of his life.

  He knew his father. He’d tell Avery to wait until the election was over, then he would advise Avery to wait until the next vote, and the next one, and then there would be re-election campaigns or his father’s own political or business ambitions.

  Avery would be waiting forever.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Drake reacted as if Avery had agreed enthusiastically. “You’ll do a great job. The gala is a good start.”

  “I just hate fending off all the dance invitations,” Avery said lightly. And all the other invitations. Like his father, he was cut from golden all-American stock. His tall frame, broad shoulders, and straight teeth attracted a lot of female attention he’d rather avoid.

  “So bring a date,” his father said.

  Avery straightened in his seat, hope fluttering. “I can do that?”

  His father knew he was gay. Had known for years, though he’d asked Avery to keep it quiet. Avery’s only reprieve had been his time away at business school. Away from his father’s sphere of influence, and still recovering from heartbreak, he’d hooked up whenever he wanted. But he’d realized that fucking his way through scores of men would never make up for what he’d lost. And now that he was back home, he didn’t even have the freedom to try.

  “Well, sure. A nice young lady on your arm—“

  Avery huffed. “Dad, I’m gay.”

  “S
hh. I know.”

  “You’re shushing me? We’re on the phone. Who’s going to hear me?”

  “Just...be careful. You know you need to be discreet.”

  That was his father’s favorite code word for secret. Closeted. When Avery had come out to him, he’d been terrified his father wouldn’t accept him. Afraid he wouldn’t love a gay son. But he’d done something that Avery was starting to think was worse. He’d asked Avery to keep his secret, just a little longer. And then a little longer.

  He loved Avery—just not enough to let him be himself.

  “I’m tired of this,” Avery said.

  There was a long pause. Avery’s heart sank when his dad said, “Just be patient. Come to the gala. We’ll figure out our future goals, and then we can make a plan, all right?”

  “All right.”

  “Be discreet,” his father said again. “Your time will come.”

  Avery hung up and eyed the club longingly.

  “Fuck.”

  There was nothing discreet about the Aston Martin or his designer clothing. He looked too much like his father. It was too risky to go inside.

  He’d known that all along. Throat tightening, a heavy weight pressing on his lungs, he started the car and pulled into the street. His hands strangled the steering wheel, squeezing and pressing his anxiety into the rubber grip. His closet was growing more claustrophobic as time went on. He was twenty-eight. Thirty was right around the corner. He didn’t know how much longer he could take this sort of life.

  He was afraid his best years had already passed him by. What if this was it for him: secrecy and paranoia and political ambitions that weren’t even his own?

  Avery headed away from the club. There was Internet porn and good lube at home. He briefly considered checking Grindr for an anonymous hookup, but he couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for it. Not tonight.

  Tonight, he had the word discreet echoing in his head.

  Rory Fisher had let his hair down, but he wasn’t feeling particularly excited as he grinded on the dance floor. It felt like, well…a grind. Not the sexy kind, but the toiling kind. He went out on weekends, he danced, he hooked up, but it never led anywhere.

  It had become routine. Boring, even.

  I could be at home, vegging in front of the TV. Tomorrow’s going to be a long-ass day, followed by a gala full of stinking rich assholes. I should have stayed home.

  Two large hands squeezed his hips, guiding him into a roll that matched the music. His cock brushed against the hard thigh pressing between his legs. Despite his boredom, he was hard. Horny. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the sex, it was that it was never quite enough to satisfy him. It was like eating a salad when you’re craving steak. And afterward, he’d feel more alone than he ever did when he was sitting on his sofa, noshing on peanuts or sunflower seeds—he was very oral, to his many hookups’ delight—and drinking too much Diet Dr Pepper.

  At least I’ll get to see Caleb and Julien tomorrow …

  Caleb Taylor was his oldest friend, his boarding school roommate who he’d always thought to be straight until he cooked up a plan to marry Julien Chastain to save his family’s island resort. The same resort where Rory would have to attend a gala catering to the elite movers and shakers of the Portland and Bell Harbor area.

  Hot breath gusted against Rory’s ear. “Wanna take this somewhere?”

  The big guy dropped his hands to squeeze Rory’s ass.

  “Bathroom,” Rory said. “I’ll suck you off.”

  “Sounds good to me,” the low voice rumbled in his ear.

  Rory glanced up at his dance partner as they shifted apart. He was big and blond—and accustomed to having his way, if Rory were to wager a guess. He also looked far too much like Rory’s last hookup. And the last.

  Rory chose not to examine why this had ended up being his type. The all-American jock who had wanted him in high school—but only in secret. It was like he was replaying the worst decisions of his misspent youth.

  Fuck, no wonder these hookups left him feeling empty.

  He should just get on one of the hookup apps, filter out all the fucking blonds, and find a nice redhead to fall in love with. Freckles didn’t really do it for him, but he could learn to appreciate them, right?

  Rory led his hookup to the bathroom, pushed him inside a stall, and muttered, “Get your cock out.”

  It was over fast, even by Rory’s standards. The guy panted and groaned, muttering, “Fucking hell, that mouth.”

  But it didn’t satisfy Rory much. He didn’t look up, just sucked, and stroked himself, until they both came.

  And that didn’t satisfy him much either.

  You didn’t find love in a bathroom stall. If you were Rory, you found love at seventeen, with the worst possible candidate, and then you spent the rest of your life comparing every man to the one who crushed your heart to bits. And, really, what was so great about a guy who did that?

  Rory should not want a man anything like Avery Kinkaid.

  But he did. He still fucking did. And it was infuriating that he lingered in Rory’s memories, in his desires, after all these years.

  2

  Rory gazed out over the Bliss Island Resort Ballroom with distaste.

  The room itself was gorgeous. The resort’s owner, Caleb Taylor, had outdone himself—with his husband’s help, no doubt. Black, satiny cloth covered round tables. Silver placemats shimmered beneath the lights while tall, crystal vases filled with delicate pink roses offered a splash of color. Above them, more silver fabric swooped from the ceiling, matching the neatly tied sashes on each chair. For a room that usually hosted weddings, it had been effectively transformed into a sophisticated gala full of movers and shakers in Bell Harbor, Maine and surrounding areas.

  And that was where the distaste came in. The ballroom teemed with politicians, lobbyists, and business professionals. The top one percent sipped champagne and nibbled on dainty appetizers while they schmoozed their way to the top. It was everything Rory had hated about the private school he’d attended in his youth. Wealth overflowed at an event like this, and Rory really didn’t belong.

  “It’s not like you to be a wallflower.”

  Caleb, dressed smartly in a suit, looked more like one of the guests than Rory did. But Caleb was the event planner, and Rory was the guest, like it or not.

  Rory pulled a face. “I hate stuff like this.”

  “Isn’t part of your job fundraising?” Caleb asked.

  “Most of my job is fundraising, these days,” Rory said with a sigh. It was the one downside to a job he loved.

  “Then…” Caleb swept his arm toward the room. “Go wow them, Ror. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  Rory wrinkled his nose. At times, Caleb was as sophisticated as his wealthy clientele. Then others, he said things like, shooting fish in a barrel.

  But he was right. Rory couldn’t hold up the wall all night. He had heart strings to pluck—and hopefully purse strings, too. Didn’t mean he had to like it. Rory had never intended to get into a field that required him to ask people for money, especially not the spoiled, entitled class that he’d had to endure as the scholarship kid at a pricey private school where he didn’t come close to fitting in. The poor kid begging for handouts was a little bit too ironic for him. But when his plans hadn’t panned out to become a lawyer himself, he’d done the next-best thing: He’d become the director of an organization that connected people who needed legal aid with quality representation. Equal Justice League did this through a mix of volunteer hours from lawyers, charitable donations, and government grants. And it was Rory’s job to acquire all three, along with vetting clients and coordinating meetings between lawyers and approved clients.

  It was a lot of responsibility, but it was incredibly satisfying—or at least it would be, if Rory could meet this season’s fundraising goals. The need for private funds had gone up with the decrease of state funds, and now he was far behind target to meet the agency’s needs. He wasn
’t sure he’d have a job—or that people who needed legal aid would get quality representation—if he didn’t find a way to bridge the gap.

  Pushing himself off the wall with a sigh, he flashed his most charming smile Caleb’s way. “Right, time to schmooze.”

  Caleb chuckled. “Uh, maybe don’t try quite so hard. You look murderous.”

  Rory relaxed the muscles in his face.

  “Better,” Caleb said with a nod.

  “You’re such a natural,” Rory said with envy. “Maybe you should go ask them for donations for me?”

  Caleb laughed and shook his head. “No way.”

  “You could flash a smile, do a little flirting. . .”

  “And my husband would kill me,” he said with a grin. “Don’t worry, Rory. You’ve got charms of your own.”

  Rory snorted. “Says the guy who never discovered his bi side with me.”

  Caleb turned him toward the ballroom, giving him a nudge. “Stop stalling. Go,” he ordered. “Don’t come back until you’ve gotten some nice, fat checks.”

  With an eye roll and a mutter under his breath, Rory waded into the excess of privilege, feeling both disdainful and unworthy in some bizarre cocktail of societal shame. Putting it out of his mind, he scanned for a familiar face, and when he locked on one, he sauntered across the room.

  Time to do battle.