Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3)

by Jaylen Florian

  Bravado

  Unexpected Attraction, Volume 3

  Jaylen Florian

  Published by Jaylen Florian, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  BRAVADO

  First edition. June 29, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Jaylen Florian.

  Written by Jaylen Florian.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  More by Jaylen Florian

  Description

  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

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  More by Jaylen Florian

  NOVELS, BOOK BUNDLES, and novellas include:

  Antonio's Mask

  Arousing Euphoria: Rugby Team Bundle

  Baseball Star's Gift

  Coaching the Neighborhood

  Cobra De Capello

  Covet

  Daring the Neighborhood

  Garage

  Ghost Town

  Guarding His Fortunes

  Guarding His Jewels

  Hollywood Tease

  Longing

  Lured

  Macho

  Patrolling the Neighborhood

  Prowling the Neighborhood

  Scorching the Neighborhood

  Serving the Neighborhood

  Straight Taste: Gay Book Bundle

  Tempting the Neighborhood

  Thirst

  Uncovering Machismo

  Untame

  Uplifting Sports Romance: College Gay Bundle

  Welcoming the Neighborhood

  Please join my newsletter mailing list at JaylenFlorian.com for announcements on new releases and book specials.

  Description

  IN A CLASH OF MASCULINE energy, two cunning men bump heads while furthering their surging careers.

  But not everything in their complicated lives can be controlled, least of all their hearts and desires...

  Rodney, a sculpture artist brimming with raw talent, is on the cusp of fame. Hidden from public eye, however, are creative and financial challenges, and the burdens of an enigmatic artistic persona.

  Marshall is good at uncovering the truth. He's a reporter and columnist who suspects the artist is a phony, and thereby a danger to the integrity of the fine arts so plagued with fraud.

  Truth battles illusion, creativity yearns for expression, and it all comes down to two questions:

  How far must a man go to stop an opponent who threatens everything?

  When lurched together, can adversaries become real lovers?

  "Bravado" is a slow burn enemies-to-lovers male romance with a sizzling finale. It's the third book in the "Unexpected Attraction" series by Jaylen Florian, author of "Thirst," and can be read as a stand alone story or as part of the series.

  Chapter 1

  Strangers on a train.

  The mystery of someone unknown, sharing a temporary destination in a confined space. The freedom of travel. The lure of new experiences. The ability to flirt and covet, and tempt fate, without immediate repercussions.

  The pleasure of daydreaming and fantasizing, because the stranger could be anyone, going anywhere.

  The short distance passenger train to Doyle was packed full. But as incredibly perceptive as Marshall Clay was, only one passenger had any of his attention.

  An impossibly handsome man with chiseled features and a groomed beard had ignited his fascination at the Port Cole train station as they'd prepared to board. This man wore a flight jacket, aviator sunglasses, a knit cap, plaid shirt, and hiking boots. His jeans were particularly faded around the ample lump in his crotch, indicating he probably wore them countless times, like now, without underwear. The muscular man appeared to Marshall to be a cross between a fighter pilot and a lumberjack. All man, seething with masculinity, and in his mid to late twenties, which was Marshall's same age range.

  As the passengers had waited for their journey, Marshall and the mystery man played the stare-a-second-too-long game with furtive glances. Separated on benches about thirty feet apart in the crowded concourse, they hadn't spoken. But the man had made his interest in Marshall crystal clear, even sliding his sunglasses down his nose to reveal smoldering eyes that beckoned to Marshall with danger and promise.

  This guy could be just about anyone, Marshall knew. A businessman or a serial killer. A teacher, a married man craving a fling, or a military officer on vacation.

  Marshall's logical mind told him the eye game was pathetic. However, this man intrigued him. It felt good to be cruised by such a stud. Marshall couldn't remember the last time a guy like this even gave him a second look.

  Marshall's stern, t00-serious countenance tended to scare strangers away. It was like his brute exterior would burn anyone moving in too close.

  Now, on the train, Marshall couldn't help but try to get another look at the bearded man. Marshall was at the front of the train, seated by a spacious window in business class. He tucked the snack kit provided to business class passengers into his carry on bag and headed for the snack cabin that offered a broader array of options.

  Marshall found the pilot and lumberjack hybrid in an economy class cabin, nestled in rows of seating between the snack bar and a bank of restrooms.

  The men spotted one another essentially at the same moment. As Marshall held his gaze while walking past him down the aisle, the man once again lowered his sunglasses and pierced Marshall with an unmistakable, scorching look that bristled with electricity.

  Wow, Marshall thought. This stud is sure a live wire.

  Marshall purchased an espresso at the bar and shot a parting glance over his shoulder at the stranger as he returned to the front of the passenger train.

  Back in his seat, Marshall assessed where things stood with the stranger. There was a fiery connection between the men, to be sure, and it was red hot.

  The chemistry was especially welcome because Marshall had been expecting a dull journey. On his way to Doyle, an old and picturesque Midwest city perched on the Bluestone River, Marshall was traveling for work. He'd been assigned to report on the unveiling of a winner of a sculpture design contest. Doyle was preparing for the media spotlight—the national kayak races for the first time ever was scheduled there at summer's end—and the televised competition would be watched by hordes of spectators and outdoor recreation enthusiasts.

  But the sculpture contest held little appeal to Marshall. His experience as a fine arts and popular arts reporter was that almost all design competitions were rigged. Frankly, he'd even mentioned to some of his colleagues at The Port Cole Pioneer that the contest wasn't newsworthy in the least. He considered it a simple, crude public relations stunt intended to drum up local pride and inspire more local community improvements so Doyle could make the best possible impression as the host of the kayak races. Marshall's assignment editor, however, insisted he cover it, for an extended Sunday edition feature no less. He knew the fact that his paper—the largest newspaper serving the entire region—had a very sizable onlin
e and delivery subscription base in Doyle obviously had played a role in her assignment decision for him.

  Returning to matters on the train, Marshall Clay, bold and brash, wasn't one who could covet from afar for long. The stranger's interest in him was beyond doubt. Why not take the game to the next level and spice up an otherwise boring journey? Maybe the stud would exit the train at Doyle, too. Maybe they were even booked in the same hotel.

  Marshall wasn't against jazzing up this assignment with a bedroom escapade, however unlikely, if the pieces fell into place.

  Resolved to escalate the tensions and flesh out the possibilities with the stranger, Marshall started back toward the snack cabin for another espresso or a cappuccino, or whatever caught his fancy. He'd decide on the spot what to order. Marshall's plan was to simply gesture at the stud, signaling for a rendezvous, then introduce himself with a firm handshake, flash him a sly grin, and then take matters from there.

  Fate, though, thwarted the plan. When Marshall reached the economy class cabin, the stranger was peering down the row, across the aisle, apparently at a dimpled young man wearing an athletic shirt. Even though the stud's aviator sunglasses concealed his eyes, Marshall was convinced he was brazenly gawking at yet another man on the train.

  On a dime, Marshall stopped in his tracks and spun around in the aisle to return to his cabin.

  If he'd waited a few seconds longer before fleeing, Marshall would've realized his mystery man was not cruising another guy, but only trying to look out the window as the train passed a lake sparkling in the sunshine.

  Screw the espresso, Marshall told himself, and screw the stud. That guy is like all the others. It was the height of stupidity to fathom he was somehow just for me.

  Marshall soured even further upon plopping back down into his seat again with a thud and staring out the train window. He thought he'd been just another flirt, another game, for a cocky stud who probably teased guys—and girls, too, possibly—every damn day of his life.

  People who needed such ego boosts invited Marshall's intense disdain. He despised that he'd even entertained letting his mind wander about the man.

  Marshall, immediately, had all of his interest in the stud evaporate into the humid air.

  The guy was now just another stranger on a passenger train. He'd never see him again, and he didn't care.

  Chapter 2

  Rodney Riggs Redfern's early dinner meeting with his team was about to take two sharp turns. Rodney, a sculpture artist, had two secrets. Disclosing both of them—one a cause for joy, the other a cause for despair—was going to be unavoidable.

  The meeting wasn't at Rodney's sculpture studio in Rugged Heights, a tony neighborhood community in Doyle, which in itself was telling. Instead, Rodney had assembled his assistant, Christine Blatt, and his manager, Patrick Castle, at a truck stop café a few miles outside of city limits. He removed his aviator sunglasses and flight jacket, and crossed his fingers that he could pull off this discussion without alienating the two people he depended on most for career support.

  Rodney's guests had arrived at the café in good spirits. Rather than being suspicious about the setting, they were accustomed to Rodney's eccentric choices and behaviors, which they chalked up to being part of his artistic personality.

  Christine was bursting with news of her own. Before their rumps hit the cracked vinyl seats, by a warped window overlooking a parking lot and truck filling station, she blurted out what she'd learned less than an hour before.

  "The governor is confirmed for the city's announcement." She was referring to the formal ceremony when Doyle's mayor would announce whether it was Rodney or one of the other two finalists who'd be selected for a prestigious honor to create sculptural installations atop the city's historic bridges.

  Christine added that the governor's public schedule didn't yet reflect her news, but she had it on the most reputable of sources that the governor's attendance was definite.

  Patrick, the type of man who locked in on facts, not conjecture or opinions, raised an eyebrow. He asked her, "Who, exactly, do you consider to be the most reputable of sources?"

  "My lips are sealed."

  "They shouldn't be," Patrick countered, "considering that you work for us."

  Christine flinched. "I work for both of you?" She glanced at Rodney, seeking his support. "My understanding is that I'm the executive assistant to Rodney Riggs Redfern here, and I work solely at his discretion."

  Rodney said, "That's correct, Christine. You work for me." Uninterested in either the governor's schedule or pulling rank over his manager, Rodney changed the subject. "What about the confirmed media coming to the city's announcement?"

  Christine smiled, and answered, "Everyone's coming." Middle aged in years, yet youthful in spirit, she was as excitable as she was organized and efficient. Christine closely followed fashion trends and enjoyed trying new looks with stylish accessories on her tall frame. She'd been a part-time professional photographer when she met Rodney upon his return to Doyle from Hawaii and become his assistant. Rodney appreciated her tremendous loyalty. Early on, when he sometimes couldn't afford to pay her wages, Christine had accepted original works of art by him in lieu of payment, amassing a collection of his earliest sculptures.

  "Who's everyone?" Patrick asked Christine, a tinge of frustration evident in his voice. "Please be specific."

  "All local and regional news outlets, plus the Associated Press, at least one national cable channel, two freelance writers for national magazines, and more bloggers and independent journalists than I can remember off the top of my head."

  Patrick folded his arms over his chest. "How do you know all of this?"

  Christine directed her answer to Rodney, even though he hadn't asked the question. "If you are the finalist selected for Doyle's bridge sculptures, then every single one of those reporters and agencies wants a private interview with you after the announcement."

  Now, to be fair to even a slight degree, Rodney knew he had to divulge the first of his secrets that evening. While everyone else was on pins and needles about which local artist would be selected for the grand honor—having their sculptures featured on the three arched bridges linking downtown Doyle over a portion of the Bluestone River to an islet, in time for the national kayak race, which would showcase Doyle to at least tens of thousands of eyes—Rodney already knew the outcome.

  After the waitress took their orders and they once again had privacy, Rodney bent forward so that his elbows rested on the chrome table covered with boomerang laminate. As he spilled the beans, his deep voice reduced to half its normal volume.

  "Prepare for the best case scenario at the announcement ceremony."

  "I'm thinking positive, too," Christine said, buoyant and bubbly, always welcoming optimistic expressions of confidence. "I have a very good feeling about it, even though everyone says the competition is a tossup. All of the finalists are so talented!"

  Patrick, however, heard Rodney's statement differently. He'd picked up on surreptitiousness, not confidence. Old enough to be his father, Patrick Castle sometimes treated Patrick like a mischievous boy, listening for the nuances and omissions in what he said. Like Christine, Patrick detected Rodney's skill early on. He'd become Rodney's manager on a leap of faith, relying only on commissions for his efforts. Patrick dressed in fitted designer suits and maintained a mustache several shades lighter than his silver head of hair.

  Patrick said to Rodney, without emotion, "You devious scoundrel, what've you kept from us?"

  Christine added her own inquiry for Rodney. "You heard a delicious rumor or you just have a sixth sense about the competition?"

  Rodney looked about in the mostly empty cafe to ensure they weren't being overheard, then said, "I don't want any outrage from either of you. Don't ask me why you're just learning this now. And forget pummeling me with any questions, because I'm sworn to secrecy. But I'm telling you, to a degree of absolute certainty, that the city's announcement will be that my sculptural
designs have been selected for the downtown bridges."

  Christine tried to hold back a squeal of delight as the waitress returned to the table with their drinks. Patrick, in contrast, sucked in his breath and covered his mouth with one of his hands. The implications of being the selected artist was expected to mightily impact visibility, prices, and sales.

  Neither Christine or Patrick doubted Rodney's declaration. They were aware Rodney had friendships with at least two members of the city council. Christine began running through all of the tasks that needed to be done. Speaking a mile a minute, she pleaded with Rodney to give her specifics on what materials to order for his sculpture studio, in what quantities, leaping from one thought to the next without taking a breath or pause. Christine prided herself on always being ready for any occurrence. With Rodney's selection confirmed, she would perceive no reason for any further delay in preparing him for his responsibilities.

  With complete calm, Rodney said, "There's nothing to order. There's nothing to stress about."

  "What?" Christine cocked her head, as she did upon hearing anything she deemed absurd.

  Rodney, about to explain, lifted his hands, palms up, then stopped himself. He eased his elbows back on the table, and said, "The sculptures are already done."

  Christine said, "But they're not in the studio for me to photograph."

  "Actually, they are—not on the main design floor, but locked up and covered inside the storage supply room. I finished them long ago. Let's move on and I'll explain more about this at another time."

  "You're a cad for not telling me sooner," Christine said, not ready to have him glaze over an explanation.

  "I agree with Christine this time," Patrick chimed in. "We should've known before now about the announcement. We're the ones working our asses off to maximize the turn of events in your favor."

  Rodney could only sigh and appear empathetic. Giving them a false apology would ring hollow. All of this was about his creative process and, ultimately, his artistic legacy. Rodney had developed the unfortunate habit of doling out information to them late, causing inconvenience. But this arrangement had been integral to his relationship with his team from the beginning. Rodney had insisted all along he must be agile and nimble with his career, riding the flow of his artistic process in whichever direction it traveled, without the constraints of a typical business structure.