The man standing at his door wasn't Dennis Petersen. It was that insidious reporter from The Port Cole Pioneer, the vicious Marshall Clay.
Marshall had his hands tucked in the front pockets of his faded blue jeans. He wore a ball cap, a Green Bay Packers football jersey, and tennis shoes. Behind him, against the curb beyond the front gate, was a Toyota Camry. It appeared Marshall wanted to say something, but he instead eyed Rodney's exposed body with enlarged pupils.
"What freaking balls you've got showing up here," Rodney said.
Marshall didn't readily answer.
Rodney was ticked off by Marshall's presence, yet felt some power that answering the door in his jockstrap had caused the reporter to lose his composure. Rodney dominantly put his hands on his hips and demanded an explanation for the intrusion.
"How'd you find me here?"
"I track things down," Marshall said. "That's what I'm good at doing."
"When you don't have your head stuck up your ass?"
"I hope you'll invite me in."
Rodney glared at him, then stepped backward with the door still open, and pulled closed the sliding panel separating the entry corridor from the inner dome. He certainly didn't care to share his paintings with the reporter. As Rodney turned his back on him to close the panel, he gave Marshall an unobstructed view of his bare butt.
Rodney said, "Get in here and close the damn door."
Marshall did as instructed, then waited for Rodney to face him in the entry corridor. "You deserve to hear in person that I'm sorry for the column I wrote about you."
"Spare me."
"I should've come sooner. I know that."
"So you're back in Doyle for another story, thinking I'll cooperate on a new round so you can get redemption or stab me in the back again?"
"I'm here off duty," Marshall said. "I rented a car and drove out here hoping to earn your acceptance of my apology."
"Well, obviously, you've caught me at a bad time. I'm in the middle of painting. Why are you really here?"
"You can tell me to go to hell and remind me that apologizing can be a selfish act. But I'm trying to come to peace with the harm I caused you, and that's the true reason I'm standing right here asking for forgiveness."
Rodney cocked his head and made a clicking sound with his teeth. "I think you're back for another story."
"I swear, I'm not."
"What, you'll write about seeing me in my jock and describe my bulge to your readers? You'll describe the smell of my sweat and the curvature of my ass, and post an image of my hideaway?"
"You have every right to be angry."
"Angry?"
Rodney was about to launch into a tirade. The story had not just bruised him emotionally, it had strained his relationships with some art dealers and gallery owners, soured the enthusiasm of some of his collectors, and terminated the pending sale of one of his older sculptures that'd finally received an offer. Marshall's column had also nearly cost him the Doyle bridge installation honor. City officials had convened an emergency meeting to discuss suspending the contract with him. In the end, the city of Doyle stuck with him.
Rodney'd endured severe anguish at the time and suspected the trauma had further worsened his creative block. But he wouldn't give the reporter the satisfaction of knowing how much damage he'd done.
Plus, any reaction Rodney gave him could end up in yet another hit piece.
During those seconds, while figuring out a way to kick Marshall out of his entry corridor, while ensuring he wasn't fodder for a new story, a scheme took formation in Rodney's mind. It wouldn't be nice. But the peril to his career in this situation hurled him way past concerns about being nice.
"Hang on," Rodney said. "Let me throw on some clothes. There's something I want to show you."
Chapter 7
Marshall Clay was having a difficult time reading Rodney Riggs Redfern's body language. He sensed the ambivalence and contradictions, mirrored in the exchange they'd just had in the entry corridor, and believed it was just as likely that Rodney might warm to him as lay a guilt trip on him.
Since there had been no resolution to his offer of apology, Marshall agreed to accompany Rodney on a trip. He wasn't told where they were going and only knew it was "just a few miles away." He'd waited in the entry while Rodney changed into camouflage pants, hiking boots, and a Tori Amos concert t-shirt. Marshall offered to drive the Camry he rented, to get some control of the situation, thereby lessening the chances Rodney could take him out in the middle of some forest and abandon him to the elements.
Rodney took on a more casual veneer once they were in the car and he began directing Marshall on which turns to make on the roads. The light air conditioning streaming out of the car's vents seemed to swirl Rodney's scent around the vehicle. Marshall understood it was from Rodney's perspiration while painting practically naked in his geodesic dome on Hercules Road. It was a strong and virile aroma, but not at all unpleasant to Marshall, both musky and sweet, with a trace of a cinnamon-like flavor. Marshall found himself taking deeper breaths to inhale and identify it.
Within minutes they arrived on a gravel parking lot by the Hamilton Mill & Arboretum. They parked and exited the car, Rodney leading the way toward a voluminous natural spring resembling an elevated pond. Water streamed down a steep incline where the remnants of a grain mill from the late 1800s—a three story, red brick structure with a gabled roof and thick glass windows—captured water in an attached wooden paddle wheel. Marshall's first impression was that the bucolic scene would be idyllic on a post card or as a framed print for his cubicle at the news agency.
As Marshall approached the mill for a closer took at the paddle wheel, and to try to peek inside the building's warped windows, he caught Rodney snapping some photographs of him with his phone. That was unexpected, and weird, and Marshall suddenly felt impatient.
"I figure you're now going to tell me how the symbolism of this old mill and natural spring factor into whether you are in a forgiving mood."
"Nope, nothing that calculated," Rodney said. "I've been meaning to get out here for a while. Since you interrupted my work, I figured you at least owed me a ride."
Marshall interpreted that as meaning Rodney didn't also didn't own a car—or had a plan up his sleeve. He watched Rodney kneel down to photograph dragonflies hovering near the base of the paddle wheel.
Marshall said, "I'd like to explain the reasons I wrote what I did in my column."
"No thanks," Rodney said, while photographing the dragonflies from a lower angle. "If you need to be absolved of guilt, consult your therapist or spiritual advisor."
"Go ahead. Be harsh. I can handle it."
Rodney wheeled around, still kneeling, and photographed Marshall standing before him. Marshall didn't smile or react.
"Follow me," Rodney said, standing to walk around the perimeter of the spring.
They headed for acres of managed trees that formed the arboretum, with clusters of oaks, elms, sycamores, weeping willows, poplars, and scores of other species. The trees swept from side to side by the gusts of wind. Narrow trails of pavers meandered through the tree clusters. The men ascended a small hill overlooking the spring and mill. Rodney sat in the shade under a twisted oak and Marshall joined him on the grass.
Following a few minutes of silence, enjoying their surroundings, Rodney reclined on his back so that he was looking directly up at the swaying tree branches.
"I'll share my conundrum with you."
"What is it?" Marshall asked.
"Lean back, like me." When Marshall reclined, Rodney continued. "Many months ago I announced a new phase for my works—sculptures inspired directly by nature. At the time I'd completed a three-day camping trip in the woods and I was overconfident. My pieces had been selling well. I'd had enough success that I believed I could tackle anything and conjure up new insights. In other words, I didn't know I was about to speed off the edge of a cliff."
"But what about the bridge installations
?"
"What about them?"
"Once they're in place and seen during the televised races on the river, won't you soon be in a position to sell a ton of them, or works just like them, across the country?"
"I'm not making more of that type."
"Why not?"
"That era in my career is over. It's ironic, I understand, since the installations haven't even been exhibited yet. But I designed them long ago, during a mechanical phase I was in, when obsessed with clocks and kaleidoscopes, and I've moved on from that style and those interests. Plus, it took me an eternity to make them. I've tweaked them so they'll work beautifully on the bridges, but it's simply not cost effective to make more of them for other cities or private homes."
This sounded so final that Marshall didn't question it. He was unsure what the point was of hearing any of this.
"Gaze up at this tree," Rodney said, "and you'll understand my dilemma. What do you see?"
"It could be fifty, sixty, seventy, even a hundred years of age," Marshall said, "and maybe even older. The trunk is rock solid and sturdy, yet the largest branches are knotted and contorted, spreading outward in what seems like haphazard directions. But there must be a plan. The tree's so big it's easy to forget it's alive, pulling water from the soil, absorbing light, releasing carbon dioxide. The leaves are perfectly green and they glimmer in flashes, when the breezes hit them just right. There, it happened again, reminding me, oddly enough, of sequins under a spotlight."
"Well said. So you understand."
"What do I understand?"
"That no sculpture by human hands could be as magnificent and idyllic as this twisted old tree," Rodney answered.
"So you're at a loss with how to proceed with your new line of sculptures?"
"One hundred percent true."
Marshall believed him. He was confused why Rodney was expressing vulnerability, out of nowhere, when he'd been mostly acerbic up to this point.
Rodney took on faux formality, and said, "Mr. Marshall Clay, journalist, and supposed truth teller. You lied when we first met at the university hall press event, pretending that you weren't the guy cruising me at the Port Cole train station."
Marshall turned to his side, propped up on an elbow, to face Rodney. "I wouldn't call that a lie."
"Come on, don't toy with words. It was you."
"Why were you in Port Cole?"
"To attend a friend's wedding."
"All right, we noticed each other at the station," Marshall said. "I didn't pretend otherwise when we spoke before your press conference in the university workshop. I just didn't confirm it because I was attending your event on official business."
"Did you already know who I was—one of the finalists in the Doyle art competition—when you saw me on the train?"
"No."
"So there was intense attraction there . . ."
"I won't deny it."
"I'm not interested in any drivel. I will say that I had a hard time reconciling that cruising, harmless as it was, with you later becoming so ferocious against me."
"Will you let me explain myself now?"
"I don't want a flowery decoding, rambling on and on," Rodney said. "But I have some specific questions for you."
"Shoot away." Marshall wanted to see where this was all going. Rodney had him stumped.
"Are you one of those straight guys who loathes himself when feeling aroused and enticed by other men?"
"No, I'm gay. I'm not in any closet."
"You're married then? You have a partner?"
"Nope."
"Do I resemble one of your ex lovers? Someone who betrayed and hurt you?"
"Incorrect," Marshall said. "Guys like you typically don't give me the time of day."
Rodney sat upright. "Guys like me?"
"You know, the men with the perfect genes, the symmetrical faces, the gym rat bodies. Men who could just as easily be models or movie stars as the good-looking guy next door."
Rodney chuckled.
"Laugh all you want," Marshall added. "You asked, I answered."
"You are likely missing some pieces, Marshall. There are some holes and gaps in you. Since all of this blew up I've read your articles and columns. I know you're intelligent. It's clear you are well versed and knowledgeable about many aspects of the art world, both historically and contemporarily. Yet . . ."
"You're challenging my self-esteem?"
Rodney shifted closer to him. When Marshall didn't withdraw, Rodney moved even nearer, until they were mere inches apart.
"Not all of us want pretty boys," Rodney said. "Energy is paramount when it comes to male attraction. Energy is the difference between someone being bland and someone being robust and vibrant. You're not a pretty guy, but you exude potent masculinity. From the moment I first saw you, your energy had a powerful effect on me. Some cardinal force clicked with us. We were really working each over with the stares. In fact, I really thought we'd meet and probably hook up. Then—boom—you were gone."
"You still see that same energy in me?"
Rodney answered by leaning toward Marshall, tilting his head, and kissing him. Their lips meshed, and the harmony was immediate and powerful.
Marshall, elated by the unexpected turn of events, felt like he was melting. They stretched back down onto the shaded grass and pawed at each other's clothed bodies. Both men had raging erections straining their zippers. Rodney rolled under Marshall, offering him control. Just as Marshall reached down to unfasten the button on Rodney's camouflage pants, he heard a series of clicks. Marshall opened his eyes and saw that Rodney's phone was aimed up at him, taking pictures.
"Sorry, sport," Rodney said, with a wicked grin. "You're a total stud and a helluva kisser. But I had to make sure you won't ever be able to poison me in print ever again."
Marshall lifted off of him and cursed. "This was all fake with you. I should've known."
"It wasn't all fake, to tell you the truth."
"So you got your revenge. I hope you're satisfied."
"Actually, I feel awful right at this second," Rodney said. His grin had vanished. "On the other hand, I'd be a fool to ever trust you. I had to protect myself."
"What are you going to do with all these shots you've been snapping of me?"
"I won't do anything with the pictures. They're just my insurance, so to speak, since standards of journalistic ethics forbid you from reporting on me again, in light of this proof of our personal encounter this afternoon."
"You really had nothing to fear, Rodney. I only traveled to you today to ask forgiveness."
"Maybe, maybe not. Just drive me home and we'll call it even between us. We'll be officially untangled. We can just go our separate ways again."
Chapter 8
Rodney continued feeling awful.
Marshall could've insulted him, threatened him, or even punched him for being such a jackass. Instead, Marshall had maintained his dignity and remained on the proverbial high road.
After leaving Hamilton Mill & Arboretum, Rodney asked Marshall to drop him off downtown, rather than at his dome on Hercules Road. Marshall agreed at once. Marshall didn't even blast him with any parting words of scorn or peel out his tires after Rodney exited the Camry along the entrance to Bigbury Plaza.
Rodney knew he'd handled this encounter with Marshall badly. He should've just accepted Marshall's apology while he was standing in his entry corridor and then returned to his painting. The whole scheme of taking Marshall to the mill and spring was done on impulse and unnecessarily cruel. Ultimately, it was counterproductive, too.
Now, with his head fogged with guilt, Rodney wouldn't be able to pick up a paintbrush for the rest of the day.
Rodney had ample time to reflect further on his behavior and priorities as he caught a bus near Doyle's downtown square, went north and crossed the Bluestone River, and transferred to another bus heading west. Not having either his sunglasses or his ball cap to try to at least partially conceal his identity, he felt nude
and exposed. None of the other bus passengers were paying him any attention, especially since he was just flush up against a window and staring out into oblivion, but Rodney detested the idea that someone would recognize him and wonder why a supposedly successful artist was taking public transportation.
This wasn't snobbery. Rodney didn't feel superior to anyone else. He just believed that riding a bus was not consistent with his public persona of being a jet-setting artist ready to conquer the world.
Illusions were tedious. However, Rodney was adamantly convinced illusions were necessary. It's what he'd been hearing from his manager, as well as his mentors and many of his peers, throughout his career. He despised phrases like "dress the part" and "fake it until you make it," while aware he was following a similar mindset, embracing the role of the enigmatic and eccentric artist too elusive to pin down. Early on in his career, the bombast and bravado of pretending to be larger than life irked him to no end. Now, Rodney was so used to it that he rarely challenged himself to reconsider living amid the public in any other way.
Some of the shocks were out on the bus and the ride toward the Rugged Heights community neighborhood was bumpy and jarring. Rodney held onto the base of his seat to hold as steady as possible.
Drifting back into his thoughts, Rodney wasn't struggling with the burden of illusions right now. He was still struggling with guilt.
He reminded himself that he hadn't set a trap for Marshall Clay. The reporter is the one who came looking for him today. Rodney had just taken advantage of the situation with what had seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. He hadn't planned to take it all the way to making out and heavy petting. He thought some candid pictures of Marshall, along with some selfies of them posing together on the hill, would've been enough to make his point.
But Marshall had really seemed unaware of his own allure. For someone like Rodney, who envisioned beauty in intricate and elaborate ways, it seemed impossible that a virile man like Marshall Clay would lack so much self-awareness and self-appreciation.
Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3) Page 4
