Faking A Groom (Marital Bliss Book 3)

by DJ Jamison

  SENATOR SHELTERED HIS SON OUT OF LOVE

  Avery tensed up as he read the words. He’d known his father would find a way to twist the truth, but it didn’t make it any less painful to read. Of course, Mal hadn’t written this one. It was by a political reporter for the Portland news site, and he hadn’t bothered to call Avery for a comment. Mal had at least attempted to get a comment from the senator’s office, but they’d shut him down before he could so much as ask a question. His father had been blindsided only because he was unwilling to speak with a publication like The Gaily Planet.

  Avery huffed in annoyance, seeing some of his quotes from Mal’s story included. He supposed the reporter considered that a balanced approach, but Avery would have liked to tell him exactly how Drake Kinkaid defined love and protection.

  “I’m a politician, under the microscope. I didn’t want Avery’s personal life to be subject to the public’s whims. The public can be harsh,” Sen. Kinkaid said. “We agreed together that it wasn’t the right time when he came out. His mother had just died, and the media was focused on our family already. I know that was the right decision. But it’s clear Avery’s unhappy, and that breaks my heart. I wish he’d checked in, given me a chance to tell him that I’d always support him. Do I think telling the media was the right way to come out? Not necessarily. He’ll get a lot of attention now. But maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe he needs to shout it from the rooftops. I was only trying to protect him, not confine him. I wish he’d realized that and talked to me first.”

  Avery threw his phone down in disgust. He had talked to his father first. He’d done nothing but talk to his father for ten fucking years!

  “Avery?”

  Rory stood in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in a towel. His dark, long hair dripped over his shoulder, rivulets of water trailing down his skin. He was the beautiful one, not Avery. Lip gloss wouldn’t look out of place on him. Lace, silk, all the pretty things. He’d wear them well. For a brief moment, Avery felt a flare of envy. Rory didn’t have a bigoted father. He could be whomever he wanted.

  “What is it?” Rory asked, voice softening. He approached the bed, sitting beside Avery. With a gentle hand, he cupped Avery’s jaw. At that single touch, Avery’s strange jealousy was snuffed. Rory didn’t want the things he did. He wanted Avery to have them. He knew that. It was stupid to feel such envy. He didn’t want to have Rory’s body, not really. He just wished he felt like he could be who he was inside without feeling like he was coloring outside the lines, turning a nice traditional image into an abstract piece of art no one understood. Rory was already abstract in all the best ways. Who would ever expect him to conform to expectations?

  Because he’s brave. Because he stands up for himself.

  “I need to talk to my father,” he said.

  “Did something happen?”

  Avery picked up his phone, woke it up, and scrolled to the top of the story. Without a word, he handed it to Rory to read. While he did, Avery got out of bed and showered. He needed a few minutes to himself; he wasn’t ready to share his feelings with Rory or deal with what Rory might say. He needed to talk to his father himself. He needed to hear him admit the truth, that Avery wasn’t crazy, that he hadn’t imagined all the times he’d tried to talk to his father about coming out.

  He needed Drake Kinkaid to tell the truth, if only to him and no one else.

  When he returned to the room, Rory was dressed and combing the top half of his hair back into a knot. Avery loved when he wore it that way, half up and half down. It made his eyes seem more expressive while softening his sharp features.

  “You okay?” Rory asked as he wound the hair band into place.

  Avery came up behind him, slipping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on Rory’s shoulder. “It’s what I expected.”

  “But not what you hoped for.”

  Rory knew him so well. Knew him better than anyone in the world. He knew Avery’s deepest secrets.

  “No,” Avery said, his voice level. The shower had given him time to simmer down. Now, he felt calm and determined. He was done waiting for his father to apologize. He’d take the fight to him, and this time, he wouldn’t back down until his father did what he wanted. He’d play him at his own game.

  Drake Kinkaid wanted to play politics? They could play politics.

  “I should have known better than to hope,” Avery said. “My father only ever cares about one thing.”

  “What’s that?” Rory asked.

  “Power. Wealth. His political reputation.”

  “Well, he took a hit on one of those,” Rory said, turning to look him in the eye. “I know this article is infuriating. But you told the truth, and you’re out now. Avery, you’re free to be whomever, whatever you want to be. You know that, right?”

  Avery licked his lips. He wanted that to be true. He just wasn’t sure that it was. He didn’t think it could be—not until he stood up to his father.

  “I want be everything to you,” he said to Rory. “Is that possible?”

  Rory’s lips quirked. “Anything’s possible, Ave, if you set your mind to it.”

  “Then consider my mind set.”

  He kissed Rory, knowing that he wasn’t ready to commit to everything. Rory wasn’t impulsive; he was methodical. He’d entered a fake engagement with Avery for his own reasons, reasons less selfish than any Avery had ever had. He wanted Avery, wanted to fuck him, wanted to see him in silk and lace—so he said, and Avery was trying to believe—but he wasn’t ready to commit to him, right here and now. Avery knew that.

  Rory might always have things in his life more important than a rich man with daddy issues. But if Avery could capture even a fraction of his passion, it would be more than enough.

  16

  Avery went to work.

  He trudged through his inbox, he fired off memos, he attended meetings. And all the while, in the back of his mind, he played out potential scenarios with his father. In some of them, Avery went in guns blazing, yelling self-righteously. In others, he let his father do the talking, let him hang himself with his own words.

  The truth was, Avery knew he couldn’t best his father in a battle of wits. Avery couldn’t talk circles around him. He knew from years of experience his father could twist him up, make him second guess himself like no one else. Those experiences had served him well in business, because no business colleague, no matter how shady, could measure up to his father.

  But Avery hadn’t acquired his silver tongue. He was too tied up in knots most days to say what he really felt, much less deliver it as a shining solution to everyone’s problems. But as Avery mulled over his situation, he realized he had one weapon to use against his father: political leverage.

  His father had spun the story about Avery, perhaps convincing most people who read it that he truly was a good guy. But he would be smarting, worried about his political reputation and ambitions. When his father filed to run for governor—which Avery knew he wanted to do—these things could be dragged out, rehashed.

  And Avery still had one more piece of political damage up his sleeve. One more opportunity to hit his father where it hurt.

  He’d never win his father’s unconditional love. He knew that now. But if he could win this one small battle for LGBTQ people in general, then maybe he could conquer a few internal battles for himself.

  At the end of the workday, Avery texted Rory to let him know he’d be missing dinner and headed out to his father’s coastal mansion. As he drew up before the massive structure, it felt both familiar and foreign. He’d grown up there, and he had dozens of memories of it. But now, they all felt dreamlike and long ago. This house, with its grand, arching ceilings and marbled floors, no longer felt like home.

  Or perhaps it never had. Avery wasn’t sure he’d ever known what that felt like before staying with Rory. Even when his mother had been alive, their home had been richly appointed, as if for a magazine spread, but somewhat sterile with too much space and too few
people. Rory’s bright colors, his mismatched furniture, his kitschy retro juice glasses with Lucille Ball’s face embossed in a famous I Love Lucy expression? That was home, and comfort, and contentment.

  Avery wished he were back there now. But first, he had a battle to fight.

  And this time, he’d do it on his own.

  Rory spent the day with a low hum of worry whirring in the back of his mind, like a refrigerator running in the background. He had a shitload of work to do, thanks to the gala he had to plan. Avery had gotten the Kinkaid Foundation behind it, but the board president had informed him that he’d have to do most of the event planning himself. They would bankroll the cost of the venue, catering, and entertainment, so he could hardly complain. They’d also be sending invitations to their donor list, and he was encouraged to send them to his, as well. Rory almost laughed at that.

  The Equal Justice League had supporters, of course. Most of them were not the wealthy and connected individuals connected with the Kinkaid Foundation, and most of them did not attend events asking for one thousand dollars per plate. Still, he did his best, sending out the invites to some of the attorneys who worked with them, as well as a few regional politicians who might have the funds and desire to support their effort. Inside the fancy, embossed invitation—complete with thin tissue paper over gold script on black—he included a short note: Kinkaid Foundation donors to be in attendance. Would love for you to join as well in this night of fundraising for equal justice! We value your support.

  There. He’d made it clear there’d be wealthy, connected people in attendance who might make it worth the cost of networking without actually spelling it out. It was tactful without being pushy.

  Once that was done, he directed his administrative assistant to address and mail out the invites and got to work on checking up on the cases of each of his clients. That meant calling lawyers, including Barrett. It was a little awkward, considering he now knew Barrett had been interested in him, but he could acknowledge that he liked Barrett, and probably would have dated him had the timing been different, so he tried to push through it.

  “Rory, checking up on me already?” Barrett teased when he answered the phone.

  “Just looking out for my clients. You know I’m a control freak.”

  Barrett chortled. “I do, I do. I’ve been a good boy. We filed for a continuance, because I think there’s a lot more we can bring to the table before we face Kyle Porter.” That was Lana’s ex-husband’s name. He was threatening to take custody from her for being an unfit mother, but he’d been abusive and controlling their entire marriage. He hadn’t been happy when it ended, but he’d accepted it until Lana’s girlfriend entered the picture. Now he seemed determine to make her pay for being in a same-sex relationship. Unfortunately, a fair number of judges still maintained a bias against queer couples when it came to raising kids.

  “Oh yeah? That’s good, right? Tell me more.”

  Rory took an interest in all his cases, but Lana had struck him as particularly vulnerable. There was a bit of skittish fright in her eyes that was familiar to him, and he realized why. It reminded him of Avery. It wasn’t so much fear of being smacked around, as some inner knowledge that you could never win, that you’d be hurt for even trying.

  Rory’s stomach clenched even as Barrett filled him in on the potential evidence he could bring to court to strengthen Lana’s position. He’d made the right choice, giving this case to Barrett. But then, he’d give them all to Barrett if he could. He was that good.

  He hung up, mind eased about Lana. But he felt uneasy about Avery. What if he couldn’t ever push past those fears inside him? What if he could never embrace all the parts of himself? Rory wanted nothing more than to conquer those fears for him, to go inside his head and cut out each ugly thought. But he knew it didn’t work that way.

  Avery said he wanted everything with Rory, he spoke easily of love. But how could he love Rory if he didn’t even love himself?

  Pristine white holiday lights adorned Senator Kinkaid’s house, wrapping its front pillars, its sweeping roofline, and ornate, oval windows. It reminded Avery of the invitation from Rory’s mother to join them for Christmas this weekend, and how his own father would be here alone, in this mausoleum of a house, without his wife or his son.

  His stomach twisted, but he knew Drake Kinkaid would never really be lonely. He networked and he dated, but he enjoyed working the widower angle too much to ever settle down. It was good for his political image, he’d told Avery once. A beautiful new wife would make him less sympathetic, and if she were closer to Avery’s age than his—which seemed to be to his father’s tastes—he’d lose a few points in his favor.

  Political gain would always come first for his father.

  Taking a deep breath, bracing himself, Avery opened the door and stepped inside. His footsteps echoed off the marble floors as he crossed the wide, empty foyer. He bypassed the grand room, heading straight to his father’s study. He would be there with a highball of scotch, reading over new legislation or strategizing his next move.

  Avery did knock on the door to his father’s inner sanctum. It’d always been a room you entered by invitation only.

  There was a shuffling sound, then his father called out, “Come in!”

  He sounded unconcerned about who might be on the other side of the door. Avery walked inside, to a scene as familiar as the back of his hand. His father sat in an imposing brown leather chair behind a large, antique desk. The walls were decorated with old maps; a ship in a bottle sat on one shelf beside an American flag and military medals kept in a shadowbox. The flag and medals had been his grandfather’s, and his father displayed them with pride. There were few other personal touches. A bookshelf held titles that lent themselves to the study of the Constitution and the acquisition of wealth; no literary greats for Drake Kinkaid. A single photo on his desk featured their family: Avery’s father, his mother, and Avery at age twelve. They’d had photos taken every year like clockwork until his mother died, so Avery wasn’t sure why that photo earned the place of pride.

  “Avery, I wondered when I’d be seeing you back here.”

  His father sounded smug. Satisfied. Did he think Avery had come crawling back?

  Avery remained standing in front of the desk. “I wanted to hear it from you.”

  His father raised his bushy brows. “Hear what, exactly?”

  “Your lies.”

  Drake coughed into his hand, shifting in his seat. “Now hold on a minute—”

  “Did I not come to you, again and again, asking to come out? Did I not tell you that I didn’t like keeping these secrets?”

  “We discussed your wishes each and every time, Avery,” his father said, eyes sharpening. “We agreed you would not. We were on the same page.”

  “You pushed me to be on the same page,” Avery said, the words bitter on his tongue. It wasn’t easy, even now, to speak up to his father, but if not now, when? “I never wanted to be in the closet.”

  “When your mother died—”

  “It made sense not to come out right then, maybe, but later? There were so many times, Dad, when I just wanted to stop. I just wanted to have a boyfriend.”

  His father scoffed. “A boyfriend. You threw away your future for a boyfriend? The world might be changing, but this district won’t elect a man with a boyfriend. Mark my words. People might pretend to be accepting, but when it comes to votes, you don’t want anything holding you back.”

  “I don’t want a future in politics,” Avery said in exasperation. “I’ve never wanted that.”

  “Don’t be foolish. With the Kinkaid name—”

  “Enough, Dad!”

  His father stood up, glaring into Avery’s eyes. “What you do want from me, Avery? You might not want a career in politics, but I do. You ordered a goddamned hit piece on me! I said what I had to say to keep control of the narrative. You’re out, you’ve got your damned boyfriend—”

  “Fiancé.”

&nb
sp; “Fine. You’ve got your fiancé—and don’t think I’m buying that story for a minute—and you’ve had your say in the press. Got your pound of flesh. You’re out and proud for the whole damned world to see. What are you looking for, an apology? I think I should be the one asking for that.”

  “I want you to pull support of that child-care legislation.”

  “Christ.”

  His father picked up his glass and threw back the last of his scotch in one swallow. Then he turned, grabbing the decanter, and splashed a little more in. Raising his gaze, he asked Avery, “Drink?”

  It was just like his father to offer him a drink while spitting offense. To him, this was just a rousing debate, wasn’t it? To Avery, it was his entire life crumbling away, leaving ash. His father had a way of decimating him, of making him feel small, insignificant, invisible. He never really mattered to his father. He was a convenient prop for campaign photos; he was someone to keep the senator’s seat warm while he ran for higher office, just in case he lost; someone to handle Kinkaid Banking operations while his father schmoozed.

  But was he ever a son? Did his father care about him beyond the image he presented, and if Avery ever dared present his true image—and not the mask he wore so well—would his father want him around at all?

  He’d spent so many years trying to please this man, but pleasing him meant forcing himself into his father’s mold. Once, he’d been so good at that he almost forgot who he really was. But now? Now, there was Rory. There was the memory of Rory calling him lovely, and the discomfort and pleasure it had simultaneously sparked. There was Rory smiling for him, and kissing him, but most importantly, seeing him. The real him. And still fucking smiling.

  Even after all the times Avery failed to find the courage to stand up to the man before him. Even after Avery had let him down all those years, choosing a man who hated who he was inside, who wanted to control and manipulate, rather than love.