Finding Mr. Wrong

by Charlie Cochet

  Matthew stepped around the counter, hoping Mr. Dustin wouldn't be too upset with him, and entered the studio. It was certainly an artist's studio. An organized mess of materials. A book lay open on a scuffed table, and Matthew gasped. It was more a portfolio with protective sleeves, and each sleeve held a Victorian art print. Carefully he looked through the book, marveling at the vintage prints consisting of everything from product advertisements like soap or whiskies, to apothecaries and chocolate.

  Simply stunning. Matthew left the book to continue his nosing. A large scroll-top desk sat against one wall crammed with paperwork, sketch pads, pencils, and a host of other artist tools. And a viewfinder. Matthew couldn't help his dopey grin. He hadn't seen one of those in years. He stopped in front of the desk and held the old toy up to his eyes, a gasp escaping him. It was a reel of Tom & Jerry cartoons. Jax's favorite. With shaky hands and a lump in his throat, Matthew forced himself to turn over the View-Master. Which was ridiculous, because the odds of this pair being the pair were staggering. It wasn't possible.

  Matthew Hart.

  The childish script in permanent marker was a little faded but legible, and his heart all but stopped.

  "Can I help you?"

  The low gravelly voice sent a shiver up Matthew's spine. It couldn't be. Matthew turned slowly, his heart in his throat. He drew a sharp breath, eyes widening at the gorgeous man staring back at him. Twenty years. He hadn't seen the guy in twenty years, but there was no mistaking it was him. His blue-green eyes were as bright as Matthew remembered, his hair just as blond, but longer, reaching below his shoulders. He still towered over Matthew, by several inches more than he used to. He had to be at least six feet three or four to Matthew's five feet seven. He'd grown from an adorable boy into a stunning man. He had broad shoulders, a wide chest, and his torso tapered to a narrow waist. His charcoal-gray long-sleeved T-shirt strained over his thick biceps, the V-neck exposing the delicious dip of his collarbone. His black jeans hugged his long, powerful legs, and Matthew wondered about the man's large, rough hands. Good God, he was mouthwatering. The way he moved, the lift in his full lips, it was all too much.

  When Matthew managed to find his voice, he spoke, but the word was no louder than a whisper. "Jax."

  Jax stopped in front of him, inhaling sharply. "Matty?"

  Matthew flinched. Hearing Jax call him that broke something inside him, and the memories flooded back, followed by a tempest of heartache. Matthew put the View-Master down gently before turning and heading for the exit.

  "Matty, wait."

  A strong grip caught his bicep, and when Jax spun Matthew around to face him, Matthew brought his fist with him, punching Jax across his stupidly rugged, stubble-covered jaw. Jax reeled back, his hand going to the spot where Matthew had clobbered him.

  "Christ." Jax rubbed his jaw, and instead of cursing at Matthew as expected, he grinned. Matthew threw up his arms. Of course Jax still had the dimple. Why wouldn't he? Matthew was willing to bet it wasn't the only dimple the man had.

  Not helping.

  "That was one hell of a right hook, Matty."

  "Glad you like it. I'll be happy to show you my left," Matthew growled.

  Jax put his hands up in front of him. "That's okay. I'm sure it's just as good." He dropped his hands, his warm smile reaching his beautiful eyes and forming little creases at the corners. Damn, the man was sexy. It wasn't even the fact he made Matthew's knees weak just by looking at him that made Matthew stifle a whimper; it was the fact that it was Jax. His Jax.

  What the hell is wrong with you?

  "I'm sorry. If I'd known it was you, I wouldn't have come," Matthew grumbled. He shouldn't have felt anything when Jax's smile fell away, and he chastised his heart for being such a sucker. He was going to have some choice words for his father and Adam. No doubt this was why they'd acted so strange.

  "Oh." Jax nodded. "I understand."

  Matthew's anger flared. "Do you? Because I don't think you do." He crowded Jax, poking his very solid chest. "You disappeared, Jax. Fell off the face of the earth and left me all alone." Emotions he'd thought long buried bubbled up inside him, along with the anger that the two people he cared about most could have blindsided him like this. "You were my whole world, and you just vanished! I had to see a therapist because of you!"

  "You think I wanted to leave you?" Jax argued, wrapping a hand around Matthew's wrist, his expression pained as he placed his other hand to Matthew's cheek. "You were my whole world too, Matty. I didn't have a choice. Please. Just give me a chance to explain."

  "Explain?" Matthew pulled away and stepped back. He really couldn't have Jax touching him right now. "Twenty years, Jax. And now you want to explain? It's too late for that. I obviously didn't mean as much to you as you meant to me. I tried searching for you. Did you even bother?"

  "Of course I did," Jax replied softly.

  "And?"

  Jax averted his gaze. "I found you."

  Matthew couldn't believe it. "You found me?" His heart was set to break all over again. "And what? You didn't like what you saw?"

  "Don't be an ass. That's not it at all."

  "Then what?" Matthew demanded. "Make me understand. You found me, then never bothered to contact me. Why?"

  "You went to an Ivy League school, became a successful businessman, took over your dad's company, brought it into the digital age, and blew the competition out of the water. You're worth millions. For Christ's sake, Matty, you were on the cover of Forbes magazine! Me? I've got a GED and a shitload of debt. I'm the same nobody I was back then. What the hell was I supposed to say to you?"

  "You were never a nobody," Matthew stated firmly. "Especially to me."

  Jax's smile was sad. "You didn't know any better."

  "I see. So when we were kids, we were okay because I didn't know any better, but as adults, you didn't bother with me because what? You thought I was a snob?"

  "I didn't say that," Jax snapped, startling Matthew. "Don't put words in my mouth." He ran a hand through his hair, the front falling roguishly over one side of his brow. "Come on, Matty. I never belonged in your world. It would have become obvious once we got older. I've seen pictures of you and your family on trips all over the world. I've never even been on a plane, much less left the country. You've been to parties where the napkins are worth more than everything I own."

  "So you decided for both of us."

  "I'm sorry." Jax took a tentative step toward him, his voice gentle. "Will you at least have a drink with me so I can explain?"

  Matthew shook his head. "It's not necessary. That was a long time ago, and we were just a couple of dumb kids. I should go." As much as he wanted it, he didn't trust himself around Jax. He couldn't survive another heartbreak. It had been crushing as a teen. He couldn't imagine how it would feel as an adult. He wasn't that strong. Not where Jax was concerned. Matthew could negotiate multimillion-dollar deals, navigate the treacherous waters of Wall Street, and fearlessly charge forward through the direst financial crisis, but allow Jax Foster near his heart again? That he couldn't do.

  "We were more than that," Jax called out.

  Matthew stilled. Keep walking, Matthew, or you're going to regret it.

  "Jax, I need to talk to you--oh."

  Matthew turned to face a man with Jax's blue-green eyes. He was tall, with the same blond hair, older and more haggard. He was still handsome, but his face bore the lines of a man who had weathered many a storm and just barely made it out the other side.

  "Sorry. I didn't know you were, um, busy." The man looked from Matthew to Jax and back.

  Matthew smiled at the older man as he walked over, extending his hand. "Hi. I'm Matthew Hart. Jax and I went to school together when we were kids."

  "Nice to meet you, Matthew. I'm Dale Foster. Jax's father."

  "It's lovely to meet you."

  "You look familiar," Dale said with a smile. He looked Matthew over. "What is it you do, Mr. Hart?"

  "Dad."

  T
he warning wasn't lost on Matthew, but he ignored Jax. He was too fascinated at finally meeting Jax's father. Why had Jax been so adamant about keeping them from meeting? He seemed like a nice enough guy, and years later he was still with Jax, so they were obviously close.

  "What?" Dale huffed. "I'm just making polite conversation."

  "It's fine," Matthew assured Jax, his attention never leaving Dale. "I own Hart & Home. Have you heard of it?"

  "Yeah. Fancy furnishings, right?"

  Matthew smiled wide. "I don't know about fancy, but our catalogue offers unique, high-quality, handcrafted pieces."

  "Jax is really good with his hands," Dale commented, puffing up his chest, clearly proud of his son. "He created all those pieces out there and in here."

  Matthew turned to stare at Jax, who appeared uncomfortable that he was suddenly the center of attention. "You made all those?"

  "Yeah." Jax shrugged, looking embarrassed. "This is my studio."

  Matthew frowned. "But the sign on the window says J. Dustin."

  "It's an old sign," Jax replied, his expression guarded. "Dustin's my middle name. I was using the name when I first opened the studio, but I'm working on a new sign with my first name."

  Why would Jax go under a different name? Maybe it was like a pseudonym. Matthew had a couple of friends who were writers and used pseudonyms. It wasn't uncommon, though he hadn't met any artists who used pen names.

  "I remember you were in that art program, but I had no idea you were so talented." Matthew approached a stunning piece for stout ale. He didn't know much about glass etching, but something like this must have taken hours upon hours. He leaned in close, admiring the fine details carved into the thick glass and the glittering gold-leaf lettering. "This is just gorgeous, Jax."

  "Thank you."

  Jax stood beside him, and Matthew could feel the heat coming off the man. He was too close. Matthew needed to go.

  "It was so lovely to meet you, Dale." Matthew turned to Jax. "I have to go. Someone will be sent to discuss Mr. Esperanza's commission. I'll be sure they're not intrusive. You can direct any questions to them, and they'll contact me. Excuse me."

  "Wait," Jax pleaded.

  Matthew smiled and quickly retreated. "I'm sorry. I have a meeting." He spun and made for the studio door, then rushed out the front door to the sidewalk. He was all but running by the time he got to the corner. He couldn't stop. He needed to get as far away from Jax Foster as possible. The first time had hurt too much. He couldn't go through that again. Jax was doing well for himself. His artwork was stunning, and he had his studio and his father. He didn't need Matthew, and neither of them needed the complications. Jax was right. They were from different worlds. It was best to end things before they began. That way no one would get hurt.

  Chapter Four

  JAX was still reeling from Matthew's visit. He lost track of how long he stood in his studio staring at the door Matthew had walked out of. After all these years, it had finally happened. Their paths had crossed. It wasn't hard to believe it hadn't happened before today. They ran in completely different circles, ate at different places, shopped at different places. Hell, the suit Matthew wore probably cost more than Jax had in his bank account. Yet, Jax was having trouble getting rid of the dopey smile on his face. After all these years....

  Matthew Hart hadn't changed a bit. He was older, but his face was still boyish despite the short-trimmed beard and mustache. His black hair was short and styled neatly. He possessed kissable pink lips, and his hooded bedroom eyes were the color of a cloudy sky. He was shorter than Jax, but then he'd always been. His body slender, unlike Jax's bulky frame. He was sinewy, and Jax was willing to bet the man would fit perfectly tucked against him. For years, Jax had dreamed about Matthew, and seeing him in person squeezed at Jax's heart like nothing else.

  Jax had been keeping up with Matthew and his career through the press. He'd read every magazine article, newspaper column, and online post that mentioned Matthew Hart. Watched every video, listened to every podcast. It was a form of torture, but anything that kept Matthew close, no matter how pathetic it might seem, brought Jax hope. Not a hope that they'd be together--Jax had resigned himself to the fact he'd never be a part of Matthew's life again--but a hope that the world wasn't as dark and terrible as it seemed. The ache in Jax's heart never dulled, but seeing Matthew, hearing his voice, was like a ray of sunlight cutting through the storm clouds of his life.

  After all these years, Matthew had walked through his door. Jax had been so happy to see him; it hadn't occurred to him that Matthew would be angry. In truth, Jax truly believed Matthew had forgotten all about him. Clearly that wasn't the case, and a part of Jax was stupidly happy. Matthew's anger spoke volumes about his feelings toward Jax.

  Suddenly the commission made sense. He'd been stupefied after receiving a call from an Adam Cole asking if he'd be interested in doing a piece for a very wealthy client. There had been no mention of Matthew or Hart & Home. Excited at the prospect of a new commission and the money that went with it, Jax had immediately accepted. He'd been informed that a project manager would be in to speak with him and oversee the work. All the documentation, including contract, had been promptly sent to his inbox, and Jax had said a little thank-you prayer. He read the contract, signed it electronically, and sent it back. This was what he'd desperately needed. The money from this commission would go toward getting a couple of his bank loans out of default. Plus, he could make his landlord happy and pay the last two months of rent he owed on the studio. Jax had been lucky his landlord was a good guy who thankfully wasn't strapped for cash, but there was only so much the man could do for Jax. Finally, Jax could get some of the bill collectors off his back. For a while at least.

  It had taken him years to build up his credit enough for the banks to approve the loans he needed to open his studio and buy his equipment. He'd started so well, and everyone had been impressed with his business proposal and long-term business plan. They'd given him what he needed, none of them realizing there was one tiny, glaring hiccup in Jax's perfect plan: Dale Foster.

  A loud crash from outside the back door snapped Jax out of his thoughts. His dad had gone outside for a smoke. Jax had been trying to get his father to quit the damn things for years now, and had managed to get him down to the occasional smoke. What the hell was he doing?

  Jax ran outside, his blood turning cold when his father was slammed against the brick wall by a huge, snarling man.

  "Where's the money?"

  Shit.

  Jax rushed the guy, grabbed fistfuls of his clothes, and jerked him away from his father. No easy feat considering the guy was even bigger than Jax. He was obviously someone's muscle, despite looking so clean-cut. The guy stumbled back with a fierce growl and readied himself for a charge when Jax threw his hands up.

  "Wait, please. Just tell me what's going on. We can work this out." Jax was so weary of this. Of watching his father get beat to hell over and over. He couldn't remember a time when Dale hadn't come home bloodied and bruised, or when a day out with his dad hadn't ended up with him getting the shit kicked out of him in front of Jax.

  When Jax was old enough, he decided he needed to be physically strong enough for the both of them, or one day they might not make it out alive. Growing up with his dad had been a series of violent encounters, near-death experiences, and a lesson in how foul and wretched the world could be. Being a kid hadn't protected him from the same dangers his father faced. In their world, Jax was nothing but collateral, something to be used in order to hurt or threaten Dale into paying what was owed, whether he had it or not. Jax had suffered burns, bruises, and broken bones at the hands of vile, dangerous men, and even then Jax considered himself lucky. It could have been so much worse.

  When Jax was fifteen, his world came crumbling down around him. He'd been taken as insurance after Dale lost money to a man he had no idea was a drug trafficker. Jax had spent three nights locked in a tiny, filthy room crawling with bugs, rats, a
nd discarded food that had gone rotten. The man who'd been put in charge of keeping an eye on him made Jax feel sick to his stomach, especially when he'd tell Jax what he was going to do to Jax if his father didn't pay up. Jax didn't close his eyes or dare fall asleep the whole time he was there. When his father finally came up with the money by selling everything they owned, including his mother's wedding ring, Jax was released. They ran as far as they could, and after his dad found out their trailer had been burned by men looking for Dale, Jax and his dad never looked back.

  And yet despite everything they'd endured, his father couldn't seem to keep from falling into the same goddamn hole over and over, with Jax having to bail him out time and time again. His friends chastised him, telling him to leave his father to whatever fate he'd brought on himself, but how could he? Dale Foster might not be Father of the Year, but he was, underneath it all, a good man, and the only family Jax had.

  The enraged bull of a man faced Jax, his boulder-sized fists at his sides, and his near-black eyes glaring at Jax. "Your old man owes me ten grand."

  Jax almost choked. "Ten thousand dollars?" He spun to face his father. "Ten thousand dollars! What the fuck, Dad?" Dale refused to meet Jax's gaze. Fuck. Fuck. Jax ran his fingers through his hair. That was a huge chunk of what he was getting paid for his commission. If he gave that up, he was done. Whatever was left would only be enough to cover the rent on his apartment for the next couple of months, but his studio.... With a heavy sigh, Jax nodded. "Dad, will you go inside please."

  Dale's brows furrowed. "But--"

  "Now, Dad," Jax said through his teeth.

  Reluctantly his father did as asked, and Jax waited for the door to close behind him before addressing the man in front of him. He was roughly Jax's height, maybe an inch or two taller, bulky, square-jawed. His chestnut-brown hair curled behind his ears, his eyebrows thick--the left containing a scar through it--and his skin a deep tan. He didn't look like a street hood, more like a boxer or wrestler, someone who kept himself in shape. His teeth were all there, straight and white, his black T-shirt and dark jeans clean, his leather jacket weathered but well cared for. Definitely hired muscle and sharp. The man studied Jax, like he was sizing him up.