MisMatch (A Humorous Contemporary Romance)

by Nana Malone

  His brother didn't look at him, but kept painting. The broad, bold strokes of his brush outlined the curve of a woman’s cheek. “What the fuck did I do this time?”

  Eli winced. “You say that like I only ever come to you with problems.”

  Sam did look at him then. “No. I'm just saying. You’ve got your serious pseudo cop face on. And you didn’t use the front door, which means you wanted a minute before coming in here to talk to me. So, way I figure it, I did something pretty gnarly.”

  “Maybe you should have been the pseudo cop.”

  Sam shook his head. “Nah. Staring at other people’s work all day would frustrate me if I had the talent to do better.”

  The little dig sliced clean and deep. Sam would never understand why Eli did what he did. All he saw was his failed artist of a brother. He would never understand that he needed the stability. Needed the normalcy. Being an artist tapped into a part of him he needed to keep under control. “My failed art career is not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Samson resumed painting. “Get on with it then. I want to start on this beauty's body tonight, and I feel conspicuous with you as an audience.”

  He'd been sick before with the guilt of what he had to accuse Sam of. With the guilt of not having protected his brother from himself yet again. Even as he sat forward and watched Sam, Eli looked for any evidence of using. Any kind of tell that would inform him that his brother was back on drugs again. There was nothing. Sam looked healthy. Yet the first rule of dealing with an addict was to never assume and never go on looks alone. “So you know that case I’ve been working on with Vince.”

  Sam barked out a cold chuckle. “Yeah?”

  Eli ground his teeth. Sam kept his back to him, but Eli could see the bunched muscles in his brother’s shoulders. “The artist is a genius really. He’s capable of mimicking some fantastic pieces of artwork. To the letter. He uses the same paint, the same kind of canvas, everything is picture perfect.”

  Sam turned to face him, his lips flat and his brows furrowed. “Sounds like an exceptional artist.”

  “Oh, that I have no doubt. But he's made a fatal error. Like you said, every forger you’ve ever known can’t help but to sign his work.”

  Samson's eyes flared. “Spit it out, Eli. What’s going on?”

  “All I want to know is why you would do this again. After everything we risked to bring you back. To get you healthy. Why would you throw it all away again? Why would you do this to me? You know I'd have to be the one to catch you.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me, right now?” Sam crossed his arms and planted his feet apart.

  Eli recognized the challenge and stood to meet it. “I wish I was kidding you, Sam.” He shook his head. “Just fucking tell me one thing. When did you start using again? Why would you do this?”

  The roaring anger vibrated through his body. He saw Samson's fist clench, but was too late to gauge the swing until the force of his brother's fist connected with his jaw.

  Chapter 18

  Eli's muscles moved like sludge through a meat grinder as he drove to the Z Con Studio. Since his little confrontation with Samson, he hadn’t been able to think or see straight. It didn't make matters any better that Samson was in complete silence mode. He'd texted to say the pieces were ready for the exhibition and where Eli should pick them up, but there was no salutation, no nothing. Like Eli could blame him. His jaw still smarted and had turned a nice shade of purple.

  Sam had said he wasn’t using. He’d said the forgeries weren't his. But how the hell was Eli supposed to believe that given Sam’s history? Given everything they'd been through? Eli wanted to take him at his word, but once an addict always an addict. It was too hard to trust him. It would be dangerous for both of them if he did. Eli had already risked his career to help his brother. He was risking everything by not telling Vince of his suspicions. If Vince dug any further, he'd find Sam’s sealed records, and he'd figure it all out.

  Eli trailed the delivery truck to the side entrance of Z Con's studio and parked at the same time as the moving guys parked. Climbing out of his car, he gave them brief instructions before heading for the front door.

  Even before he had his hand on the knob, Jessica was sprinting out to the side of the house. “Let me see them, let me see them! I can’t believe you kept these away from me for this long.” Her eyes narrowed as she got a good look at him. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Nothing. Took a stray punch doing something for Vince.”

  He chuckled as he followed her. She still wore neon, but it was in a somewhat muted outfit than he was used to seeing on her. A simple dress that flared over her hips accentuating her slim waist. She looked very vintage pin-up.

  As the men set up, she stepped around every piece, assessing, exploring, sometimes seemingly getting lost in a piece before moving on to the next one. She did that for every single painting. He drank in her obvious joy. She looked at every one as if she was examining them merely for the enjoyment of the work. Not in a professional capacity or a critical way, but because she seemed to like it.

  When she stepped in front of the last piece, her hand flew to her chest. “Eli, is this your mother?”

  Because she blocked his view, he didn’t see the painting until after he walked right up behind her. His breath stopped. Yes, it was his mother. This was new. Probably what Samson was painting the other night when Eli had wrecked their family bonds for good. The photo was haunting in its elegance, but the eyes were strong and fierce like she was ready to do battle. And she had. Right up until she died of a heart attack, she'd fought to keep Samson clean. It was only fitting that he painted what looked like his final memory of her.

  Eli cleared his throat. “Yes, that’s my mother.”

  “She's beautiful. What fierce love in her face. It’s visceral and palpable. It's outstanding.”

  He wanted to beam with pride in Samson’s work. But the compliment felt hollow. Only because he wasn’t the one who should be receiving it. What the hell could he say to her? He only nodded.

  She looked around him. “What’s that?”

  The movers rolled in one more piece mounted to a pedestal, and Jessica squealed. “Holy shit, Eli. Is that one of the pieces I saw the other day? This is—”

  Unable to stop the rush of emotion, he clamped his jaw shut and stared at the offending piece. It was the last one he'd done before he'd quit sculpting. The last one before Sam had gone to prison. The pain sliced deep as Jessica walked around it, touching and examining his work. How the hell could Samson have done this to him? Easy, you accused him of using again. Eli felt raw, exposed, like he’d just gone to work completely buck-ass naked.

  “Jesus, Eli, you certainly love the female form. There is something so raw and still so delicate about this.”

  He cleared his throat. She was staring at him, expecting him to say something. Anything. But all he could do was stare at the piece. The end of his wild days. When he'd grown up. He had no words.

  A light click click sound brought him out of his reverie. Jessica was standing in front of him snapping her fingers. “Yo, Earth to Eli. Want to tell me why you're doing your best walking dead routine?”

  When he finally found his voice, he didn't recognize it. It was so raw with emotion. “I'm not showing the sculpted piece.”

  “Are you insane, Eli? That should be the center piece of the whole show.”

  The hell it would be. His brain scrambled for a reason. “I-I'm not ready to show it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? It's already been cast. All you have to do is name it. I'm not letting you get away with this shit. I know you’re a sensitive artist, but sometimes as your manager I know best. Left to you, you wouldn’t ever show anything. You hired me to make your career sparkle, and this piece helps me do that. What do you call it?”

  The word was out of his mouth, before he even knew his brain had formed the thought. “Imperfection.”

  “Imperfe
ction. Fitting. I'm going to want a complete look at all your finished pieces.”

  Eli's vision grayed. He needed to breathe. Take a breath man, your brain could use the O2. He drew in a breath and immediately felt better, so he dragged in another one. Samson had done this on purpose. His way of saying, fuck you maybe? Though, subtlety was not usually Sam's style. He would have just busted out a big ol', “Fuck you.” Like that hit to the jaw. No, Imperfections' miraculous appearance said that even though Eli had hurt him, he still believed in him, even if Eli couldn’t return the feeling.

  How the hell was Eli going to get away without showing the damn thing? Jessica was stubborn enough to insist, and at this point, regardless of what was going on with Samson or the case, he couldn’t tell her the full truth until this was all over.

  Jessica put a hand on his shoulder. “This is for you, Samson. I know how artists can get. Like Erykah Badu said, you guys are sensitive about your shit, but I wouldn’t insist if I didn’t know it was good. You have to trust me.”

  He inhaled and let out a slow breath. “And I still need to feel comfortable. It's my soul out there.” Wasn't that the truth?

  Surprisingly, she backed off. Putting her hands up, she said, “Okay, fine. I understand. I'll back off for now, but when we have the smaller gallery opening. I want you to consider it.”

  Not on your life. But to assuage her, he nodded. Knowing his foul mood was bringing her down when she'd been so happy, he plastered the brightest smile he could muster. “Look, these guys need to set up for me anyway.” He massaged the back of his neck. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

  Her smile was bright. “Yep, I have a dress picked out and everything. And don’t worry. This one doesn’t have skulls all over it or anything. I’ll be very sedate and proper.”

  “What if I like the skulls?” Her style was a bit gothy punk, but also ultra-feminine.

  “And I’ll be on my best behavior, no matter how much I loathe Destiny.”

  Eli forced a grin. Her mild jealous streak was cute, but he knew better than to tell her so. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow, okay?”

  “You, sir, have yourself a deal.”

  ***

  An hour after Eli left, Jessica tried to sort out which pieces would stay in the gallery and which ones would move to the larger venue. She worked with Miranda to pick the larger show stopper images for the larger exhibit.

  “God damn these shoes are murder.” Jessica slipped off the three-and-half inch silver nightmares and wiggled her toes. “Miranda, I want to make sure I give Raul some instructions about pick up for the opening. Can you hang out for a minute?”

  The brunette nodded. “Sure, I'm all yours.”

  Jessica bit back a smile as she hopped on the walkway to reach Raul. She had an assistant. Well, one she shared with Izzy, but an assistant none the less.

  With tender feet, she gave up on the gravel walkway and went for the grass. “Hey, Raul, one thing. I want to make sure we have enough space on Saturday. Can you go into the venue and double check the measurements, so we don't have any problems trying to get the larger installation items in? I don’t want any of this to go wrong.”

  Raul nodded and gave her a brief run-down of what had already been done and what still needed some work. She watched as he climbed into his truck, praying she hadn’t forgotten anything. She’d never pulled off a show like this with someone like Eli. It was one thing to do photo gallery shows for Izzy. Izzy was already established. It was a whole other thing to work with an unknown client.

  She wiped her hands on the back of her jeans. This would work. It had to. Izzy and Jason had believed in her, so she'd better pull it together. As she watched Raul's truck pull off, she stood outside a second longer, soaking up the sunshine.

  Miranda joined her on the lawn. “Come on. You can do that in Malibu. Izzy called; you’re already late for Nick’s tournament.”

  “Okay, I’m coming, I can see—”

  Tires screeching to her right diverted her attention from Miranda. A late model Oldsmobile swerved into the middle of the street. It was when she heard the combination of a gunned engine and Miranda's shout from the door that she realized what was happening. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  The car was barreling straight for her.

  Heart thudding and brain flowing in slow motion, she darted away from the sidewalk, rolling onto the front lawn. The car missed her by a foot.

  Holy shit, had someone just tried to kill her?

  Chapter 19

  Jessica’s tights itched. But she knew better than to scratch; she'd only put a hole in the thigh highs and where would that land her? Then she'd be that holey girl Samson Marks had brought to the benefit.

  She kept telling herself that it didn’t smart that she hadn’t been the one to be able to get him an invite. But who was she kidding? As a nod to decorum, she'd worn her natural hair tonight. No feather adornments or jewels, only platinum. She’d worked it into a fifties-inspired Greta Garbo style. The only part of her that told her she was still her was the dress color. Though it was formal, strapless with a simple sweetheart neckline, it bore a shocking slit and was a wholly inappropriate fushia color. The dress drew enough looks to give her a chuckle.

  “A penny for your thoughts?”

  Eli’s velvet voice enveloped her. She warmed instantly.

  “Just thinking how everyone is staring. It's like you brought Hester Prynne as your date.” She hadn’t told him about the incident with the car at the gallery. For that matter, she hadn’t told Izzy either. She didn’t need them fawning all over her. Miranda didn’t like keeping it quiet, but she’d done so under the deal that Jessica would call the police.

  And she would. Later. Much later.

  A sharp chuckle made Eli’s chest rumble. “I doubt Hester Prynne had your talent in the bedroom. That thing you do with your tongue. It’s—”

  She smacked him on the arm. “Eli, people can hear you.”

  He rolled his eyes. “How long are we staying at this shindig anyway?”

  “You have yet to make a full revolution around the room. It’s important for you to meet everyone in here. This will be your audience for the opening and exhibit. At least some of them anyway.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Are you coming with me?”

  “That's a negative. Besides, these women want the air of availability on you. I'll be right here. Don’t worry. If you need help, send up a signal flair.”

  He nodded, and Jessica scanned the crowd. “Hey, is that your friend Vince over there?”

  Eli nodded. “Yeah, he was invited by his date, I think.”

  “Go on, mingle.” She stepped away, even though she wanted to hang onto him. No self-assured woman worth her salt would be attached to some man, trying to make him keep her company because she was terrified of social situations. Certainly not her.

  Making her way over to Vince she smiled. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  He looked a little startled to see her. “I see pink is definitely your color.”

  “And you're still a charmer, I see.”

  He grinned. “So how's uh, Eli, doing?”

  “He's good, I think. The idea of schmoozing up people is a little clinical and cold to him though. He’d rather be painting. But I'm trying to make him see it's a necessary evil.”

  “You know, I think he'll be okay.”

  “Yeah, should be, but left to him, he'd be in the studio all day. He's always working.”

  Vince’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, as his manager, I'm thrilled. But I want him to learn to relax a little.”

  “You and me both.”

  After chatting with Vince for another several minutes and dancing to one song, she searched the crowd for Eli.

  “So are you going to let me buy you a drink?”

  Jessica turned to find Mr. Tall Dark and tattooed to her right. He was clearly an artist and not one of the old money financiers. Just her type. Just her old type. She h
eld up her glass. “Thanks, but I have a drink.”

  “Well, I always say a beautiful woman needs another.”

  Okay, not taking the brush off. “But I’ve barely even started this one.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He was pretty, in that too-thin guitar player way. Before Samson, she’d have leapt at the chance. His dangerous edge appealed to her. It was a language she spoke and understood. She eyed his arm. “Impressive ink.”

  He indicated her shoulder. “Yours, too.”

  She shrugged. It had been so long since she'd even taken a proper look at hers. She quickly looked around the room for Samson and found him surrounded by women, including Destiny. Destiny said something to him, and he grinned at her. Not the usual lopsided one Jessica was used to seeing, or the smirk he often wore if he was talking about Vince, but a full on grin. Then the evil cow put a hand on his arm and leaned in conspiratorially.

  White-hot fury had Jessica clutching her hand around the glass. He’s a free agent, she reminded herself. It doesn’t matter who else he's talking to. That’s not the kind of deal you guys have. Or rather, that’s the deal she'd given him right away.

  Refocusing her attention on tatted and lanky, Jessica plastered a smile on her face. “So let me guess, you're an artist masquerading as a guitar player.”

  His expression confused, he gave her an unsure smile. “How did you know I was a guitar player?”

  Jessica laughed. “I have this weird thing where I can pick out the guy in the band in a crowded room. It's a pretty great skill to have.” She smiled at him sweetly. If Eli could flirt, so could she.

  The brunette beside Destiny ran her hand across Eli's shoulders and down his arm. Staying there a moment too long.

  “What's your name anyway, guitar guy?”

  “Blake.”

  “Well, Blake, how about a dance?”

  Blake’s eyes darkened with interest. “How about more than a dance?”

  And there that went—any interest she might have pretended to have in him was gone. But looking over his shoulder, she could see Eli was still surrounded and loving every minute of it. “No, a dance is all I have the energy for now.”