Matthew

STOP: Warning! This is a sequel to the story ‘Muffin’. If you haven’t read that story, then this one will not make sense. At all. Seriously. Don’t waste your time!

 

 

 

 

Lean fingers quietly wrapped around the base of a ridiculously expensive crystal glass, tilting the irreplaceable object back towards the edge of the table. Within the layers of manually crafted crystal, the reflection of a stony face watched the light brown of the alcohol inside slosh quietly against transparent walls. He'd been staring at the drink for hours, resulting in melted ice that did more to ruin the taste than heighten the intensity with any sort of temperature management. That meant about $2,000 worth of alcohol wasted, though judging by the man's expression it didn't seem like he cared.

The soft ring of the office phone waned his attention on the fourth try. A soft blink carried the bland gaze from glass to phone, where many of the lights lined up on the right side lit up like a newly decorated Christmas tree. Might as well, he thought, but no real motivation guided his hand when he reached across untouched papers to press the Speaker button.

“Yes?” he hummed softly.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Pickett, but there’s an incoming call on your private line.”

“Patch it through.”

“Yes sir.”

Asher waited patiently as a soft click resounded in the speakers, disconnecting his secretary only to echo what he first assumed to be white noise. A bad connection? Thin lips dripped into a frown, disapproving of the poor quality of Alrick’s phone. He had been sure to exaggerate the necessity for satellite phones last time they spoke, though it seemed his dear friend remained absentminded.

“Hello?” a voice peeked from the speakers, much more clear than expected against the backdrop of sizzling sound. Asher’s chest immediately tightened, beginning a series of overwhelming bodily reactions that heated his skin. That voice. That wasn’t Alrick. “Hello?” it called again.

Grey eyes stared in utter shock at the blinking red light just above the speaker of the phone, shadowed by light eyebrows that furrowed at the continuous white noise in the background. No, that wasn’t Alrick. And that wasn’t white noise. It was rain.

“It’s me,” the voice quivered.

Anger hitched his breath a step above calm. He suddenly rose from his seat, towering over the phone in a moment of outrage and an act of impulse. The fact that he didn’t know whether to hang up or trace the call kept his hands eerily idle, though tight, tense, caught in an overbearing sense of indecision.

“I know… you’re probably angry, and I have no right to be asking anything from you, but… I… I need your help,” the phone echoed. He heard the person on the other end of the line rustle, listened to the voice quake, and just as he made the conscious decision to disconnect the call he heard what could only be described as a sob. His fingers paused in midair, reluctant to follow through on his mental order to hang up on the estranged caller. “Please,” the voice rasped. “Please help me. I really messed up this time. I should have been more careful, but… oh god, I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know where to go. Please help me. You’re the only one that can help me,” it whined.

Asher swayed back into the plush comfort of his leather chair. He could picture the brilliant green eyes overflowing with tears, could see the moisture stuck on the thick black lashes, could imagine the way both plump lips quivered with each shuddered breath, and that alone kept him from instantly refusing the desperate request. He couldn’t help wondering if the inky hair clung to the soft skin in wet clumps, if the cheeks had reddened from the cold, or if the lips would taste of rain.

It’d been four years since the boy had betrayed him and disappeared, but Asher Pickett was never one to forgive and forget. He had never stopped looking for Matthew Wildemore. And now the little brat had come to him, begging for his help?

Well, this was going to be fun.