Butterfly Tattoo Read online

  “Hate to admit that why?”

  “Look, Michael,” he says, turning to face me. “Rebecca’s very dear to me, and I want to be sure that you’re careful. Mindful of her feelings, and all that. I mean, you can’t go jumping tracks midway here. This is Rebecca, and she’s not up for the confusion of that.”

  I cough, choking on my beer. “Jumping tracks?”

  “Switching from AC to DC, if you prefer.” At least he’s got the balls to smile as he says it.

  “Strictly a monogamous kind of guy. I just choose my team going in.” Trevor needs to know my playbook rules.

  “I’m more of a lifetime player. I mean, I don’t quite understand how you can be satisfied without…” He pauses, then shrugs by way of explaining precisely what he couldn’t do without.

  “Yeah, well that’s your deal,” I say point-blank. “It’s different for me.”

  “As I say, I don’t get it, but Rebecca’s the only one who matters in that regard, and obviously she does understand.”

  “What do I understand?” Rebecca’s quiet voice interrupts, and we both turn to find her stepping out onto the balcony, champagne in hand. She’s flushed from the crowded party, her golden hair spilling in a tumble down her shoulders. My first thought is that she looks like she’s been doing a hell of a lot more than mingling in that party. My second thought is that I’d play for any damned team she’s part of.

  Trevor leans in to give her a kiss. “You’re smashingly beautiful tonight, sweetie.” Deft topic change, got to hand it to the guy.

  “Were you flirting with my date?” she counters, kissing him back, then looks at me, offering, “He can be a terrible flirt, so watch yourself.”

  Trevor narrows his eyes, assessing my apparent worth, then declares, albeit with a devilish expression, “I think he’s safe.” Not sure if I’m safe for her, or safe from him, but either way I understand the meaning.

  Rebecca swats him on the arm, giving me an apologetic look, and he adds, “But if there’s a real queer in there, as opposed to the quasi-straight kind, I plan to chat him up.”

  So that’s my answer, the big one I’ve been searching for all year. With Alex gone, I’m nothing but a quasi-queer of the somewhat straight variety.

  Marti’s right—I’ll bet Al is laughing his ass off right about now.

  ***

  Thank God I’m in permanent possession of a key to Casey’s Malibu beach home, and that he reminded me of that fact. And thank God that even though my friend can be a definite jerk, he’s also from big-time money, so that he owns said beach home. The doorway is shadowed and pitch-black, and I have to fumble with my keys for what feels forever, cars whirring past us on the coastal highway. Like most of the houses on this narrow strip of coastline, Casey’s abuts the road with only a thin wedge of asphalt in front. The world out here keeps washing away, one infinitesimal grain of sand at a time.

  “Just take me a minute,” I assure Rebecca, glancing at her sideways. She’s slipped off her high heels, and they’re dangling from her fingertips. I can’t help imagining stripping her out of a lot more than those shoes—every last morsel of fabric, as a matter of fact. Can’t help dreaming about running my hands over every inch of her svelte, feminine body. God, it’s been too long. Too long since I’ve made love that way and now that it’s close, I’m practically coming unglued.

  Surely she can see how my hand trembles as it turns the key in the lock. Whose great idea was it to drive out to the beach? We could have been back to her place in half the time, but I wanted to woo her in a serious way. Wanted to take her here for that first glorious kiss, to the beach, the quintessential romantic place any two lovers can be. No accident it’s where Alex and I had our commitment ceremony. No accident we’re standing here at Casey’s dark doorway at nearly midnight on a Saturday night.

  “Got it,” I assure her, my voice deeper and rougher than I mean.

  “Good,” she says, leaning close so that I catch the scent of her perfume, and I wonder if she realizes how dangerous I feel tonight.

  Get yourself under control, Warner. She’s not a guy. This is going to take time. Slow, slow down, boy. It’s just a kiss tonight. But my darker side whispers seductively, promising of a near future I’ve yet to possess, But you’ll have her soon enough.

  We enter the house, my dress shoes clicking on the smooth tile floor, and I flip on the recessed lighting over the fireplace, revealing a vivid painting of Laurel’s. It’s Santa Fe red and burnt orange, like the fire I feel smoldering inside me right now.

  “Geez,” she says, brushing past me. More perfume and feminine allure that makes me go a little crazy. “This place is gorgeous.”

  “So are you,” I whisper in a low, appreciative rumble. She turns to me, surprised. Maybe she doesn’t get what she’s been doing to me all night. Shyly, she brushes a loose strand away from her cheek. “I mean it, Rebecca. You are so beautiful in that little black dress.”

  “Every girl should own a little black dress.”

  “Every boy should see his girl in one.”

  “And you look beautiful in your suit,” she tells me, tipping her face upward to really meet my gaze. Without her heels on, I’m a relative giant beside her, big and clumsy, all male to her delicate female. I’m not used to this. Not used to being so rangy and awkward when all I want to do is kiss; I’m used to reaching upward for my kisses, to a man nearly an inch taller than me.

  Before I can sort out what to do, she slips past me, and my opportunity is missed. “Can we go out on the deck?” she asks, gesturing toward the sliding glass doors, and I swallow hard, following with a silent nod of acquiescence.

  “Good,” she says, dropping her shoes on the hand-woven rug, “I want to see the moon tonight.”

  And I want to see the moonlight in your eyes, sweet Rebecca.

  ***

  Rough out here this evening, the wind all kicked up and the waves rolling hard, nothing but foamy chop. We’ve been outside on Casey’s deck a while, not talking, just quiet together. Me reclining on the lounge chair, watching her watch the sea, her knowing that I’m watching, and letting me.

  “What was your first kiss with Alex like?” she asks contemplatively, staring out at the pounding waves, hands clasping the metal railing.

  I notice that her shoulders are small but strong, like fine porcelain gleaming in the moonlight. Her long hair sails on the breeze, blowing around her face, and after a while, I move behind her. She glances back, wondering why I haven’t answered, and I’m right there. My large hands cup her waist, because I need to feel how soft she is, how different her body is from my own. Languid green eyes track upward, meet mine, and one glance causes a sharp tightening in my groin.

  Brushing a few wild strands away from her lips, I murmur my answer. “Like this,” I breathe, leaning low to feel the velvet softness of her mouth beneath mine, the satin of her cheek. But kissing Allie was never like this; this is something virgin and new. This is a first kiss, what all first kisses should be, as her warm mouth opens completely to mine. She folds into me, effortless; I cup her face within my rough palms, drawing her inward. It seems to last forever, this dance of becoming one.

  “I was wrong,” I finally gasp against her mouth, desperate to get my bearings with her.

  “About what?” She stares up at me through golden lashes, still holding onto my suit lapel.

  Alex is receding behind me, like the beach, with us turned out to sea. Forgive me, baby.

  I brush my thumb over her lower lip, absolutely aching, inside and out. For him, for her. Then I whisper, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a kiss quite like that one.”

  Exactly what I thought when I shared in that first forbidden kiss out on a darkened dance floor. The first time I realized just how cunning and swift love could be.

  ***

  As soon as Andrea’s sitter pulls out of the driveway, the remorse begins. Before I can lock the door, it descends like a wily vulture on my blissful date night. That I stayed
out so late—well past midnight—that I kissed someone. The first someone other than Alex since his death. Oh, I feel lousy all right; so bad that I think I could be sick now that I’m here in our house. Surely he knows, right? Surely he knew the minute my heart opened up to her. I pace the length of the living room, feeling frantic and nauseous. I walk down the hall and stare through the thinly cracked doorway at our sleeping angel of a daughter, all curled up like a tiny Botticelli with her feet flung on top of the covers. She’s an eight-year-old microcosm of so much that I loved in her daddy.

  Closing the door, I lean my forehead against it, listening to my own breathing, waiting for something, though I have no clue what that something is. Pacing back into the living room, I notice a picture in the bookcase, of the two of us at Casey’s beach house—on the same damn deck where I kissed a girl tonight.

  “I’m sorry.” When the words electrify the air, only then do I realize I wasn’t just thinking them. That I’d given them life that way.

  Sinking onto the sofa, I bury my head in my hands and wait for his answer. It’s irrational, but it’s what I do, like a child praying in church, expecting God to bellow down a reply. Do I think Al’s going to exonerate me? Not damned likely.

  Pressing my eyes shut, I feel tears burn behind the lids because I really am falling for Rebecca, and it’s like I’m cheating on him. The one thing I would never do to him, my soul mate, I’m doing just by living on without him. It’s inevitable. If not Rebecca, someone else—but the problem is the locomotive intensity of this thing with her.

  There’s the answering quiet of raindrops on the roof right at that moment, icy fingertips tapping out a sonorous rhythm, and it takes me back. To years ago when he and I were first getting involved, and were lying in bed together one night early on. I was staring at the ceiling. Wondering what the hell I had gotten into, all tangled up with my best friend like that.

  I told him so, too. That surely I’d come unglued or something, no matter how damned sexy he was. I’ll never forget what he said next, or the sound of the raindrops pattering on the roof of his apartment that night. How hushed the midnight bedroom seemed when he rolled onto his side, staring at me with those honest, beautiful blue eyes.

  “Michael, this doesn’t have to be so hard, you know,” he said, searching my face.

  “Don’t see how not,” I answered, staring away from him—anywhere but into those eyes. “Falling for you is pretty damned hard to deal with.”

  “Maybe you could just open up your heart and see where it leads you,” he replied with a forgiving laugh. “Instead of always fighting everything so much.”

  I doubt any single statement ever changed me more. Because my lover knew me well, already—I’d been fighting and running my whole life. Alex was only the latest in a lifetime of battles. And my uncertainty about things didn’t fade automatically after that, but it was like I sighed. Or relaxed. Or began to trust. I’m not sure, but I stopped fighting him so damned much.

  Open up your heart and see where it leads you…

  Opening my eyes, I stare across our living room, startled that Alex isn’t standing right there grinning at me, because I swear I actually heard the words. Maybe that explains why I glance toward the kitchen. I’m looking for him, expecting him to be right there. That’s when I notice the message light blinking on the kitchen phone, and slowly rise to my feet.

  From the first syllable, I know who it is on the recorder. I would recognize her voice anywhere, any place, because even though he was a man and she’s a woman, there’s something eerily similar in the timbre of their twin voices.

  “…I wanted to see how you are, Michael. I’ve missed you,” Laurel is saying, her soft, cultured voice making me shiver. “I was sorry not to see you last weekend. Like we’d planned.” There’s a strange pause and I can tell she’s taking a quick drag on her cigarette. Still hasn’t kicked that habit, not even after all these years. Then she says, “I’m coming to Los Angeles in a couple of weeks, Michael. I’d like to stay with you, if that’s okay. If you’ll have me.”

  The shivers are becoming terrified shakes. Laurel can’t be coming, not here, not to my turf.

  Open up your heart and see where it leads, Alex whispers in my ear again, and I want to shout at him, to tell him to leave me alone. Stop pushing me so hard; stop taking me to the edge like he always fucking has.

  And then I think of how much Laurel meant to him, of the nearly frightening twin-bond they shared. That she was already crying when I called her the night of his death; that she knew he was gone.

  If Alex is still roaming my world, maybe it’s because he needs resolution. Not just resolution between the two of them, either—maybe he needs to know there’s resolution between us all.

  Reaching for the phone, my hands sweaty and trembling, I hope to God that calling her is the right thing to do.

  Chapter Thirteen: Rebecca

  Early summertime is downtime in the world of filmmaking. Producers leave on Friday for the beach, execs motor out to Palm Springs, television shows are on hiatus. The whole studio lot feels like a college campus during summer school, as everyone breathes a little easier and daydreams a little longer. There’s no sweeter time to fall under the spell of love.

  And I’ve been doing my part, floating from that first Michael Warner kiss for nearly two weeks now—or floating from kiss to kiss, I should say. There have been luscious handfuls of them, including a tussling session on Michael’s sofa last night that reached fevered, limb-tangled proportions before we called “cut”. With Andrea asleep in the next room, we both knew it was time to pull away before we wound up in a completely horizontal position. He sat there on the edge of the sofa, raking his hand through his disheveled hair, and I sat on my side, listening to the rush of blood in my ears. Even in the darkness, I could see the rise and fall of his chest, and I didn’t miss the way he tugged at his jeans, adjusting them when he stood to help me up.

  But then afterwards, as he walked me quietly to the car, I sensed him withdrawing. He offered no more kisses, not even one of his trademark flirtatious grins with “Night, Rebecca” tagged onto it for sexy measure. Just a wave and a faint smile as he opened my car door. But if he thought he’d concealed his thoughts from me, he was mistaken.

  While a part of me felt insecure as I drove back over the darkened hills to my apartment—I even wondered fleetingly if he’d seen my scarred chest during the tusslefest—I also suspected the real issue. One Alex Richardson. He’d passed between us like that before, right in the middle of some intense moment of connection, changing the mood unexpectedly. Michael doesn’t talk about him much, but he’s often there, sometimes broad and tall, other times ghostly and whispering, always an eerie form of romantic competition. He’s the hero, the one who got away, the first love, the soul mate. Thousands of threatening definitions could apply—and yet I’m fascinated with him. After all, he’s a legend to the map of this world I’m cautiously entering, a clue to what once held them all together.

  And a clue to what’s keeping Michael and Andrea apart.

  See, it’s those secrets again. I feel them, tugging at the edges of their family like the draw and release of the tides. There’s a definite rhythm to their melancholy; sometimes it’s flat, and other times it swells intensely, unexpectedly lifting away. Joy is there, too, like last night when Michael chased Andrea around their patch of backyard until they both collapsed in the grass, giggling, red-faced, and breathless. But then there’s the crashing wave of memory, and Andrea pulls in tight again—she’s angry, features set like cold granite against her father, sulking away in her room.

  I do have my questions about their relationship. Like if he’s her adoptive father, then why does she call him by his first name? I know she called Alex “Daddy”, but didn’t she call Michael something similar—like Dad or Papa or even Father? I am curious about the reasons for that, and also about Andrea’s birthmother—the agency-provided surrogate Michael told me carried her for nine months�
�but I know enough to wait for all the facts. Not to push Michael when he’s obviously not ready to talk. I haven’t gotten this far in show business without knowing when to stay quiet, that’s for sure.

  Still, watching their wounded dance from the outside is tough. After she stormed off last night, he sat there on the ground, looking stunned and hurt. Then he finally stood, brushing away bits of freshly mown grass from his hands and knees.

  “I know that has to be hard,” I said, moving to clear the dinner plates from the table on the deck. “When she opens up like that, and then closes off again.”

  “I keep trying to figure it out. Our counselor says to give her time.”

  Andrea had placed a dandelion by each of our glasses, and I sniffed mine, saying, “You don’t exactly strike me as the patient type.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m pretty fucking ready for a breakthrough,” he said, staring at the patio door through which she’d just vanished. “I can tell you that.”

  “And you don’t strike me as one to mince words, either.” I laughed, handing him the dandelions from around our plates. Thankfully, he began to smile then too, rolling the flower stems between his fingertips.

  “She talks to you,” he said after a moment, contemplative. “She tell you anything I should know?”

  The hopeful expression in his brown eyes pained me, but I had to say, “Not really, but maybe she will. If we give her enough time.”

  He nodded seriously and bent down, kissing the top of my head. And for that moment, despite all the heat that usually stormed between us, I’m sure I became a stand-in for one closed-off, absent little girl.

  ***

  So here I am, poolside on Friday afternoon, playing hooky from my job before the day’s even done. That earned me a standing ovation from Trevor as he watched me leave my office, armloads of scripts clutched in both hands. When I explained that Michael was dropping Andrea over to spend time with me by Mona’s pool late this afternoon, his smile faded.