Butterfly Tattoo Page 4

  “So, Warner, you sleeping in?” I hear from the doorway and literally jump, startled from my somber ruminations.

  “Marti, hey.” I rake a hand over my disheveled hair in an effort to tame the unruly beast. She peers at me with her clear green eyes, a smile filling her full face. Marti’s the yin to my yang, short and squat where I’m tall and rangy.

  “No use, my friend.” She laughs hoarsely, reaching onto my dresser and tossing me Alex’s antique comb. I never use it because it’s like some holy relic, an artifact left by my dead lover, but she doesn’t know that. I reach for where it rests on the handmade quilt, lifting the silver spine gingerly between my fingertips. She stares for a long moment, and I feel exposed, treating such a commonplace object with undisguised reverence. So I do what I haven’t done in nearly twelve months, and use the damn thing.

  Of course it catches and knots through my short, unmanageable hair as she settles cross-legged on the bed next to me. “How you feeling?”

  “Great.”

  “Yeah, I can tell.” She seizes the comb from my hand. “Faker.”

  “About what?” I collapse back onto the pillows, and the feel of cool cotton against my cheek instantly soothes me.

  “Everything.” She leans back with me, crossing her stubby bare feet as she settles on Alex’s old side of the bed. “The hangover, the comb, our breakfast date.”

  “The comb?” I’m pure innocence, and she props her head on one elbow, staring at me.

  “That Alex’s mother gave him when he went to college,” she clicks off easily. “Had been part of her father’s set. You haven’t used it a single time since he died.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “It had dust on it.”

  “Damn, girl, you’re good.”

  “No, I’m just a good accountant. It’s my job to follow a trail.” She reaches for my clammy hand, squeezing it in her warmer one, planting a gentle kiss on my knuckles. “Well, and I also know you very well, my friend.”

  “Did Alex pay you to do this, Marti?” I sigh. “Did I miss that in the will or something? I mean, you and Casey are tag-teaming these days.”

  “He’s out back, actually. Trying to salvage what’s left of your garden.”

  Casey’s a landscape architect who runs several crews around the exclusive parts of the city, and my yard’s just a charity project.

  “Y’all are relentless lately.”

  “Because you’re starting to get scary, Michael. To all of us.” I think of Andrea in the next room and how strained things are. Am I scaring her, too? Marti seems to read my thoughts. “Andrea’s already had breakfast,” she says. “We let you sleep in.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Seemed like a great idea when I tripped over the pizza box and garbage bag full of empty beer bottles.”

  I rub my eyes with a repressed groan, wondering if Andrea saw them when she woke.

  “Casey took care of them discreetly. But you’ve got to pull it together, Michael,” she admonishes gently.

  “Don’t worry, this hangover pretty much guarantees that I will.”

  “I’m not just talking about the drinking, even though I know it’s a lot more than last night.” It’s true, so I don’t make any further lame arguments. I simply wait for the rest, because with Marti, there’s always more.

  “You know Alex wouldn’t want you hurting this way,” she continues. “Bleeding along like this.” I flash on a wounded whale, banking through the water, trailing a ribbon of blood—not quite dead, but not living either. “You do realize that, don’t you?” she says, her forehead furrowing into creases of concern.

  I turn away from her. “Alex loved life,” I say flatly, watching the ceiling fan’s soundless rotations and fighting a fresh wave of nausea. I can’t do this now, can’t have the big talk that she’s been bucking for lately.

  “Alex loved you.” She sits up in bed, staring down at me for emphasis. “Okay? We both know how much he loved his family. But he’d want you to get on with living, Michael, not mourn him forever like this.”

  “Come on, Marti, he hasn’t even been gone a year yet.”

  “But you’re getting worse every day.”

  “What? You don’t think that sackcloth and ashes is a sexy look on me?” I joke with a bitter laugh, and earn a terrible Marti-sized scowl in return; it fills her whole moon-shaped face.

  “I’m not laughing,” she says.

  “I can see that.”

  “Life is for the living, you know.” She turns Alex’s comb within her hands, gazing at it like some divine instrument of guidance until she taps the silver handle against her lips with a sigh. “Look, Michael, you’ve got to do whatever it takes,” she says soberly. “Because you’re fading fast, and if something doesn’t change, it’ll be more than Alex that we’ve lost. This grief is going to kill you, too.”

  With that sinister prophecy, she slides off the end of the bed and out of my room without another glance.

  Drowsy-eyed, I make my way out of the bedroom, wearing faded jeans and a sloppy T-shirt. The pants are loose on me—yet more physical evidence of the spiritual emaciation that Marti’s been talking about. When I enter the living room, Andrea’s eyes are laser-locked with the television, on what looks to be Hannah Montana.

  “Morning, sweet pea,” I announce with a smile, but she doesn’t bother answering me. I watch her as I move past our leather sofa, where she’s sitting, knees tucked neatly inside her cotton nightgown. “Did I hear a ‘good morning’ there?” I push, sounding a little too much like my old drill sergeant.

  Finally, she blinks up at me. “Morning.” Nothing more, no hint of our late-night truce. Not even a smile; just a chilly blue-eyed glance.

  “That’s my girl.” Back at my game of appeasement as usual. Marti’s in the kitchen, doling out eggs and bacon for me, and I bend low to kiss her cheek, whispering an awkward “thanks” as she presses the plate into my hand.

  “We only talking food?” she asks, leaning back against the counter. “Or is life advice included in that murmur of gratitude?”

  “Whole enchilada, Ms. Murphy.” I hoist myself up onto the bar, lifting the plate close to my chin for ease of consumption. It’s the kind of uncouth behavior that Alex used to complain about; something I now do precisely because he’s not here to gripe anymore. Maybe it’s my way of venting some of this subtle anger that’s always swashing around inside of me.

  “You know, since I’m clearly on a roll here,” Marti says, snagging some bacon out of the pan for herself, “would you consider one more piece of advice?”

  “I’m guessing I don’t have a choice.”

  She steps much closer to me. Casting a cautious glance in Andrea’s direction, she clasps my shoulder conspiratorially. “You need some time to yourself. Time to do something just for you. I could take Andrea home to stay the night. The kids would love to see her, and Dave’s planning to cook burgers on the grill.”

  For a moment, sadness stabs at my heart because Marti and Dave lead a family life that I can only dream of giving Andrea. Hell, it’s not a life our daughter’s ever led, not even when Alex was still alive. I should be grateful for the occasional time she gets at their suburban home, not jealous of the way Andrea worships their whole family, but I can’t seem to help myself.

  In the living room, Andrea’s already looking our way with keen expectation. “Sure,” I say, tightlipped without meaning to be. “That’d be great.”

  “Cool!” Andrea cries, bounding to her feet. “Can I go pack now?”

  “Yeah, sweetie, go get your stuff together.” I barely have the words out before she’s vanished into her room.

  Marti’s gaze drills into me, telling me that I should just take this break. “Don’t feel guilty. You always do, but don’t. Go and have some fun, for crying out loud. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Fun? I doubt I’m capable of it anymore. I think of Casey and his repeated invitations to hit the movies, get
a couple of beers, head out dancing—anything that involves going out with the guys. But the thought of passing through those old haunts without Alex chills me to the core.

  “Yeah, I’ll do something relaxing.” Fix that stupid burned-out light in the hallway, the one I’ve been ignoring for the past year. Maybe work out in the yard for a while, try to pick up where Casey leaves off today. I see him out there now, bent over, slaving to resurrect the flower garden before it’s choked alive by weeds.

  Marti slugs me on the shoulder. “Good, because there will be a test at the end of the break. And remember what I said about life, okay?” Marti admonishes, an encouraging smile filling her broad face.

  “It’s for the living?”

  She gets the look of a pleased parent, as if I’ve recited my alphabet correctly. “Right!”

  Right. But the thing is I can’t help but wonder, like I did last night, if I’m even part of that club anymore.

  ***

  So much for my revolutionary plan of staying home by myself, because no sooner than I’d set about repairing that hallway light, teetering high on the stepladder, that I remember my un-deposited paycheck, left somewhere on my workbench back at the studio. Yet more evidence of the mental haze I’ve been wandering around in these days, especially since I count on that weekly check. So without showering, I climb in the truck and hightail it toward Hollywood, knowing that with enough luck I can get the check to the bank before it closes at one.

  Money’s tight, that’s for sure. Not that Al’s insurance payout wasn’t generous in the extreme, especially since he’d arranged for maximum coverage in an effort to offset the loss of his hefty annual income. But after I paid off the mortgage and tucked the rest in a fund for Andrea, it didn’t leave much. Frankly, I’m afraid to touch the rest; guess it’s the difference in my background and Allie’s. When you come from money you don’t worry about it drying up like I always seem to do.

  So it’s a liquidity issue, not so much a bottom-line one, and that means I need to get that paycheck into the bank pronto. That’s what I tell myself, not that being alone scares the living shit out of me, or that I’d rather go tinker with something at my job than perform an electrician’s task back home. Not that the empty sounds of my own home, the way it groans and settles when no one else is around, spook the hell out of me these days.

  No, it’s not any of that, I think, rumbling through the famed archway of my workplace, searching for a few hours of peace.

  Being the lowly electrical staff member that I am, I’m supposed to park off studio premises in the massive parking deck. But I risk the illegality of swiping a reserved producer’s spot since it’s Saturday and I’m not here to stay. Still, I’d rather avoid pointless fines, so I give the parking-lot perimeter a cautious scan, and begin walking briskly toward the soundstage that I call home. I’m lost in thought, outlining plans for domestic progress back at the house, when something makes me look to the far right, across Chaplin Park. There’s a woman walking alone, golden ponytail swinging as she moves. Something about that single detail strikes me as graceful, beautiful.

  I have to watch her move across the brightly lit lawn. She’s small with a killer figure, this woman, wearing loose khakis that can’t hide the curves. The clingy white T-shirt outlines a well-muscled body, and I know she may be delicate, but she’s not fragile. Tough and strong, that’s what she looks to be, with loads of power packed into that slender figure.

  I keep walking behind her, slow, and feel guilty for the way I’m tracking her movements. I mean, so far stalking hasn’t appeared on my resume of failings, so I wouldn’t want to start now. Maybe I’m just puzzled to feel this kind of attraction at all, especially toward a woman. It’s been such a long damn time since my mind or body even went that way. Still, my fingers itch a little with the urge to touch that ponytail, imagining how silky it’d feel if I ran my fingers through it. My body itches a little, too, and I realize it’s not only her hair I’m dreaming of touching now.

  Funny, but the thing I keep noticing is how small she is compared to me. Maybe because it’s been so many years since I’ve held anyone in my arms who didn’t actually stand taller than me. And maybe because it’s been just as many years since I made love to any woman at all.

  When she darts up the narrow steps leading to her office building I let loose a quiet groan because I know exactly who that is, half-skipping her way up to the door, ponytail swinging down her back. It’s Rebecca O’Neill. And standing there, watching her open the door, I realize I’m in serious, deep, painful shit.

  I sure hope Alex is watching over me now, because I may need all the help I can get.

  Chapter Three: Rebecca

  Stepping into the dark hallway of my building, I’m startled by the unusual Saturday silence. There’s an industrial hum from the computers and the copy machine, but otherwise it’s eerily peaceful. I’m used to endless chatter from the producers’ offices, banter from Trevor and the other assistants as they work the phones. Dead silence in this place is unfamiliar to me, and that probably explains the tight fear coiling suddenly around my heart.

  Except this nagging anxiety began on the walk over from my car, when I had the definite sensation of being watched. Correction: of being followed. I spent far too long in my survivor support group not to listen to my instincts, even if the warning signals strike a false note. All fear cues must be acknowledged, because if they aren’t, it could mean my life. I should have listened to them three years ago. If I had, then things might be very different today.

  There’s the loud, comforting click of the lock as it fastens into place, and for a moment I stand at the door, practically pressing my nose against the glass pane so I can see the far corner of the building. Nothing’s out there—at least nobody threatening that I can see—only a few cars and a golf cart speeding past with a maintenance man behind the wheel. All seems safe, so after a tense moment I release the breath I’ve been holding inside my chest.

  Still, the quiet here unsettles me, so I stride right to Trevor’s desk, positioned outside my own office door, because that’s where the manuscript I’ve come looking for should be. I turn on his lamp, thumbing through the orderly stack of envelopes in the center of his desk. These are our most recent submissions, and it only takes a moment to spot the one I’m looking for. Eagerly, I pull it from the pile—in fact, a bit too eagerly, because another packet dislodges and careens right to the floor. It must have been hidden on the bottom of the stack—I never saw the dang thing coming. Neither did my poor big toe, which smarts so painfully that I let loose with a few choice expletives, wiggling it inside my strappy sandal.

  That’s when I spot the familiar logo of The Bourne Agency, and it’s no wonder I’m cursing. They’re a swanky London firm that boasts some of the U.K.’s best authors, including my least favorite English author ever, Julian Kingsley. Frankly, I don’t care if he’s the second coming of Shakespeare, I’ll never like him. Not considering how many times he’s hurt my best friend. The very same best friend who saved my life three years ago, so my protective loyalty toward him runs pretty darn deep.

  The envelope’s already been opened, with a log number printed on the outside in Trevor’s proper handwriting. So he’s already handled the materials. Fresh warning bells sound in my head, this time of a different variety. They’re of the “my-friend-is-hiding-something-massive” kind, I think, tugging a thin sheaf of paper from within the packet’s confines. Imagine my surprise when I find a proposal emblazoned with none other than Julian Kingsley’s cocky-sounding name.

  I stare at the cover sheet for twenty, maybe thirty seconds in disbelief. Finally, I reach for the phone, ready to call Trevor and issue stern lectures about the danger of flirting with an ex-boyfriend’s latest book. Only I think better of it, wondering if I shouldn’t wait and see what he’s up to. After all, Julian is Trevor’s Achilles heel, the one wound that never fully mends. Something tells me that confronting him head-on about this newfound secret isn’t
such a good idea. There must be a reason he didn’t mention Julian’s proposal. Probably because he knows just how worried any of his communications with his former lover always leave me.

  Like last summer when I found out they’d been e-mailing sporadically for a few months. Trevor and I got into a screaming match over it, and I wound up crying in the middle of the bar where we’d set up for the night. I knew their past and had reason to be afraid.

  “Sweet girl, sweet girl,” Trevor shushed me, pulling me into his arms protectively. I don’t think any man has ever hated to see me cry like he does. “I’m not doing anything with Julian except trading a few e-mails.”

  “I don’t want him to hurt you anymore,” I blubbered loudly, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Not again.”

  “He won’t, all right?” He slipped a soft handkerchief into my hand. “He’s sober now, and so far, behaving like a perfect gentleman.”

  “But you might trust him again,” I wailed plaintively, burying my face against his strong shoulder. I was tipsy enough to be oblivious to anyone else, especially those who might be eavesdropping on our conversation. Thank God we were off in Sherman Oaks, away from our usual gossipy Hollywood crowd. “What if you get back together with him?”

  “I won’t do,” he reassured me firmly. “Rebecca, dear, I won’t do.”

  That was last summer, and sitting in the dark now, staring at this mint proposal in my hand—one reported in publishing trades only a few days ago—I can’t help but feel the hackles of my old suspicions rising once again. Trevor wouldn’t lie to me, not him of all people. Would he?

  ***

  I despise Julian Kingsley. With the fire of ten blazing furnaces, I truly hate the guy. I’m sitting at my desk, reading the last of his ten-page story synopsis, and it infuriates me that he’s this talented. I contemplate phoning Trevor and owning up to my small act of espionage, admitting that his ex-boyfriend is brilliant. But I can’t shake the fact that he kept this from me, and for some reason I want to play along for a bit. See if he’ll confess that he pulled the materials in-house; see if he passes them to another creative executive here. To Ed Bardock himself, maybe, without giving me a look. What will Trevor do, that is my question.