Chase The Butterflies

by Monica James

  Jude laughs at my coyness but chokes on a strangled gasp. “Thanks.”

  I go into survival mode as I carefully remove his sweater and soiled white T-shirt. I’ve spent enough time in hospitals to know what this is. I only have to look down at the scar on my chest to see the likeness.

  “I’ve got to go upstairs and get my first-aid kit. I’ll be right back. Press this to your side until I get back, okay?”

  He nods, gritting his teeth together as he presses over the wound.

  Flying up the stairs, I head into the bathroom and yank open the medicine cabinet. I grab whatever supplies I think I’ll need and reach for the first-aid kit under the sink. Rushing into my room, I throw on a T-shirt, as I’m only in a camisole, then I google bullet wounds for dummies. I still have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m back downstairs in less than two minutes. I make a beeline for the freezer and pull out a bottle of vodka.

  Jude has his head thrown back, blood staining his hand, but the flow has thankfully subsided.

  “You’re not going to pass out, are you?” I ask, rushing over to his side and placing my supplies on the table.

  His head snaps forward, his eyes blurred, but he shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”

  I stop rifling through the kit, concerned at how pale he’s becoming. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?”

  “No,” he stubbornly replies.

  Slipping on a pair of gloves, I grab the peroxide and some gauze. I crouch down in front of him and gently remove the makeshift bandage from his flesh. I breathe out a sigh of relief when I see the wound has stopped bleeding. It appears superficial. The bullet only grazed his skin, and thankfully won’t need any stitches. But it’s still deep and large enough to have caused some substantial bleeding.

  “This is going to hurt. A lot.” I pull an apologetic face as I look up at him from under my lashes.

  He sits upright bravely, radiating strength and trust as he pins me with a confident stare. “I’m used to pain.” His comment has me clucking my tongue.

  “What happened?” I unscrew the lid of the solution, dampening the gauze.

  He chooses to ignore me. “How bad is it, doc?” The fact that he’s joking and not moaning in pain is a good sign.

  “You’ll live. Now stop avoiding the question.” I can feel him watching me closely as I gently apply the gauze to his side.

  “Why does anyone do anything? To better their life.”

  I know talking is difficult right now, but I need answers, especially after what I saw tonight. “Unless you’re a glutton for punishment, getting shot and beaten to a pulp is not bettering anyone’s life.” He hisses as I jab a little too roughly at the wound, annoyed by his aloofness. “Sorry. I just…help me understand.”

  Jude sighs, leaning his head back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring my shit to your doorstep. I just didn’t…I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “It’s okay.” I tend to his wound as gently and as quickly as I can.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were worried about me,” he quips.

  My fingers shake—not because I’m queasy, but because I can feel Jude watching my every move. Once I’m happy that the wound is clean, I stand between his spread legs and hunt through the kit over his shoulder. I also grab the vodka.

  “Should I be concerned that you’ve got all this stuff on hand?”

  I’m thankful he’s making jokes. “At the moment, you should be grateful. PTSD makes you a little over cautious at the stuff you have in your first-aid kit,” I add. “It also prepares you to deal with the unexpected and to keep your cool and use your smarts when your bleeding, beaten neighbor is passed out on your lawn.”

  As I slip on a new pair of gloves, I peer down and see Jude looking up at me. A dark circle is beginning to form around his right eye, his swollen upper lip is caked in dried blood, and coagulated blood is seeping from his nose. But I’ll deal with one drama at a time.

  Taking a swig of vodka, I pass him the bottle. “Ready?”

  He accepts gratefully and nods. “No.” I can’t help but grin.

  As I bend back down and ensure the wound is dry, I know the only way he’ll get through this is by being distracted. “I wanted to apologize for being so awful to you when we first met. I was a little…unhinged,” I say, unscrewing the lid from the liquid bandage.

  “You weren’t awful.”

  “Yes. I was.” Applying the liquid to the edges of skin around the wound, I tear off small pieces of tape with my teeth. This is the easy part. Now comes the part that’ll hurt like a bitch. Fastening a strip of the tape to one edge of the wound, I squeeze the flesh together and quickly apply the other side of the tape.

  “Motherfucker!” Jude roars, stomping his foot.

  “I’m sorry.” I flinch, as I can only imagine how painful this would be.

  “It’s not your fault. How many more of them are there?” Matted hair sticks to his face, pushing off his cheeks as he exhales forcefully.

  Looking at the size of the wound, I shrink back. “Maybe four.”

  “Fuck me.” Another deep breath, then another shot of vodka.

  As I reach for another strip of tape, I think on my feet as I can’t bear to see him in pain. “I wasn’t…I’m still not in a good headspace. But I’m getting better.”

  “After everything you’ve been through, it’s natural for you to be a little…hostile.” He grunts as I attach the tape a little too firmly as I’m caught off guard by his comment.

  “I thought you said I wasn’t awful?”

  “I did…I never said you weren’t vicious, though. You’re like a koala bear. Cute yet vicious.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek to stop my smile. “It’s just koala, not bear. Koalas are marsupials, not that it matters.” This playful banter is taking my mind off the situation at hand, and I’m not just talking about his wounds.

  “Do I make you nervous?” he suddenly asks. His eyes are on me; I can feel them.

  “Yes,” I whisper, my hands trembling

  “Don’t be,” he replies in a tone akin to mine.

  We’re silent until his abs ripple. I know he’s in horrible pain. “Do you want me to stop?”

  He throws back another large mouthful of vodka. “No. Keep going.”

  I do.

  If I distract him, then things might go quicker. So, deciding to be honest, I confess, “I met your son. In town.” I’m certain he stops breathing as his body turns rigid. I don’t have the courage to meet his eyes, so I continue. “Then he was flying a kite in my yard. And then, just today, he taught me how to sail a boat. Well, a motorized sailboat.”

  Jude’s response has me sucking in a deep breath. I halt from nursing his wounds. “You’re the pretty lady?” He flicks the hair from his face, his eyes soft, almost poignant.

  “I…um…I…don’t know?” I shrug, embarrassed.

  “Angus mentioned a pretty lady,” he explains in awe. “I told him not to talk to strangers, but he said you’re not.” He smiles, the sight almost bittersweet, considering his face is a mess. “I now know what he means. Seems we’re both…” But he pauses, leaving me guessing what he was going to say.

  I don’t press and continue stitching him up, but his words keep swimming around my head.

  He notices the tremble in my hands. “So I guess you know all the details then?”

  He doesn’t need to clarify, so I nod. “Yes. I’m really sorry about what happened to her…your wife. I didn’t pry, I promise. Angus is a remarkable young boy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you know where…Rosemary is?” I sneak a glance at him, witnessing his lip curl in anger.

  He shakes his head, his jaw clenched. “No, I don’t. All she left me was a Dear John note that read ‘Don’t try to find me.’ I knew she’d leave one day. Rose and I met in high school. I was smitten by her, everyone was. She had a way of getting what she wanted, and for some reason, she wanted me.
Everyone said she was bad news, but I didn’t listen. I was a punk, a kid who got into trouble any chance I got, and she was…she was the sheriff’s baby girl.

  “I know she only dated me to get under Henry’s skin. He was overbearing, telling her to act and think a certain way. I was outside that mold; therefore, I was everything she wanted. Rose was…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Wild. She was the perfect daughter to the outside world, but behind closed doors…I’ve never met someone like her.”

  I’m done stitching him up, but I let him continue as I apply an antibiotic spray.

  “She always wanted to leave,” he reveals, lost in the memories. “But no matter what a total douchebag Henry was, Rose loved Jill.”

  “You don’t think he’s got something to do with Rose’s disappearance, do you?”

  Jude’s face falls. No matter what she’s done, he’s still worried about her. I can see it in his eyes. “No, I don’t, and that’s why he hates me. This entire thing is apparently my fault. Rose did the one thing that no one in this town has ever done. She left. Generations of families stay here, content with living the norm, but not Rose. She was always destined to leave; I was just too blind to think she’d ever take me with her.”

  I don’t even know what to say, so I stay quiet, allowing him to purge.

  “She fell pregnant when she was nineteen. I had just turned twenty. She never wanted Angus, but I did. In the perfect role reversal, I was the one talking her out of having an abortion. I thought a child would change her, but it didn’t. When Henry found out, after he promised to have me neutered, he said we had to get married. He couldn’t have a scandal such as this tarnishing the Sands name.

  “Things were okay for a little while, but when Angus was born, Rose fell out of love with us both. I loved him regardless of his…limitations, but she saw him as a punishment. I knew he was special. But for the first time in her life, she and Henry agreed on something—her misfortunes were my fault. I stayed for so long because I didn’t want Angus growing up without both parents. I never knew my dad, and I would never do the same to my kid. But for Rose, the only way to deal with such misfortunes was to find her luck elsewhere.” The last sentence is spat with such venom; it can only amount to one thing.

  “I-I’m so sorry.”

  He nods, snickering. “It appears neither you nor I was enough.”

  Tears prick my eyes. Being cheated on is one of the worst feelings in the world. “You’re more than enough…she was the one who became self-centered and selfish. Although I think she always was.” Suddenly, the patter, the flutter of butterfly wings returns. I try to squash them down, but I can’t.

  Reaching down, he brushes away my fallen tears. “After Rose left, I was broken. I no longer recognized the person I was. She changed me. She tore out my heart and took it with her. I hate the cynical, bitter person I have become because of it.”

  “So she left without a trace?”

  Jude nods, his finger still tracing my cheek. “Yes. Looks like the sheriff isn’t such a good detective after all.”

  “Why did she stay for so long? She didn’t sound happy.” My lower lip trembles as his finger skims across it.

  He watches our connection intimately, opening up like never before. “Because no matter what, I take care of what’s mine. She loved being the center of my world, but when things got too tough, and she grew tired of our life together, she took everything she could, leaving me broke and broken. I should have left years ago.” He swallows harshly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But everything I do, everything that I am, I do for my son.”

  Is he confessing to a life most would consider unorthodox? Maybe even immoral? No matter what life he chooses to live, he’s a survivor, a fact which makes me admire him even more.

  Unaccustomed to these feelings, I clear my throat and stand, removing my bloodied gloves. “It’ll probably scar. I’m sorry.”

  Jude reaches out and snares my wrist. “I’m used to scars.” His eyes drop to his tattooed side before meeting mine. “It’s the unseen scarring that hurts the most.” Tears prick my eyes once again because his comment means so much more to me than he’ll ever know.

  I stretch around his huge frame with one hand to rifle through the first-aid kit for supplies to clean his face, not bothering to remove the other from his grip. I should, but I can’t. God strike me down, but I don’t want to, and that feeling is shockingly healing.

  Soaking a pad, I gently clean his eye.

  With his finger still running over my pulse, he states, “Every scar tells a story. It’s a stepping-stone in one’s journey. Maybe one day…you could show me yours.”

  He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t want to see my scars—both inside and out.

  He senses my retreat and slides his hand into mine. “Never be ashamed of your scars. They simply mean you were stronger than whatever tried to tear you down. You’re a fighter, just like me. Never forget that.” His comment rings true, and just like that, I know I’ve passed the point of no return.

  Reaching up, I gently finger the pendant hanging from his neck. Turning it, I see it’s a medallion of Saint Jude. “It’s beautiful.”

  He appears poignant for a moment, before finally revealing, “He’s the patron of hope.”

  Peering up at him from under my lashes, I say the unsaid through a look alone—we have hope that tomorrow will be better than today and the day before it.

  One can only hope.

  The sunlight streaming in through my open window alerts me that it’s morning. The time, however, remains unknown.

  I rub the sleep from my eyes, my foggy brain churning through the unbelievable events of last night. I cleaned up Jude as best I could and told him he could stay the night—on the couch, of course. After I grabbed him a pillow and blanket and said good night, he got comfortable and was out like a light. I’m surprised he didn’t pass out sooner, considering his injuries. But last night proved Jude is a survivor—another quality I like about him.

  And that’s the problem; I like a lot of things about him. When did that happen?

  His quest to better his son’s life is admirable. Regardless of his past, he refuses to give up. He refuses to dwell on what could have been because hindsight doesn’t help anyone.

  Groaning, I kick off my sheet and decide to take a shower. Once I’m dressed, I run my fingers through my damp hair and bounce down the stairs, excited to have a guest sleeping on my couch. I’ve become accustomed to living alone, but it’s nice to have someone to wake up to.

  With that thought in mind, I round the corner, ready to bid Jude a good morning, but as I walk into the living room, I see he’s still sound asleep. The knitted blanket has fallen to the floor, along with the throw cushions. His gigantic body barely fits on my sofa, his arms and legs contorted at extremely odd angles. I instantly feel guilty for not offering him my bed. His face looks better than when I saw it last, but by the twisted scowl, I dare say he’s still in a lot of pain.

  I tiptoe into the kitchen, silently moving around as I make a pot of coffee.

  Waiting for it to percolate, I think about whether I should tell Jude about what I saw. Would the truth change the way I act around him? The way I feel about him?

  This entire time I backed away, closing myself off to a friendship with this man because I…like him. Yes, he’s incredibly attractive, but I actually find myself being drawn to what’s inside. There’s that word again—drawn. It appears we’re both drawn to one another.

  “Coffee smells good.” I jolt, Jude’s gruff voice startling me from my thoughts. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  I peer up, almost gagging on my tongue when I see him standing in my kitchen, topless and slumber kissed. The sunlight flooding in licks the blond strands of his messy locks, which are sleep tousled and rebellious. His lips are exceptionally pink and full, the color underlying his dark scruff.

  He is absolutely incredible, and I can’t stop staring—so much f
or being primarily drawn to what’s on the inside.

  “Thanks for letting me crash,” he says as he hobbles over to my kitchen counter.

  His limp is the mental slap I need. I instantly revert to protector mode. “How are you feeling?”

  He shrugs, running a hand over his bloodied bandage. “Not too bad, thanks to you.”

  “It was nothing. After we’re done, I can change your bandage, if you like.”

  He nods with a smile.

  “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Black.”

  Pulling out two coffee mugs, I pour us a decent helping of the exotic smelling goodness and slide one cup along the counter. He gratefully accepts as he takes a seat on a stool.

  I nurse my mug, his silence making me uncomfortable, because what he lacks in the vocabulary department, he’s sure making up for by staring a hole straight through me. It’s not fair. He looks so composed while I feel as though I’m the one who got shot last night—straight through the heart.

  I need to say something, anything, because I’m seconds away from drooling into my mug. “So, are you going to press charges?” I cringe at my bluntness. What the hell is the matter with my brain?

  He thankfully laughs. “No, I’m not. To do that, I would have to talk to Henry, and that thought is as appealing as getting shot.”

  “You almost died last night.” I can’t keep the bite from my tone as I’m still angered by what happened to him. I know it’s a tad overdramatic, but he could have if it had been any worse.

  “Tori.” Sliding his hand across the counter, he reaches out and grabs mine. I should shy away, but I don’t. “I’ve lived through worse.”

  I blink. “What?”

  He knows he’s said too much.

  “Hold up.” I raise my finger. “What’s that mean? What’s worse than almost losing your life?”

  When he looks away guiltily, my stomach sinks to the bottom of my coffee. I need to know the truth; otherwise, this will eat away at me, and I’m bound to get indigestion from it.

  Swallowing down my humiliation, I scratch the countertop with my nail, avoiding his stare. “I…saw…you.”