by Aly Martinez
“Butterfly!” I yelled as the door started to swing closed. I frantically leaned to the side to keep her in my sights while hands forcefully pulled at my shoulders.
I couldn’t leave. Not without telling her I was sorry. Thus selfishly relieving myself of the overwhelming burden of that night.
I fought against their grip. “Butterfly!” I yelled. “Let me fucking go!” I barked as they dragged me away. “Butterfly!”
The pain at the back of my head was agonizing as I fought against them. But nothing could compare to the madness that would happen inside my head for the next four years.
With the sultry whisper of my name, a rash of memories of the night before came tearing through my thoughts.
Rhion opening the door.
Her body flush against mine.
A million whispered apologies.
A cup of coffee.
Rhion escaping to the pantry-slash-laundry-room.
Me following her.
Her talking.
And talking.
And talking.
More apologies.
My fingers tracing over her tattoos as I held her.
Her head slowly craning back.
Pale-blue eyes staring up at me.
Her lips brushing mine.
My mouth opening.
Her tongue meeting mine.
Her hands tugging at the hem of my shirt.
Buttons flying.
Me tearing her shirt over her head.
Her lithe body pinned against the door.
My tongue laving the swell of her breasts.
Her peaked nipples rolling between my fingers.
Her whispered moans.
My deep growls.
My fingers teasing the soft flesh beneath her waistband.
More apologies.
Her guiding me to the bed.
Her weight settling over my hips.
More apologies.
A moaned, “You’re real.”
A whispered, “Butterfly.”
A breathy, “Jude.”
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
“Jesus Christ,” I mumbled in disbelief, backing away from her.
How could I have let that happen? This was Rhion. My Butterfly. The woman who had been haunting my dreams. The same one I’d nearly gotten killed.
And, as if I hadn’t fucked up enough when it came to her, I now had firsthand knowledge of how perfectly her breasts fit in my palms.
“Jude, wait,” she called as she spun to face me.
I rubbed my temples in a worthless attempt to ease the pounding in my head. “How the hell did my getting drunk end with us in bed together?” I continued my retreat.
But she followed after me, pleading, “Wait.”
“Did we…” I trailed off.
“Did we what?” she asked softly, her voice holding an alarming combination of hope and regret.
I ran a hand over the scars on the back of my head and asked curtly, “Did we have sex?”
“No,” she answered immediately.
“Thank you, God,” I rushed out.
I didn’t miss her flinch, but I was too relieved to process it.
“What exactly happened?” I asked.
She shook her head entirely too many times. “Nothing really. We watched Terminator, ate ice cream, and then you passed out.”
More lies.
“Something else happened,” I stated.
Her gaze cut to the ground as her fingers went up to her necklace. She remained silent as she dragged the large diamond back and forth across the thin, silver chain.
“Rhion,” I called through my growing frustration.
“Fine, it was Pretty in Pink, but I didn’t figure you’d want a reminder of those two hours you’ll never get back,” she informed the floor.
“There was no movie.”
Her head snapped up, embarrassment carved in her smooth skin. “We just talked, okay?”
“Fantastic. Care to fill me in about what that conversation entailed?”
It must have been one hell of a chat if it had ended with her half naked in my arms. I refused to believe that alcohol could magically transform her from the woman who haunted my dreams to someone who could set me ablaze from across the room. However, as my gaze drifted down to her breasts, it seemed it had.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she whispered, “Jude.”
I’ll be damned if I didn’t feel that one syllable drift over my skin as if she’d breathed it against my neck in the throes of passion.
For all I knew, maybe she had.
My frustration grew. “What. Happened?”
Her eyes popped open as she exclaimed, “Nothing!”
But “nothing” didn’t explain why I knew what the curve of her hip felt like as I glided my hands up her sides and over her breasts. Or, worse, why, as I stared down at her sleep-mussed, blond hair, makeup-free face, and her body in nothing but a white tank top and a pair of light-pink shorts, I longed to feel it again.
Actually, maybe nothing was right. Because not one thing she could say would explain that.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I said, “Rhion, sweetheart, I’m going to be blunt here. I know what it feels like to have you riding me. I’m gonna say that’s a hellova lot more than nothing.”
Yeah, okay, it had been really blunt, but I’d woken up in a world that didn’t make sense and she held all the answers. That all-too-familiar guilt settled in my stomach when her head jerked back as if I’d slapped her.
“I did not ride you,” she whispered, the pain thick in her voice.
I barked a cringe-worthy laugh. “Yeah, you did. Maybe not my cock. But you were definitely straddling me. I remember that much. All I’m asking is that you tell me how we got there, because whatever went down last night was definitely a mistake.”
“A mistake,” she whispered in disbelief.
Her whole body jolted, but she held her ground as I stalked toward her.
I pretended that the hurt in her eyes didn’t shred me.
“What did I say to you?” I asked.
Her face crumbled, but she covered it with an agonizing smile. “You said you were sorry.”
Phew. Okay. At least I’d pre-apologized before feeling her up. Fucking hell.
“I am,” I swore. “I’m so goddamn sorry. For the fire. For last night. For everything. I never should have come here. I never should have touched you like that.” Though, if memory serves me correctly—which it fucking isn’t—it appeared you liked it quite a bit. “I’d spent the whole night drowning myself in a bottle of Jack while trying to forget the nightmare of meeting you. I wasn’t in my right mind.” I fisted my hands on my hips—mainly to combat the urge to keep from dragging her into my arms and pulling the memory of her soft skin on mine into the present and out of the foggy past. Why did I suddenly want that from her?
She stumbled back a step, throwing her hand out to catch herself on the counter. “The nightmare of meeting me?” she breathed.
A knot formed in my throat as regret clawed its way up. “I didn’t mean—”
“Get out,” she whispered.
I should have gotten out the moment I’d woken up, but for reasons I couldn’t explain or understand, I had no desire to leave her.
She stared at me for several seconds, tears welling in her eyes with every blink.
I once again pretended like it wasn’t destroying me.
“You need to leave. Now,” she said forcefully.
Suddenly, a man’s voice joined the conversation. “You’re done here, Levitt. She asked you to leave.”
I spun and found Devon standing in her entryway. What the hell was he doing there? Were they tight? He’d been at the bar last night. But I’d thought she was with Johnson. It had sure seemed that way on the elevator up to her apartment.
“Fuck. Me,” I groaned when that reality bitch-slapped me.
She was my boss’s woman. The one who a
lready hated me. It was safe to assume trailing my tongue up her cleavage was going to earn me a pink slip.
Out-fucking-standing.
My head was pounding. I was dehydrated. In desperate need of more coffee—and possibly the removal of whatever part of my brain controlled my impulses. Rhion wasn’t going to tell me anything about the night before, and maybe that was best for both of us. Less memories to forget.
“Great idea,” I grumbled, heading toward the door.
Her bare feet padded against the wood floor as she followed behind me.
Devon glowered at me as I passed him and headed straight to the elevator.
“You good?” he asked her, but I didn’t hear her reply.
I also didn’t get on the elevator because, as I patted down my pockets, I remembered that my phone and my wallet were on the nightstand in her fucking ridiculous—but somehow quirky and charming—ocean room.
I groaned and dropped my head back between my shoulders to stare up at the concrete ceiling of the breezeway before calling out, “I need my stuff off the nightstand.”
“I’ll get it,” she answered, her voice breaking at the end.
It broke me too.
Jesus. How in the hell was this happening? It seemed liquor and Rhion Park didn’t mix well for me. Due to this magical concoction brewed in Hell, I’d once again hurt her.
Yeah, jackass. Now, she wears the scars of your fuck-ups both inside and out.
“You know Johnson’s going to destroy your life for this,” Devon said behind me.
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I shot back in defeat, “Too late. His girlfriend back there ruined my life years ago.”
I heard her gasp, and there was no way to pretend that it didn’t crash down on me like a million shards of glass.
I spun around, pissed off at the entire world, but mostly at myself. She didn’t deserve my bullshit. Yet, as tears pooled in her blue eyes, her chin quivering as she fiercely struggled to keep them in, I knew I’d given it to her.
And it had cut her deep.
That knowledge slayed me.
“Rhion.” I started to apologize, but I didn’t know where to go from there. My list was growing by the minute.
With shaky hands, she passed my stuff off to Devon. Then her teary gaze made it back to mine, the hollowness inside serving as a weapon of its own. “You know, Jude. My version of you was a hell of a lot better than the real one.”
“Your version?” I asked.
She didn’t reply. She simply turned to Devon, gave his arm a squeeze, and walked back inside her apartment.
“Butterfly,” I whispered as I lost her behind a closed door.
Again.
Brianna: No fucking way! Jude Levitt. In the smoking-hot flesh. Was in your apartment?
I knew I’d have to tell her eventually, but I was hoping I could make it longer than a week before relaying the most embarrassing morning of my life to my best friend. Though I should have known better. She’d noticed right away that something was wrong. And there were only so many times I could delay the inevitable by saying I was too busy writing to talk. Especially since I wasn’t writing, and she was my self-proclaimed head beta reader. Coincidentally, she was also my editor, my cover designer, my formatter, and my agent. Again, all self-proclaimed. In reality, she was just my best friend who loved romance novels and insisted I send them to her chapter by chapter as I wrote. It worked for us. Except for in situations like this when I needed to lie to her in order to avoid the aforementioned most embarrassing morning of my entire life.
I sighed and set my coffee mug on the counter.
Me: Seriously? Smoking-hot flesh? Come on! But, yeah, Jude was here.
Brianna: Okay. I’m going to need you to call me for this. This is too good for a text.
Me: It’s really not. He was a sweet drunk. Not so sweet sober. Said I ruined his life.
At the memory, my throat thickened. I did my best to tamp it down. I’d sworn to myself that I wouldn’t cry over Jude again. Six days of wallowing were enough. This was confirmed as I stared back at hollow cheeks and dark bags under my eyes in the mirror that morning. I was a dab hand at makeup, but it’d taken me at least an hour to transform myself into a human rather than an extra on The Walking Dead.
Brianna: HE SAID WHAT!?!?!
Me: It’s no big deal.
The phone started ringing in my hand, her name flashing on the screen. I groaned as I lifted it to my ear—but not too close because I knew what was coming.
“He said you ruined his life?” she shrieked.
I winced. It didn’t matter whose tongue those words rolled off. I still heard them in Jude’s deep, gravelly voice. And it still stung like a swarm of angry bees attacking me from all angles.
I did my best to compose myself and not allow the hurt to seep into my voice. “Good morning to you too, Brianna.”
“Yes, it would be a great morning if you were calling to tell me Jude showed up at your apartment, he stripped you naked, and you were now carrying his child.”
I rolled my eyes. Minus the baby thing, it wasn’t a stretch for what had actually happened, and it definitely would have made it a better morning to be able to tell her that also. But the Jude we were both talking about didn’t exist. And, while it sucked, I had no control over reality.
I’d learned that the day my baby brother had tried to kill me—the first time.
People were nonfiction. Regardless of how often my fingers ached to rewrite them.
And, for a few days, as I had considered crawling into a hole and never showing my face again, my fingers had ached pretty damn badly to rewrite Jude Levitt—or at least the version he’d given me on Saturday morning.
Friday-night-Jude had been nothing short of perfection.
“Anyway, it’s no big deal,” I lied. “Let me tell you about the minor miracle I preformed in order to keep Johnson from finding out about the Jude fiasco.”
“I couldn’t care less about Johnson unless he’s naked and in my bed. We’re talking about Jude right now.”
“Apparently Johnson likes threesomes,” I announced for no other reason than to distract her. And, I mean, if you can’t tell your best friend secrets about your other best friend, what’s the point of having two of them?
Brianna lived in New York, so she hadn’t actually met Johnson. However, she’d seen pictures I’d taken on the sly after she’d asked if he was hot. And, well, since he was, she’d developed a bit of a crush—or obsession, depending on who you asked.
She coughed in my ear then fell completely silent.
“Brianna?”
“Okay, so let me rephrase. First, we are talking about Jude. And then we are discussing Johnson and his predilections in the bedroom. But, as a little teaser of that conversation, are you talking two men? He’s still gay, right?”
I cleared my throat. “I quote, ‘Women are always my thing as long as there is another man on the other side of her.’ Er…something like that.”
“Sweet Jesus,” she whispered. “Two years of being your best friend and I finally have a shot with him. Please, God, tell me the other man can be Devon.”
One could say I was a pretty amazing friend because, for Brianna’s birthday that year, I’d forced, with threats of withholding Friday breakfast, all the guys of Guardian to take a picture holding a happy birthday sign. And that was how she had fallen in love with Devon.
“I’m not thinking Devon swings that way, but when I get up there this morning, I’ll be sure to ask.”
“You do that,” she replied breathily.
“You’re envisioning this threesome, aren’t you?”
“Shhhh… Don’t interrupt me. Devon just kissed Johnson.”
“Aaaand…now, I feel nauseous.”
“Damn it, Rhion! You’re ruining this!”
It was a joke, but it still stung.
Jude had tarnished the word ruin for me. As an author, I couldn’t afford to sacrifice words from my vocabulary. It had
been hard enough when Brianna had banned moist from my books. The loss of ruin was going to…well, ruin me.
“Ruining people’s lives seems to be my forte this week,” I tried to joke, but my traitorous voice broke at the end.
“Shit,” she mumbled. “Let’s get back to that asshole.”
“Look, I need to go. The guys’ breakfast should be here any minute.”
“Don’t you dare try to get out of this. Talk, Rhion.”
Leaning my hip against the counter, I stared blankly across my kitchen to the pantry door.
The pantry door he’d followed me through when I’d tried to hide just before confessing that I’d never stopped thinking about him.
The pantry door he’d pinned me against as his mouth had worked my neck so deliciously that my knees had nearly given out.
The pantry door I’d guided him through when he’d traced his fingers over my peaked nipple and declared that he’d wanted to see all of me—feel all of me.
“He was real,” I whispered. “He didn’t hate me. He said he never did. Yes, he was drunk, Bri, but I swear to you he was real.”
“Rhion—”
I talked over her. “He apologized as if the fire had been his fault. He kept repeating the word ‘mine’ as he traced my scars. Not my tattoos. My scars.” I lazily traced the seams beneath my ink. A chill shook my shoulders at the memory of his fingers there. His warmth. Jude. My Jude. “When I glided a hand up the back of his neck, he flinched like I’d hurt him. He wouldn’t let me touch the scars under his hair. He said those were his too. That I couldn’t have them. The scars. They were all his.”
“Jesus, Rhi.”
“He was real,” I swore. “The man who showed up at my apartment was my Jude. He was even sweet and charming for a little while after he woke up. He was teasing me and laughing. God, Bri. His laugh.” I smiled to myself and toyed with my mother’s diamond, which was hanging from my neck.
“I’m not trying to be negative here. But he was drunk. Men say stupid shit they don’t always mean when they’re drunk.”
“He. Was. Real,” I defended.
She sighed. “You know I love you. But I’d like to go on record as saying I think this is a bad idea.”
I pushed off the counter when the doorbell rang. “How can you say it’s a bad idea? I haven’t told you what I’m going to do yet.”
