by Taras Ford
Black Butterfly
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ISBN 978-0-9833812-8-0
Black Butterfly © Copyright 2011 Sienna Mynx
Cover art by PurpleInk
Electronic book publication October 2011
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Chapter 1
The Birthday Girl
He came out of nowhere. Caught in his tailwind, her foot slipped under her in an awkward twist. The savage bend of her ankle caused pain to slice through every tendon and muscle along her leg. In sheer panic, Sydney flapped her arms like some wild bird in a failed attempt to keep her balance. Desperate to grab something for support, the only option left was to snatch hold of the person next to her. At that moment a short woman with a crown of tightly wound silver hair walked by, pulling her small grocery cart toward the subway stairs.
Sydney clung to the lady’s coat. The stranger immediately withdrew in surprise, but Sydney held on.
Lucky for them both, Sydney’s grip offered enough support to keep them upright.
The assailant bolted, charging like a bull down the crowded sidewalk. Shoving a rancid overstuffed garbage can and unsuspecting pedestrians out of his way; he ran as if the devil himself were on his heels.
“Stop him! Police! Somebody stop him!” A shrill scream broke through the crowd. An Asian woman, short and thin with the stature of a child, raced out of her bodega, pointing after the fleeing teenager. She continued to scream at the top of her lungs.
Sydney struggled to regain her balance. “What happened?” she asked.
“Are you ok?” the silver-haired woman answered.
“I, um, I think so.” Sydney panted, a bit winded. A crowd had formed around the distraught storekeeper.
Only the stranger Sydney clung to showed the least bit of concern for her. With her backpack hanging loosely down her arms, she shrugged off the embarrassment. “I’m sorry, yes, I’m fine.” She blushed, accepting her purse.
“Thank you.”
“Mhmm.” The woman snorted, then walked off.
Sydney stepped out of the oncoming tide of pedestrians to regain what remained of her composure. One minute she walked on clouds, and the next she found herself flattened to the ground. A quick check of her watch and Sydney realized valuable time had been lost. She needed to hurry, but after taking one step away from the store wall, she winced under the warm sting emitting from her ankle.
No, please, God, not today, she thought.
“Excuse me,” said Sydney, pushing past people. A soft morning breeze brushed her cheeks, and her gaze lifted to the sky for the source. Snowflakes, carried in the wind, were reduced to light sprinkles melting on her face. The day would be considerably warm and the falling snow would turn into chilling rain soon. Shape shifting clusters of grey storm clouds moved in waves, covering and uncovering the sun. It didn’t matter.
Neither her achy foot nor a New York ice storm could steal her joy. Today was hers.
Determined and a bit hopeful over the audition of her dreams, she pushed past several more people and quickened her pace. The morning’s alive with honking car horns and the warning beeps of a delivery truck backing into a cramped parking spot. An SUV swerved around a cab blasting reggae beats loud enough for the entire city to hear.
With her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her favorite jeans, she kept going. The freezing wind lifted her bushy locks from her shoulders despite being tucked behind her ears, and under the knitted skullcap she wore to keep them pressed to her head. Sydney had a wealth of naturally thick hair. Once unleashed it puffed out at all angles like a reddish brown cloud. She had already burned through two flat irons this year trying to straighten it. Her hair, an inherited trait from generations of women in her family, had become a curse. To others it seemed to be her best feature, evident by the constant barrage of compliments she received regarding its unruly flow.
Sidestepping others along the crowded sidewalk, and ignoring the pulsating pain in her ankle, Sydney finally spotted the dance theater. She darted through the sea of yellow cabs, throwing her hand up as she went.
Her eyes focused only on the studio sign. She imagined it with her name sparkling across the marquee. A crazy mixture of hope and fear passed through her. Sydney stood underneath it, she savored the moment. This audition would change her life forever.
“Are you going in or what?” A snarky voice echoed behind her, above the honking horns of traffic on the congested streets.
Sydney, startled, found herself blocking several others from passing. The narrow space of sidewalk before the studio doors left little room for the dancer anxiously trying to access the front steps. With a sweet smile of apology she stepped aside. “Sorry, my fault,” she said.
The dancer, a petite brunette with a distinct Cyndi Crawford mole above her lip, cut her eyes at Sydney before disappearing through the door. That wasn’t surprising. She’d been snubbed many times at auditions such as these. Sydney dismissed the young woman and returned her gaze to the sign. No longer caught up in the fantasy, she re-read the marquee. It advertised the casting call would be by invitation only.
“You won’t go to New York with Portia and that’s final! No daughter of mine is going to be some street dancer! Give me those car keys dammit! Now!”
The strong harsh words of disapproval always surfaced when she reached for her dreams. Since she left Carolina her father hadn’t spoken to her. Not a single word. Only a year and six months had passed since the blow-up over her wanting to leave. Her mother said things between them would change, he’d come around, but Sydney knew better. She needed to become the dancer she aspired to be to prove her father wrong. Then and only then would the walls erected in disappointment come down, and acceptance could mend the pain between them.
The door to the studio opened again and another person rushed through. Sydney followed. She unraveled her wool scarf off her neck. She found the hall of the building empty except for her and one other prospect. Quickening her steps she grimaced when her ankle reminded her of the folly a few minutes earlier. She did however, make it to the elevator in time. Together they rode to the third floor in silence. Maybe she’d get a good slot. The elevator doors opened and her hopes were dashed. Before her stretched a line of hopefuls, and each head turned toward her once she joined them. This scene had a familiarity she couldn’t dismiss. Talent from the American Dance Academy accounted for, and handpicked for today’s audition.
Showtime, she thought. At the end of the table sat a striking blonde. The woman appeared to be in her late twenties possibly early thirties. Her golden hair groomed in a blown straight style, draped the sides of her face from a center part reaching down the length of her back and arms. Her features were nearly flawless with a perfect aquiline nose, pouty lips and high cheekbones. Syd
ney considered her too pretty to be a dancer and too classy to be just a model. Near her, a very fashionable man checked off names. Then it hit Sydney like a bullet.
Oh dear God it’s her. It’s Xenia Minetti. She’s here greeting each dancer personally. I can’t blow this. She’s looking dead at me. Okay, calm down, straighten up and smile. The line moved quickly, and soon it Sydney stood before the star maker. She burned with hope.
“Hi!” she said.
Eyes ringed with dark liner and naturally long lashes lifted to her face. “Yes?” the man asked, unimpressed with her enthusiasm.
“I’m Sydney Allen. I think I have an audition today,” she said, removing her skullcap.
“You think?” he asked, drawing his platinum brows together. He clucked his tongue and chewed on the back of his pen. Sydney felt her throat go dry, but she kept a pleasant smile on her face.
“Um, no, I do. I, ah, I have an audition today.”
“Sydney? Wait I know that name. Sydney Allen? Ooooo, Sydney Allen!” he sang merrily. “Yes, honey, you’re the one that Mario told me about, right?”
Sydney tried not to make any unfair judgments about the man’s flamboyant appearance, but when he offered her his hand, she was reminded of how far from Carolina she had come. Over a year and half had passed since she arrived in the city. She should be used to the diversity. Hell, it was 2011 after all.
The man before her had a uniquely handsome face. With mocha brown skin, and a dazzling white smile, she took note of his original flare. For starters, his brown skin complimented the sharp contrast of his platinum-bleached hair, cut low on the sides with tight curls on top. And he had bleached his eyebrows as well. He popped the collar on his blush-pink button-down shirt. Even his lips sported a dew-kissed pink shine.
Sydney accepted his hand with a firm shake. When their fingers parted, she noticed his manicured nails had pink tips.
I guess pink is his signature color, she thought.
“I’m Juan, but my friends call me Juanita,” he said, with a sly smirk.
“Thanks for the opportunity.” Sydney beamed. Portia warned her that her cousin Mario, who dated this man, could only get her name on the list. The rest would be up to her.
Sydney noticed from her peripheral line of vision the attractive blonde seemed a bit annoyed. When she spoke, Sydney’s suspicions were confirmed. “I let Juanita here pull these stunts with strays every now and then,” she said. “I’ve found some talent that way. But understand that your favors end here. I’m Xenia Minetti,” the blonde said, extending her hand.
“Thank you so much, Ms. Minetti.”
“Why? You haven’t even gotten in the door yet, sweetheart. ID, please.” Sydney pulled off her backpack and took out her wallet. She passed Xenia the ID; she gave her the address and telephone number where she could be reached.
“Are you Dominican, no maybe Haitian?” Juan asked while chewing on the cap of his pen. He walked around the table to get a better look at her. In doing so she got a better look at him. He wore dark blue skinny jeans and a fashionable pair of pink stiletto boots.
“Haitian?” Sydney frowned. She felt his eyes on her figure.
What the hell is he talking about? Though her skin was a very deep shade of brown, affirming her ethnicity, her hair, high cheekbones, and the exotic slant to her eyes always gave others pause—thinking she was Caribbean. She didn’t know what ancestor slept with whom, but in this city she considered herself the least unique. Especially when compared to Mr. Juanita.
“Your hair, eyes, and booty, girl. Something is mixed up in there! You definitely black, but––” Sydney’s embarrassment quickly turned to annoyance. “Aren’t we all mixed with something?” she asked and shrugged, wishing he’d just move on.
Juan threw his head back and let go a girlish peal of laughter, then sashayed back to his seat. “Aint that the truth, honey. I’m the damn Rainbow Coalition,” he announced to everyone in line. “My mother’s half black, half Italian, and my father’s half Latino, and sumthin’ French, I think—ooh, maybe Creole.” Xenia handed back the ID, and Sydney appreciated the distraction. She liked Juanita but she didn’t want to be singled out by him. The attention could backfire. Then Xenia Minetti narrowed her eyes on her and said something that stopped her cold.
“Happy birthday, Sydney.”
“It’s her birthday?” Juan asked. The high pitch shrill in his tone had every eye in the room on her.
“Sure is,” Xenia said. “Let’s hope that brings you good fortune. You’re going to need it, and a truck load of talent to make it in my show.” She passed Sydney a paper number to wear on her front and back. “You can change over there. You’ll be on the red team. Juanita here will call your group after you meet with the choreographer.”
“Choreographer? Excuse me, but I thought we got to do our own routine?” Xenia looked up from her fast scribbling. “First, we see if you can follow instructions. Then we decide whether you can audition. I don’t care if you can shake that sweet ass of yours in the club or on a pole. I need a trained, disciplined dancer, if that’s ok with you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sydney nodded to the woman who could make her dreams come true.
Sydney headed to the dressing room to change. She’d been in this spot before. There would be no need to debate or question anything. As she started to change, she realized she had dropped her scarf. When she returned for it, she heard Xenia and Juan discussing her.
Juan leaned over to his boss. “I like her!”
“You haven’t seen her dance,” Xenia said.
“Doesn’t matter. She has a hungry, urban look that will spice up this production. How many times have I told you that these kids you get from the Academy lack flavor? Look at ’em!” Sydney looked over to the line of hopefuls from all walks of life. They all seemed to have the same stance of control, body type, and discipline.
“A trained dancer is what I need,” Xenia said. “You stop taking advantage of our relationship by adding these walk-ins. No more after today. I mean it.”
Juan clucked his tongue. “Honey, please. The last stray I brought in, and you chased away, is headlining up the street on Broadway. My record speaks for itself.”
Just then Juan looked back and spotted Sydney. She blushed, picked up her scarf, and hurried off. She had a better chance than she thought, as long as she could disguise her throbbing foot.
Chapter 2
Something Different
From the thirty-sixth floor, Nolen Adams glared out the window of his office. Nolen had accomplished a lot at twenty-seven. Though the seedy waters he swam through to reach the shore of success had taken its toll.
The investment-banking firm he founded ranked fifth behind Morgan Stanley, and Goldman Sachs. Six years ago when he arrived he found Wall Street polluted with eager to succeed investment bankers, hunched over keyboards with phones pressed to their ears, sleeves rolled up, gambling with an uncertain market. The hustle was no different than the one he learned in the back door casinos and poker rooms at his father’s knee. Banks handle the wealth of everyday people, while investment firms like the one Nolen would eventually build, handled the wealth of companies, high net worth individuals and even small governments. And he’s done it all with no help from good-ole dad.
A sardonic smile curled the left side of Nolen’s face, and reflected off the windowpane before him. At the tender age of six Nolen’s mother had him tested on the suggestion of a family friend. She was told he had an IQ
of 160 possibly 180. From that day forth school became an afterthought. Nolen officially joined the family business—grifting gamblers and unsuspecting retirees out of their pensions and savings. He later learned his father’s IQ ranked closer to 200. When his old man discovered Nolen too had his smarts, he took a special interest in him. Nolen’s talents for understanding numbers and all American boy looks made grifting easy.
They’ll never see you coming kid! The old man would say.
At thirteen everyt
hing changed. His father disappeared, presumed dead, and his mother re-married. A man named Heathcliff Adams entered his life. A banker and lover of the stock market. A year under his roof, and Nolen had learned of the legitimate hustle, investment banking. Silver tongue tricks that would help him use his genius to convince the most conservative investor to turn over capital and allow him to gamble with their riches. Of course he stole as much as he brought in, but he had a talent for covering that as well.
A brief run up against the law and in college and Nolen decided to turn over a new leaf. He went legit.
Beat those bastards before they took him down. Still he indulged the thirst for the grift, left behind by his dad’s absence, and craved it like his old man did. Made some dangerous friends along the way. The kind of men who wanted to wash their money clean and needed Nolen’s skills and influence to make it happen. He’d never let dirty business take him under. Nolen had proved the belligerent con man wrong.
Storm clouds moving in across the horizon drew his attention upward. The holiday season had come and gone. Today was February first, a nasty wintry month. Something new on the horizon, stirred in the wind beyond the window glass. He sensed it. Reclining in his desk chair, his lids lowered, and then closed.
“Excuse me, Mr. Adams.” His personal assistant tapped on the frosted-glass door to his office.
“What is it?”
“The car is here to take you to that dance studio.”
He grimaced. “Dance studio?”
“Yes, sir.”
Annemarie showed no surprise at his memory lapse. He could tell by the monotone answer she gave.
“You promised Ms. Minetti that you’d attend her auditions today. She’s looking for investors, remember?”
“What time is my meeting with Scott Harris?” Nolen turned in his chair. He leveled his eyes on the petite brunette that knew more about his life and schedules than any wife could.
“At two, sir.”
A quick glance at his watch, confirmed it was after ten. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall the commitment or why he’d bother honoring it. Then he thought of Xenia, and how exhausting she’d be if he ignored her.
