The Missing Butterfly

by Megan Derr

  Maybe he should take his money and travel like his Uncle. Money didn't buy happiness, but it could buy distraction. He could follow his favorite bands around. In a private jet. He could afford one of those, if he didn't already own one, at that.

  Sneering at himself, Malcolm finally broke free of downtown traffic, restraining an urge to go as fast as he possibly could, because the last thing his day needed was a speeding ticket.

  Chapter Four

  Home again, home again, jiggety jig, Malcolm thought, yawning as he closed and locked his front door, then dropped his keys and wallet on the entryway table. Then he kicked off his shoes and padded into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge and pulling down a bottle of aspirin from a small cabinet. Popping three of them, he took a swallow of beer, threw the cap in the trash, then ambled slowly from kitchen to living room.

  Despite several days of airing, it still smelled of new everything—paint, wood, furniture, carpet, plants. Bill was lucky Malcolm hadn't called the fucking cops, after their last big blow out. He'd thought it their final, until the bar last night. Ugh. He was damned lucky his brothers seldom came to his penthouse to see him. They would have blown a gasket to see the wreckage.

  The room looked good, though. Sick of the whole fucking thing and the too many sour memories the room brought now, he'd ordered the whole redone top to bottom. Now, with the wood and the colors and the daylight spilling in the floor to ceiling windows, he felt like he was sitting in the middle of a sunrise or something. He'd been leery when the designer had suggested it, but too apathetic to do anything but agree anyway. It seemed apathy could occasionally be good for something.

  Draining his beer, he flopped down on his brand new leather sofa and almost immediately dropped off to sleep.

  When he woke, it was dark, save for the neon and fluorescent glow of the city nightlife. He glanced across the room at the display on his DVD player. Seven thirty. The night was young yet.

  He sat up with a groggy yawn, groaning as he stretched out stiff, sore muscles. Beyond a need for food and shower, he felt a thousand times better. Amazing what being dead for a few hours could achieve. Standing, stretching some more and raking a hand roughly back and forth through his hair, he padded across the living room and down the hall to the master suite all the way at the end.

  There, he stripped off his clothes and made straight for the bathroom. In the shower, he turned the water to just short of scalding then cleaned himself with a vengeance, not stopping 'til he was red and well boiled and feeling more like himself.

  Stepping out of the shower, he snagged one of the fluffy black towels and stepped carefully across black linoleum back into his gray and green bedroom. Like the living room, he'd had the bedroom redone a bit—in this case, however, he'd only bought a new bed and changed the color scheme a bit. He wanted no reminders whatsoever of Dickhead.

  Throwing the towel into the heap of clothes earlier discarded, he walked to his closet and dresser and pondered what he was going to do the rest of the night. Lay low, he'd said. He really didn't fucking feel like laying low. The black eye was already doing a bit better; if he kept to the tamer bars in Bridgeton no one would bother him—and Antoine wouldn't find him, since he was trolling with Wallace for a songbird and so Malcolm knew which bars to avoid.

  He didn't want to go anywhere near those bars anyway. No, tonight he just wanted somewhere nice and quiet. A bar where they would take one look at his black eye and laugh, not caring in the slightest so long as he didn't bring the trouble with him.

  Good beer, maybe something pretty to look at—yeah, that was the ticket. Alcohol and eye candy. His mind turned to Cassidy then, the dark curls and sad eyes, but he firmly put that crazy-ass notion aside. Cassidy would take one look at him and run screaming for the hills.

  Hell, someone like Cassidy probably had a pretty little girl making eyes at him and Cassidy all oblivious. He seemed the oblivious sort—certainly he hadn't noticed the time or twelve Malcolm had checked him out.

  Shaking his head, dislodging dirty thoughts—for the moment, at least—he pulled on an old, well-fitting pair of jeans and a tight black t-shirt sporting the name of an old, favorite band in antiqued-looking flat gold script across the chest.

  Then he strode back to the bathroom to put in his contacts before he finished getting dressed, stamping finally into an, trusty pair of boots and pulling his favorite leather jacket from the closet.

  Back in the living room, he picked up the phone and punched zero for the main desk. "Jerry, hey. Who's in tonight? Yeah? Then have Brian bring a car around. Bridgeton. All night. That's fine. Thanks, man." Hanging up, Malcolm double checked he had all he needed for the night—wallet, keys, cash, cell, all accounted for. Shrugging into his jacket, he locked the door behind him and took the penthouse elevator downstairs.

  A glance at his phone showed his brothers had been trying to call him. Screw them. At least they hadn't yet dragged mom into it—he'd fucking kill them if he did.

  Downstairs in the lobby, a man with pale blonde hair and gray eyes stood waiting patiently in the informal slacks and polo uniform of the building. "Mr. Malcolm," he greeted, grinning. "Partying down tonight, sir?" He motioned to the black eye with a slight nod. "Aiming for a matching shiner?"

  "God, I hope not," Malcolm replied with a laugh. "One shiner is enough for me. Know Red Jim's?"

  "Yessir," Brian said, snapping a playful salute, before turning sharply on his heel and leading the way outside to the waiting car.

  Settled in the back, music with a heavy bass rolling through the car, Malcolm let out a soft sigh. He might not be particularly happy with life, but he'd take these little snatches of contentment where he found them.

  Bridgeton was two hours away, not worth the haul except on the odd weekend—but it was a good place to get away, to unwind in a way he couldn't at the bars back home.

  Some nights, he went for live music and whiskey. Other nights, it was shots of vodka and dancing with something in tight leather. Sometimes, though, he just wanted a quiet little dive with good beer and the odd game of pool while he admired something pretty.

  The two hours passed easily, mostly because Brian was good at his job. He was always worth the money Malcolm spent to be carted around like a spoiled rich brat. "No idea when I'll reappear," he said as he climbed out of the car, not spoiled brat enough to expect Brian to open and close doors for him. "Do as you like until I text or call."

  "Sure, Mr. Malcolm. Have fun."

  "Thanks. Later." Closing the door, he strode into Red Jim's and slid onto his usual barstool, immediately relaxing in the rundown comfort of a familiar dive. The bartender nodded in greeting, and after a moment brought over his favorite beer and shot of whiskey.

  Malcolm smiled and nodded. "Thanks."

  "Sure, man. You look like you had fun last night," the bartender said, vastly amused as he took in the black eye. "I hope you won."

  "With the help of my Louisville slugger," Malcolm replied. "No trouble should be following me, though."

  The bartender laughed. "I doubt trouble is able to stand right now, knowing you. Speaking of trouble, did you bring that sweet ride of yours tonight? I'd like to know ahead of time."

  Malcolm grimaced, and tossed back the shot of whiskey. "No. How's life?"

  "It's good. Rick and Phil are in, if you're looking to play a few games."

  "Cool. Thanks." Malcolm threw some money down for the drinks, finished his beer and ordered another, then stood and ambled to the back right corner of the bar, where a battered old pool table was situated. Guys were scattered around it, some watching with interest, some watching with boredom, others not really paying any attention at all.

  The two men playing nodded at him in greeting, and Malcolm returned it as he selected his own cue and waited for their current game to finish. Games here were always casual and generally any betting was for who bought drinks.

  When a new game started and his turn came up, he picked his sho
t and lined it up—then immediately scratched as something across the room caught his eye. The other guys ribbed him for the fuck up, and he took it in absent good grace, tossing out a comment about obviously needing more beer.

  Retreating to said beer, he scoped the eye candy across the room as surreptitiously as he could manage. He couldn't see the man's face, but the rest of the package was damned fine. A plain, tight black t-shirt hugged the slender frame, the short sleeves of it allowing the arms to show to perfection. They were inked, all the way down, stopping a couple inches or so above the wrists. Did they go all the way up to his shoulders? Down his chest and or back? The ink was damned impressive, even at a distance. He would swear the one arm was covered entirely in butterflies. That was definitely nothing he'd seen before.

  There were rings on his fingers, and two more hung from a silver chain around the man's neck. Interesting. Wedding rings? They always seemed to be straight, such a pity. A flat cap was pulled down low on his brow, further shadowing his face in the dimly lit bar. A heavy leather band circled one wrist, a thin chain on the other.

  He was talking to another man, occasionally making gesture with his hands, or shaking his head, laughing. Were they together? But no, there were the rings around his neck…but that could be anything, really.

  Malcolm wanted. At the very least, he wanted to get closer, see what his chances were, if any. The man, even sitting and mostly still, had that laid back, don't fuck with me ease that so drew him. It was the sort of manner that came from people who knew they had nothing to fear and didn't need to brag about it.

  The sound of his name being called in exasperated tones snapped him back to attention, and he realized he'd been staring at hottie even longer than he'd thought. Shaking himself, he bent to the game and managed a few shots before finally missing one.

  He was going to lose the game, but couldn't really bring himself to care. Stepping aside to give Rick room, he glanced back toward the table where hottie had been sitting.

  Only to see hottie was gone.

  He felt unaccountably disappointed and then irritated. One hottie had gone, but another would show up—and, he reminded himself, he had only come to look anyway. Temptation to touch was best to stay far away from.

  But, it still irritated him.

  He grimaced and put all his attention on the game, nursing a fresh beer after he lost. Rick joined him, snickering. "Don't scowl too much man. Everyone and anyone so inclined," he indicated Malcolm and himself, meaning the gay men in the bar, "has tried and failed to score with tattoos."

  "Huh?"

  "The pretty boy with the tats, man. You were staring so hard, everyone felt that gaze. Have you never seen him before?"

  Malcolm shook his head, and took another swallow of beer. How the fuck had he missed him? "Does he come here often?"

  "No, which is probably why. He comes once every third blue moon. We just all remember him. For the tats, or the blue balls he leaves us with," Rick replied ruefully. "Pretty as fuck and an ass to die for. Pretty certain he swings our way, but he never wants to hook up."

  "Maybe I'll get lucky," Malcolm said.

  Rick laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Maybe you will, at that. I know plenty of guys that'd fuck you just for the chance to get near your sweet little ride. I'm almost half tempted myself, whenever I see it. Now stop sulking and come play."

  "Yeah, yeah," Malcolm replied, but set his beer down and rejoined the game. With the pretty distraction gone, he was much more able to focus, and eventually they began to play for shots—most of which he bought, because even sans distraction he sucked at pool.

  By that point, they had a small crowd around them, laughing and harassing and smack-talking as the quality of game play rapidly degraded. They slowed a bit when they spent more time stumbling and missing than actually playing, and started to wind down when the bartender warned bar closed in an hour. Abandoning the table, hanging up his cue, Malcolm ambled over to the bar and slid several bills across.

  The bartender said nothing, merely took the bills and tucked them discreetly away, but one corner of his mouth tilted up. "You're a good guy, Mal. Have a good weekend, and try to stay out of trouble."

  "It always finds me, honest," Malcolm said, smiling drunkenly but genuinely. He turned unsteadily away, and began to make his way slowly and carefully to the door after calling good night to the others. He pulled out his cell as he walked, flipping it open, and—

  He swore as someone crashed hard into him, causing the phone to go flying. While he didn't see it land, he heard the rather ominous sound of its landing. Wincing, he shook his head to try and clear it, and instead only made things worse. "Sorry—"

  Again he was rammed into, and only then did he realize that the guy was paying him no mind because he was locked in an argument that escalated out of control right as Malcolm's comprehension dawned.

  "Hey!" he tried, but only crashed to the floor for his effort. He heaved himself back up, clinging to a chair, only to have the chair banged into when he was halfway up, sending him back to the floor.

  Then someone stepped on him.

  After that, Malcolm sort of lost it, drunk and angry and not entirely certain which end was up, until he abruptly found himself outside on the pavement, breathing in cool evening air. Slowly things began to filter back in, until he realized he wasn't alone.

  He turned to thank whoever had dragged him from the mess, wincing in pain—and froze.

  The face was still shadowed, but there was no mistaking the tattoos. "Uh—" Malcolm could not thing of a single fucking thing to say. "Thanks," he finally mumbled.

  Soft laughter washed over him, husky and warm. "You're what my mom called 'a bit of a scrapper' aren't you?"

  "Scrapper? My mom just said hellion," Malcolm managed , swaying on his feet a bit. "Thanks for getting me out of there. Didn't want to fight, tonight. Last night was enough." He clumsily reached up to touch the black eye, wincing a bit when the bruise stung.

  "Last night? Did you stumble into a fight then, too?"

  Malcolm frowned, and narrowed his eyes, staring fuzzily at the man, something… something nagged at him, but he was too fucking drunk and sore and tired to make the synapses in his head fire correctly. "My ex boyfriend and his asshole buddies tried to wreck my car," he said.

  The head jerked up, but then quickly ducked back down, causing Malcolm's frown to deepen. He reached out a fumbling hand to stroke the tattoos. Celtic designs, he saw, ran the length of the left arm. And just as he'd thought, butterflies covered the right. He stroked one butterfly. "Gorgeous work."

  The man jerked his arm away. "T-thanks. Did you drive your Maserati tonight?"

  "No," Malcolm said. Something about that question… "Oh, fuck. My phone. They trashed it. I totally forgot." He pinched the bridge of his nose, and slumped against the wall, suddenly feeling at least twice his age. Honestly, when he was sober, he was going to be completely disgusted with himself.

  "Uh—there's not much left of it, yeah. Sorry. I tried," the man said beside him, and held out the broken remains of Malcolm's cell phone.

  Malcolm grimaced. "Great. So much for calling my driver to come pick me up."

  The man almost looked up at him again. "Um. Driver? That wouldn't be that guy across the street, in the black car?"

  "Huh?" Malcolm jerked his head up, then immediately regretted moving that quickly. But, sure enough, Brian was parked across the street, reading some book while he waited for Malcolm to reappear. "Uh, yeah. That's him. You need a ride somewhere man."

  "No, I catch the bus. Just wanted to make certain you didn't die." The voice held a tone of disapproval, but Malcolm couldn't find it in himself to be irritated. Too drunk and tired, he supposed. Or his rescuer was too pretty, for all that he still hadn't gotten a look at the man's face. He fought an urge to rip off the flat cap, not wanting to piss the guy off—and god knew he respected privacy and shit.

  But, he wasn't letting the dude take a fucking bus. "Screw t
hat." He latched onto the guys wrist and dragged him across the street. Drunk he might be, but he wasn't letting someone who helped him bus it home. "Hey, Brian."

  "Hey, Mr. Malcolm."

  "Take him home, first." He opened the door, and dragged the guy inside, locking the doors before he could escape and ordering Brian to go.

  "Sure, Mr. Malcolm. Hey, man, what's your address? I can GPS it."

  The man was silent, then finally leaned forward and muttered something that Malcolm didn't quite catch. Finished, he sat back and slunk into the far corner of the car, looking more than a little wigged out.

  "So what's your name?" Malcolm asked. "I feel bad you totally helped me out, and I know shit about you. Saw you, earlier this evening."