The Missing Butterfly

by Megan Derr

  Why, he thought miserably, could he not be crushing this bad on a—a stock boy or something. Why did it have to be a fucking prince charming in a steel and glass tower and a 120,000 dollar steed?

  God, he really hoped it was just a crush. People got over crushes. He'd had little crushes on customers before, and he'd gotten over every single one of them. He wasn't dumb enough to do more than crush on his boss.

  Except he had the sinking feeling he was so over his head when it came to Malcolm, and damned if there was anything he could do about it. Whatever it was, it burned a hell of a lot hotter than any crush, no matter how hard he tried to pretend.

  It was totally easy, without lying to himself at all, to blame his massive stupidity in the car Friday night on pent up lust. If the ride had gone all the way home, instead of that stupid apartment complex, he'd have begged Malcolm to fuck him and damn the consequences.

  That hadn't been the only reason though. He'd liked Malcolm seeing the real him, tattoos and all, and wanting him bad—even if he hadn't known it was Cassidy. Which was part of the problem. If he marched into Malcolm's office right this second and stripped off his shirt, revealing his tats, that he was Jonathan, would Malcolm still want him?

  Or, Cassidy thought with an old, tired sigh, did he come with too much baggage? Playing house since he was eighteen, with little to no help, harassed and terrorized for years by a crazy ass bitch of a boss, feeling so much older than he really was, and still clinging secretly to a dream that had died long ago? His first and last attempt at a relationship had ended with the guy saying precisely that—too much fucking baggage. That had been the straw that broke his back, that drove him to do a lot of stupid shit when he turned twenty one. After that, he'd given up relationships.

  He shook himself from his thoughts, focusing again on the fount of gossip still gleefully pouring forth from the two women.

  "I heard he and Burgundy are more than friends," Janice said with a wise node, eyes locked on Antoine, still by the front desk.

  Connie snorted at this. "Not hardly," she challenged. "I saw Mr. Antoine myself at the McCormick just last week with some overdone tart on his arm. Anyway, Burgundy is married."

  "When has marriage ever stopped a man?" Janice demanded scornfully. "Anyway, everyone knows that marriage has been on the rocks for years. Who could resist—" she cut herself off abruptly at the sound of a familiar squeaking as Malcolm's office door opened. They all turned nearly as one to see Malcolm striding toward them, no doubt headed to meet his brother.

  He smiled and slowed to a stop as he reached them, nodding in greeting. "The ladies bringing you up to date on all the gossip?" Malcolm winked at the women, still smiling all the while, but Cassidy thought he saw something strained in the easy expression.

  But, that wasn't really hard to figure out. Flashy car aside, Malcolm obviously didn't go in for attention. He had money, and a lot of it, that much was plain—but he'd spent hours at a dive on the east end of Bridgeton, he'd discreetly paid the tab for everyone in the bar, and hadn't acted like anything more than just another Joe Blow the whole night.

  So, he had the money and probably the connections, but settled for Head Manager. What else was he hiding, beyond a devastatingly talented mouth? Unless that wasn't a secret; Cassidy really preferred not to think about it.

  He really hated that strained look on Malcolm's face, and fought for a way to ease it, even if he could barely look Malcolm in the face without turning bright red and wanting to run. But he managed it, even managed a smile, and said, "If I wanted gossip, I'd just go ask Carlos. They were only telling me Mr. Antoine is your brother—it's cool to have a face to put to him."

  That drew a genuine smile from Malcolm, and he squeezed Cassidy's shoulder briefly. "We're going there for lunch, I'll tell him you said hello—and that he's not to tell you a damn thing." Then he continued on his way to the front desk, where his voice immediately carried back as he started to mock yell at his brother. "Hey! Antoine, we've had this discussion before. You are not allowed to flirt with my staff, and any phone numbers acquired are to be surrendered to me forthwith."

  "Forthwith? It's so easy to tell you actually paid attention in school," Antoine retorted. "I have nothing to surrender to you, forthwith or otherwise. Anyway, I outrank you, so I don't have to do what you say. I'm allowed to talk to whomever I want."

  The bickering continued, the small crowd around them a perfect audience for the antics, until at last the brothers said farewell and departed for lunch."

  "Too much pretty in that family," Janice said with a sigh. "I cannot tell you how many women mourned the loss of Carlos a couple years ago when he got married." She turned to face Cassidy. "But, there are still two left. Did you ever see the spread of them, in the city's local magazine?"

  Cassidy choked. "Spread?" Oh, gods, he did not need to be putting 'Malcolm' and 'spread' in the same sentence or even thought. "About what?"

  "Cities most eligible bachelors," Connie said. "That was, oh, not quite a year ago. Malcolm was furious about it, since Mr. Antoine dragged him pretty much kicking and screaming. He hid in his office for like a month straight, after it came out, and more or less refused to answer any of his phones. People were placing bets on when we would find Mr. Antoine's corpse and how Malcolm would kill him."

  "Hang on," Janice said, eyes bright with mischief. "I still have a copy."

  "That is sick and sad," Connie told her.

  Janice rolled her eyes. "Please, like you don't have your own stashed somewhere."

  Connie did not deign to reply to this, but when Janice returned with the magazine she took it away and flipped immediately to the correct page. "Here we go—aren't they totally gorgeous?"

  Totally, Cassidy wanted to say, and that made him wonder why they were asking him. It wasn't normal for chicks to ask guys if they thought other guys were gorgeous. He eyed them warily, but they only looked knowingly back.

  "Sweetie," Connie said gently, teasingly, "if you stared any harder at Malcolm, your eyes would fall out of your head."

  Cassidy flushed dark and jerked away, mortified to be so easily busted and—

  "Oh, you're freaking him out," Janice said, scowling at Connie and catching Cassidy by the arm. "Hey, shh. It's okay. Please, calm down. No one here gives a damn. Didn't you see Bobby flirting harder with Mr. Antoine than even Jacquelyn could manage?"

  Nodding stiffly, Cassidy slowly made himself relax and not make a break for the elevator lobby. He drew a shaky breath, and nodded again. "Yeah," he said quietly. "They're gorgeous."

  Connie clucked in amusement. "I won't bother to ask which one is your favorite. Ever seen that car of his? I haven't, except here in the magazine," she said with a long sigh of the monstrously unfair.

  "No," Cassidy said, taking the coward's path, deciding it was much safer not to admit that Malcolm had given him a ride home last week. He didn't want them making jokes or laughing insinuations, now that he was apparently outed, especially since it didn't seem like they knew Malcolm was gay. Or at least bi…but Cassidy's gut, or maybe wishful thinking, told him Malcolm's only interest was in men.

  He glanced down at the magazine again, looking at the picture of Antoine and Malcolm standing back to back, dressed to the nines in fancy suits. He barely noticed when the magazine was handed over to him, flipping the page to take in the profile page for Malcolm—where he stood posed in fashionably beat up jeans and a tight t-shirt, designer sunglasses, leaning against his black Maserati.

  Oh, the things Cassidy wanted to do and have done when it came to Malcolm and that car. Shaking his head at himself, he read the cheesy magazine profile about Malcolm being the middle child, a popular Head Manager, his one indulgence his flashy car, his likes and dislikes in food, music, so on and so forth.

  None of it really captured Malcolm much, not really. It didn't capture how close he was to his brothers—men to whom he was not even blood related, and that only made it more impressive. It didn't mention his smile, or how
kind and generous he could be, or how kissing him had torn Cassidy's world apart.

  But he said only, "It really doesn't seem like something he'd do. How did Antoine make him?"

  "No one knows, but boy howdy, be grateful you weren't here when he was still pissed off about it. When those two go at, even Satan and God stay out of it," Janice said, and sniggered at some memory. "You'll have to go to lunch with us sometime, we can tell you about all their fights. They've quieted down lately, but there was a period there they seemed to have a death match every week."

  Connie laughed. "I've heard before it's even worse when the third brother gets into it, as well. We don't see him very often around here, though. Probably a good thing. That much pretty would ruin anyone's ability to concentrate."

  "Everyone keeps calling them pretty. Guys don't like to be called pretty," Cassidy said, amused by it despite himself.

  His words just made Connie giggle, and reach out to ruffle his hair. Cassidy might have been annoyed, if he hadn't been so surprised. "Oh, now, I bet plenty of girls and boys called you pretty and you ate it right up. Probably broke all their little hearts, too, pretty as you are."

  "I never broke anyone's heart," Cassidy replied. "Scout's honor or whatever."

  The women laughed, and Janice reached out to touch his hair herself. "I do not believe you, with that face and those eyes and these curls." She clucked her tongue. "I truly doubt it."

  Cassidy flushed, because it was true that even his small handful of quick and meaningless hook-ups had admired his 'pretty curls'. His only real Ex had liked his hair, too. Though he kept it short, still the curls showed through. Short of something drastic, like military short, there was really no help for it."

  They laughed more as his face went bright red.

  "Oh, stop harassing him," Steve said suddenly, returning to his own cubicle, which butted up against Cassidy's. "You're just jealous your hair isn't that pretty. And probably jealous you're too old to tap that." He winked at Cassidy, then sat down, vanishing into his cubicle.

  The women squawked and protested and laughed and flushed, but finally stopped touching him. "Cassidy isn't interested in us anyway," Janice said loftily.

  "If you ask me," Steve's voice came drifting up, "gay men are the smart ones. Every time my wife starts screaming, I wonder why the hell I had to be born straight. Now get back to work, cause if you're still standing there when Malcolm returns he's going to make you deal with the filing cabinets for the next six months."

  Janice and Connie both grimaced at the threat, and conceded defeat. "I'm so telling your wife when I see her that you think about turning gay whenever you argue with her."

  "And I'm telling your boyfriend," Steven retorted, "that you keep the bachelor profile of your boss in your desk."

  Rolling her eyes, Janice thrust the magazine back at Cassidy, who fumbled to keep from dropping it.

  "This is yours!" he protested. "I don't want it."

  They both laughed at him, and pet his hair again before striding off to their own desks again. "Sure you do," Janice replied. "There's more pictures." She winked at him, and then vanished into her cube.

  Mortified, Cassidy sank back into his chair and threw the magazine in the trash. He didn't need pictures, as stunning as they no doubt were. He had enough problems already, striving not to think about how it had felt to be spread across Malcolm's laps, his long fingers fisted in Cassidy's hair.

  Chapter Six

  These days, being alone in the house was becoming less unusual. Cassidy dreaded the day being completely alone was standard operating procedure. He wouldn't know what to do with himself, when he was no longer bellowing for Denny to put his damned art supplies away, the hallway did not double as a closet, or bickering with them over groceries, bargaining over chores, demanding to know why the hell they had to keep blowing through the monthly minutes—

  He really would be lost when he came home to a house filled with silence, day after day, into weeks, into months.

  Shaking his head, he picked up his shot glass and tossed back the shot of Jack he'd just poured, slamming the glass back down and returning to his writing. Music throbbed through the house, bass making everything vibrate to the beat. Most of the house was dark; he knew it well enough light wasn't really necessary, and he had little need for all but the kitchen and bathroom at present.

  On the table, alongside the bottle of Jack and his shot glass, were scattered sheets and scraps of paper, filled with words, some crossed out, others written in, notes and doodles and bits of music.

  Writing songs was a bit like pouring acid into a bleeding wound, but sometimes he simply could not help himself. Shutting off the music was damn near like shutting off his breathing, or tearing off his limb. Clinging to it hurt, but he still thought it would hurt more to stop completely.

  For years, he hadn't been able to leave the house except for work, too busy taking care of the shambles of his family to live his own life much. But, as Lindsay and Denny had gotten older, and were out of the house themselves with increasing frequency, he'd been able to mold a little bit of a life—such as it was. For a long time, his only break had been coming home from work and remaining in the driveway for half an hour or so, just sitting in the car, listening to his music, drinking a beer when he could afford one.

  When they'd started going out, leaving him alone for the night, he'd started cranking his music and sitting at the table, sometimes writing, sometimes simply listening. For a while, that had been enough. As his restlessness grew, so did his siblings, giving him a little bit more freedom. Eventually, he'd been able to start his occasional visits to Bridgeton to drink, Karaoke, and occasionally hook up in an alleyway or a room rented for an hour or two.

  Minus that brief, stupid stint when he'd tried the dating thing, a fellow slave beneath the thumb of the Ogre. But, he'd moved on to bigger and better things soon enough, speeding away from Cassidy and his baggage as quickly as he was able.

  After his nights in Bridgeton, he typically returned calmer, if not exactly better.

  He scratched out a line and rewrote it, sneering at himself for being hooked on love songs lately. Honestly, how much more pathetic was he going to get before this damned obsession or whatever the hell it was with Malcolm, finally worked itself out of his system.

  Christ, he needed to get over it. Face it, he told himself; whatever had happened a week ago in the dark of that car, he needed to forget about it. No doubt Malcolm already had; likely, he'd moved on to better, less mysterious and more cooperative pastures.

  He poured more Jack and shot it, setting the glass down and retrieving his pen.

  The weather was warm, but not so bad yet he had to turn on the AC. Though he still occasionally missed the house in which he'd grown up, the one into which they'd moved only weeks after their parents died was infinitely more affordable and easier to maintain. After his parents had died and most of the money had gone to debts and problems about which he'd somehow never known, the lawyer had helped him to get this little house on Lester.

  It was a pretty small, quiet street, spaced far enough apart that no one cared if he cranked the music a bit with all his windows open. He never turned it up high enough to cause real problems, anyway.

  He sat in the kitchen, straddling a chair at the table, bent over its low back to work on his song writing. He wore nothing but an old, ratty pair of jeans, the weather warm enough he could skip a shirt. The overhead light shown yellow-orange light down on him, warming his skin and making the tattoos seem all the darker.

  Lindsay was gone for the next week or so, off to spend some time with friends before they all went their separate ways to jobs and grad schools. Denny had gone off for a weekend party thing at a friend's house. Cassidy wasn't exactly thrilled about that, knowing some of Denny's friends, but he wasn't going to be an asshole—Denny would call him if something went sour, and he was eighteen now, even if Cassidy found that hard to believe at times. All the time. Lindsay being twenty one stil
l weirded him out, hell.

  It was the perfect sort of weekend for inviting a lover over, and he thought with a sigh that it was probably for the best he didn't have Malcolm's number. Shaking his head, he bent back to putting words upon the page.

  Until the doorbell rang. Frowning, wondering who the hell would be knocking on his door at nine thirty, he turned down the music then strode to the front door. Opening it, he barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Pizza. Lindsay had probably ordered it, knowing full well he seldom bothered to each much when he was on his own.

  The man—god, kid, really, he couldn't be older than Lindsay, had a smile frozen on his face that rapidly turned into an obvious attempt not to gawk. His eyes were damned near the size of the pie he was delivering, as he scoped Cassidy out with no subtlety whatsoever. "Uh—you ordered the meat supreme, sticks, and soda?"

  Cassidy smiled, slow and easy, trying not to chuckle as the kid flushed. "Sounds right. What do I owe?"