The Missing Butterfly

by Megan Derr

  Lindsay beamed, then looked at her watch and sighed. "And now I have totally missed my bus. Guess I'm waiting for the next one." She shrugged.

  Malcolm was immediately contrite. "It's mostly, if not entirely, my fault. I can give you a ride home, or wherever, if you like."

  "Aren't you supposed to be at work? It's not a big deal, really. I'm done for the day, now. Waiting for a bus won't kill me."

  "I'm allowed to take long lunches if I need them," Malcolm replied. "Anyway, good deed for a good deed. You talked about your brother, so I shall escort you home."

  Lindsay laughed. "Fair enough. Thank you for lunch, and the ride."

  "Any time. I'll tell Carlos to expect you sometime Friday night and the occasion. They'll set you up proper."

  "That's totally way too nice of you," Lindsay replied.

  Malcolm shrugged. "Cass is a good guy, and I'd like us to be friends. I want to see him relax, be happy."

  Lindsay smiled at him, her eyes bright with something she obviously wasn't going to voice. "Me too. You going to join us for dinner on Friday, then?"

  Tempting, very tempting, but… "Nah. He should relax and have fun with his family. Maybe next time." Next year, he'd take Cassidy out for the sort of birthday dinner to which siblings weren't invited. Yeah, he liked that idea.

  Lindsay nodded and followed him out of the sandwich shop and to the parking garage of his office building. An hour later, returned from dropping Lindsay off and doing a bit of scouting about for a certain diner, he bought a coffee from the café across the street then returned to Antoine's office.

  It was, at present, empty. Good, he could get into mischief without Antoine pestering him. First thing was first; Malcolm sent off an email to the necessary office women to see to it the accounting department put something together for Thursday.

  Then, he pulled up his various accounts to take stock of things, pulling up other sites and files as he considered his options. Then he called his lawyer. "Hey, Joey. I want to buy a restaurant. No, a particular one. A diner. Do all my zeroes look like they care? No, no, what I want is…" Quickly and concisely, Malcolm laid out what he wanted to do. "Yeah, Carlos. Of course he'd kill me or at least try. Fine, fine. Call me back when I'm allowed to show up and fire people. Email or fax or overnight whatever I need to sign. Thanks. Bye."

  "What—"

  Malcolm jumped, nearly sending his laptop crashing to the floor. He glared up at Antoine. "When the hell did you get back?"

  "About ten minutes ago. Why the hell are you buying some dive way the hell across the city?"

  "Because I feel like it," Malcolm said shortly, and went back to typing.

  Antoine groaned. "I know that look and tone. I had a sneaking suspicion lately. You're already gaga over someone new? Who is it? Not your tattooed hottie, you'd have said already. Who has you hooked, and what's on his arrest record?"

  "Fuck you," Malcolm replied.

  "Fess up or I'm going to beat the shit out of you," Antoine said, dropping down next to him and prodding him none too gently. "Or tell mom."

  "God damn it," Malcolm snarled. "Fine. Cassidy." Hopefully the asshole wouldn't remember who that was.

  Antoine frowned. "Should that—oh! Wait a second. You're smitten over your new employee? But, he's a straight arrow type, isn't he? Basic Office Monkey." He started howling with laughter. "Oh my fucking god, you finally fell for a non-bad boy."

  "I hope you choke on your own smugness," Malcolm snapped. "He isn't basic, and I don't think he's entirely a good boy, and does it really fucking matter? Oh, shut the fuck up already!" He shoved Antoine off the couch, then kicked him for good measure when the bastard just kept laughing.

  Finally Antoine stopped laughing. "Touchy, touchy. So why the diner, then? What's that got to do with Mr. Employee?"

  Malcolm slumped down in his couch, and muttered, "Nothing."

  "Give it up, or I'm telling Carlos."

  "You'll tell Carlos anyway, you dirty little fink. Fine. It's where he used to work. His former boss was a raging bitch and half the reason he's always terrified here. I'm going to buy the restaurant, then go fire her. Just for fun, I'm going to make Carlos my Head Manager or something. Then he'll own one restaurant, and by the end of the year they'll own the Mexican place, and he'll be a respectable businessman. Though he still won't be able to afford a Maserati."

  "Asshole," Antoine said, but sounded almost cheerful as he said it. "How cute, you're being all knight and stuff for your Office Monkey."

  "I hate you so much."

  Antoine snickered and moved out of hitting and kicking range "I hate you too. Now, stop being Mr. Heiress and get back to the monthly reports before your boss comes in here to find you."

  Malcolm groaned, but at a look from his brother and in no rush to deal with his boss, he finally pulled the reports up and got to work.

  Chapter Eight

  Malcolm drained his beer and glared venomously at his brother. "If you dragged me out here just to laugh and mock while the music makes my ears bleed, hell will hath no fury like a millionaire with a vendetta."

  "Certainly it will have no one prissier," Antoine replied, unimpressed. "Stop whining, it doesn't actually make you prettier."

  "Yes, it does," Malcolm retorted and called for another beer. "I don't think our mysterious Jonathan is showing."

  "Patience is a virtue," Antoine said, mostly just to try his patience. "It's only nine o'clock, simmer down, Princess. He'll show. Wally's pretty certain he's nailed the guy's pattern, and I don't think I scared him off the other night."

  "Speaking of Wally, how goes that thing I don't know about?"

  Antoine made a face. "Shit, he hasn't even breathed a word of it yet. He's getting all his ducks in a row first. The dumb bitch isn't going to get her way this time."

  "What finally tipped it for him?" Malcolm asked. "She's had her claws in his balls since, what, your sophomore year?"

  "Yeah," Antoine replied. "I don't know, he won't say exactly." He shrugged and downed most of his own beer. "At this point, I'm just glad he's breaking free."

  There was a question or two Malcolm had always wanted to ask Antoine, in regards to Wally—but one, he could not imagine it, because Antoine the Player was so firmly entrenched, imagining anything else was just weird. Two, he liked breathing, and he suspected if he dared to call Antoine out, he would cease to perform that vital function.

  "Well, if he needs any help, just let me know."

  "Yeah, yeah," Antoine said, and with a vague flapping of hand, changed the subject. "So are you going to break company policy sometime in the near future?"

  "None of your business," Malcolm replied.

  Antoine rolled his eyes. "How did he like his little office birthday party?"

  "I think once he stopped freaking out he really liked it," Malcolm said, smiling at the memory. "The girls have a knack for calming him down."

  What did it say about him, that he was only so interested in being here? He'd rather go home and relive all of Cassidy's smiles at the party, the way they'd even gotten him to laugh a bit, relax by some small measure. He now also knew that Cassidy liked his pizza with lots of meat, didn't care much for soda, and had gone for the chocolate cake rather than the vanilla.

  He heaved a sigh when Antoine gave him a smirking little look and with a grimace said, "Oh, shut up. So maybe—" he stopped as the latest voice on the karaoke stage cut through him. Jesus H. Christ, the voice was the fucking wet dream to end all wet dreams.

  Antoine, he realized, hadn't been smirking for the reason Malcolm first surmised.

  Glancing toward the stage, he saw Jonathan. Holy hell, he'd forgotten how utterly fuckable the man looked. Like before, he was dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt, both fitted to drive a man crazy. The flat cap was on his head, pulled low. "Fucking hell, he can sing."

  "Yes," Antoine said smugly.

  Malcolm swallowed and could not be bothered to reply, too enamored of the man on stage, singing like a ro
ck star, so far beyond the wannabes eying him jealously. What was a voice like that doing in a shithole like this?

  Then Jonathan looked up, and the lights from the stage fell just right, and Malcolm didn't even notice that he'd dropped his beer and spilled it everywhere, oblivious to Antoine's squawks of protest. "Fuck me, that's Cassidy!"

  No way in hell—but it was. Mostly sober, with more light, and not wiped from a fight… now that he could see, he would know those eyes, that face, anywhere. Jonathan was Cassidy, which meant he'd made out with Cassidy all those nights ago, and he was so going to wring that pretty little neck the first chance he got.

  But as he'd spoken, Cassidy had jerked, eyes going to him—and then going wide with horror and panic. It would have been funny, had he not looked so fucking scared.

  Then Cassidy abruptly bolted from the stage, making a beeline for the nearest exit.

  "Damn it!" Malcolm said and ran after him.

  Chasing Cassidy out the side entrance, he raced down the alleyway, lunging at the last moment. "Cassidy!" Grasping Cassidy's arm, yanking hard, he nearly sent them both crashing to the crowd, but managed at the last moment to twist enough he landed hard against the wall. His breath wooshed out of him, and he barely managed to keep hold of Cassidy. "Cass!"

  Abruptly Cassidy froze, looking like nothing so much as a terrified, wide-eyed cat.

  Moving without real thought, Malcolm reached up with one hand to lightly cup Cassidy's face. "Why did you run? Why…why would you hide this?"

  Cassidy only stared at him a moment longer, then abruptly began to tremble. "B-because I'm not supposed to do it," he said, then began to try and struggle to get free. "Let me go."

  "Not if you're just going to run away," Malcolm replied, though he did loosen his hold a bit. His other hand he still kept lightly cupping Cassidy's cheek. "Cass… this whole time it was you, and you never said a word." He laughed, even if he wanted to shake Cass senseless and still wring that pretty throat. "I've been tied up in knots over two men for weeks, and all this time they were the same guy."

  "Huh?" Cassidy said, startled into looking up at him.

  Malcolm didn't give him a chance to look down again, grasping his chin firmly and keeping his head tilted up. "Cassidy…look, can we go talk somewhere?"

  "Uh, okay," Cassidy said, looking resigned to whatever terrible fate he imagined was in store.

  "You're not going to bolt if I let go?" Malcolm asked, though he didn't really think so—at this point, if Cassidy had wanted to break free and go, he could have.

  At that, Cassidy scowled. "No. I said we'd talk, we'll talk."

  "Fine," Malcolm said and let him go.

  Cassidy stepped back, looking twitchy and scared and so miserable, Malcolm almost felt like a jerk for busting him. He wanted Cassidy to smile, and jeez he looked as edible as he had the first night Malcolm had seen him like this, only more so because it was Cassidy not some stranger—

  He didn't even realize he'd moved again, until he felt Cassidy's gasp against his mouth, felt soft, warm lips move against his. What he didn't feel was a protest, and he didn't want to give Cassidy a chance to come to his senses.

  Wrapping his arms around Cassidy again, loving the way holding Cassidy felt, he pulled them flush together and kissed hard and deep, desperate to stake some sort of claim this time, loathe to let Cassidy escape a second time.

  "This—this isn't talking," Cassidy said when they finally broke apart, but he made no effort to pull away or otherwise free himself from the arm around his waist or the hand fisted in his hair.

  Malcolm laughed softly, briefly, and reluctantly let him go. "No, I suppose not, but I'm not going to say I'm sorry."

  The barest of answering smiles flitted briefly across Cassidy's face, before it was buried by an anxious frown again.

  "Come on, then," Malcolm said, and snagged Cassidy's hand, keeping firm hold of it as he led the way to the special garage where he'd parked his car for the evening—he wasn't taking any more chances with crazy, violent exes.

  When they reached it, Cassidy made a choked, whimpering sort of sound. Malcolm eyed him. "Something wrong?"

  "Did you have to drive this car?" Cassidy asked with a strangled laugh, and it was so strange still, seeing Cassidy as Jonathan. The tattoos and tight clothes, the flat cap over unrestrained curls, all the bad-boy flavor drizzled over the sad eyes and sweet demeanor he associated with Cassidy.

  If he got any harder, he was going to break something and the night would turn very tragic. "What's wrong with my car?" he asked.

  Cassidy laughed again, sounding amused, half-hysterical, and resigned, and Malcolm had never known one laugh to contain so much. "Do you know what kinds of thoughts I've been having about you and this car since you first gave me a ride home? I was hard the whole way."

  Malcolm groaned, one hand balling into a fist, the other gripping his keys too tightly, before he forced himself to relax. "Get in the damned car, or I will not be held responsible for bending you over the hood and pounding into you as hard as I can."

  This time, Cassidy groaned, before obediently opening the door and sliding down into the passenger seat. "Where are we going?" he asked once Malcolm had settled in the driver's seat and started the car.

  "Somewhere you're comfortable," Malcolm replied. "I don't want you running away from me again."

  Cassidy gave that strange laugh of his again, yanking his flat cap from his head and scrubbing a hand agitatedly through his curls. "I think we're past me getting away clean, man. I never should have fucking risked it, not after you and your brother each found me once."

  "I cannot fucking believe you made out with me, then played it so cool on Tuesday." Malcolm bit the words out. "Were you trying to play me for a fool?"

  Silence reigned for a moment, then Cassidy said quietly, "I didn't want to get fired, and I didn't know if you wanted work and pleasure mingling, and I'm supposed to be a good office monkey—not this. Not anymore." He ran a down his face, breath ragged as he exhaled, and stared out the window at the dark city.

  Malcolm said nothing as he wove through the city and eventually reached the highway, careful to watch his speed because the cops just loved trying to pull him over, and he was so not in the mood for it. "I don't understand," he said at last. "Why is it such a bad thing for you to be yourself?" he hazarded, because he sensed this Cassidy was much more natural than office Cassidy. The tattoos alone seemed to state that loud and clear.

  "Because I was eighteen, and they wanted to take my siblings away, and for years after they never left me the fuck alone," Cassidy snarled, trembling in his seat, and the words tumbled out so fast, Malcolm wondered how long he'd been holding it all back. "Every goddamn day, I worried something about me would cost me what little I had still had to lose."

  "Screw this," Malcolm muttered, and took the next exit, turning at random streets until they were on a dark, deserted street. Turning the car off, he reached over and tugged Cassidy over as best he could in the awkward space. "Cass—no one can take them away now, and no one is going to hurt you for being you."

  The dimness of the car lights were still more than enough for him to see the sad, sad eyes. No one so young should look so old—and no one should look so scared.

  "And why wouldn't I want to mix business and pleasure?" he asked, hoping being a bit less serious might relax Cassidy a bit. "I've been thinking of little else since I hired you. Then I met Jonathan, and found myself torn by two people."

  Cassidy pulled away, and Malcolm let him. "You didn't recognize me at all. You were drunk and beat up though," his mouth quirked briefly, then faded away into sadness again. "Still, I was sure you'd figure it out… but you had no idea. So I left it."

  Malcolm reached out to grasp his arm and tug him back, but found himself distracted by the tattoos. Beautifully done, and they must have cost a bloody fortune. Given Cassidy's probably tight situation, they must be pretty damned important to him. "No wonder you always wear long sleeves," he sai
d. "I just thought you were particularly strict about adhering to office policy."

  The arm trembled slightly beneath his hand, and Malcolm hated it. "Cass, you don't have to be scared of me. Please." He looked up, begging with voice and face, unable to bear that Cass was scared of him, of this. "I swear to god, I just want you to stop being sad and scared."

  Cassidy burst out laughing, though it sounded more like a strangled sob.

  Malcolm cut the awful sound off with a kiss, sinking a hand into the so-soft curls, not caring how awkward or uncomfortable the location was, his only concern to soothe Cassidy.

  Who made a soft, indistinct noise that could have been anything, then shifted to cling as tightly as he could in the limited confines of the car.