Butterfly Tattoo

by Deidre Knight

  Darkness shrouds her den, with only the gleaming lights from Mona’s house washing over her ceiling. That and the rhythmic reflection of the pool lights playing along Rebecca’s living-room wall like a lava lamp. Andie’s sound asleep in the next room; there’s just us, the sound of us breathing together, the feel of me hard and ready to go.

  God, these jeans are killing me, I think, as I manage to lower her onto the cushions, onto her back. I slip my palm beneath her T-shirt, just exploring, edging closer to her breasts, and feel the cool of Alex’s band against the warmth of her skin. I pull back, but keep on with the kisses. There’s the sound of her soft breathing in my ear, quick breaths, and I feel her hands roaming my back, lower still, then stopping. My whole body spasms knowing how close she just got.

  “Rebecca, Andie’s in the next room, but…” I hesitate, even though I swear I’d beg her, I’d do anything to find a way for what I want tonight.

  She presses her fingertips against my lips, silencing me. “Michael, we can’t.”

  “Yeah we can, of course we can,” I say, nuzzling her cheek, but she stops me, clasping my face within her strong hands.

  She steadies me, until our eyes lock. “Michael, I was serious when I said there are things you don’t know.”

  “I know everything that matters.”

  “No,” she gasps, her breathing ragged as she shifts her hips beneath mine. “No, you really don’t.”

  “What? You a guy in drag or something?” She doesn’t laugh, just stares up at me, shocked. “Hell, that would solve some issues,” I tease, leaning in to kiss her again, but she stops me, staring into my eyes hard.

  “You’ve seen my scars, Michael,” she says, her voice husky and filled with emotion. “But you haven’t seen them all.”

  “That what this is all about?” I ask, relieved to finally understand.

  “Michael, they’re bad, okay. Really bad.”

  “Baby, I don’t care about that,” I whisper, brushing her hair away from her cheek. “I don’t give a damn about that.”

  She turns away from me, and I think I see tears glint in her eyes as she whispers, “But you haven’t seen the whole picture.” She wipes at her eyes. “My body’s not the same anymore, Michael. It’s not just the scars you’ve seen; it’s the ones you haven’t. And there’s my respiratory stuff: I’m sick some days, others…” One hand flutters over her chest. “There’s a whole lot you don’t know.”

  “You really think that’ll change how I feel?”

  “I need more time.” She pulls in a nervous breath, adding, “And you still love Alex.”

  Now that one takes me aback, and I have to process it for a minute. “Is that a problem?” I finally ask, defiant anger edging my voice.

  “No, Michael.” She smiles, a sad expression that surprises me. “It’s just that I think we both need more time.”

  For a long moment, I stare into her eyes, blinking. It feels like she just slapped me, pulling Alex right here between us that way. I sit up, swinging my legs onto the floor, and cover my mouth with my hands.

  “Are you angry?” she asks solemnly, and I feel her shift behind me, curling her legs up so she can sit beside me. How come with me, love always has to be so damn complex?

  “Nope, not angry.”

  “Good.”

  “You should know something, though,” I say, turning to face her. “I’m not letting go of Alex anytime soon.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “Nah, I think you just did.”

  She reaches for my right hand, cradling it within her own. “I’d never do that. It’s just that you should at least be ready to make room for someone else first.” She outlines his ring on my finger for emphasis and whispers, “Because otherwise, it might be a mistake.”

  “I tried taking it off. Just couldn’t, not yet.”

  “You’ll know when the time is right,” she encourages me, touching the silver band with her fingertip. We fall silent a while, both of us staring down at Alex’s ring. I get the feeling there’s something she wants to ask of me, but can’t quite get the nerve.

  “What is it?” I ask, my eyes locking with hers.

  “Do you ever worry about staying healthy?” She seems nervous, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt anxiously. “About AIDS or whatever?”

  “No, ’cause I don’t sleep around,” I answer, my eyes narrowing at her. She’s asked such a straight person’s question. They’re convinced that we—the homosexual “other”—are always sleeping around.

  “I don’t mean it as an insult, but it’s such a big question,” she rushes, “for any of us out there in the dating world, not just gay people.”

  “Is that why you don’t want to sleep with me?” I ask, the weight of what she’s saying finally hitting home.

  “Oh, Michael, no,” she says, shaking her head. “No, but I want to be sure that I understand.”

  “Al and I were completely monogamous,” I answer simply, because I want her to feel comfortable about me, and about what’s starting between us. “End of story, okay? Neither of us slept around. I’m clean.”

  She nods, staring down into her lap, seeming more fragile than anything else.

  “Tell me about the two guys.”

  Her blonde eyebrows arch upward in surprise. “You’re changing the subject.”

  “It’s important. You’re talking about my one guy. You tell me about your two.”

  “Well, the first—”she draws in a breath, looking oddly shy, “—was my high-school sweetheart.”

  “Yeah? What’s his name?” I know enough about high-school sweethearts not to dismiss this guy too easily.

  She laughs, glancing sideways at me. “Dr. Andrew Finkle, family dentist back in Dorian.”

  “A dentist?” I cough.

  “Sexy, huh?” she agrees with a sideways smile. “I get Christmas cards every year with his whole office decked out in Santa sweaters.”

  “I can’t believe you lost your virginity to a guy named Andrew Finkle.”

  “I did love him, once upon a time.” A wistful expression falls over her face as she stares out toward the flickering lights of Mona’s pool. “But life was a lot simpler then.”

  I consider telling her about Katie and being dumped at eighteen in the Greyhound bus station, but think better of it. “So who phones you all the time?”

  “Jake Slater. We were on About the House together.”

  Keeping my face neutral is hard: I’ve met Jake actually, though I never realized he was on Rebecca’s show. Certainly never realized he was her ex until now. I did some gaffer work on a cable movie of his back about eight years ago, a location gig upstate. I remember he was more interested in snorting coke on the grip truck than in doing a good job on set. A real playboy, that one.

  But I keep silent as she continues. “He was one of those consummate bad boys you always hope have really changed.” She sighs, rubbing her eyes. “What can I say? I was naïve and stupid. That’s really all you need to know about that.”

  “No, I need more,” I insist. “You’ve gotten a hell of a lot more about my past out of me.”

  She hesitates, folding her hands neatly into her lap. “He dumped me after I left the hospital three years ago. Maybe I’d been home for two or three weeks, I’m not even sure. I was so weak, drugged up. If my parents hadn’t been there to take care of me, I don’t know what I’d have done. Just walking to the toilet took everything I had.” She pauses, swallowing hard. “And then Jake shows up and tells me we’re through. Just like that. Over.” She shakes her head, almost like she’s still disbelieving. “I’d lost my career, my face, my health, and then just like that, I’d lost my boyfriend, too.”

  “I better not run into him ever,” I say, feeling the rush of adrenaline—the male need to protect. “And if he calls you again on my watch, I’m gonna explain a few things to him.”

  “Thanks, but I think he’s just having a life crisis or something. It’s weird, but I’ve actually
forgiven him.”

  “How’d you manage that?” I’m thinking of Robert Bridges and how my hatred toward him for killing Alex just never dies down.

  “Because me going around bitter isn’t going to change the facts,” she explains with remarkable calm. “Jake dumped me because my career was over, and he didn’t think he could afford to be associated with that. Because, as he said, ‘In this town, you can’t be damaged goods.’”

  “What an asshole.” I scowl in disbelief. “And you loved this guy?”

  “I thought so at the time, yes. He could actually be quite charming.”

  “Well, he was wrong, just so you know,” I say, wanting to be sure she really gets how I feel, that I’m not like this creep from her past. “You’re not damaged goods, Rebecca. You’re all the perfect I need.”

  “But,” she reminds me in a careful whisper, brushing a hand over her heart, “you haven’t seen all the rest.”

  I comb my fingers through her hair, revealing the part of her disfigurement that I have seen. “Yeah, that’s true, I haven’t seen the rest.” Leaning down to kiss her scarred cheek, I say, “But neither had Jake when he said that.”

  For a moment, she stares at me wide-eyed, surprised, as if the thought had never even crossed her mind before now, that Jake broke up with her before the bandages came off.

  Then she leans close, burying her face against my chest. We hold each other like that, me stroking her silky hair, feeling her heart hammering against mine, her arms wrapped around me. For once, I don’t even care what comes next.

  That’s what I’m thinking when she whispers against my heart, “Maybe it’s just me who needs more time.”

  “It’s okay,” I whisper back. “It’s okay ’cause I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

  Chapter Fifteen: Rebecca

  “Please tell me Johnny Jordan is actually smart in person,” Trevor says, grilling Cat about her current leading man in the film she’s shooting over at Universal. “He’s always mentioning Nietzsche and Neil Gaiman in the same breath during interviews. And you know what a turn-on intelligence is for me.”

  Cat sips her martini, smiling slyly. “No comment.” I’m not sure if she’s referring to Johnny Jordan’s sexual orientation or his intelligence rating—and I’m not sure Trevor actually cares about either. Like the rest of America, he just wants tidbits. We once crashed a Christmas party up in the Hills because he’d heard a rumor that Johnny would be there.

  “Is he… or isn’t he?” I laugh. “That is the question. Of course you have terrible taste in celebrities, so it hardly matters.”

  Cat high-fives me across the table. “Go girl,” she says. “Preach it, now!”

  Trevor blows me a sulky air-kiss. “Yes, well Jules is about to make you, darling Rebecca, so you’re allowed no snarky innuendo about my celebrities.”

  He’s right, of course; in fact, that’s why we’re doing the post-work drinks round up with Cat, a little mini-celebration of the Kingsley option.

  As much as Golden Boy irks me on principle, his book is lyrical and brilliant and it’s the first time since my attack that I can remember feeling any kind of professional excitement at all. Maybe Mom was right about God bringing us our dreams in ways we don’t anticipate. All I know is I’m nearly as charged tonight as I was that day my agent phoned me with the role of Mary Agnes Hill on About the House. From the way Trevor and Cat keep grinning at me, I can tell that the joy of this moment must be written all across my face.

  It doesn’t hurt knowing that Michael Warner’s in my life, either. As complicated as that relationship has the potential to be, he’s the most pure, sweet love interest I’ve had since leaving Georgia. It’s in how honest and true Michael is, something that makes him utterly unlike all the other guys I’ve met in this town. As the good ole boys back home would say, “he means what he says, and he says what he means.” And while all that truthful energy does kind of make me a little skittish, I know that what scares me most of all is simply me.

  I notice that Trevor keeps checking his watch, and I lean forward, curious. “Hot plans later?”

  “Oh, some Hollywood bowling league thing.” He brushes his fingers through his hair, leaning back in his seat to survey the scene. “Another fun night in the city of dreams.”

  “That is so not fun.” I laugh. “See, that’s not even close to fun.”

  Trevor gives my hand a sardonic pat. “Other people can appreciate a good night of sport, darling.”

  “Other people aren’t professional hermits,” Cat interjects, grinning innocently at me.

  “I am not a hermit.” I pop an olive from my martini. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m out right now. And I was at your birthday party a few weeks back.”

  Trevor leans across the table confidingly. “She does have a new beau.”

  “Thank you.” I smile in smug satisfaction. “Exhibit A. Michael Warner, my new boyfriend.”

  “Oh, but you totally met him in your office, so that doesn’t count.” She waves me off, sipping her scotch. “I’m talking, literally right there, no?”

  When I cry foul, they both just laugh at me. “Face it, Rebecca,” Cat declares, leaning in to kiss my cheek, “you’re the most reclusive person I know in Hollywood who actually manages to be successful. I don’t even get how you make that happen.”

  Trevor leans back in his chair, studying me with an objective gaze, like he’s an investor sizing up my worth. “She’s bloody good at what she does,” he concludes, “otherwise she could never get away with it.”

  “All right, guys,” I argue, “think about it. I do lunch every day, I’m at tracking breakfasts, agent parties. You name it. Oh, and don’t forget how much I read. I read absolutely everything.”

  A sly smile spreads across Trevor’s face. “Including certain projects that I attempt to secret away in my desk. You can’t get anything past our girl,” he says, tipping his glass against mine with a hale salute of, “Cheers! Kudos to you on Julian’s deal, sweetie.”

  “That’s right, Trev!” Cat slugs him playfully on the shoulder. “Make her step up to the plate. Credit where credit’s due.”

  “Okay, okay,” I agree, holding my hands up in surrender. “I did the deal. I’m the master of the universe tonight.”

  “Brava, darling,” Trev enthuses. “Brava, indeed. Soon we’ll make a regular egomaniac out of you—oh look, there’s Jeremy Rinzler.” Trevor indicates a secluded table on the far side of the bar. Jeremy, an executive at New Line, lifts his drink in salutation and I wave back. Thankfully, Trevor agrees to do the meet and greet gig on my behalf.

  Watching Trevor’s easy manner, the way he laughs and leans in to make obviously clever remarks as he pumps Jeremy’s hand, I envy him. Without a doubt, he’s the most effortless person I know. Effortlessly funny, effortlessly smart, effortlessly handsome. From his Kenneth Cole shirt to his Alain Mikli wireframes to his meticulously tousled hair, he’s the image of sophisticated perfection. And yet, I’ve seen behind the curtain enough to realize that’s merely an impression.

  “Will you look at him?” Cat observes appreciatively, sipping her scotch beside me. “That boy’s got the gift, my friend.”

  “The gift of what precisely? Of being natural at everything?” I whine in a fit of momentary spitefulness toward my best friend. Maybe Jeremy Rinzler’s gay.

  “Don’t hate him because he’s beautiful,” she croons, watching Trevor with an appreciative grin, then turns to me. “Hey, and speaking of beautiful, Evan Beckman was asking about you the other day.”

  Okay, so she lays this zinger on me, and then doesn’t even bother to look up to gauge my reaction? Evan is the director on her current feature, one that’s already generating major Oscar hype—including whispers of a nomination for Cat for her supporting role as a sexy Latin singer. All this before it’s even in the can, but that’s Evan’s reputation. He’s young and visionary and everyone in town is clawing to work with him.

  “Evan Beckman? Now who�
�s that again?”

  This time, the dark feline eyes raise to meet mine, narrowing to mischievous slits. “I told Evan that you’re looking great,” she answers smoothly. “That you should meet.”

  “Is he looking for a new d-girl or something?”

  Cat rolls her eyes in exaggerated agitation. “Geez, would you shut up already? I’m talking about your acting career!”

  “Hey, you’re the one egging me on with these casual side comments of, ‘Evan asked about you.’”

  “He did ask about you!”

  “You know what I mean.” Then I lean close across the table, joining her conspiracy. “But tell me everything he said!”

  Cat’s face lights up. “His words were, ‘I think she has something very interesting. Bring her around before we wrap.’”

  “He didn’t really say that,” I ask, incredulous. “Did he?”

  “I’m serious. Apparently he’s hooked on reruns of the show, and thinks you have…” She taps her forefinger against her head to dislodge some near-forgotten remark. “That you have brilliant comedic understatement. That’s exactly what he said.”

  “But come on, Cat, who would hire—” I gesture at my face for emphasis, “—this? He’s Evan Beckman, why would he even think about hiring me?”

  For a long moment she inspects me, her dark gaze roaming the whole of my features, and if she weren’t one of my dearest friends, I’d flinch beneath such close scrutiny of my scars. “Rebecca, you have a really remarkable look,” she pronounces gently. “And you’re still gorgeous. Some directors—smart ones like Evan—are looking for a distinctive look like that. I’ve been saying it’s time you got back out to auditions.”

  “You do realize Bernie fired me?”

  “So what?” She scowls in distaste. “He’s Jake-tainted anyway, and he’s not the only agent around.”