BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense

by Nelle L’Amour

  One shaky hand on the steering wheel, the other on the shift, I’m about to back up the car when my phone pings. An email. In my dire, haywire state, I don’t know what makes me look at it. Jesus Christ. It’s from Blickdick. What the fuck? How the hell does he have my gmail address? With a quivering finger and baited breath, I open it.

  From: Vgarcia@gmail.com

  To: RH@theHouseofHurst.com

  Subject: Sofi

  Having a blast! Sofi wanted you to see how hot she looks in her dress. It’s the bomb and so is she!

  I can’t wait to dance with her in it!

  Too bad you’re missing all the fun.

  Later~Vincent

  My throat constricting, I click on the attachment. My bad eye almost crashes through my patch. I want to vomit! It’s a photo of Blickdick with his arm around my butterfly in my spectacular gown.

  Whatever fuckedupness I was wallowing in goes out the window and is replaced by a new surge of madness so consuming I let out a savage roar. So fierce and feral it’s deafening. Tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, I storm out of the car like a wild, caged animal.

  Blickdick and Sofi are about to have company.

  CHAPTER 22

  Sofi

  “Bailando. Bailando.”

  The dance floor is packed, the music full blast, the energy off the charts. Everyone lets go and sings the refrain. Including me.

  Vincent, who’s part Cuban, is a fabulous dancer. He’s got rhythm in his blood and all the right moves. He makes me look good even though my agility is limited due to my voluminous dress and six-inch stilettos. The song ends and everyone breaks into applause, not moving from the dance floor. I catch my breath.

  The next song up is Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect.”

  “You up for a slow song?” Vincent, who’s always had a crush on me, anxiously awaits my response.

  “Sure.” My voice wavers. I’ve never danced this way with him. Nor been in his arms except for a chummy hug.

  With a twitch of a smile, he plants one hand on my back while the other holds up my right hand. I cup my free hand on his shoulder. There’s space between us. It’s not too touchy-feely. He leads me awkwardly. In contrast to our freestyle dance to the upbeat music, there’s hesitancy in his steps. Like he’s nervous or something. Our bodies never touch.

  “You okay?” he asks, his voice faltering.

  I don’t answer. Our dance is anything but perfect. He even steps on my dress a few times. Feeling sorry for him, I finally nod and shoot him a small reassuring smile. The truth is, it doesn’t feel right. Like we don’t belong together this way.

  Suddenly, a growl sounds in my ears. I turn my head. My heart almost stops. Holy macaroni! It’s Roman, his face red with rage. A prickle of apprehension lodges in the back of my throat as he swaggers up to us.

  “It’s my turn.” His fiery cobalt eye sears into a surprised Vincent, who’s still shuffling me.

  “Hey, dude. What are you doing here?”

  On my next rapid heartbeat, Roman forcefully shoves Vincent out of the way and grabs me. I gasp as he wraps his strapping arms around me, drawing me so close my body scrapes his. My forehead flush against his tux, I have little choice but to fling my arms around his neck and turn my head askance so it’s resting on his steely chest. Even in my skyscraper heels, he towers over me. Unlike Vincent, he sways me with confidence and ease. Like we’ve danced this way forever. I melt into him and it’s as if we’re melded together. An electricity welding us. Beneath all the layers of my dress, I feel his erection. Hear his heartbeat. Inside my chest, my heart is thudding. Between my legs, I’m pulsing with liquid heat and white-hot need for him.

  Halfway into the song, Vincent, whom I’ve all but forgotten, breaks into our dance.

  “I don’t care who you are, but you had no right doing that.”

  “Get lost, Blickdick!” barks Roman.

  Vincent’s face darkens. “What did you just call me?”

  “You heard me, Blickdick!”

  “Fuck you.” To my utter horror, Vincent takes a swing at Roman, punching him hard in the face. I shudder at the bone-crushing sound of his fist against Roman’s cheekbone. So dangerously close to his good eye. Millimeters away.

  Roman doesn’t flinch nor rub the welt that’s already swelling. He only grows madder. I swear he looks like a foaming rabid dog. His lips snarling, his nostrils flaring.

  “No, fuck you!” Wasting no time, he balls his long fingers into a tight fist and—POW!—delivers a blow to Vincent, who’s half his size, with a force so great it sends him flying to the floor. Oh God! Blood is pouring from his nose, dripping onto his tux shirt. Dazed and a mess, he examines his camera. The lens is shattered.

  “Fuck, man, you ruined my camera!” Poor Vincent! His Leica camera cost almost three thousand dollars and he worked so hard to save up for it. He looks so forlorn, so defeated. My heart hurts.

  Roman looms above him, his menacing expression intensifying. And frightening me.

  “If you don’t get the fuck out of here, I’m going to break every bone in your wimpy body. Sofi’s mine.”

  Roman’s threat vibrates on my skin. When I sent him the photo of Vincent and me, I only wanted to rouse him. I didn’t expect this. Thank God the wedding guests are too busy dancing or getting drunk to take notice of the brawl. Fear consumes me, thinking Roman will strike Vincent again. Every nerve in my body sizzles. I can no longer stand here being an innocent bystander. On my next breath, I crouch down and scrunching the hem of my dress, I gently dab Vincent’s bleeding nose. The blood seeps through the sumptuous fabric. I don’t care how much this gown is worth. It doesn’t matter.

  “Look what you’ve done, Roman!” I cry out, unable to stop Vincent’s nosebleed.

  “Let’s go, Sofi!” Roman growls back. With a snap of my head, I gaze up at him, the intensity of my face matching his. I feel my cheeks blazing, rage skating over my skin.

  “No, Roman, you can drive home all by yourself. And if you dare touch me—or Vincent—I’ll scream and call for security. And have you arrested!”

  Truth is, I’m going to call for a cab and get out of here as fast as possible. Before things get any worse. And tears begin to fall.

  CHAPTER 23

  Sofi

  “We’re here,” says the cab driver, awakening me with a startle. I must have fallen asleep while the cab crawled back to the city in the Saturday night traffic. My eyes snap open and take in my surroundings. We’re parked in front of Roman’s formidable abode. The edifice is dark, not even lit by a streetlamp. It must be after midnight.

  “How much?” I ask the driver. My eyes are so bleary I can’t make out the amount on the meter.

  “One hundred dollars,” he says. “I’m giving you a break. I turned off my meter. I have a sweet spot for a damsel in distress.”

  I search for my purse, then remember I left it in Roman’s rental car. Oh no!

  “I’m sorry,” I splutter. “I left my purse at that wedding. I can mail you the money or send it by Venmo.”

  Much to my surprise, the cabbie smiles and says, “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You be careful. This city is full of big bad wolves.”

  I thank him profusely and scoot out of the cab. He drives off as I stumble to the front door of Roman’s atelier, holding up my gown so I don’t trip. Suddenly, I remember. I don’t have a set of keys. My controlling asshole boss never gave me one.

  Tears forming behind my eyes, I jab the buzzer. No answer. I hit it again. And again. Can this night get any worse? Finally, the door swings open. Madame DuBois is standing at the entrance in a white eyelet nightgown.

  “My chérie, where is Roman?”

  “I don’t know! And I don’t care!” The dam behind my eyelids gives. I burst into tears and run blindly through the pitch-black atelier up the stairs to my chamber. Yanking the door open and then locking it behind me, I fling myself onto the bed, not bothering to take off my gown or kick off my shoes. Sobs fill my ears as
endless tears scald my face. The events of tonight whirl through my head like a cyclone. In the end only one lingers. The memory of being in Roman’s arms. Hearing his heartbeat in my ears. Feeling his heat. Dancing with him as if we were one. As if we belonged together. A throb between my legs, so great I can hear it, joins the sobs of my aching heart.

  Somehow, under the yards and yards of fabric that shroud me, I bring myself relief.

  And cry myself to sleep.

  CHAPTER 24

  Roman

  After a long hot shower, I still feel like shit. I’ve got the hangover from hell. A headache the size of Texas that not even three Advil can cure. And I’m fucking exhausted, having come home at some wee hour in the morning.

  Wrapping a towel around my waist, I swipe at the steamed-up mirror and take a glimpse of myself. I’m sorry I did. I still look as bad as I feel. My face is pasty and in need of a shave. Adjusting my patch over my right eye, I stare at the crescent-shape, purple bruise under my swollen left one. Rage shoots through my veins. That fucking twerp could have blinded me. I run my forefinger over the contusion and grimace. It hurts like hell. I should have iced it when I got home, but I was in no shape or mood. I was furious as fuck. Dumping the Beamer somewhere around the Connecticut/New York border, I took an Uber back after being pulled over for reckless driving. At least, I wasn’t drunk—yet—and didn’t get a DUI. But the speeding ticket was bad enough. Blickdick cost me five hundred bucks, and I’ve got to schlep back up to Connecticut to pay the fricking fine in court. I should make him go.

  But Blickdick was not the main reason I was a raving lunatic about to go over the deep end. The real reason was Sofi. The second I saw her in that dress, I lost it. For a brief moment of déjà vu, I thought I saw a ghost. I froze at the illusion, the glacial ache in my heart numbing every atom of my being. Then, reality stabbed me like an ice pick. At the sight of her floating in my gown like a heavenly black cloud, I had to have her. Make her mine. And mine alone.

  When I saw her with another, my blood heated like lava, and I sprang into action. Rage coursed through my veins like a testosterone-induced tornado, taking with it any trace of remorse and sadness. How dare she dance with him? Set my balls on fire? My cock thrashed against my pants while I swayed her in my arms. When Blickdick butt in—the nerve of him!—I should have kicked him where it hurts. Broken his bones, not his camera. Yeah, that’s what I should have done.

  Then, she stood up for him. Abandoned me.

  When I finally got home, my blood still bubbling with rage, my emotions—and hormones—spinning out of control, I guzzled an entire bottle of bourbon and then, drunk as a sailor, I staggered to her room to teach her a lesson. To remind her who she belongs to. With a slap on the ass and a punishing fuck. Except her door was locked and no matter how loud I pounded and shouted, she wouldn’t open it. I almost kicked it in had not Madame DuBois stopped me and forced me to go to bed. In my sorry state, I couldn’t even masturbate myself to sleep.

  As much as my black eye aches, my cock aches more, my hard wood straining against the towel. Impetuously, I tear it off and curl my fingers around the base of my colossal shaft. With one hard, swift yank, I make myself come. Hot splotches of semen coat my palm and fingers. I rinse off my hand and clean up my cock. At least, I feel better. And slightly calmed down. Calm enough to face the world. And face Sofi.

  From my en suite bedroom, I hear a phone drone. Rewrapping the towel around me, I clamber out of the bathroom. Except it’s not my phone. It’s Sofi’s. I totally forgot I have her purse, which she left behind in the car. The phone keeps ringing. Snapping open the little beaded bag, I slip out the vibrating phone and regrettably recognize who’s calling. Her blabbermouth friend, Harper. The little harpie. I hate her. She’s the reason Sofi crashed into my life like a nuclear bomb. And if she hadn’t gotten married to that twerp, last night would have never happened. I’d be the in-control man I used to be. The one who couldn’t feel anything but guilt and sorrow. Not all these unwanted feelings that are wreaking havoc on my body.

  The goddamn phone won’t stop ringing. It’s giving me a bigger headache than the one I already have. Then ping after ping. Text after text. Call me! Where are you? Why aren’t you picking up? With a sharp jab, I turn off the phone and jam it back in the purse. I throw on some clothes. It’s time to pay my butterfly a visit.

  I jiggle the old brass knob. Dammit. The door to Sofi’s door is still locked. But that means she’s got to be inside. I rap on the hard slab of wood three times and shout her name. No response. Nada.

  I knock again and wince, my bruised knuckles still sore from last night. “Sofi, open up! I know you’re in there. I’ve got your phone. If you want it, you’ve got to come to the door.”

  A long beat of silence. Then, “Go away! I’m not talking to you.”

  I grit my teeth. “You already are.”

  “Well, I’m never talking to you ever again until—”

  “Until what?”

  “Until you apologize to Vincent.”

  What!!?? She wants me to apologize to Blickdick? That asswipe who turned my world on its axis last night. Sent my emotions into a frenzy. And almost cost me my good eye. As well as my life! He should be apologizing to me! Except I never want to see the douchebag again.

  “Sofi, are you kidding?”

  No response. Dead silence.

  Fuck. She’s not.

  I give the door an angry kick before hurling her purse against it. Thunk.

  My blood simmering, I stalk off before it lands on the hardwood.

  Fuck this waif of a girl. And the power she has over me.

  Fuck me.

  CHAPTER 25

  Roman

  I spot him instantly upon entering the art supply store. Blickdick is at the cash register ringing up a long line of customers. Wearing a Blick T-shirt, hair slicked back. No different from the first time I met him. Except now he’s also sporting a shiner. His looks no worse than mine.

  Holding a red basket, I surreptitiously head down one of the aisles—the one where all the paints are stocked—trying to rehearse an apology in my head. I’m not good at saying sorry to anyone. I haven’t even told Sofi I’m sorry about last night. For being such a shmuck. Dammit! I wish last night never happened.

  Halfway down the aisle, a bright green sign captures my attention.

  NEW! JUST IN!

  The shade of green reminds me of the Luna moth painting I saw on Sofi’s phone. And for the first time, I notice how similar it is to the color of Sofi’s eyes.

  Below the sign are neatly stacked jars of paint. I pick one up. What do you know? It’s called Luna Green. With a single sweep, I shove them all into my basket, not leaving one behind. Fuck the sign. Setting the basket down, I pull out my Montblanc from my phone case and snap off the cap. I flip the sign around and scribble on the cardboard. New sign:

  OUT OF LUCK!

  OUT OF STOCK!

  I am a schmuck. I pick up the basket and hurry to the cash register. Now, I have a reason to interact with Blickdick though I’m still not sure what I’m going to say to him, assuming I can control my physical impulses. By now you should know, anger management has never been one of my strong points. On the plus side, at least, I have a peace offering for Sofi.

  The slow-moving, long line grates on my nerves, making me more irritable than I already am. When I finally get to the front, I want to strangle someone. That someone being Blickdick. His eyes grow wide when he sees me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  One by one, I set the paint jars down on the counter. Procrastinating. Finally, I meet his gaze and the words tumble out.

  “I’ve come to apologize. I’m sorry about last night.” The genuine sincerity—and humbleness—in my voice startle me. I don’t even sound like myself. I sound like some kind of ninny. Ninny . . . Vinny . . . crap, that rhymes.

  Vinny’s dark eyes stay on me. “You should be sorry people like you exist.”

  His words a
ctually sting. “Yeah, you’re right.” I stare at his black eye and am reminded of mine. “You pack a powerful punch. I deserved that, but thanks for sparing me my eyesight. It’s bad enough with only one eye.”

  Vinny’s face softens and he quirks a small apologetic smile. “Hey, I’m glad I didn’t cause too much damage.” He pauses. “You’re really into her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sofi. You have a thing for her.”

  I feel my muscles tensing. Jealousy is rearing its ugly head. “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but she’s never been into me the way she’s into you.”

  Jealousy is quickly replaced by curiosity. I ask him to explain.

  “I saw the way she looked at you when you took her into your arms. And the way she danced with you. Clung to you. Your bodies fused like she never wanted to let you go.”

  At his words, the memory of dancing with her zips into my head. I felt the same way, but I’m not going to tell him that. He goes on.

  “I take a lot of nature photos too.”

  I tense up, expecting him to tell me that he’s been to the Butterfly Conservatory with Sofi and took those spectacular butterfly photos that are on her phone. The fucker better not have. That’s our special place. To my relief, he doesn’t and instead says, “The grass can’t compete with the trees.”

  I digest his odd choice of words. Given how physically slight he is compared to me, maybe it’s some kind of analogy. He’s not going to fight for Sofi.

  His gaze shoots down to all the paint jars on the counter. “Want me to ring you up?”

  “That would be good.”

  He picks up one of the jars and reads the label. “Luna Green . . . Are these for Sofi?”