Butterfly Read online

  “That time of year,” he said, choosing several.

  “You’re one of those, aren’t you?” Felix asked, accepting the bag when Fisher handed it to him.

  “One of what? Who?”

  “You decorate for every season, don’t you? Jack o’lanterns on the porch for Halloween, a wreath on the door for Christmas?”

  “Guilty,” Fisher said, smile widening. “Plus winter potpourri on the stove and garlands above the fireplace.”

  Felix thought back to his own house, barely lived in with how busy he was. There were almost no signs that it was even his, anything more than a place to lay his head at night.

  “It sounds nice,” he said quietly.

  Fisher’s eyes softened. “Couple more rows and then we can go home so I can kiss you properly.”

  “That sounds nice too,” Felix said, and followed him down the next aisle.

  * * *

  No one recognized him, and after the first few vendors, he’d stopped bracing himself for it, stopped trying to come up with plausible ways to deny his identity, and allowed himself to fully enjoy the view of Fisher from behind, his shirt stretched tight over his broad back, the swell of his perfect ass in his jeans. Even the way Maya’s leash looped around his wrist looked good.

  So it was something of a shock to feel a small hand tugging on his shirt as Fisher negotiated with a vendor.

  Felix looked down to see a little girl wearing a miniature Seabirds jersey and staring up at him with big blue eyes, blonde curls wisping around her heart-shaped face.

  “You’re Butterfly,” she said, and Felix flinched.

  Fisher hadn’t heard, still absorbed in whatever he was discussing, and Felix crouched to bring himself down to the little girl’s level.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Ten,” she said proudly. “I’m a goalie too. My name’s Emma.”

  “Good for you, bébé,” Felix told her. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Emma nodded, eyes big and earnest.

  “I’m pretending I’m not me today. Do you ever do that? Pretend to be someone else?”

  “I like being me,” Emma said doubtfully.

  “As you should,” Felix said, glancing over his shoulder at Fisher, who hadn’t turned. “But sometimes it’s fun to pretend for a little time, to be another person, with another life.”

  Emma considered. “So if you’re not Butterfly, who are you?”

  “My name is French today,” Felix said. “And I’m not a goalie, I’m just visiting a farmer’s market with a friend.”

  Emma looked dubious, but shrugged, as if adults’ inner workings were a mystery to her in any case.

  “I’ll give you my autograph if you promise not to tell anyone until I’m gone,” Felix said, and Emma’s eyes lit up.

  He’d barely handed it to her and was straightening when Fisher accepted several parcels from the vendor and turned to find him.

  “Did you make a friend?” Fisher asked, smiling at Emma.

  Emma opened her mouth, looked at Felix, looked back at Fisher, and snapped it closed again. “I have to go,” she announced, and scurried off.

  Fisher blinked. “What a weird kid.”

  Felix hummed noncommittally. “Are we done, cher? I don’t think I can carry much more, and I seem to remember you promising me something after dinner.”

  “We’re done,” Fisher agreed. “And I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Felix said, and they headed for the car.

  20

  They fell into bed together after dinner and sex on the couch, pleasantly exhausted in every fiber. Fisher roused once to ask French if he needed to leave, and French shook his head, burrowing closer.

  “In a bit,” he mumbled.

  Good enough for him. Fisher fell asleep listening to French’s breathing, French heavy and warm in his arms.

  He was jolted awake by his alarm as French jerked upright and swore.

  “What time is it?” he demanded, scrambling out of bed.

  “5:30,” Fisher said, rolling out of his side and rounding it to help French look for his clothes.

  “I can’t believe I fell asleep,” French muttered, dragging his pants up over his hips. His hair was disheveled, falling into his eyes. Fisher located one of his socks under the bed and handed it to him. French took it, murmuring thanks, and sat on the mattress to pull them on.

  “Will you be in trouble?” Fisher asked, sitting next to him.

  “Non,” French said, bumping shoulders with him briefly. “But I will be given shit for it if it gets out.”

  “That friend you work with?”

  “Yes, him. And his boyfriend. They bully me terribly.” He slanted an amused glance at Fisher, who coughed a laugh into his fist.

  “Something tells me you give it right back.”

  “Perhaps. Where’s my shirt?”

  “I think it’s in the living room.”

  French hopped up and darted into the living room, pulling it over his head as he came back into the bedroom. He appeared through the neck hole, hair even more disheveled, and affection stole Fisher’s breath.

  “I have to go,” French was saying, pulling out his phone. He frowned at it and tapped the screen a few times. “No, no.” He looked up. “The soonest anyone can get here is twenty minutes. I have to go now.” He went back to his phone, muttering under his breath.

  “I’ll take you,” Fisher said.

  French glanced up again, surprise in his eyes. “You have to go to work too, don’t you? You’ll be late if you take me all the way to the Pearl District.”

  Jesus, how much does he make? Fisher didn’t let the reaction show on his face. “I wake up early to take Maya running and get some time to plan my day. It won’t kill either of us to run this afternoon.”

  “I can call a cab,” French said, but he was wavering.

  “It’ll take them a while to get here too,” Fisher pointed out. “Your choice, but—” He stood and crossed the room to run his hands down French’s arms. “I’m right here. Let me help you. We can be out the door as soon as I get my shoes on.”

  French leaned into him, chewing on his lip like he wasn’t aware he was doing it. “You’ll know where I live,” he said, barely audible.

  Would that truly be so bad? “I guess you’re gonna have to decide whether you can trust me,” Fisher said quietly. He waited as French fought an internal battle, holding perfectly still.

  Finally, French nodded, sharp and jerky. “Alright.”

  “You’ll let me help you? Take you home?”

  “Yes,” French said, and shoved at his chest. “Get your shoes on, please. We have to go now.”

  “Can you take Maya out while I get dressed? It’ll take her less than a minute, I promise.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” French darted for the living room as Fisher hunted for clothes.

  He was dressed and pulling his shoes on when French came back inside, Maya on his heels. Fisher dumped her food in her bowl and grabbed his keys.

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  He didn’t quite speed, but he pushed the limits more than he normally would as French directed him, winding through Portland to the Pearl District.

  “You know it’s not personal, yes?” French asked once they were on the highway.

  Fisher didn’t look at him. “What, you not wanting me to know where you live?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see French hunching his shoulders.

  “It’s not you,” French said.

  “Okay.”

  There was silence for a minute and then French sighed.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “It’s not that,” Fisher said. The roads were still fairly empty, thankfully. “I don’t know what to believe, really. I only know what you’ve told me. And you must have a good reason for protecting your privacy so fiercely. So—” He glanced at French, who was watching him, dark eyes catching the
streetlights’ flicker. “I promise I won’t tell anyone where you live. Does that help?”

  French sank a little lower in his seat. “Can you go faster?”

  “Not without risking a ticket.”

  French sighed again. “I’m sorry, pêcheur.”

  Fisher didn’t touch that. “You work this early all the time?”

  “No, we’re going out of town again.”

  “Again? You just got home!”

  “We’ll be back tonight,” French said. He was fidgeting, glancing at the clock on the dash and out the window as if willing the car to go faster. “The plane leaves in an hour, I should have been there already.”

  “Should I take you to the airport instead?”

  “Non.” French’s response was sharp, and Fisher hid the flinch.

  “Right, that would probably be a bad idea.”

  French’s phone rang and he twitched.

  “Go ahead and answer it,” Fisher said. “I imagine they want to know where you are.”

  French hit the call button and put the phone to his ear. “Oui.” The ensuing conversation was entirely in French, far too rapid for Fisher to follow, and within a minute, French had hung up, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

  “Will Henry be okay?” Fisher asked.

  He felt more than saw French’s surprise.

  “I—yes. I have a housekeeper, she’ll feed him.” He shifted his weight. “You care about my cat.”

  I care about you. Fisher lifted a shoulder and changed lanes to pass a slow car. “Just curious how he handles you being gone so much.”

  “He’s an asshole who doesn’t like anyone anyway,” French said, sounding fond. “He’s just as happy to be alone. I’ve thought of getting a kitten, though. To give him company. The exit’s coming up.”

  Fisher nodded and took the ramp French indicated when it came up. The houses were set well back from the road, wide sidewalks and grassy lawns under heavy trees.

  “This is nice,” Fisher said.

  “Fisher,” French said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re the only person I would have considered telling.” There was something in French’s voice, a desperation that begged Fisher to believe him. “There is no one else. No one else I would trust.”

  Fisher didn’t reply immediately, but he reached across the gearshift and took French’s hand. French gripped it, taking a ragged breath.

  “If I ever meet the bastard who did this to you, I’m going to fuck them up,” Fisher said conversationally.

  French tightened his hold. “Up ahead,” he said. His voice was slightly wobbly. “The white one.”

  Fisher parked on the street, French already unbuckling before the car was stopped.

  “Thank you, pêcheur,” he whispered. “I have to go, I’m sorry—”

  Fisher pulled him in for a quick, hard kiss and let him go, gently pushing him away. “Go. Have a safe flight. Let me know when you get back, if you want.”

  “I want,” French said, opening the door. “I always do. I’ll see you later.”

  He loped for the house and Fisher watched until he was inside before accelerating away from the curb and doing a U-turn.

  He drove home wondering what exactly had just happened. French had trusted him, let his guard down, and now Fisher knew where he lived.

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” he said aloud to the empty car.

  There is no one else.

  “I’m so fucked,” Fisher muttered, and took the exit.

  * * *

  He was only a few minutes late for work, which meant he was still thirty minutes ahead of the earliest students, but he was distracted and in a rush, juggling his charts and papers as he hurried down the hallway and nearly collided with Wren at the corner. She was carrying a huge bag over her shoulder and she stumbled backward, just barely avoiding running into him.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Fisher said, balancing his armload to dig for his keys.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Just running late,” Fisher told her, and managed to get the door unlocked. “Whatcha got there?”

  Wren hefted the bag. “Hockey sticks and some gear.”

  “Right, I forgot that you were gonna bring that. I should warn you that the school’s likely going to decline the request to start an official program. Funds are tight.”

  Wren’s face fell briefly but she squared her shoulders. “If they won’t do it, I’ll buy the equipment myself. I’ll—I’ll get donations from teams, used gear, things like that.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Fisher said, setting his papers on the desk.

  “I thought I’d see how many are interested and go from there.” Wren’s eyes were bright and she was almost bouncing on her toes. “I think it’ll be a great way to help them get some exercise and also learn to use their bodies and brains.”

  “Well, Maxine’s brother plays, she’ll probably be interested if we can get her mother’s permission.”

  They were discussing the logistics of how to spin it so Maxine could participate when someone knocked on the door.

  A shiver went down Fisher’s spine when he saw Calum standing there, Max clinging to his leg.

  “Hi Max!” Wren said cheerfully. “Wanna help me sort the hockey equipment?”

  Max gasped. “Are we playing hockey, Miss Wren?” He let go of his father and rushed to Wren’s side.

  Calum joined Fisher on the other side of the room. “Max loves hockey. Does the school have a program?”

  “Wren’s trying to gauge interest in getting one started. She’s very passionate, she’ll be great at it.” Calum was standing a little too close, and Fisher took a discreet step away under the guise of reaching for a pen on his desk.

  “I’ll be happy to sponsor it,” Calum said, and Fisher dropped the pen.

  “You—oh, you don’t have to do that—”

  Calum shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Like I said, Max loves the sport. And it’s a good tax write-off.”

  It felt like a trap, but Fisher couldn’t figure out a way to turn it down. The school wasn’t that well-off financially. They’d be more than willing to accept the gift, and it would mean Wren would get her program.

  “Thank you,” Fisher said reluctantly.

  “I’ll stop and speak to the dean on my way out,” Calum said. “Have you thought any more about what we talked about?”

  Fisher glanced at Wren and Max, absorbed in animated discussion. “I—look, I’m flattered.”

  Calum’s brow lowered and he opened his mouth.

  “I’m not saying no,” Fisher said hurriedly, hating himself and the man standing in front of him more with every word. “But I don’t know you. And I need time to get to know you a little better before I give you an answer.”

  Calum watched him for a minute, mouth pursed thoughtfully. “As long as the answer is yes, then I suppose you can take a little time to decide.”

  So gracious of you. Fisher kept the bitter retort locked behind his teeth and nodded. “I have to get the day started.”

  “I’ll be seeing you,” Calum said, and left.

  Fisher rolled his head, shaking the tension out of his shoulders, as Wren left Max going through the equipment and joined him.

  “Max is a great kid but that guy gives me seriously bad vibes,” she said under her breath.

  “Yeah, you’re not the only one,” Fisher said. He summoned a smile. “Let’s teach some kids.”

  21

  Felix got to the airport in record time. He hadn’t even unpacked before going to Fisher’s the day before, so he’d just grabbed the same bag and run for it. He’d use the laundry room in the hotel before the game.

  Everyone was already on the plane when he got there, out of breath from running across the tarmac and up the steps at top speed.

  A cheer went up at the sight of him, hoots and jeers following.

  “What’s her name, Butterfly?” Tye shouted.

  “She must be special,�
� Jason called. “You’re never late!”

  “Your mother is always an excellent host,” Felix retorted, and Jason gasped.

  “You’ve met my mother, don’t take her name in vain like that!”

  “Don’t give me the chance to then,” Felix suggested over the laughter of the others, and made his way to his seat, ignoring the jostling he was given by several players. He stowed his bag and flopped into the seat next to Vanya, ignoring Saint’s gaze. Not that that would stop him.

  Sure enough, the minute they were in the air and the fasten seatbelt sign was off, Saint was on his feet and crossing the aisle.

  He jerked a thumb at Vanya, who scrambled out of his seat immediately so Saint could sit down.

  “Pretty sure that’s considered an abuse of power,” Felix said.

  “He’ll live.” Saint inspected Felix with sharp eyes. “What happened?”

  “Overslept.” Felix stretched his legs out and didn’t look at him.

  “First of all, you don’t do that. Second, why were you speaking French when I called?”

  “I’m bilingual, asshole.”

  “But you also know I’m not as fluent as you. You only use it with me if you don’t want other people to understand what you’re saying. So who were you with?”

  Felix stared stubbornly at the bulkhead.

  “Was it a hookup?”

  “At six a.m.?” Felix said in spite of himself. “Do me a favor.”

  “I knew it. You were with Fisher.”

  “And what if I was?” Felix snapped. “Is that a crime?”

  “You spent the night with him, Fee. That’s not—you don’t do that.”

  “I fell asleep,” Felix said, somewhat desperately. “That’s all it was. It doesn’t mean anything.” Not like letting him drive me home does.

  “Would it be so bad if it did?” Saint said softly.

  Felix looked at him. Saint held his gaze without flinching, waiting for an answer.

  “Yes,” Felix finally said. “It would. I won’t allow it to mean anything, because if I let him in, truly let him in, he’ll break me. When what he feels goes from love to hate, when he looks at me w-with pity, disgust, it will—” He rubbed his mouth with a shaking hand.