Butterfly Page 8

  “So, not good enough.” Fisher turned back to the stove. He really didn’t want to have this discussion, but Leo was, predictably, undeterred.

  “You told him about that piece of shit at the school. You turned to him for comfort. Fish—”

  Fisher sighed, setting the spoon down and turning to rest his hips against the stove. “He was here, he listened. He still doesn’t even know what I do, Leo.”

  Leo flung his hands in the air. “It doesn’t matter!”

  “Yes it does!” Fisher yelled back. “Because he doesn’t want a relationship and I’m respecting that, okay? I am not falling for him! I know better, I’m not stupid, Leo!”

  They stared at each other across the kitchen for a minute.

  “Meat’s gonna burn,” Leo observed.

  Fisher spun, swearing, and grabbed the spoon. Behind him, Leo hopped off the counter. His sock-feet were almost silent on the floor as he crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Fisher’s waist. He pressed his face to Fisher’s spine and Fisher closed his eyes.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  Leo squeezed briefly and let go. “Guests will be here soon. What do you need me to do?”

  “Um, set up the coffee table with what we’ll need—plates, napkins, that stuff. And get the movie queued up?”

  “You got it.” Leo padded out and Fisher poked the ground beef without really seeing it.

  He liked French so much. And he would never admit it to Leo but it did hurt that French didn’t feel the same way. He could see a future with French, and that was what stung the most. He barely knew him, not his life, but somewhere deep down, something in him called to French. Recognized him.

  But it wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t allow himself to want it, because that way lay heartbreak.

  The doorbell rang and Fisher turned the heat down with something like relief, wiping his hands on a dishtowel as he headed to answer it.

  Wren beamed up at him, bundled in an oversized coat and a knitted scarf, matching hat pulled low over her dark hair. “Hi! This is Grace.”

  Grace was a Black girl a few inches taller than Wren, with luminous dark eyes and purple lipstick that matched her overcoat perfectly.

  “Welcome,” Fisher said, shaking hands with both of them. “Come on in. Leo’s in the living room, and Maya’s there too, for the introverts.”

  He took their coats in the hall and there were delighted gasps from both girls when they rounded the corner and spied Maya, in her usual spot by the fireplace.

  “Doesn’t even shift her arse when strangers show up,” Fisher said, shaking his head. “I want a refund. I’m getting a real dog next time. Grace, Wren, this is Leo. Leo, Grace and Wren. Wren’s my assistant.”

  “Yes Fisher, you’ve mentioned,” Leo said as he straightened from setting the plates on the low coffee table. “Hi, ladies, it’s wonderful to meet you both. Would you like something to drink?”

  Fisher left them to chat and headed back for the kitchen to check on the meat. The tortillas were warming in the oven, and the salsa and guacamole he’d made the day before were in the refrigerator waiting to be put in bowls.

  “Who else are we waiting for?” Leo asked, coming in to grab glasses from the cupboard.

  “Mille couldn’t make it, but Rainbow should be here any minute.”

  “Oh good, I haven’t seen her in ages!” Leo filled the glasses with ice and grabbed sodas. He stopped, hands full, and bumped Fisher gently with his hip. “Hey. Are we okay?”

  The smile Fisher gave him was genuine. “Yeah, Leo, we’re okay. We’re always okay.”

  * * *

  He was in the middle of stirring the meat when the bell rang again. “Leo, can you get it?” he called, and heard Leo’s rapid footsteps heading for the door.

  A moment later, happy voices were raised and Fisher smiled down at the frying pan.

  “He’s in the kitchen,” Leo said, and Fisher just had time to turn the heat down and brace himself as Rainbow rounded the corner and hurled herself at him.

  “Sugar!”

  Fisher caught her, grunting, and she beamed at him, almost as tall as he was, with a pastel pink wig that brushed her eyebrows in a Natalie Portman-style bob and set off her dark skin perfectly. She’d paired the wig with dark red lipstick and bright pink eyeshadow. Pink glitter highlighted the tops of her cheekbones, and huge gold bangles swung from her ears.

  “You look amazing,” Fisher told her.

  Rainbow cupped his face and kissed him on the mouth. “It’s so good to see you, sweetheart. Thank you for inviting me. How are you? Who are those two delicious tidbits in the living room?”

  “Wren, my assistant, and her friend Grace.” He pulled a bottle of wine from the rack and held it up for Rainbow’s inspection. She pursed her mouth and nodded, and Fisher turned to find the corkscrew. “Leo, come help me pour!” he called as Rainbow settled herself at the kitchen table, wrapping her maroon and pink caftan around her sturdy body.

  Leo skidded into the room a minute later, followed by Wren, who smiled hesitantly at Fisher.

  “Can I help with anything?” she asked. “Grace is petting Maya.”

  “That’s a full-time job,” Fisher agreed. “Wren, this is Rainbow. If she flirts with you, you’re allowed to tell her you’re not interested. She won’t take offense.”

  “I won’t,” Rainbow said, giving Wren a big smile. “Come sit down here by me, sugar, and tell me who you are.”

  “Oh, I—” Wren eased herself into a chair, looking unsure. “I work with Fisher.”

  Rainbow waved that off. “I didn’t ask what you do. I asked who you are. What makes you happy? What do you think about?”

  Fisher coughed. “Hockey players,” he said, grinning.

  Wren pointed at him. “Don’t you start.”

  “What’s this?” Rainbow demanded. “Hockey? Any hockey players in particular? Any I’d know?”

  Wren turned back to stare at her. “Do you know any?”

  Rainbow patted her wig. “Listen, I may be a good Southern girl, but the north got a few things right, and hockey players are one of them. And sugar, let me tell you—” She leaned forward and Wren matched it, her expression rapt. “Those boys like to get freaky.” She winked and sat back as Fisher stifled a laugh in his wine.

  Wren looked absolutely fascinated. “Do you follow the Seabirds?”

  “I live in Portland, don’t I?”

  “Fisher doesn’t,” Wren said. “Says he doesn’t like it.” She brightened. “Hey, I have a couple of extra seats for the Ravens game next week. Do you and maybe Leo wanna come with me and Grace?”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?” Rainbow demanded. “Leo, you in?”

  “Oh hell yeah,” Leo said. “I don’t understand it either, but I’m always down to ogle some hot guys.” He hopped up into his favorite spot on the counter as Grace came in and took a seat by Wren. “Fisher dated a hockey player in high school. He’s never been the same.”

  “Oh my god, you make me sound like a grieving Victorian widow!” Fisher sputtered. “I’m fine, thank you, I just—” He shrugged. “He didn’t have time for anything else. Everything was about hockey with him, about making it to ‘the show’, he called it. So of course he was also deeply closeted, because the NHL wasn’t ready for a gay player, and he didn’t want to jeopardize his chances of being drafted. He wouldn’t even acknowledge me in public because he was afraid someone would guess the truth.” He kept his tone light, but it still stung, the way he’d always been relegated to the backseat, always pushed away in case someone saw, never good enough to be seen with in public. He’d hated hockey, deep and fierce the way only a teenager can, with a burning resentment borne from not being able to compete with it, not even being as tempting as broken bones, bruises, concussions, and worse.

  “Did he make it to the NHL?” Wren asked.

  Fisher shook himself from his reverie. “Yeah,” he said, setting his wine down to stir the beef again. “He was draft
ed by the Riptide. Which meant it was all worth it, of course.”

  “Ouch,” Rainbow said. “Is he hot?”

  Fisher rolled his eyes and picked up his wine. “Of course he’s hot, I have excellent taste.”

  “Followup question,” Rainbow said. “Actually, two of them. How do you think he feels about drag queens who can rock his world, and how do you feel about me picking up your sloppy seconds?”

  Fisher couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, nearly dropping his glass. “Jesus Christ, Bow, why are you like this?”

  Rainbow preened. “You wouldn’t have me any other way, baby.”

  “No, I really wouldn’t.” Fisher blew her a kiss and turned off the heat as Wren leaned forward to ask Rainbow another question. He listened with half an ear to the conversation as he put the ground beef in a bowl and pulled the sour cream and shredded cheese out of the refrigerator. Leo butted in to add to whatever they were discussing, and Rainbow laughed, clutching her chest and leaning back in her chair as she shook with her mirth.

  Fisher added cheese to a bowl and sour cream to another and wondered what French would think of his friends. Would he like them? Well, he already likes Leo, he thought, lips twitching, and pulled the guacamole out. He’d probably think Rainbow’s as great as I do. And it’s impossible not to like Wren.

  “Five minute warning,” he said aloud, and hooked his chin at Leo. “Grab this tray and take it to the living room for me.”

  “Using me for free labor,” Leo complained, already standing.

  “You sure you don’t mind us eating in your living room?” Wren asked.

  “That’s what living rooms are for,” Fisher told her. He topped up her wine, offering some to Grace, who shook her head. “They’re for living in.”

  “So like, stains are proof of life or something?” Wren said, grinning up at him.

  Fisher laughed again. “Something like that. Let’s go eat and watch a dumb movie.”

  As they settled in, he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked it quickly. There was a text from French, so he opened it as Leo got the movie started.

  It was a picture of French’s back, taken over his shoulder as he was lying on his stomach in bed. He was shirtless, just the edge of the tattoo on his back visible, and there was a lanky Siamese folded into a perfect loaf on his hips, eyes closed and triangular ears glowing with the sun.

  He insists on sleeping here, French’s text read.

  Something tugged low in Fisher’s gut. He wanted to crawl into bed with French, kiss him all over that gorgeous back, make a map of his moles and freckles. He wanted to drowse away an afternoon with him, nothing to do and nowhere to be but with each other.

  Get yourself under control, he told himself sharply, and locked the phone without replying. French wasn’t an option and he never would be. Fisher had guests—currently bickering over the best toppings for tacos, he noted—and he didn’t need to spend any more time wanting what he couldn’t have.

  He was ready when Leo appealed to him for an opinion on guacamole, and he didn’t look at his phone for the rest of the evening.

  * * *

  “Ideal man, go,” Leo said, pointing at Rainbow.

  The movie was over and Fisher was pleasantly full and a little buzzed. He stretched his legs out and laced his fingers over his stomach as Rainbow hummed into her wine glass.

  “Muscles and money and stupid as fuck,” she finally said. “I’ve got enough brains for both of us. You?”

  Leo snickered. “Big,” he said promptly. “Big like Fish but meaner. Fisher’s too sweet.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Fisher demanded. “And how is me being nice a bad thing?”

  “It’s not,” Leo said, and stuck his tongue out at him. “I just like a little… bite.”

  “I bite,” Fisher protested, nettled. “I can bite.”

  “But it’s not your first instinct,” Leo countered. “I don't know, I just… I want someone who’s big and tough but who falls apart for me. Like I’m the only one who gets to see that side of him. And hot. Like stupidly hot, just brain-meltingly nuclear.” He shrugged and sipped his wine. “But it doesn’t matter, I’m never settling down anyway. Your turn.” He pointed at Wren.

  “Oh… I don’t….” Wren tugged on her braid. “I don’t really know. Or care, I guess. As long as we care about the same things and they’re sweet. I like them nice.” She shot a mischievous grin at Fisher, who laughed and saluted her with his glass.

  “Grace?” Leo inquired.

  “My ideal man is a woman,” Grace said, lips twitching.

  “Absolutely fair,” Fisher said comfortably. “Men are disgusting. Anything else?”

  Grace shrugged. “Butch girls are my jam. I’m weak for short hair and a leather jacket or good flannel.”

  “What about you?” Wren asked Fisher.

  “Tall, dark, and French Canadian,” Leo said into his glass, and Fisher shot him a filthy look.

  “That’s oddly specific,” Rainbow said, perking up. “Details, my love.”

  Fisher sighed. “It’s not a relationship. I’m not dating him.”

  “But you’re seeing someone,” Rainbow said. “Which means we want to know more.” Wren and Grace nodded as Leo smirked.

  “Leo—who I will be murdering later—and I met him at a bar,” Fisher said. “We’re… compatible in bed. That’s all.”

  “What’s his name? What does he look like? What does he do?” Wren asked.

  “I don’t know, tall, dark, and French Canadian, and I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know his name?” Rainbow demanded, sitting forward.

  “Or what he does?” Wren added.

  Grace looked fascinated, head swiveling to whoever was talking.

  “I told you, it’s not a relationship,” Fisher said, somewhat desperately. “I call him French. He made it clear from the beginning that he doesn’t want a relationship, so it’s just… it’s some fun for both of us.”

  Rainbow looked dubious. “You don’t do fun, sugar. Do you have a picture of him?”

  “I—” Fisher closed his mouth. “No,” he finally admitted. “None that show his face, anyway.” French sent him pictures a lot, but never any with identifiable details.

  Rainbow arched her brows. “Interesting. Is he famous? A closeted musician or politician?”

  “Pretty sure he’s not in politics,” Fisher said. “But he won’t tell me what he does.”

  “A mystery!” Rainbow looked absolutely delighted. “Tell me everything right now.”

  “Nope.” Fisher drained his glass. “We’re very much off-topic, and we’re not discussing my not-boyfriend. So, in regards to Leo’s original question, I don’t care about height or weight. Attraction comes from within for me.”

  “Way to make me sound like a shallow asshole,” Leo muttered.

  “Don’t be a shallow asshole then,” Fisher shot back. He grinned when Leo flipped him off. “I’m more like Wren, I think. As long as we care about the same things, that’s what’s important. But specifically, I want to spend my life with someone. I want kids. I want to share my life. I know it’s boring but I’m ready to settle down. I want someone who makes me laugh, who challenges me. Someone I can trust. Steady, not flashy. Looks fade anyway. I want someone who I want to wake up next to for forty years.”

  He looked up when he was done to everyone staring at him.

  “So soft,” Rainbow said, clicking her tongue.

  “Fuck off, men are allowed to be soft,” Fisher retorted.

  “Deal breakers!” Leo said, sitting up and crossing his legs. “Bow, you first.”

  “The usual.” Rainbow lifted a shoulder. “Racism, homophobia. Grace?”

  “Straight girls.” Grace sighed.

  “They will break your heart,” Rainbow agreed. “Wren?”

  “I don’t think I have any,” Wren said thoughtfully. “I mean other than the obvious.”

  “No, come on, everyone has
deal breakers,” Leo protested. “You’re saying you wouldn’t care if your dream guy had really bad breath, or he only listened to the Hamilton soundtrack on repeat for the rest of your life?”

  Wren shivered and Leo crowed, triumphant.

  “See, everyone has something that’s a hard line. Fisher?”

  Fisher narrowed his eyes. Leo returned his look with an innocent expression.

  “Fine, I’ll go. Transphobia and not liking cats. Oh, and saying irregardless.”

  “That’s not a word?” Grace said, and Leo gasped in outrage before registering her twitching lips.

  “I’m watching you,” he warned, and switched his focus to Fisher. “Your turn.”

  Fisher sighed. The girls were watching them, clearly picking up on the tension and just as clearly not sure what to do about it.

  “Someone who doesn’t want to settle down,” he finally said.

  Leo sat back, his expression clearly saying my job here is done.

  “More wine,” Fisher said, pushing himself upright.

  Alone in the kitchen, he leaned a hip against the counter and closed his eyes. Leo was right, but all he wanted to do was pull out his phone and text Felix. Or better yet, call him just to hear his voice. It took a few minutes before he was able to go back into the living room with the wine bottle and a smile on his face.

  16

  “Why do you keep checking your phone?” Carmine asked on the bus, leaning over the seat after Saint had gone up the aisle to talk to one of the rookies facing his first NHL game.

  Felix twitched and shoved it back in his pocket. “I’m not. Mind your own business.”

  Carmine raised an eyebrow but didn’t challenge the blatant lie. “So how are things with you?”

  “You see me nearly every day,” Felix pointed out. Had his phone vibrated?

  “Does that mean I can’t ask you how you’re doing?”

  Felix narrowed his eyes. “You want something.”

  “I don’t want a damn thing!” Carmine protested, but there was something almost guilty about the way he wouldn’t quite meet Felix’s eyes.