Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 3
Roman
My good eye stings from all that blinding color, but I can’t get her out of my mind. It doesn’t help that the intoxicating scent of her hair lingers. That of orange blossoms. I know it well, from when I—we—used to escape the city for the country. Unable to sit still or focus on my work, I pace my quarters, restless and distracted.
That blogger . . . reporter . . . whatever. An unconventional beauty, but nonetheless a rare beauty. The image of her face is imprinted on my brain. Her wide-set emerald eyes, that riot of pink curls atop her head, those rosy bee-stung lips with their Cupid’s bow curves, her dimpled chin, and that button nose with its sprinkling of butterscotch freckles. A breath of fresh air, a gamine whose colt-like legs make her look taller than she is. That remind me so much of another’s. So spirited! Just as fast as she fluttered into my life, she fluttered out of it, leaving me with an unexpected hard-on. It’s been eons since a woman got a rise out of me. My erection’s still straining against my slacks as I aimlessly zigzag from corner to corner, cursing under my breath.
It’s too early for a drink and the last thing I need in light of my stunted creativity, but I pour myself one anyway. A bourbon. I take several gulps, letting the warm amber liquid coat my throat and seep into my bloodstream. As I’m about to guzzle the rest, a familiar melody drifts into my ears. The chime of an iPhone. It can’t be mine. It’s in my back pocket and muted, the way I always keep it. My nearly depleted tumbler still in hand, I spin around and see it’s emanating from Ms. Albright’s, the one she set on the coffee table and left behind. And deliberately left on. My cock deflates as rage rockets inside me. She tricked me! Defied me! I loud and clear told her to turn it off! Dashing to the table, I slam my tumbler down on the glass and snatch the phone. My good eye goes right to the caller ID and nearly pops out of its socket. I have better than twenty-twenty vision in that eye and I haven’t drunk enough bourbon for it to cloud my sight. The name is as clear as crystal. Harper Albright.
“What the fuck!” I mutter out loud. How the hell can she be calling herself?
My index finger swipes answer with the velocity of a speed skater. With a jerk of my arm, I put the phone to my ear. A raspy female voice I don’t recognize materializes.
“Sofe, how did the interview go? I’m dying to know.”
And I’m dying to know what the fuck is going on. “Who is this?” I shout into the phone.
“Harper Albright. Who’s this?”
“No one you know,” I growl at the irony of my words.
“Why do you have Sofi’s phone?”
“She left it behind . . . at a café. I want to return it to her.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you.”
I don’t do sweet. Fury fuels my voice. “Where does she live?”
“This connection is breaking up. I’ll text you her address.”
With a jab of my finger, I end the call. Someone owes me an explanation—the gamine girl who interviewed me. That goddamn imposter.
I wait impatiently for the text. Finally a ping. I read it. Her full name is Sofi Lockhart and she lives on West 35th Street. Hell’s Kitchen. What girl in her right mind lives there?
Jamming the traitorous phone into my other pocket, I barrel down the backstairs instead of taking the elevator to my atelier.
Without stopping to examine anything my loyal, hardworking staff is engaged in, I sprint to the front door. In passing, I hear Madame DuBois, who’s their supervisor and my lifeline, call out, “Monsieur, where are you going?”
It’s unusual for me to go out in broad daylight. Sunshine stings my working eye and compromises my anonymity. If ever I leave my residence, it’s for a solitary stroll in the wee hours of the morning on nights the moon is a mere sliver. The sky as black as carbon, I blend into the desolate, unlit streets, cloaked in darkness, where a few bums, who don’t give a shit about my identity or deformity, await me for their tithing. I dole out money generously.
Breathing hard, I don’t answer my chief of staff. At the entrance to my atelier, I punch the four-digit code on the security panel to let me out. One-two-one-two. Twelve-twelve. Her birthday. I hear a click and I yank the heavy bronze door open. It’s raining cats and dogs. The rain pellets like bullets.
Madame DuBois hovers behind me. “Can I fetch your raincoat?”
“I’m fine,” I grumble, grabbing an umbrella from a tole stand close to the door. I push the spring, and as it slides up the metal shaft, the enormous signature HOH umbrella balloons in the doorway. I step outside. The British, custom-made umbrella is sturdy enough to shelter me from the downpour. On a mission, I forge ahead, battling the raging storm. The gusting wind. The rain. The slippery pavement. The puddles. My target can only be a few blocks ahead of me. While her apartment is walking distance on a nice day, my instinct tells me she’s headed toward the subway, located on the corner of Canal and Delancey. Holding my umbrella high, I pick up my pace and break into a run.
The rain comes down harder and the wind kicks up. Everything’s a whir as my feet pound the pavement, creating little splashes in their wake. People all around me are scurrying for shelter, getting in my way. Umbrellas clashing, the rain lashing. Then, finally I see her. In the sea of gray, she’s hard to miss in her rainbow-colored attire. Sprinting toward the uptown subway station, she lifts the hood of her sweatshirt over her head to shield herself from the rain.
“Butterfly,” I cry out. I don’t know why I call her this when I know her name. “Butterfly!” I shout out again, the pounding rain a deafening veil between us.
Close to the entrance of the subway, she finally hears me and spins around. For a moment, her rain-soaked face meets mine. She disappears from my field of vision when a heavy-set commuter in a mad rush to seek shelter, plows into her and sends her tumbling to the ground. Clamoring down the subway stairs, he leaves her unattended.
Sprawled in a crumpled heap, she doesn’t get up.
Hordes of rude New Yorkers, desperate to seek refuge from the downpour, ignore her and scramble for cover.
My system goes into overdrive. I run faster, my limbs and lungs burning.
She’s going to get trampled!