Page 3 of Beautifully Savage Butterfly

ORION

My heart thunders and I resist the urge to look over my shoulder as I step into the grungy shower stall. There’s something black and fuzzy growing in the upper left corner of the cramped space that I’d rather not look at. As gross as it is though, it’s preferable to giving in to the prickling feeling on the back of my neck, the terrified animal sense clawing at my skin, telling me to turn around and make sure Elio isn’t standing there with his gun pointed right at me.

I grind my molars together and crank the water a few degrees hotter. How fucking dare he? I’ve been fighting for survival almost as long as I can remember, learning to use my fists as soon as I could, selling off parts of myself until rage was the only thing left. And now an asshole like Elio thinks he has the right to get in my head and make me feel like I need to look over my shoulder? Absolutely not.

The scalding water beats down on my aching muscles, searing the spots that are already bruising from Cabrerra’s fists. I poke a finger into the tender purple splotch blooming across the bottom edge of my ribs. Nothing feels broken. At least, not broken enough to warrant anything more than wrapping it before I crash later.

I roll my neck from side to side and groan at the tug of my tight muscles. I would sell my soul for a hot bath and a massage. Jesus, what a fucking luxury that would be. I close my eyes and indulge in the fantasy for half a second, imagining a laughable dream world where instead of cleaning up in this biohazard of a shower just to avoid a mobster, I get to go home to a hot bath and an eager lover. Instead of wrapping my injuries myself, a beautiful man would tend to me with adoration and submission in his eyes, kissing my bruises and massaging the knots out of my muscles while I whisper hot, filthy things to him.

I groan a second time, the sound painful as it works its way through my throat. Fantasies like that are dangerous. A life like that is for other people, not for me. I learned that a long time ago. Some people are dealt nothing but shit—that’s just life.

I slam my hand back down on the nozzle, killing the water. It’s jarring how quickly the stream stops, leaving me standing, shivering in a draining puddle. My hair clings to my neck and shoulders in wet clumps. I didn’t think to bring a towel with me during my storm out, so I’m forced to do a sopping wet walk of shame now, hoping Elio took the hint and fucked off in the last few minutes.

Leaving a trail of footprints through the bathroom, I snatch my shorts off of the floor and step back into the main part of the locker room. It’s empty, no trace of the Mafia prince aside from the lingering agitation that refuses to release its hold on me.

“A lesson in manners?” His words earlier echo in my head while I grab a clean towel to dry myself off.

If I didn’t know any better, I might have thought he was flirting. Flirting like a bratty sub, looking to be taught a lesson. My cock perks up at the thought. I scoff to myself, running a hand over my face and shaking my head to clear the momentary insanity. Elio fucking Moretti is not a subby brat begging for a spanking, he’s a goddamn killer.

I get dressed in the same jeans and faded band t-shirt I wore on my way in earlier, when I was buzzing with the adrenaline of an upcoming fight. Now everything feels too quiet, like the crash after an intense high.

I wind my hair up into a bun on top of my head and sling my bag over my shoulder before shoving my feet into my ratty old tennis shoes. I shuffle out of the locker room with knots in my stomach, dragging my feet and immediately feeling guilty about it.

It’s not that I don’t want to see him. Of course I do. He’s my flesh and blood, and I’m not even sure I’d still be breathing if it weren’t for him. It’s just that some nights, like after a fight, it all feels like too much. All I want to do is go home and fall into bed, pretend for twelve hours or so that I’m the badass MMA champion everyone else thinks I am. But there’s no question what I’ll choose. Blowing off Jack isn’t even an option.

I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans and square my shoulders as I step out onto the street. The arena isn’t on the best side of town. Hell, eighty percent of Wildcliff is the bad side of the city. Unless you’ve got a hell of a lot of zeros in your bank account, you’re stuck slumming it. The scrawny twelve-year-old inside me has the urge to hurry down the street, avoid looking down any alleyways, keep my head down, and get out of here as quickly as possible. I’m not that kid anymore though, and I’m not afraid of this city. She’s done her worst to me, and I’m still here.

It’s a handful of blocks to the towering cement building that sits right on the corner, with a brief detour to pick up some burgers from Jack’s favorite place. There are overgrown flowerbeds on either side of the steps up to the door, and graffiti that’s been hastily scrubbed off the side of the building. The words ‘Shady Oaks’ are written above the door. There isn’t a tree in sight, but okay. I pull open the door and step into the familiar lobby, squinting as my eyes adjust to the harsh fluorescent lights.

The woman behind the reception desk smiles at me, the skin around her eyes crinkling with well-earned smile lines that give away her age, no matter how often she touches up her graying roots.

“I’m glad you came by. Jack has been in a mood all day. He’ll be happy to see you,” she says, adding to the guilt writhing in my gut.

I force a smile, reaching for the sign-in sheet on the counter and jotting my name down in a messy scrawl.

“He’ll be glad to see a cheeseburger, that’s for sure,” I say, and she laughs, waving me back without bothering with any other formalities, like reminding me about when visiting hours end. I’m here four nights a week—I know the rules and schedules like the back of my hand. I could walk the path to Jack’s room with my eyes closed and a concussion. I think I actually did do that after one particularly brutal fight.

I tap on the door to Jack’s room, a pattern of three knocks that we established when we were teenagers squatting in an abandoned apartment building.

“Yeah,” he grunts, which I take to mean, ‘Come in, dear brother. Thank you so much for bringing dinner and always thinking of me.’ Not that I blame him for being a crabby asshole from time to time. Fuck knows if I were in his position, I’d have a much worse attitude than he does.

I step inside and hold up the bag from Reggie’s with a grin, refusing to wince at the twinge in my bruised ribs that accompanies the motion. He’s lying in his bed, the curtains on the windows drawn, the stale smell of sweat and antiseptic filling the room. The place looks homey, at least. Which was the main reason I even agreed to it when he said he wanted to live here instead of staying with me. It’s basically a studio apartment with a living room set up, an old flatscreen TV hanging on the far wall, a small kitchen, and his bed. There are table lamps, cozy rugs, and a vase of flowers that I’m sure one of his nurses brought for him. But no matter how welcoming it is, there’s no denying what this place is, or why my brother is here.

“Victory burgers.” I grin and shrug my bag off my shoulder, dropping it by the door and setting the bag down on the counter. “Do you want to stay there, or do you want help into your chair?”

Jack frowns. “Bed is fine. You don’t need to be picking up my bullshit, useless body and carrying me around like a ragdoll after a fight.”

“Dude, I’ll wear you on my back Yoda-style during a fight if you want me to,” I say, while still respecting his decision and pulling a chair up next to his bed so I can take a seat there.

His sour look melts into a momentary smile. My lips twitch in a matching grin and I reach into the bag to pull out one of the burgers. I unwrap it and hold it up to his mouth. He scoffs under his breath but takes a bite anyway, chewing slowly.

There aren’t a lot of blessings to count in this situation, but the fact that he can still eat and breathe more or less on his own is in that column, as far as I’m concerned. If the damage had been one vertebra higher, he’d be eating through tubes and stuck on a ventilator.

“Tell me about the fight tonight,” he says once he swallows.

“Come on, you don’t want to hear about it.” He asks every time, and it never stops feeling downright wrong to give him a literal blow-by-blow of every fight when he’s supposed to be the one out there making headlines and signing sponsorship contracts. He’s the one with the boy-next-door good looks and all the charm. I feel like a little kid wearing shoes five sizes too big.

“Let me live vicariously,” he insists, then opens his mouth for another bite.

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