Page 14 of Butterfly

Call me. His words still echo in my ears with their determination.

But let’s face it. He was only being kind. He doesn’t care about me. Surely by now, he’s already thinking about the next movie star or Victoria’s Secret model he should be dating, not a nearly broke veterinary doctor covered in bruises he met on a plane. I fold the piece of paper, saying goodbye to him again. Meeting him was a good dream. But nothing more.

After a hot shower that does nothing to make me think of anything else but Alex Knightley, I lie on the bed and can’t resist the temptation of taking my phone. I surf the internet for information about him. Gorgeous pictures of Alex playing one of his roles fill the screen. He looks good in a James Bond suit. There’s a picture of him and Rebecca when he was a teenager. Gosh, she’s gorgeous. With her dark-blonde hair and hazel eyes, she doesn’t look older than twenty-eight. Generous curves give her a perfect hourglass figure. Was Alex being honest when he talked about her? Although, he didn’t say anything horrible about her, but the hard glint in his eyes and the way his jaw clenched said it all. Something happened with Rebecca, something he didn’t enjoy. I guess that one abused child recognises another. She did something to him. No, he wasn’t lying about her. He was trying to hide his discomfort. I recognised that as well.

Oh, he’s dating Emily Lawrence now, the actress who played Constance inThe Three Musketeers. She was at the airport, wasn’t she? His presence obliterated my brain. In the picture, they’re smiling and holding each other by the waist. Her glossy chestnut hair cascades in thick waves over her almost naked body. Her ‘red doesn’t mean stop’ dress barely covers her breasts. She’s half-turned towards Alex, showing a portion of her bare back. Her perfectly smooth back with a pair of Venus’s dimples. His hand is sprawled over her skin in a protective gesture that wakes up some ugly monster inside me. Ridiculous.

Ouch, the comments on the posts are pure vitriol.

Knightly can’t act. He can only do fake sex.

I’m sick of watching him having sex and showing his body.

Alex shows his arse and pecs, and it’s an instant success. Yuck.

I thought he was a good actor, but nope, just another sexy idiot.

How dare these people? Alex is more than that. Yes, he did mostly sexy films, but c’mon! Sheesh, I’ll get heartburn if I continue reading.

I close the app and toss the phone on the bed. Alex is a dream. I only have nightmares. Nothing else. I stare at the piece of paper with his number, wondering if I should save it on my phone. But for what reason? Hey Alex, I need to buy some groceries. Would you help me? A chuckle leaves my lips. Yeah, right. A millionaire actor coming to my flat to buy me food. Not going to happen. He’d probably send his assistant or something. I bet he’s regretting having given me his number. He’s wondering if I’ll turn into a crazy stalker, bombarding him with texts and calls. Well, dear Alex, you can relax because I have no intention of calling you whatsoever.

I stash the piece of paper in the drawer of my nightstand, ignoring the tiny pang piercing my heart. A new chill jolts through me at the sight of the pen drive, the one that holds my darkest secret in a video. A video made by my foster father himself right before he died. I’ve never watched it. It seems fitting that it has to share the same space as a phone number I’ll never use.

But the pain doesn’t last. Sleep sucks me in, and I welcome the darkness.

Five

Alex

Peak District, three months later

MY PHONE GIVES a shrill ring, and like a Pavlovian dog, I turn my head towards it and check the caller ID. Just a text from my trainer to remind me of our next boxing session.

I press my lips together in frustration. Not at the message, but at myself. After three bloody months, do I think she’s going to call? No. But I can’t help the quick flip of my heart every time the damn phone rings, blips, or whatever the hell else it does. And it does it a lot. Why didn’t I ask for her number? Because I didn’t want to sound like a stalker. And because I thought—no, I was certain that she would have called. Sod my ego. There’s a lesson to learn here. Personal memo: not every woman is interested in you, arsehole.

“Did you hear what I said?” Charles asks from the chair next to me.

I nearly forgot my brother was here. “No, sorry. I was thinking of something else.”

He cracks his knuckles, the sound grating on my nerves. “Mum wants you home for Christmas. She told me she asked you, but you didn’t reply. Are you going to come?” The hope in his voice holds a childlike quality that breaks my heart. But I have to be honest with him. Especially after I left him and my family alone when Dad felt sick.

“I told Vance to leave my schedule free in December.”

“I see.” The fact that looking at him is like looking in the mirror adds a hint of creepiness to our rare conversations. It’s like talking to a flesh-and-blood personification of my conscience that reminds me what a shitty son and brother I am.

Charles exhales and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Mum is getting old. One day, she’ll die, and she needs—”

“Don’t start with this rubbish.”

“—you.” His voice rises a notch.

Yes, I wasn’t home when Dad died. When he needed me. Yes, guilt keeps gnawing at me. “I’ll be home for Christmas.” Not because he brought that up, but because I want to.

“Good. You know that—” He waves dismissively. “Never mind.”

Dammit, I hate it when he doesn’t tell me what he thinks. “What?”

“The marathon starts in fifteen minutes,” Vance says, stepping into my tent.

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