Page 8 of Butterfly

Along the aisle, a passenger gawps at Alex and flashes a daft smile, letting us pass. He returns the smile, but having seen his genuine one, this one rings fake and movie-star-ish.

“Is your family going to take care of you in London?” There’s an edge to his voice I can’t place.

Why did he have to ask? I keep my face straight, reining in the slash of sadness the word ‘family’ brings to my heart. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

We stop in front of the loo, and I put a hand on the door. “I’ll be right back.”

When I shut the door behind me, I sit on the edge of the toilet while staring at my reflection in the mirror. My legs weaken. Family. Home.

Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

It doesn’t matter how many times I repeat that to myself; my hands move of their own accord. I turn and lift my shirt. The scars fill the mirror. The letter ‘E’ carved into my flesh reaches the small of my back with its gnarled lines. I exhale as I pull the blouse down, hands shaking. What subconscious force drives me to check my back? The scars aren’t going to disappear or bleed again. And even if they do disappear, the memories will stay.

Little whore.

I jolt at the sound of my foster father’s voice. My chest heaves as I search the confined space of the loo. He isn’t here. He’s dead. He isn’t here. I splash my face with cold water and take in a deep breath of stale air. The pungent scent of the soap singes my nostrils. More cold water. My pulse slows down. Air fills my lungs. That’s it.

When I leave the loo, even though I know Alex Knightley is out there, my breath catches in my chest. The silver specks in his eyes sparks, giving me a look that I’ve never seen in any of his films. He wraps an arm around me again and breathing becomes a struggle. How many times have I fantasised about meeting him? In those daydreams, I was strong and confident, completely in control. Instead of broken, scarred, and worried.

“What were you saying about your family?” he asks as we slog along the aisle.

I’m not going to see him again after this plane lands in London, and my life has only one big secret. “I grew up in foster care. I don’t have parents or siblings waiting for me at Heathrow. But I have my friends,” I add when he opens his mouth, deep lines creasing his forehead. There’s a limit to the words of pity and sorrow a girl can take. Especially from a movie star. “Tyler and his wife live close to me.”

The crease in his brow doesn’t want to relax, making me wonder if he cares.

“What about you?” I don’t read tabloids often and don’t stalk celebrities on social media, so I genuinely have no idea if he’s an orphan like me, or if he has a large family. Maybe a wife and a kid? His eyes don’t widen in surprise, so he doesn’t find it odd that someone doesn’t know everything about his life.

“My mum, my brother, and his wife live close to the Peak District. I see them as often as I can, but not as much as I’d like to.” He helps me to my seat before sitting next to me, leaving a trail of his clean musk behind. A muscle in his jaw ticks. “My dad died years ago. A heart attack. Unexpected.”

“I’m sorry.”

A half-hearted shrug is his reply.

I fiddle with the blanket, wondering if I should ask him about his partner. Is he dating another movie star? Emily Lawrence? I think I saw her at the airport.

The attendant pulling the trolley interrupts the awkward moment. “What would you like to drink?”

“Tea, thank you.” I close my hands around the mug, a proper porcelain mug, not a plastic container, and take a sip, fully aware that the tea will make me need the loo again soon. Maybe I enjoy Alex’s arm around my waist too much.

“Just water,” Alex says, still scowling. He’s often scowling.

I’m about to sip my tea when the familiar cadence of Tyler’s footsteps reaches my ears. His large build looms over me as he stops in front of me in the suddenly confined space between my seat and the wall. Between him and Alex, I don’t know who’s broader. His short brown beard covers a ruthless jaw, and his rich brown eyes regard me from underneath a pair of strong brows. Tyler assesses one of his typical, quick glances at Alex, likely calculating the time he’d need to stab him. Not much, judging by how swiftly Tyler returns his attention to me. There’s an intensity about him that presses against my skin. The sensation isn’t completely uncomfortable, but not pleasant, either. It’s as if he knows more about me than anyone else, which isn’t possible. Maybe it’s only my guilty conscience talking. After all, I did kill someone.

“Tyler.” I gulp my tea and squirm on the seat. The last time he stared at me like that was when he told me I had to express the anal glands of that angry English mastiff.

He’s a former royal marine, and the wide breadth of his shoulders and the muscles thickening his arms and legs speak of long marches and weightlifting. Amazing sniper, he’s great with a scalpel too. Fastest slicer I’ve ever seen. Not someone I want to cross.

“Phoebe sent me a message when we were at the airport.” Never a fan of preambles, he shoves his phone under my nose.

I move closer to read the screen.

I’m glad you’re well and that your injuries are going to heal. I know you don’t feel close to me, but I hope you’ll accept my friendship, and that, one day, we might be good friends. Tyler always says you do an awesome job at the clinic. He admires you as a co-worker, but he isn’t an easy person to approach and talk to, and I know he loves you as well. I hope you’ll find it easier to talk to me in the future. Safe trip.

A lump the size of London’s Eye grows in my throat by the time I finish reading. The truth in Phoebe’s words rings out. I’ve always kept her at a distance, not intentionally, but obviously she noticed that. “Thank you.” I lean back, fighting the tears.

Alex is sipping his glass and staring at the screen in front of him, but his presence surrounds me. And he doesn’t fool me. He must have heard the exchange.

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