Butterfly Tattoo (18 page)

She stares at my chest, at what she
can
see, blinking, considering, then finally nods in acquiescence. I step closer, holding the railing until I stand just in front of her. Cautiously, I gaze up at Mona’s windows, but they’re dark, and I don’t care what she sees anyway. Peeling down the top of my suit, until only my breasts remain concealed by fabric, I reveal the longest scar of all, like a giant arrow leading right to my heart, then the second one that resides beside it. A visible reminder of my punctured left lung, the wound that caused my asthma and left me with a host of other problems, even if it’s the smaller of the two.

Andrea tilts her head sideways, just looking, then reaches out a gentle, cautious finger to touch the big one, and asks what she did on that very first day: “Do they hurt?”

“Sometimes, yes. And they itch,” I confess with a laugh. “A lot. Isn’t that stupid?”

“Yeah, kinda,” she agrees, dropping her hand away, but I catch it in my own, so that she sees the long scar through the middle of my palm. She stares at it with a mix of wonder and surprise, and asks in her breathy voice, “Does that one itch, too?”

“It hurts sometimes. And it itches, too,” I say. “They all do. They’re still healing,” I explain. “Doesn’t yours itch?”

“Nope. Mine just feels like…” She hesitates, examining my palm seriously. “Like nothing. Mine feels like nothing.”

I’m about to ask her what she means when there’s the rumbling sound of Michael’s Chevy on the driveway. She glances toward his advancing truck, almost panicked, and then back at me as if she’s reaching some critical decision.

“It’s your dad,” I explain, although she can certainly see his silver truck herself.

She nods, standing to her feet. And then with all the gracefulness of a girl raised in water, she dives off the steps, arcing into the placid surface in one fluid line.

Gone, into the depths, completely away from me.

Chapter Fourteen: Michael

I’ve got to figure out a way to broach the Laurel topic with Rebecca, and I’ll admit that it scares the crap out of me. Not sure why, except my relationship with Laurel’s so strange and complex, she often feels like a quasi-lover to me. So telling Rebecca about her, well it’s like I’m revealing that there’s another woman in my life, one I’ve kept secret up until now. Feels like I’m sharing private things that belong to just Alex and me, too. I’m not sure I’m ready to let anyone else in on all that just yet, not even Rebecca.

But with one week left until the visit, I’ve got to come clean, and tonight’s as good a time as any. Andie’s asleep in Rebecca’s room, on her bed, and I’m pacing around her small garage apartment trying to gather my nerve, feeling edgy and weird. She already knows me, though, and while she’s cooking in the kitchen, she keeps looking my way, ’cause she realizes something’s off. I’m fiddling with some of her acting awards and her pile of scripts perched on the counter. Allie always said I’m the world’s worst fiddler when I’m nervous, and that’s what I’m doing tonight.

“So what’s going on, Michael?” she asks, leaning over a vegetable dish and tasting it. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, shoving both hands into my jean pockets.

“Humph.” She goes back to cooking, reaching for a sip of her white wine.

“What?” It comes out sounding more indignant and loud than I mean, and she looks a little shocked, so I explain, “Look, yeah, I’m in a crap mood, okay?”

But I don’t know her well enough yet for this kind of display, and she doesn’t deserve it either. I step close saying, “I’m sorry, Rebecca.” I slip my hands around her waist, drawing her back against me. She smells like suntan lotion and chlorine as I bend to kiss the top of her head. God, I want her; that hasn’t stopped for a single minute in the past weeks. In fact, it’s getting outrageous how much I’m thinking about making love to her. That is, when I’m not thinking guilty thoughts toward Alex about that fact.

“It really is okay,” she assures me, that sexy southern accent shading her words, as she leans back into me. “I’m just wondering what’s going on.”

“I want to make love to you,” I blurt, even though it’s the smallest part of what’s got me so anxious tonight. I feel her tense within my arms; hear her suck in a sudden breath. “I mean, I don’t want to rush things, Becca, but I’m going crazy here.”

“Crazy, huh?” She laughs nervously, slipping away from me, and I’m left standing there in her kitchen, feeling pretty damned stupid, as she works on our meal without ever looking back at me.

Never had this problem with Alex. Guys just move on a much faster timetable—straight to bed, that’s the guy way. Hell, the one time in my life when things felt crystal-clear in the sex department was
with
Alex, ironically enough. No secret codes, no hidden messages, just two guys dying to do it.

“Is that all you have to say?” I demand of her. “About me wanting to make love to you?”

“Is that the
real
problem?” she asks, turning to face me. I close my eyes, and ache to tell her everything. About Laurel and how much she holds over me. How scared I am to see her again, after all this time.

I blow out a breath, and instead ask, “How’d it go with Andrea?” Funny, but she smiles up at me, that quirky half-smile of hers that I love so much, and doesn’t look angry in the least.

“Michael Warner, what am I going to do with you?” she reflects tenderly, shaking her head.

“It’s a simple question.”

“So was mine,” she observes, stepping close, and I notice that she’s barefoot with her toenails painted a sexy hot pink. That one simple detail is enough to arouse me. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she urges, slipping her hand into mine, ignoring my cranky mood. “Other than being horny, that is.” Even I have to laugh at that.

I shrug apologetically. “It’s the male dilemma.”

“The female, too.”

“Yeah? Well, we ever gonna do it, Rebecca? Or just think about it all the time?” Heat sparks in her green eyes, but then she drops her head, self-conscious, wavy blonde hair falling across her face. “’Cause right now, I’m starting to think it’s never going to happen.”

“It will happen.” She stares at her toes, away from me, voice all quiet and unreadable.

“Rebecca, you’re sexy as hell, I can’t help that.” She touches her face, brushing her hand over her scars. “Don’t you know what you’re doing to me?”

She looks up again, green eyes shining. “Michael, I’ve slept with exactly two people in my life. That’s it, okay? It’s not that there’s a problem with you, it’s just—” She shakes her head, walking away from me, toward the sink.

I follow after her. “Just what, Rebecca?”

She spins to face me, clutching a hand over her heart. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with here, okay? That’s all.”

“What I’m dealing with? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I have no idea where all this blustery anger’s coming from, but I don’t know how to stop it, either.

“I can’t talk about this right now,” she says, tension visible in her features, her blonde eyebrows lifting defiantly. “I just can’t.”

“You asked me what was wrong.”

“And it’s
sex
?” she cries, placing a palm over her chest. “That’s what you’re telling me is wrong with you tonight? That it’s because we aren’t having sex yet?”

“Can you keep your voice down?” I nod toward her bedroom irritably. “I don’t want Andrea to hear this.”

“Fine,” she says, placing her back to me again.

I wander toward her fridge and open it, searching for a beer. She’s stocked it with Heineken just for me. Oh, I’m a first-class prick all right.

“So it
is
about sex,” she asserts, much more quietly.

“That’s an issue, but not the real one.”

“Okay, then tell me.”

I hesitate a moment, pacing the length of her kitchen. “It’s Laurel Richardson,” I say, feeling like I’ve just dropped a heavy pack to the floor. “Al’s sister. His twin sister.”

“Okay,” she encourages, gentle with me, far more gentle than I deserve. “What about her?” I turn back to face her, and she’s patiently waiting, nodding her head in support.

“She’s coming to stay with us. Next week.” I stare past her, out the window over her sink, because I just can’t deal with looking into her kind green eyes. “There’s a whole lot of history there, that’s all. Bad shit, and I’m not sure I can deal with it, but I don’t have much choice.”

“Well, Michael.” She pauses, biting her lip, considering. “The good thing is that at least you don’t have to deal with it all alone. You’ve got me.”

***

We’re back on the sofa again, hers this time. Mine, hers, it doesn’t matter; all I want to know is when we’ll finally get down to it. When I’ll be deep inside her, making love like that for the first time in years—and to
her
for the first time in my life. Yeah, Queer Boy is undeniably gung-ho about his return to the straight and narrow.

Darkness shrouds her den, with only the gleaming lights from Mona’s house washing over her ceiling. That and the rhythmic reflection of the pool lights playing along Rebecca’s living-room wall like a lava lamp. Andie’s sound asleep in the next room; there’s just us, the sound of us breathing together, the feel of me hard and ready to go.

God, these jeans are killing me, I think, as I manage to lower her onto the cushions, onto her back. I slip my palm beneath her T-shirt, just exploring, edging closer to her breasts, and feel the cool of Alex’s band against the warmth of her skin. I pull back, but keep on with the kisses. There’s the sound of her soft breathing in my ear, quick breaths, and I feel her hands roaming my back, lower still, then stopping. My whole body spasms knowing how close she just got.

“Rebecca, Andie’s in the next room, but…” I hesitate, even though I swear I’d beg her, I’d do anything to find a way for what I want tonight.

She presses her fingertips against my lips, silencing me. “Michael, we can’t.”

“Yeah we can, of course we can,” I say, nuzzling her cheek, but she stops me, clasping my face within her strong hands.

She steadies me, until our eyes lock. “Michael, I was serious when I said there are things you don’t know.”

“I know everything that matters.”

“No,” she gasps, her breathing ragged as she shifts her hips beneath mine. “No, you really don’t.”

“What? You a guy in drag or something?” She doesn’t laugh, just stares up at me, shocked. “Hell, that would solve some issues,” I tease, leaning in to kiss her again, but she stops me, staring into my eyes hard.

“You’ve seen my scars, Michael,” she says, her voice husky and filled with emotion. “But you haven’t seen them all.”

“That what this is all about?” I ask, relieved to finally understand.

“Michael, they’re bad, okay. Really bad.”

“Baby, I don’t care about that,” I whisper, brushing her hair away from her cheek. “I don’t give a damn about that.”

She turns away from me, and I think I see tears glint in her eyes as she whispers, “But you haven’t seen the whole picture.” She wipes at her eyes. “My body’s not the same anymore, Michael. It’s not just the scars you’ve seen; it’s the ones you haven’t. And there’s my respiratory stuff: I’m sick some days, others…” One hand flutters over her chest. “There’s a whole lot you don’t know.”

“You really think that’ll change how I feel?”

“I need more time.” She pulls in a nervous breath, adding, “And you still love Alex.”

Now that one takes me aback, and I have to process it for a minute. “Is that a problem?” I finally ask, defiant anger edging my voice.

“No, Michael.” She smiles, a sad expression that surprises me. “It’s just that I think we
both
need more time.”

For a long moment, I stare into her eyes, blinking. It feels like she just slapped me, pulling Alex right here between us that way. I sit up, swinging my legs onto the floor, and cover my mouth with my hands.

“Are you angry?” she asks solemnly, and I feel her shift behind me, curling her legs up so she can sit beside me. How come with me, love always has to be so damn complex?

“Nope, not angry.”

“Good.”

“You should know something, though,” I say, turning to face her. “I’m not letting go of Alex anytime soon.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Nah, I think you just did.”

She reaches for my right hand, cradling it within her own. “I’d never do that. It’s just that you should at least be ready to make room for someone else first.” She outlines his ring on my finger for emphasis and whispers, “Because otherwise, it might be a mistake.”

“I tried taking it off. Just couldn’t, not yet.”

“You’ll know when the time is right,” she encourages me, touching the silver band with her fingertip. We fall silent a while, both of us staring down at Alex’s ring. I get the feeling there’s something she wants to ask of me, but can’t quite get the nerve.

“What is it?” I ask, my eyes locking with hers.

“Do you ever worry about staying healthy?” She seems nervous, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt anxiously. “About AIDS or whatever?”

“No, ’cause I don’t sleep around,” I answer, my eyes narrowing at her. She’s asked such a straight person’s question. They’re convinced that we—the homosexual “other”—are always sleeping around.

“I don’t mean it as an insult, but it’s such a big question,” she rushes, “for any of us out there in the dating world, not just gay people.”

“Is that why you don’t want to sleep with me?” I ask, the weight of what she’s saying finally hitting home.

“Oh, Michael, no,” she says, shaking her head. “No, but I want to be sure that I understand.”

“Al and I were completely monogamous,” I answer simply, because I want her to feel comfortable about me, and about what’s starting between us. “End of story, okay? Neither of us slept around. I’m clean.”

She nods, staring down into her lap, seeming more fragile than anything else.

“Tell me about the two guys.”

Her blonde eyebrows arch upward in surprise. “You’re changing the subject.”

“It’s important. You’re talking about my one guy. You tell me about your two.”

“Well, the first—”she draws in a breath, looking oddly shy, “—was my high-school sweetheart.”

“Yeah? What’s his name?” I know enough about high-school sweethearts not to dismiss this guy too easily.

She laughs, glancing sideways at me. “Dr. Andrew Finkle, family dentist back in Dorian.”

“A
dentist
?” I cough.

“Sexy, huh?” she agrees with a sideways smile. “I get Christmas cards every year with his whole office decked out in Santa sweaters.”

“I can’t believe you lost your virginity to a guy named Andrew Finkle.”

“I did love him, once upon a time.” A wistful expression falls over her face as she stares out toward the flickering lights of Mona’s pool. “But life was a lot simpler then.”

I consider telling her about Katie and being dumped at eighteen in the Greyhound bus station, but think better of it. “So who phones you all the time?”

“Jake Slater. We were on
About the House
together.”

Keeping my face neutral is hard: I’ve met Jake actually, though I never realized he was on Rebecca’s show. Certainly never realized he was her ex until now. I did some gaffer work on a cable movie of his back about eight years ago, a location gig upstate. I remember he was more interested in snorting coke on the grip truck than in doing a good job on set. A real playboy, that one.

But I keep silent as she continues. “He was one of those consummate bad boys you always hope have really changed.” She sighs, rubbing her eyes. “What can I say? I was naïve and stupid. That’s really all you need to know about that.”

“No, I need more,” I insist. “You’ve gotten a hell of a lot more about my past out of me.”

She hesitates, folding her hands neatly into her lap. “He dumped me after I left the hospital three years ago. Maybe I’d been home for two or three weeks, I’m not even sure. I was so weak, drugged up. If my parents hadn’t been there to take care of me, I don’t know what I’d have done. Just walking to the toilet took everything I had.” She pauses, swallowing hard. “And then Jake shows up and tells me we’re through. Just like that. Over.” She shakes her head, almost like she’s still disbelieving. “I’d lost my career, my face, my health, and then just like that, I’d lost my boyfriend, too.”