Black Butterfly, Book 3 of the Black Burlesque Series_an Alpha male, BWWM romance

by Tiffany Patterson

  “Mama, I don’t...” he trailed off when Iris held her hand up.

  “I know you don’t. I just think that may have something to do with your reluctance to marry, or to even admit you’re in love. Once you acknowledge that, you can move forward. I want both of my boys to be happy,” she said, rising from her chair and rounding his desk. “Just think about it, and be honest with yourself,” she encouraged, placing a parting kiss on his cheek. “I’m heading home now.” She smiled before exiting his office.

  Andre remained in his chair in a daze. He wondered the impact that time in his life had on his thoughts of marriage and love. He remembered back to a conversation he had with Nikola, who reminded him that growing up he often said he wanted a marriage like his parents. For most of their lives, it had been Nikola who was less partial to marriage, but that changed one night eight years ago. His father’s death had a deeper impact on Andre’s life then he’d ever imagined. Maybe it was time to share his secret pain with the woman in his life.

  ****

  Across town, Stacey was having a stressful day at work. She wasn’t perturbed. These days often came with the territory of working in her field. One of her clients she began counseling as an intern had relapsed, and had to be readmitted as a residential patient. This particular client had been through a series of traumatic events growing up, and once again, as she began on her road of recovery, she experienced the loss of her mother, the only strong support network she had. It was a long road ahead to recovery, but Stacey knew she was in the right place. Stacey knew this was just part of the recovery process, but it still tugged at her heart strings to see a young woman with so much to look forward to in life, to be mired with ails of an eating disorder.

  Stacey shook her head as she thought about her client, and all the others she had met within their group session. She needed to jot down some notes in her files and speak with a more senior counselor on more advanced treatment options for a few of her clients. There were also a few recent studies on eating disorders and women of color, and women of lower socioeconomic status she wanted to read and take notes on. Looking at her watch, she saw it was just after three in the afternoon. She could write down her notes and update her client files, and then start reading the studies in her office before heading out for the day. Rounding the corner towards her office, she heard the voices of what sounded like two new interns the facility had recently taken on. Stacey smiled thinking about the younger, fresh-faced women who enthusiastically took on their roles as assistant counselors.

  “I know, Mel. I was confused by it too.” Stacey heard one of the interns, she believed to be named Kennedy, state.

  “I mean, Black women don’t even get eating disorders.” That was Melissa, a young twenty-one year old senior at Georgia State, who was majoring in psychology.

  Stacey’s steps faltered as those words sunk in. She knew the perception that women of color didn’t suffer from eating disorders was prevalent, even in the mental health field. She’d hoped that this perception was changing, but as she stood and listened to these two young prospective mental health professionals, her heart sank. Their words brought back painful memories. Stacey knew she had to intervene.

  “Ladies, I truly hope that is not what you believe,” she admonished, her voice harsher than she intended. While Stacey didn’t intend to admonish too harshly, she knew beliefs like these two women were sharing were dangerous and could prevent women who truly needed help from getting it.

  “Oh, Ms. Coleman,” Melissa’s eyes widened in shock to see Stacey standing there. “We were just saying it’s, uh, well, it’s rare…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Maybe it’s rare because prevailing attitudes like yours prevent women of color from getting the help they need. Hm?” Stacey asked sharply, looking between both women.

  “We didn’t mean—”

  Stacey waved off Kennedy’s meek protests. “Ladies, as prospective mental health counselors, I would hope your attitudes towards your clients aren’t as narrow-minded as they seemed just now. If everyone held your beliefs, then I and many other women would still be suffering in the throes of an eating disorder. Or worse,” she sternly stated looking between the two women. With that, she turned and went to her office. Once she was tucked safely in her office, she slammed her files on her desk before closing her door behind her. She paced her office trying to burn off her negative energy. On one hand, she couldn’t blame the two women, who had likely only come in contact with eating disorder patients who were mainly Caucasian and middle-class. However, these women were professionals, or prospective professionals. They should know better, she thought, as she continued to pace her office.

  For the rest of the work day, Stacey could barely concentrate on the work she had planned. Just looking at the new study she wanted to read about women of color and eating disorders had her remembering the interns’ conversation all over again. By the time the end of the work day came, she was beyond ready to get out there for a few hours and calm her nerves before returning to work the next day.

  Entering the high rise condo, Stacey hung up her pea coat on the coat rack, mumbling to herself. She still hadn’t calmed down from her encounter with the two interns.

  “Oh!” she nearly shouted by Andre’s presence. It was just after five thirty in the evening, and he usually didn’t get in until well after six. “I didn’t see you,” she explained.

  “I can tell. Rough day at work?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

  Stacey blew out a harsh breath. “Kind of,” she tossed over her shoulder as she removed her black pumps.

  “You want to—”

  “I mean, we’re supposed to be professionals, and they’re interns and young so they may not realize the implications of their words, but still. Do they have any idea the repercussions of their words? Ugh, seriously!” Stacey continued to ramble on and on, barely finishing a thought before moving on to another.

  Now that she was at home, she felt able to vent her frustrations. Unfortunately, in her rambling she wasn’t making much sense to the only other person in the room, as she paced back and forth on Andre’s hardwood floors. “What about all the women and men who don’t fit the stereotypical standard of what an eating disorder sufferer looks like? This is why so many suffer in silence, or heck don’t even know they have an eating disorder…” she continued.

  “Umm, babe?” Andre attempted to interject. Stacey continued on in her rant, seemingly unreachable.

  Stacey was so worked up that it took a while for her to realize she was being pulled down the hall towards the bedroom. Her rambling was cut short when they entered the bedroom. Andre pulled open the top two drawers he’d given her to keep her clothes and removed workout clothing.

  “Put these on,” he gently commanded, thrusting the clothes at her.

  Tilting her head to the side and pursing her lips in confusion, Stacey silently asked for an explanation.

  Andre remained adamant. “You need to work off some energy. Put these on.”

  “Andre—”

  “Put them on,” he commanded in that authoritative voice that sent chills down her spine. Taking the clothes from him, she quickly donned a pair of black spandex shorts, a sports bra, and a white sleeveless top.

  “Come with me,” Andre directed, pulling her out of the room. They made their way down the hall to his private gym, stopping in front of his punching bag. Andre grabbed a pair of his smaller boxing gloves, and one by one he placed Stacey’s hand in each glove, making sure they were secured. “You’re going to work out some of that frustration you have. It helps me when work has been stressful,” he responded to her skeptical look. “I’ll hold the bag while you hit,” he instructed, as he walked around the other side of the punching bag, holding it in place.

  Stacey blew out a breath and shrugged. She needed to work out some of the tension from her day, and hitting an inanimate object seemed as good a workout as any other. She hit the bag with a few tentative punches, barely makin
g the bag sway even without Andre holding it.

  “I know you can hit harder than that. Look, just think about whatever it is that has you so frustrated, and pretend it’s here in the bag. Then hit it,” he advised.

  Stacey thought about the issue that really bothered her from what she encountered at work. She didn’t picture the faces of the interns whose conversation she’d interrupted. Instead, she thought of her own pain. She remembered the days she’d sought help and was turned away because she didn’t look like the typical sufferer. Although she had come a long way, that anguish of needing help and not being able to get it, never left her. It was why she did what she did. It was the driving force behind her passion for what she did. She hated the very thought that the way someone looked or their lack of financial resources could prevent them from being able to get the help or treatment they might need.

  For the next thirty minutes, Stacey wailed on the punching bag, releasing the stress and tension of the day. The longer she hit, the more she could feel her frustration ebbing, and she even began to formulate a new outreach program to reach clientele who weren’t the “typical” model of eating disorder patients. She remembered her long-term goals of opening her own treatment facility that catered to a diverse group of clients, and offered an array of treatment programs, including dance therapy. At the end of her thirty minute punching bag session she was physically spent, but mentally invigorated.

  “Here you go slugger,” Andre joked, handing Stacey a bottle of water. She realized he had a small refrigerator in his gym, stocked mostly with bottles of water. “You were right about that right hook of yours.” He laughed.

  Stacey shrugged. “I told you.”

  “You did. Now, it’s time for a shower and some dinner.”

  Twenty minutes later, a freshly showered Stacey and Andre sat on the floor of his living room eating their dinner of grilled sea bass and steamed broccoli with a bottle of red wine.

  “So, you want to talk about it?” Andre asked, his eyes piercing her over the rim of his wine glass.

  Stacey pushed the remnants of her dinner around her plate, contemplating on where to even start. She felt ready to share this part of herself with Andre, but it was always uncomfortable talking about this part of her history. Andre sat patiently waiting for her to open up to him.

  “I walked up on a couple of interns today having a conversation about black women not having eating disorders. It uh...struck a nerve,” she admitted, taking another sip of her wine. She peeked out of the corner of her eye and saw Andre watching her, urging her for a deeper explanation.

  Stacey briefly closed her eyes, trying to figure out where to begin. She finally decided that the beginning was just a good a starting place as any. “I was thirteen the first time I stuck my fingers down my throat to make myself throw up.”

  She paused to let what she’d just said sink in.

  Andre’s wide-eyed expression told her he was not expecting those words to come out of her mouth. Nevertheless, it was her truth.

  “I had been in Savannah for less than a year and began studying ballet at Savannah Ballet Theatre. Though I’d been dancing for years, this was a different level. Competition was stronger. That and the upheaval of being in a new state with a family I had just come to know, and my sister going away to college…I felt lost and out of control. I also felt bigger than most of the other dancers. One day, I walked into the bathroom and I heard one of the older girls throwing up. At first, I thought she was sick and needed help, but when she came out of the stall and saw me, she froze. She warned me not to tell anyone what I saw or I’d be sorry. Instead of being intimidated, I was...intrigued. She was one of the dancers I looked up to in the theatre. She moved with the grace and poise I’d wished to have, so a few days later, I sought her out to ask what she was doing in the bathroom and why. Reluctantly, she told me she threw up to keep her weight down to help her remain light on her feet. That was the start of my eating disorder.”

  Stacey paused to take a breather. She rarely shared this much of her history with people, but Andre wasn’t just people. He was the man she loved, and she wanted him to know everything about her the same way she wanted to know everything about him.

  “For years, I would use my ‘secret weapon,’ as I would call it, to help me feel like I had some sense of control. When I was stressed over a major performance or a tryout, I would find myself in the cycle of bingeing and then purging. I thought it was under control because I didn’t do it every day. I would often go months without bingeing and purging, and therefore thought it wasn’t a big deal, but then I got injured. When my ballet career began to crumble and I felt my entire world collapsing around me, it got worse. I was in Seattle, all alone. My boyfriend at the time had dumped me at my lowest point. Most of my friends were associated with ballet and it was too painful to be around them. For nearly a year, while I tried to recuperate to return to the stage, my eating disorder took over.”

  Pausing to take another sip of her wine, Stacey felt Andre’s hand massage her thigh. She covered his hand with hers and smiled up at him. He pulled her into his side, embracing her. Stacey felt empowered by his warmth. Inhaling deeply, she continued.

  “I knew I was in trouble. At one point, I went to a counselor that was recommended by the ballet company. I didn’t give full details, but when I told her I’d been having trouble with eating food, she told me that she wasn’t surprised that someone of my background had trouble figuring out a nutritious diet. She recommended a dietician and sent me on my way. I couldn’t put it into words then, but now I think she meant that someone who looked like me couldn’t have an eating disorder.” Stacey shook her head still in bewilderment at the lack of compassion displayed by that first therapist she’d seen all those years ago. She often wondered if the woman was still practicing and how many other desperately hurting people she’d turned away.

  “So how, um,” Andre paused to clear his throat in a rare show of being at a loss for words. “How did you get help?”

  “Coral.” Stacey smiled thinking of her sister. “She was still in the Army, but was stationed in the States at the time. She often called to check on me, but I don’t know, I think she heard something in my voice. I finally broke down and told her my ballet career was pretty much a done deal. I cried over the phone. I didn’t tell her about my bingeing and purging, but I think she knew somehow. The next day, she showed up at my apartment. She’d taken an emergency leave. On her second day there, I told her of my bingeing and purging. That I couldn’t control it. She immediately went to work looking for treatment options. Before I knew it, she and my aunt were able to find the treatment center here in Atlanta. I was a resident there for ninety days and then did months of outpatient treatment. It’s why I decided to remain here in Atlanta. I wanted to eventually work at the place that welcomed me with open arms when I needed it and now I do.” She paused again for another sip of wine and to gauge Andre’s reaction to what she’d just shared.

  Looking into those deep blue pools, she saw so much compassion and concern. She stroked his cheek and rubbed her thumb over his lips. She couldn’t help but lean in and press her lips to his as an expression of her gratitude for the lack of judgement she saw in his gaze.

  “So today when I heard those interns, it just brought it all back. It made me ache for my former self who felt so alone, lost and dejected after that initial counseling session with that Seattle therapist. I don’t want anyone to feel like that. It’s why I do what I do.”

  Stacey held up her right hand, showing the small scar in between her knuckles for Andre to see. “This is the reminder of my eating disorder, a scar from the many times I used these fingers to make myself purge the contents of my stomach. I haven’t purged in more than four years, but it is a daily reminder of how far I have come in my recovery and how strong I am.” She let her hand fall to her lap.

  Andre instantly reached over, grabbed her hand, and brought his lips to her scar. Stacey felt as if a weight she didn’
t even realize was there had been lifted. She felt lighter and almost giddy, having shared such an important part of her life with this man. His kiss symbolized his understanding and awareness of how important this was to her. She felt emboldened.

  “I love you,” she told him just above a whisper. She’d become more comfortable with telling him those words over the last month. While it did prickle her a little that he never returned those words, she did see the light in his eyes grow the way it always did when she told him. Although he never returned the words, they always seemed to make him wild with need for her. Before she knew it, Stacey was flat on her back as Andre hovered over her, a look of passion and need in his darkening eyes.

  “You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met,” he told her while nipping her earlobe. “Thank you for trusting me enough to share that with me.”

  Stacey shivered when she felt his warm breath across her neck.

  Andre kissed her deeply, using his tongue and mouth to express to her his gratitude for sharing a major part of her life with him. He kissed her with all the feelings he held for her, feelings he was too mixed up to understand himself, but knew they were deeper than any emotion he’d ever felt for any other woman. He’d come home early because he wanted to share with her his revelations from his conversation with his mother earlier in the day. But when he saw how agitated she was when she came through the door, he put his own thoughts to the side. When she finished telling him about her eating disorder, and she looked at him with tears in her eyes telling him she loved him, he couldn’t keep his hands off of her for another second.

  Andre spent the rest of the evening letting his body express all the emotion that his mouth had been unable to formulate.