The Missing Butterfly

by Megan Derr

  "A straight laced, pretty little office boy sounds like good medicine for you," Antoine said. "One of these days, you're going to pick a bad boy who will leave you dead. Go with the office boy."

  "Yes, mother," Malcolm sneered. "I don't need you or anyone else telling me who and how to date. Nor am I touching a fucking employee. Don't you read the employee handbook?"

  Antoine snorted. "Hardly. Anyway, what are you worried about? I think you can afford to lose a job or six, Mr. Heiress."

  Malcolm rolled his eyes. "That's Mr. Heir, jackass."

  "Too pretty," Antoine replied. "Anyway, your story is too Lifetime or Hallmark for an heir. You'll always be our little Heiress."

  Malcolm shoved him off the couch, then stretched out on it again. "Don't make me brag about my car, Mr. My Job Pays More But I Still Can't Afford A Sweet Ride and Penthouse."

  "And like six other houses," Antoine said. "You're such a little bitch. You seriously need a boyfriend who will take you down about fifteen notches."

  That, Malcolm did not dignify with a reply. Instead, he only asked, "So can we order Thai for lunch?"

  "You're paying," Antoine replied. "So are you hiding in my office like a pussy all day? Why bother coming in at all? You probably have like two hundred hours of sick time."

  "It caps at one eight for upper management," Malcolm said. "I had shit to do, so I grabbed my laptop, sent an email that I'd be in meetings all day, and came here."

  "To bother me."

  "To bother you."

  Antoine shook his head, then pushed a button on his phone, and asked his secretary to please order Thai for himself and his lazy ass brother.

  "I'm lazy?" Malcolm challenged. "It's one thirty and you're just rolling into work. Don't accuse me of being lazy."

  "I refuse to respond to the asinine comments of a Head Manager hiding in the office of the Chief Creative Officer in order to lick his wounds and preserve the last little shred of his dignity. Speaking of Chief, they're going to start trying to push you into the CFO position again. Baldwin is probably going to retire end of the fiscal year."

  "Good for them," Malcolm replied. "I like being Head Manager of Accounting. I like ruling my little Land of Cubes and Numbers. Tell them to get someone who likes being pretentious and snotty and lazy like you, they want a new CFO so bad. I'm not it."

  "You are such a little bitch."

  "You already said that, and it takes one to know one."

  Antoine rolled his eyes and changed the subject. "I’m going to Bridgeton tonight. Wally said he's heard repeated rumors of a sweet little number who pops in and out of the various karaoke spots, he's hoping to hear him and see if he's worth anything. Looks like the devil, sings like an angel, so they say."

  "God, where do you get these lines?" Malcolm demanded. "The Book of Incredibly Stupid Clichés?"

  "Yes," Antoine replied. "And, speaking of music, we've decided on the band for the annual company charity picnic."

  "Oh?" Malcolm said, suddenly more interested in life than he had been until that point. "Someone halfway decent this time, I hope."

  "No one I know, but I liked their sound when their stuff was played for me. A group called 'One Butterfly Missing.' Odd, even as band names go, but I'm sure I've heard weirder. Know them?"

  Malcolm frowned thoughtfully. "Yeah. They've an awesome sound, but they can't keep lead singers for shit. They run through singers they way you run through lovers."

  "At least mine don't punch me. Mine also will still talk to me when we pass each other on the streets. Also, cops don't recognize me on sight."

  That deserved to be ignored, so Malcolm did so.

  "Anyway," Antoine said pointedly, "you approve the band?"

  "Not mine to approve," Malcolm replied. "You're the CCO. Do you approve?"

  Antoine rolled his eyes. "Obviously I do, but I don't want to spend the whole damned time listening to you bitch about them if they're not up to your lofty standards."

  "They'd be better if they could keep a singer, but their latest isn't bad. What other entertainments do you have planned for this year's charity picnic?"

  Picnic being a grand understatement of what was really a ridiculously large barbeque and street festival all rolled together, hosted by the company and meant to raise money to support the arts in schools across the country—especially music. They rented out the entire west end park and hosted the 'picnic' from sunup to sundown.

  "I have no clue," Antoine said. "Ask Steve." Steve being Malcolm's equivalent in the Creative department.

  Malcolm sighed softly and lifted his laptop case from the floor without bothering to sit up properly. Rifling through it, he pulled out his bottle of aspirin and popped three of them.

  He dropped the bag back onto the floor with another sigh, dropping his arm over his face to hide any grimace of pain he could not entirely keep back.

  Thankfully, the bruise was livid and obvious enough that Antoine seemed to accept it as the only damage done. So long as Malcolm kept playing lazy and grouchy, no one would ask about further injuries. Christ, he hurt, from head to toe and back again.

  He was also glad his brothers never slummed around the east end, because otherwise they'd have heard of a barroom brawl that had started out a lover's quarrel—ex-lover's quarrel—and ended up being one guy and a Louisville slugger against four guys. If they'd even breathed on his fucking car, his brothers would be arranging for his lawyer to get him out on bail right now.

  Goddamn, he just wanted to be home in bed. He'd come in for totally stupid reasons that hadn't worked anyway, because as dumb as it was he just didn't want Cassidy to see him sporting a black eye and looking more than a little run down. Ugh, he really was too old for this shit. So why did it keep finding him?

  If he had to be honest, half the reason he'd gone to pick a fight with Bill the Cheating Asshole Bass Player, was because finding the nearest flat surface and fucking Cassidy through it was not an option.

  Christ, he really needed to find a better hobby than dating drama-whore bad boys. It chafed that his brothers were right, but there was little point in denying the obvious. He was too old to keep doing this shit, though he couldn't seem to make himself stop trying—"

  "Malcolm!"

  "What?"

  "The hell is wrong with you? I've asked you the same fucking question like five fucking times."

  "Well, I'm listening now, so ask it a sixth."

  "Karaoke tonight, in Bridgeton. You should come with us. Get your mind off your wounds and your bad taste in men."

  "Mm, no," Malcolm replied. "Where's my lunch?"

  Just as he finished asking the question, and before Antoine could form a suitably scathing reply, a knock at the door ended the matter. The door opened, admitting their usual delivery guy from the Thai place three blocks from the office building. His hands were piled with delicious smelling boxes and bags.

  "Money?" Antoine asked.

  "Bag," Malcolm said, motioning lazily and not bothering to get up himself.

  "Just so we're clear, you're a lazy little bitch."

  "Yeah, but I'm extra super pretty, so it's allowed."

  Thankfully, Antoine did not react to that with violence, only silence, as he grabbed Malcolm's bag, fished out his wallet, and paid for the food.

  Delivery man paid and gone, Malcolm finally dragged himself into a sitting position and immediately set to work devouring the food. He'd had nothing but water, aspirin, and whiskey since waking up that morning. Food was definitely an improvement on the day.

  "Just what time did you face plant on your bed?" Antoine asked, watching him while eating his own food at a more decorous pace.

  "Three?" Malcolm posed, suspecting it was more like five. Thirty one was definitely too old for the bullshit he kept getting into, but he couldn’t stomach the idea of giving up. It was just too depressing. "Doesn't matter. I'm here, and sooner than you I might add. I got some work done. So long as I lay low the entire weekend, I'll be pretty and right as
rain again on Monday."

  Antoine snorted. "Pathetic as it is, you look pretty even when you're banged up. I'm not certain you could ever look ugly, you little bastard. Makes me wonder why you always go—"

  "God, shut up," Malcolm cut him off, exasperated. "I came here to rest and recover, not get nagged to death. If I'd wanted a thorough nagging, I'd have gone to mother or Carlos."

  "Okay, okay," Antoine said, holding his hands up in defeat. "I just—fuck, Mal, it's no fun at all seeing you come in with black eyes and looking exhausted and broken down, over and over and over again." He dropped his gaze to his food, frowning awkwardly at his Pad Thai, voice gruff. "We just want to see you happy."

  "Yeah, yeah," Malcolm said, tone just as gruff and awkward. "One day, I'll find my artificially flavored bad boy, and we'll all sleep better." His mind, treacherous bastard that it was, immediately flitted to Cassidy.

  He almost laughed, trying to picture it. Proper, anxious—terrified—red faced Cassidy dolled up as a pseudo bad boy, trying to talk and walk it. The idea was absurd, but just to annoy him, his mind went to dinner. To the way Cassidy had knocked back pint after pint of good Mexican beer. He'd downed it easily, like an enthusiast, a regular—not a good little office boy who drank piss or water instead of real beer.

  A stupid think to latch onto, but it had stuck. Or maybe he'd just liked watching him drink it, watching that long throat, the slender fingers…

  Turning from that line of distracting thought, he focused on the other reasons Cassidy was a bad idea. No one forced to turn into an adult overnight when he was only eighteen did it by being a bad boy. No, a kid that young, to keep and raise his siblings… and to always be so tense and petrified… that was definitely a straight arrow, walk the line, tow the line, bad boys are bad news type.

  Which meant it really was for the best the sister had shown up before Malcolm had managed to ask if Cassidy wanted to see a band with him some time. He really needed to remember to keep it in his pants, not least of all because Cassidy wasn't his type at all. No, that was the least important reason.

  Malcolm might have wound up inheriting millions from a long lost relative, and did his job to stave off boredom and such, but Cassidy obviously needed the job. It sounded like his last—and only other—job had been a fucking nightmare. Malcolm wasn't asshole enough to cost Cassidy his job just for a fuck or three.

  Though, he bet Cassidy would be a hell of a lay once all that proper was stripped away.

  "So, you're just going to go home and sulk tonight?"

  "Yes," Malcolm replied in his most petulant tone. "Me, a tub of ice cream, and something incredibly violent and hot on my ridiculously large flat screen that costs more than you pay in rent."

  "I really hate you . Also, you're the world's biggest baby."

  "You have no room to talk." Finished wolfing down his food, he stretched out on the sofa again, burying his face in one of the throw pillows. "Cancel the rest of your appointments for today, so I can take a nap."

  Antoine laughed, even as he rolled his eyes. "I don't do meetings here."

  "Wise decision."

  "So when are you going to drag your sorry ass home?"

  "I have no idea. Trying to make it to end of day, but we'll see."

  "Ah," Antoine replied, and set to work devouring all of the untouched sweet rice and mango. "Do you need a ride?"

  "No," Malcolm cut in, giving him a withering look.

  "Okay, okay," Antoine muttered.

  On his desk, Antoine's phone buzzed. Then his secretary's smooth, efficient voice came over the line. "Mr. Osborne, Mr. Carlos is here."

  Barely had she finished speaking, when the door flew open and then immediately slammed shut again behind him. "You!" he said to Malcolm. "I might have known you'd be hiding here."

  "I didn't do it," Malcolm said, lifting his head briefly to offer the protest. He let it drop again, having a sinking feeling that he was busted.

  Carlos snorted. "Oh, really? So someone else in a black Maserati took a bat to four guys outside of Pete's last night?"

  "What!" Antoine demanded, shouting the word.

  "Fuck," Malcolm said, and set up. He scowled at Carlos. "How the hell did you find out?"

  Carlos looked as though he'd like nothing more than to swing a few punches of his own. "One of my waiters lives around there, saw your car on his way home last night. His father was at the bar, told the whole tale to him this morning. I heard it when he came in for his shift an hour ago. What the hell is wrong with you, man?"

  Malcolm blew out a frustrated breath. "What the hell did you expect me to do? Let Dickhead and the Saggy Balls trash my car?" Never mind that, once certain he had nowhere to run, Bill would have gotten much, much nastier. The ones before Bill had been bad choices, though they'd started well enough, but Bill… either Malcolm was getting senile way to early in life, or he had a death wish like his brothers kept claiming.

  "What the hell is wrong with you?" Antoine demanded "Do you really want us to get a call from the hospital or the morgue someday? When the fuck are you going to stop all this shit and settle down?"

  Malcolm snapped, jerking to his feet, snatching up car keys and the wallet Antoine had left out, and to hell with the rest of his crap. "What the fuck do you think I'm always trying to goddamn do?" he snarled, then stormed from the office, shoving Carlos out of the way hard when he tried to block the door.

  Outside, he went for the executive elevator, taking it straight to the top level of the parking garage. Generally, he didn't drive his baby to work—too flashy, and he didn't want anyone asking how the hell he afforded it. But she was a beauty, and driving her made him feel better when nothing else did, damn it.

  Except today, when all he could remember was the way Cassidy had looked in it, neat and proper, begging to be dirtied. Christ, he really needed to get whatever this was out of his system; lust for an employee and someone totally not his style was going to get old fast, especially when he couldn't do anything about it.

  He never let anyone besides his brothers and a couple of others in his car. Cassidy, though… he'd felt like an ass just running out like that, leaving him all alone at his own damned celebration. Anyone who thought three months at a cube farm job worth celebrating deserved a damned fine celebration. Never mind he'd been walking home, Christ.

  Malcolm sighed as he pulled out of the parking garage and began the slow and tedious process of getting through downtown traffic.

  Why, oh why, had he gone and opened his mouth? His temper was going to kill him long before an ex-boyfriend managed it. But, what he'd said was true. All he ever was looking for was a settle down forever type of boyfriend. He just didn't want Carlos' white picket fence version of forever. He wanted his own brand—someone to see every day, every night, hit the bars and the bands with. Someone on whom he could spend his stupid ridiculous amounts of money.

  Someone who gave him something better to do with his life than play Head Office Monkey simply because he'd get bored or do something insanely stupid otherwise.

  Sometimes—all the time—he still couldn't believe it had happened. He didn't remember his parents. He'd only been two at the time, when they'd gone sailing one night and gotten snarled in a storm, going overboard and drowning.

  No one had stepped forward to claim him. They'd tried to find his one remaining relative, a world traveling uncle whom no one had seen or heard from in nearly a decade.

  Finally, they'd given up and he'd gone forever into the system, shuffled around until he'd landed at Annie's house, arriving alongside two other boys, one younger, one older.

  The rest, as the saying went, was history.

  Until shortly after his sixteenth birthday, when the long lost Uncle had turned up from seeming nowhere. True to his brother's jibes, Uncle Randy had been straight from some mushy made for TV movie—the kind they'd mocked growing up, unless their mother was in the room enjoying it.

  Except the mushy movie had ended with his Uncle dead of canc
er after just three years of getting to know his nephew and leaving that nephew hundreds of millions of dollars in money, property, stocks… Malcolm hadn't known what to do with it all; he still didn't know.

  He spent it on family, where they let him, but for whatever crazy ass reason they mostly didn't let him—even when he bought flashy cars to annoy the fuck out of them.

  His uncle had died alone, save for a nephew he barely knew and tons of money. He hadn't even been sixty.

  Carlos was happy with his white picket fence life. Antoine liked being a player. Even their mom was happy remembering the husband with whom she'd been so happy. Malcolm was thirty-one. Call him paranoid, but it was starting to look like he wasn't meant for happily ever after. He seemed to royally suck at obtaining it.