The Missing Butterfly

by Megan Derr

  "Uh—seventeen—seventeen eighty nine."

  Just because he couldn't resist, loved the way kids got so huffy, Cassidy asked, "Are you even old enough to drive?"

  The wide eyes flashed with indignation. "I'm twenty one."

  Maybe. Barely. Honestly, he shouldn't give in to temptation, but the kid was looking at him so hard he was going to break something.

  "Just a sec," Cassidy said, and vacated the doorway briefly to fetch his wallet from the hallway table. Returning to the kid, he handed over the twenty. "There's what I owe and half your tip."

  The kid took the money, frowning in confusion. "Half?" He handed over the food absently, clearly more focused on the odd statement.

  Cassidy took the food and carefully balanced it all in one arm, then used his free hand to reach out and cup the back of the kid's head, pulling him lightly forward—plenty of chance to resist, to get away, but the kid only eagerly went along—

  His hair was soft, and he tasted a bit like bubblegum as Cassidy kissed him long and slow and thorough. Not terribly experienced, but he bet that wouldn't last long; the kid definitely wasn't that shy. He broke the kiss after a bit, and smiled as he drew back, putting a solid distance between them again. "There's the other half. Have a good night, kid. Thanks for the food."

  He watched a bit, until the kid had gotten in his car and driven off, then closed and locked the door before carrying his food into the kitchen. He shook his head at himself all the while. So easy to tease and flirt with a random stranger he'd never see again. So easy to be himself around people who didn't matter. But he couldn't do more than sputter and blush and act stupidly around the one person he really wanted to see him.

  Which was kind of funny, when even on a good day he wasn't certain which him was real anymore, if any of them were real. The only thing he did know was that none of him could just walk up to his boss and say 'make me feel less alone.' There were too many reasons that was a stupid idea.

  Sighing, he pushed his music away and broke into the food, picking up his cell to text Lindsay a thank you.

  Mmm, pizza. Not as good as Mexican, but it would definitely suffice. Pepperoni, sausage, beef, bacon, and she'd even remembered to add banana peppers and mushrooms. He ate half the pizza and breadsticks, saving the rest for tomorrow night, and even drank the soda Lindsay had pointedly ordered—but undermined her efforts by adding a couple of slugs of Jack to it.

  Cranking the music up again, he sang along loudly as he cleaned up dinner and finished his Jack and Coke then wandered into the living room to collapse in his recliner—a birthday present from his siblings a couple of years ago. Even now, they never sat in it themselves. It was his and his alone, they insisted. He'd called them dorks, but he did love the thing to death.

  Sitting there in the dark, drinking and singing, enjoying the cool night air and the way the music throbbed through him, he tried to convince himself that at the end of it all, he really didn't have anything to complain about.

  God, going out was a stupid fucking idea. But then again, how paranoid was he really going to be? What were the honest to god chances he would run into Malcolm again? They must have both been slumming it in Bridgeton for years, and never noticed each other before. So, he'd seen Malcolm once, and that was way over in east end. He was more north tonight, where all the karaoke fiends and such hung out. Such places didn't strike him as Malcolm's scene—not Office Malcolm, or Maserati Malcolm, or Bar Fight Malcolm.

  Anyway, he wanted out. It was Saturday night, and he was tired of sitting in an empty house. Better to be alone in a crowd, and he liked to believe he'd earned his odd night of singing to drunks and other would-be rockers and whoever the hell else strolled in to risk abusing his ears.

  He sat the bar, still sweaty from his most recent number. His limit was generally three, but he was tempted to go for round four and maybe five tonight. He just wanted out, and he wanted to sing, and he didn't want to go home to that empty fucking house.

  Calling for a beer, he listened to the poor dying cat currently attempting to croon out something that should be sultry, but definitely was not, though he persevered even as the audience razzed him with drunken good nature. Smiling, Cassidy tugged lightly on the brim of his flat cap and paid for his beer, murmuring a thanks to the bartender.

  He really shouldn't go past three songs. Bad enough people already knew his face and voice; he didn't even have to be arrogant to know that his voice attracted attention. Hell, he'd fucking banked on his own talent once to carry him all the way to the stars. But that was the past. He was just here to have fun, and he didn't want people bugging him and going past his three song limit definitely drew the risk of people noticing him too much.

  So far, he was two songs down and one to go. He could probably just go hit another joint tonight, though thinking that immediately resurrected his paranoia all over again. Argh, he'd decide after his last song here. Which he'd sing after another beer or two.

  Someone sat down next to him, but Cassidy ignored him, pulling his hat down low reflexively and focusing on his beer. Minus those nights when he was cruising, he rarely had any interest in talking to anyone. Red Jim's had been a rare exception to simply chilling and talking—and that exception was now definitely gone. He was a tad reckless, not massively stupid.

  Talking, for the most part, was simply a waste of time. It never got him what he wanted—a real friend, or someone who might turn into a lover, a partner. So, he didn't generally bother. He wasn't a glutton for punishment, after all.

  Well, he was, but he was already punishing himself something fierce with Malcolm.

  "You have a stunning voice."

  Cassidy stiffened and looked up—and then fought a sudden urge to swear loudly and profusely while he bolted for the door. What in the goddamn fucking hell had he done to piss off the divine? What about his karma had he so jacked up, that he kept running into fucking Osbornes? "Thanks," he said tersely, not inviting further conversation, and just to be certain he added, "but whatever you're selling, I ain't buying."

  Any other time—that being Time Before Malcolm—he might have taken up one or two offers Antoine might have made him. It wasn't hard at all to see why the man could have whatever he wanted, male or female, whenever he wanted it. The man was a player born, it showed in every last fiber of him. Once upon a time, Cassidy would have gladly spent an hour or two in the sheets with him.

  Now, however, all he wanted was to get the fuck out of Dodge.

  "Man, I have friends who would pay several handsome zeroes for your voice—especially with all the pretty packaging."

  Cassidy fought a sudden urge to laugh hysterically. Antoine was scouting him. The rumors of his connections must be true, then, at least partially. "No, thank you," he said, voice still cool. "Leave me alone."

  Two business cards slid into his view—one for the CCO of Amberton-Lord Entertainments, the other for Wallace Burgundy.

  "I’m the CCO," Antoine said. "My name is Osborne, Antoine Osborne. Burgundy is an old friend of mine, and I can see you know that name. You sing like platinum, man. Don't you want a shot at the big time? Guys like you always do."

  Cassidy laughed bitterly and slid the business cards back to him. His stars were long faded and normalcy had too strong a hold on him now to be easily slipped. Anyway, stupid as it was, he didn't want to be anything without his long-gone Butterflies.

  They'd totally hated the name, when he'd first come up with it—but it was too perfect, he'd insisted over and over until they saw reason. They all had butterflies for last names, and what were the fucking odds of that? Besides, he'd told them, an awesome band could make the dumbest name the coolest band name in existence. Men and women would gleefully scream for them, one day. So Four Butterflies they had become.

  Then they'd turned into Three, and he'd fallen away to be a solitary Monarch.

  Cassidy took a long pull on his beer, willing the old memories away, wishing more wouldn't come. But they came.

&nb
sp; At first, they'd all tried to keep in touch, but eventually it just grew too hard, too painful, to hear as they climbed and traveled and tried to reach the top. Too painful for him, probably a chore for them. He kept hoping to hear them on the radio, to hear they'd become a raging success, but he knew it would also cut like a knife when they did.

  Hell, could he be a rock star now?

  No, he didn't think so. Fame wasn't an instantaneous thing. It was dedication and hard work, sacrificing a thousand other things to make the climb. It took time and effort, things he didn't have, wouldn’t have for another few years. His siblings were nearly there, but they'd need him for a little longer yet.

  Even to his own ears, it all sounded like thin excuses—but he was a never-been, far worse than a has-been, and he didn't want to find out the hard way that his rock star days had well and truly slipped away. He wasn't that reckless and carefree anymore. It had long been beaten out of him. Hell, maybe he'd just beaten it out of himself.

  Antoine slid the cards back. "Don't decide now. You were made for it, man, I promise. Your name is Jonathan, right? Keep the cards, what can it hurt? If you ever change your mind, give me or Wally a call."

  Cassidy laughed again, not caring how bitter he sounded, because the bitterness at least was honest. "Made for it? No one is made for anything. Life is too capricious for shit like 'made for'. I ain't your next rock star, man. I come here to drink and sing to drunks. Otherwise, I belong to the company store. Whispers of fame are worth shit to me." He met Antoine's eyes, briefly noticing how they'd widened as Cassidy spoke. "Now fuck off and leave me alone, or I'll tell Tony to have you bounced, Mr. CCO."

  "Fine," Antoine said quietly. "I'll go for now, but I'm not giving up on you. A voice like yours—a passion like yours—wasn't meant to be wasted here, singing to drunks and wannabes. Change your mind and give me a call, I swear you won't regret it."

  Then he was gone, leaving Cassidy sneering at an empty barstool and feeling suddenly bereft, hopelessly depressed. He almost called for another beer and a shot of Jack, but then decided that his night was ruined and he may as well go the fuck home.

  Though he was tempted to toss the business cards or simply ignore them, he reluctantly picked them up and pocketed them away. That same masochistic streak that had him making eyes at a boss he'd never get to touch again, jacking off to a moment he wished had lasted longer, gone much further. He wasn't a glutton for punishment—he was the fucking definition of the phrase.

  Stalking from the bar and out into the warm night air, he walked down the street to the lot where he'd parked his car. For awhile, he just sat there, letting the light buzz of a couple of beers fade away. Finally, he started the car and drove off, leaving Bridgeton behind and slowly returning to the city, to reality.

  He hated the drive home; it always gave him too much fucking time to think.

  Could he do it, a voice whispered at the back of his mind. Tell Denny and Lindsay he was going to do it, leave normal life behind to try and make it as the star he'd always wanted to be? To hell with being Joe Blow, to hell with playing house? Was that fair or selfish? Would they approve? Be okay with it? Dislike it? Tell him gently that he shouldn't even try?

  He gripped the steering wheel tightly as the thoughts spun through his head, giving him a headache, long-lost daydreams clashing with reality, with thoughts and images of Malcolm weaving through all of them. A rock star was on par with filthy rich Most Eligible Bachelor wasn't it? That would make him good enough, appealing enough, put him far above and beyond stupid little Office Monkey.

  His siblings would never begrudge him anything, and he knew that, but it wasn't fair to take advantage of that generosity.

  Still, the dream was tempting, as much as he hated admitting it. Could he still do it? But what if Denny and Lindsay needed him, and he was somewhere he couldn't get to them? He was still their guardian, even if technically they were both of legal age now, but only eighteen and twenty one, he knew all too well how too fucking young that still was.

  The sudden sharp, piercing ringing of his cell snapped him from his thoughts, and he only just avoided jerking the wheel in his surprise. Snatching his phone up from where he'd tossed it in a cup holder, he glanced at the name on the screen, then flipped the phone open and hit 'accept'. "What's up, Denny?"

  "Bro, come get me. This party is taking a fucking turn for 15 to life, and I don't like it."

  He sounded scared, despite the attempt to keep his voice simply irritated.

  Cassidy swore silently. He so should have fucking told Denny no—he knew parties like that nearly always wound up a bad idea. Damn it. But all he said to Denny was a calm, reassuring, "Tell me how to get to you, bro. I'll be there quick as I can. I'm heading back from Bridgeton, half an hour from home now."

  "Thanks," Denny said quietly, and quickly rattled off directions, and Cassidy was for the thousandth time grateful he'd always laid down the law that his siblings had to be able to tell him how to get to and from wherever they were going.

  "Hang tight 'til I get there," Cassidy replied when he'd finished. "Tuck away somewhere, lay low. Call if you need to, I'll be there soon."

  "Yeah, I am. Locked myself into the upstairs bathroom. See you soon." The relief in his voice was palpable, and as he hung up Cassidy made a mental note to step up his plans to get Denny a car of his own. He'd hoped he could push it off another year, but that simply wouldn't fly anymore.

  When he was forced to halt a stoplight, he fumbled in his back pocket and withdrew the two business cards. He stared hard at them, the names, the numbers, the titles, all they represented. Then he rolled the window down, and as the light turned green, he threw the business cards out. He wasn't going anywhere; not yet, maybe never.

  Driving as quickly as he could, he made his way back to the city, cutting around it to the ritzier neighborhood just outside the main northern part of the city proper. Following Denny's directions, he rolled up to a glittery McMansion, lit inside and out and threatening to fall down beneath the force of the pounding music.

  Leaving the car running, he strode to the door and slid inside, not bothering to knock. A couple of kids—little more than spoiled little rich punks—glared at him and started to demand who the fuck he was, and what the fuck he thought he was doing, but Cassidy knew he had a presence and instead of saying anything, the kids shut their mouths and went back to the beer he knew they weren't old enough to have.

  He kept traveling through the house, scaring off anyone who tried to stop him with looks when the tats and his obvious age weren't enough.

  Upstairs, it wasn't hard to find the bathroom Denny had chosen as his hiding place. Pounding on the door, he called Denny's name. A second later it opened, and Denny looked at him with abject relief. He also looked pale and shaken, and no fucking wonder, with all he'd seen going on during his short trip through the house. "You are so never allowed to go to these things again."

  "Didn't know it would turn into this, I swear. I thought we were going fishing and shit," Denny said, looking wretched. "But then a bunch of people crashed, and it turned into 'let's get arrested or dead'. Can we go home now?"

  "Yeah," Cassidy replied, and took his arm, then led them back downstairs and to the door.

  They were stalled at the door by a small crowd of men—all of them drunk and or stoned, and not a one of them friendly. "Denny, my man, where you going and who's this?"

  "My brother," Denny said flatly. "I'm going home. This shit ain't my scene."

  "You can't bail on us! Come on!"

  Cassidy recognized the man, and silently banned him from the house or even going near Denny ever again. Not, he sensed, that he'd have to work hard to get Denny to obey him. He drew Denny back and stepped forward. "Back the fuck off, kid. You don't want to fucking tangle with me."

  The four guys all sized him up, taking in his lean build, the tats, his face—and three of them fell back, leaving their ring leader standing alone.

  The ring leader stepped fo
rward, as cocky as only a kid or a drunk could be. Unfortunate for the moron that he was both.

  "Back off," Cassidy repeated in a low voice. "Bad enough you already tried to mess with my brother. You try to fight me, you'll only wind up hurt."

  "Che," the kid replied with a sneer. "I can take you." He then threw the sloppiest punch Cassidy ever saw, pathetically easy to dodge, and really, hitting him back would be like shooting fish in a barrel—but sometimes, the only way to teach anyone anything is to do it the hard way.

  So he punched the dumbass, who dropped like a sack of potatoes and lay out cold on the tile floor of the entryway.

  Everyone else gathered around, drawn by the sounds of altercation, scattered like terrified birds.

  "Let's go," Cassidy said, and that time no one got in their way as he yanked the door open and stalked back to the car, Denny close on his heels.

  In the car, Denny laughed. "Man, bro. I'm sorry all this shit happened, but you're so fucking badass when you want to be. They'll be talking about you forever."