Butterfly

by Rochelle Alers

  “And you’re not,” he retorted.

  “I know who and what I am,” she countered. “If I can make a lot of money using this face and body, then I’ll do it as long as I can.” She made a sweeping motion with her hand over her face and chest. “Some people sell drugs, others sex. I sell face and clothes, Phillip.” Pushing back her chair, she reached for his plate, but he caught her wrist.

  Phillip stood up. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I’m clearing the table.”

  “I’ll do it. You cooked, so I’ll do the dishes.”

  Seneca peered up at him through her lashes. She was slightly inebriated but didn’t want him to know that. For her, drinking champagne was akin to taking a sleeping pill.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Phillip continued. “I used to clean up my grandparents’ restaurant.”

  “Okay. Just don’t put the flutes in the dishwasher.”

  Resting his hands on her shoulders, Phillip angled his head and kissed her cheek. “Go relax. That’s not a request, but an order.”

  “Okay. I’m going to lie down, because my legs aren’t working so good right about now.” Before the last word was off her lips, Seneca found herself swept up in Phillip’s arms. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m putting you to bed. After you get your legs back I’d like you to pack enough clothes to spend the weekend with me. You did agree that we’d have breakfast, lunch and dinner together,” Phillip quickly reminded Seneca. “Where’s your bedroom?”

  “It’s down the hall on the right. Remember, we’re scheduled for a photo shoot this weekend,” she reminded Phillip when he carried her across the kitchen.

  “Why don’t you call the photographer and ask him what he wants. You can ask him what he wants me to bring, too.”

  “O-k-ay,” she slurred, closing her eyes while resting her head on his shoulder.

  Phillip shifted the slight weight in his arms. “Damn, baby, you’d be a very cheap date,” he teased.

  Seneca opened her eyes. “Don’t play yourself, Phillip Kingston. There’s nothing cheap about Butterfly.”

  “Who’s butterfly?”

  “I’m Butterfly.”

  He walked into her bedroom and stopped. Whoever had chosen the Asian-inspired head and footboard design of the queen-size bed, bedside tables, double dresser and lingerie chest was obviously very discriminating. A workstation and club chair with a matching footstool were positioned under a trio of tall, narrow windows. A flat-screen television, resting on a stand, was positioned so Seneca could view it whenever she lay in bed.

  “Put me down on the chair. If I get into bed, then I’m not getting out.”

  “Who decorated your bedroom?”

  Seneca smothered a yawn behind her hand. “I did.”

  “What happened to the living room?”

  She smiled up at Phillip when he loomed over her. “I had nothing to do with that. At least once a month Electra threatens to put everything out on the curb, but the furniture was a gift from her favorite aunt.”

  Phillip grimaced. “It looks more like a charitable donation.”

  Seneca giggled. “You’re bad, Phillip Kingston.”

  He leaned closer, brushing a kiss over her mouth. “Relax.”

  Waiting until she was alone, Seneca picked up her cell and dialed Mitchell Leon’s number. She informed him that Phillip Kingston was back in town and wanted to know what they should bring to the shoot. Reaching for a pen and pad, she jotted down the outfits and accessories Mitchell had requested.

  “What about makeup and hair?” she asked. It was almost nine, and Seneca still hadn’t heard from her cousin. She knew Stefani wanted to leave the salon where she’d become a glorified shampoo girl.

  “I’ll have people on hand who will do your hair and face.”

  “What day and what time should we get to your place?”

  “Sunday at eight. I’m projecting it should take about four hours to get what I want, so figure finishing up around noon.”

  “We’ll see you Sunday,” she said in parting, and rang off.

  Slumping back against the chair, Seneca closed her eyes, chiding herself for drinking the second glass of wine. It wasn’t the calories that worried her, but the dizzying effects. It was apparent she had very little tolerance for alcohol.

  “Seneca, baby, wake up.”

  Eyelids fluttering wildly, Seneca came awake. She moaned when she realized she’d fallen asleep. Phillip sat on the footstool, her bare feet in his lap. She hadn’t remembered taking off her shoes.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Not long.”

  “How long is not long, Phillip?” From where she was sitting she couldn’t see the clock or the readout on the cable box.

  “About forty minutes.”

  “I have to pack.” She attempted to get up, but his hands tightened on her ankles.

  “Don’t get up,” Phillip urged softly. “You don’t have to go home with me tonight.”

  “Really?”

  Phillip smiled. Seneca reminded him of a trusting child. And that’s what he wanted. He wanted her to trust him. “Yes, really. But I wouldn’t mind if you let me stay here with you.”

  Her eyes grew wider. “You want to sleep with me?”

  Again, Seneca had shown him another side of her personality—vulnerability. He liked this better than her getting in his face. “We can share the bed.”

  Something should’ve alerted Seneca that she and Phillip were moving too quickly, that they hadn’t known each other a week, but her limited experience with men had her committing to sharing his hotel suite. She’d successfully parried the advances of every man who’d professed to be attracted to her, yet she found herself unable to escape the sensual masculine magnetism Phillip emitted like a force field. Whenever they shared the same space he seemed to suck her in while making her his willing captive.

  “Okay. But if you start anything, I’ll dial nine-eleven.”

  “What will I be charged with?” he teased, grinning.

  “It won’t be for you, but me when they arrest me for manslaughter.”

  “Damn, baby. Why are you so hard?”

  “Would you like me better if I were a doormat?” she asked.

  “Nah,” Phillip drawled.

  Raising her arms above her head, Seneca arched her back. “Please let me up so I can change into my jammies. If you want, you can select a movie.” She pointed to the lateral file cabinet under the workstation.

  Phillip stood, offering his hand and pulling her gently off the chair. “It can’t be movie night without popcorn and soda.”

  Seneca rolled her eyes. “Sorry, my brother, but the concession stand is closed, because the workers wanted to unionize and management wasn’t having it.”

  Throwing back his head, Phillip laughed loudly. “Go change and I’ll pick out one that doesn’t require tissues.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t cry when viewing a movie.”

  Phillip slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Oops, I forgot. Seneca Houston is hard.”

  “You better get used to calling me Butterfly.”

  “Why Butterfly?”

  Turning and presenting him with her back, Seneca pulled the hem of her blouse from the waistband of her slacks, showing Phillip the delicate tattoo of a monarch butterfly. The artist had drawn the insect with orange-brown wings with black veins and borders to appear as if floating in flight.

  Phillip closed the distance between them, tracing the out line of the permanent ink at the small of her back with his forefinger. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he eased her forward and kissed the tattoo. “Whoever inked you is incredible. The little bugger looks real.”

  Seneca smiled. “I got it the day I turned eighteen.” She straightened, turning around to face Phillip when dropped his arm. “Do you have any?”

  Unbuttoning his shirt, he bared his chest. Black Asian chara
cters were tattooed over his heart. He pointed to the first one. “This is Korean for ‘now is the time.’ The next one is a Chinese symbol for ‘health,’ and the last one is Japanese for ‘long life.’”

  “They’re nice.”

  Seneca had said they were nice when she meant they were tasteful. She liked tattoos but couldn’t understand how some people resorted to covering large parts of their body with the colorful ink designs. She’d gotten hers before she’d begun modeling, but if she’d known she was going to become a model she would’ve held off getting one until she’d left the business.

  “I’ll leave a toothbrush and towel for you on the table in the bathroom.”

  Phillip nodded. “Thank you.” He waited for Seneca to leave the bedroom before he stripped down to his boxer briefs, leaving his clothes folded neatly on the chair. When he’d gotten up that morning he never would’ve expected to be invited to Seneca’s apartment for dinner or to sleep with her. And she didn’t have to concern herself with him attempting to seduce her, because he hadn’t brought condoms with him.

  Phillip Park Kingston wasn’t about to join the ranks of other high-profile athletes who’d become fodder for the tabloids when they were thrust into the spotlight with paternity suits and/or baby-mama drama. If or when he fathered a child, it would be with his wife and not some chicken head crooning that he would “make some pretty babies.”

  Seneca returned, wearing a white tank top with a pair of peppermint-striped cotton drawstring pants. Her curly hair floated around her face like a cloud. “You can use the bathroom now.” She ran over the bed, falling on it like a mischievous child. “I always run and jump on the bed,” she explained when Phillip stared at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, he shook his head. “One of these days you’re going to break down the bed and land on the floor.”

  Kicking her legs as if she were riding a bicycle, Seneca gave him a sexy smile. “That means I’ll just have to buy another one.”

  In that instant Phillip realized that underneath her so-called tough-girl exterior, Seneca Houston was still a kid—a kid who was about to be thrust into a world where everyone would want a piece of her. And if she wasn’t strong enough, she would come to believe the hype. Then, if and when the fickle public moved on to the next “It” girl, would she be prepared for the fallout? He’d planned to give the NBA four more years before walking away to follow his ultimate dream to become a doctor. What were Seneca’s long-term plans? She’d gone from full-time to part-time and now a college dropout to embark on a full-time modeling career. Who, he pondered, would be there for her when it ended?

  I will, said the voice in his head.

  “Hurry up and come to bed, Phillip. The movie is going to begin in ten minutes.”

  Seneca’s sultry voice broke into his thoughts. He’d selected Blood Diamond because he hadn’t seen the movie. “I’ll be right back.” Sleeping with Seneca and not making love to her was going to be a first for him, because whenever he crawled into bed with a woman it was because they’d mutually agreed to have sex.

  Smiling, he entered the bathroom. Hanging out with Butterfly was not only going to be profitable but also a great deal of fun. Not only was she sexy but she had a wicked sense of humor that complemented what sports writers called his impenetrable mask of perfection.

  He was King Phillip, the automaton on the hardwood, master of the three-point shot, while shooting ninety-seven percent from the free-throw line. He rarely gave interviews, and when he did sports writers were always frustrated, because in an age where a minor infraction was headline news he hadn’t obliged them. One writer had hinted he had the tendency to be a bad boy, and Phillip reminded him that there was only one Dennis Rodman.

  Now he wondered what they would say once the news got out that Phillip Kingston was dating supermodel Butterfly. Their association would prove a win-win for BGM, Phillip Kingston and Seneca Houston.

  He would get to date a woman he sincerely liked while providing her with male protection. What he didn’t want to do was think about the money Booth would earn from booking the beautiful model. Phillip brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face, patting it dry with a thick, thirsty towel before returning to the bedroom and slipping into bed beside Seneca.

  She lowered the lamp setting, picked up the remote and activated the play button. Halfway into the movie Phillip realized Seneca had fallen asleep. Gently easing her down from the mound of pillows supporting her back, he covered her with the sheet. He viewed the rest of the movie, and when the credits started to roll across the screen, he stopped the disk, ejected it and turned off the television. Walking on bare feet, he returned to the bed, extinguished the lamp and lay beside the woman who’d managed to slip under the barrier he’d erected to keep them at a distance.

  He cradled her to his chest and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  “I can’t believe I had two of them,” Seneca moaned. She’d eaten two hot dogs, smothered with mustard and grilled onions. On impulse, she and Phillip had stopped and ordered the franks and hot sausage from the man who’d parked his food cart several blocks from Macy’s. Reaching up, she blotted away a smudge of mustard at the corner of Phillip’s mouth with a napkin.

  “Don’t worry about it, baby,” he crooned, smiling. “You’ll work off the extra calories on the walk back to Battery Park.”

  Seneca glared up at Phillip from behind the lenses of her oversized sunglasses. They’d left her apartment at nine that morning when the driver arrived to take them to the Ritz-Carlton. A bellhop carried the garment bags filled with the outfits Mitchell had requested she bring to the shoot and her overnight bag to Phillip’s suite. She’d hung everything in the closet in the adjoining suite while Phillip called room service, requesting a continental breakfast for her and an all-American breakfast for himself. Seneca managed to conceal her astonishment at the amount of calories he’d consumed, marveling that there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his hard muscular body.

  They’d shared her bed, she waking before him to shower. She’d altered her routine to dress in the bathroom rather than in her bedroom. When she’d returned to the bedroom she was met with the sight of Phillip executing push-ups, not anchoring his hands but his fists on the floor. Watching the flexing muscles in his back, arms, and buttocks had left her gasping for breath. Seneca wasn’t certain how she’d done it, but she’d backed out of the bedroom without making a sound. However, the image of Phillip’s nearly nude body lingered for hours.

  “I am not walking back, Phillip.” Unfortunately, she’d worn high-heeled sandals.

  She’d whispered his name because Phillip had managed a modicum of anonymity with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead and sunglasses. He’d blended in with crowds of New Yorkers going about their business and wide-eyed tourists taking in the sights of the city. They’d walked from Battery Park to Herald Square, stopping en route at an outdoor café in the West Village to share a Caesar salad and a bottle of mineral water.

  Wrapping an arm around her waist, Phillip pulled Seneca close to his side. “We don’t have to walk. I’ll hail a taxi.”

  Going on tiptoe, Seneca pressed a kiss to his firm mouth. “Thank you, my love.”

  He increased the pressure. “You’re most welcome, my love.”

  “Do you know what else I’m going to need, Phillip?”

  “What?” he whispered against the column of her neck.

  “A massage.” Tightness in her calves was a sure sign that she would wake up with pain in her legs the next day; she needed complete flexibility for the shoot.

  “Do you have a preference?” Phillip asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Male or female?”

  Seneca gave him a Cheshire-cat grin. “Male, of course.” Reaching for her hand, Phillip laced their fingers together. “I’ll call the concierge and see if they can reserve one for you.”

  “Thank y
ou.”

  His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “You’re quite welcome.” Walking to the corner, Phillip raised his hand, and within seconds a taxi maneuvered along to the curb. He opened the rear door, waiting for Seneca to get in before he slid in beside her. “Ritz-Carlton at Battery Park,” he directed the driver through the Plexiglas partition. The words were barely off his tongue when the taxi took off like a rocket.

  “I’m going to soak in the tub,” Seneca said over her shoulder as she walked in the direction of her suite.

  “Do you want company?” Phillip asked, staring at her slender hips in the fitted jeans.

  Seneca did not break stride. “No, thank you.”

  Phillip smiled. “Just trying to help a sister out.”

  She halted, turning slowly. Phillip’s voice had changed. It was lower, almost coaxing. Seneca knew what he wanted, and no matter how much she’d denied the strong passions within her, she wanted the same: sex. Her first and only sexual liaison had ended badly, leaving her to blame the entire human male species for the debacle.

  Something innate communicated that it would be different with Phillip. As a high-profile sports figure with a brand sponsorship tied to his not behaving badly, he couldn’t afford a scandal. While she, on the other hand, with her star on the crest of rising, could not afford to take up with a purported bad boy. And Phillip Kingston was anything but a bad boy.

  “Are you good with your hands?”

  Raising his right hand, Phillip stared at the broad palm and long fingers. “I can palm a basketball with one hand.”

  A mysterious smile played at the corners of Seneca’s mouth. “Have you ever given a massage?”

  He approached her, his gaze never leaving her mouth. “Yes, I have.”

  “Are you any good?”