Butterfly Tattoo by Deidre Knight Page A

bones, quickening like wildfire to my extremities. I dig my fingers hard into my thighs, feeling the khaki material of my pants bunch beneath my fingernails. Thankfully, Trevor appears below the awning of his apartment entryway, dressed in pajamas, the streetlight bathing him in bluish shadow. He doesn’t wait, but comes right to me, because he knows. Oh, he knows what I live with, all right. And what I remember. That’s why he’ll always come to me first.
     
     
    One moment I was outside, in the car, quaking and terrified, and now I’m on Trevor’s plush leather sofa, heady scotch curled within my trembling hand. He never goes for wine or anything second-rate, instead he medicates me with the good stuff. The expensive stuff: single malt Glenlivet. Which isn’t surprising, since expensive is the only way Mr. Baden-Powell knows.
    I blink, swirling the clear liquid in the glass, staring into it like I might find the secrets of the universe shimmering there. My hands haven’t stopped their trembling, and Trevor studies the glass’s spasmodic movement under my fingertips. He’s sitting at his antique secretary desk, one bare foot tucked beneath his leg, looking regal in his cranberry lounging pajamas. Even in the midst of my panic attack, I still notice how beautiful he is. And how utterly unaware of it. He’s atypical Hollywood, that’s for sure.
    “Better?” He brushes a lazy lock of hair away from his dark eyes.
    I can’t locate my voice, so instead I offer him a wan smile. My lip trembles, the left side of my mouth rebelling even more than usual. It can’t be pretty. The corners of his own mouth turn downward in concern, mirroring my own expression.
    “What exactly happened out there?” You sounded well enough when you rang . He doesn’t add that, thankfully, but we both know the thought’s still there. I wasn’t fine when I phoned him; I was just doing a great acting job.
    “Rebecca?” He calls to me from the end of a tunnel, a penumbra of light circling his familiar face. Hang on, sweetheart. Hang on for me. The ambulance is on its way…
    “I don’t know.” I shrug one shoulder in my most disaffected L.A. pose.
    “Oh, no, no, no.” He shakes a finger slowly. “Thou shalt not lie to me.”
    “Huh, that’s an interesting commandment,” I snap, knowing that I’m about to turn the spotlight on him. After all, it’s easier for me that way. “Especially coming from you.” The fear is morphing, becoming uglier, and it’s targeting my friend.
    “Yes, well, it’s a good decree to memorize, isn’t it?” he asks, clearly oblivious to the nuclear buildup in my emotional reactor.
    “I’m surprised you’re not online.” I jab a finger toward his laptop which sits open on his desk. “Shouldn’t you be instant-messaging with Julian about now?” And now the black eyes do react. They widen slightly, then narrow, until there’s barely more than his raven-wing eyebrows pulling into a dark line.
    “Since it’s seven a.m. in London, actually, no,” he answers coolly, closing the laptop beside him.
    I lean back against the cushions and study him. “Otherwise?”
    “You know that Jules and I stay in touch by e-mail.” Jules. He used that old pet name just to tick me off.
    “Is that how he showed you his latest novel? Or did you actually solicit the proposal from his agent?”
    A dark, moody groan rumbles out of Trevor’s chest. “Bloody hell, Rebecca, is that what you’re on about?”
    “You could’ve just told me.” I leap to my feet in accusation. “Or showed it to me. But you hid it.” Even though blatant anger shifts in his eyes, I also see compassion. Love. “You made me look stupid,” I continue, pacing a bit beside his chair. “Feel stupid! I should’ve known, but instead I just found it there in the freaking submission pile.”
    “So you’re upset about that novel?” he presses, louder, cocking his head sideways as he stares hard into my eyes. “That is really and