Chasing Butterflies (18 page)

I couldn’t be with Gabriel and not tell him the truth. If I told him the truth, he’d hate me. At least this way he won’t hate me.

“Are you sure about this, Yara?”

I look up to see Jez watching me in the rearview mirror. “Yes.”

He whistles and smiles at me. “You’re one crazy, little chick. Anyone ever tell you that?”

Even though my heart is breaking, I manage a small smile. “Just about everyone.”

He shakes his head. “Your guy didn’t want you to leave.”

“My
guy
doesn’t know what I did.”

“What did you do?”

I can’t tell anyone what I’ve done. I’m too ashamed. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m not ever going back. I’m sure he’ll get over me.”

Jez shakes his head again. “He didn’t look like the kind of guy that would get over you easily.”

I swallow and brush my tears from my face. “What do you care anyway?”

He shrugs and turns the car onto the dual carriageway. “I dunno,” he says. “You just seem so lonely for someone so young.”

I sniff. “I’m not paying you to think about how lonely I am.”

“That’s true,” he says. “But I feel like I should offer you my help.”

“Your help?”

“Yes. You’re running, and I know how to help people who run.”

Now he’s got my attention. “How?”

“A job. Somewhere to stay. A new life.”

“Oh yeah?” I whisper. “And how much is that going to cost me?”

Jez laughs and puts his foot down on the accelerator. “Well that, Yara, is going to depend on what you want.”

“I want everything,” I tell him. “A new life. A new identity.” I think about the caterpillars I used to keep and the butterflies they turned into. “I want to be reborn.”

After

I have not broken your heart – you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine.”

~ Emily Brontë,
Wuthering Heights

5 years later

Gabriel

I take one last look at myself in the lift mirrors and then step out onto the glittering black marble floors of the hotel foyer.

“Oi, oi!” I hear one of the guys call. “Gabriel has finally decided to grace us with his presence. What were you doing up there? Printing the notes yourself?”

I smile and shake my head as I start to walk toward them. A couple of women dressed in short, skin-tight dresses smile at the rest of the guys and then beam at me as they approach.

“We think you’re worth the wait.”

I look at the brunette, noticing the gleam of her white teeth as she smiles at me. “I always am,” I say automatically.

“I don’t doubt that for a second.” She winks and then spins back around and walks out of the hotel with her friend who giggles and links her arm in hers.

“What took you so long?” asks Jonny, patting me on the back when I finally get to him. “Bernie has already tried to sleep with the barmaid. Twice.”

“I haven’t,” Bernie slurs, frowning at me.

“Bernie is going to be a complete fucking mess. I just know it,” says Jonny as he smirks at him.

“Fuck off,” Bernie says.

I laugh along with them and Jonny directs me to the bar. He orders us two straight whiskeys then nods toward the rest of the guys. “They don’t know what we’re doing yet.”

“
I
don’t know what we’re doing yet,” I remind him.

“Oh, yeah,” he says through a laugh. I lean over and pay for our drinks as Jonny winks at the barmaid. “Thanks,” he says to her.

“No worries,” she says, giving us a smile as she flicks her long, pale-blond hair over her shoulder. My eyes linger on her for just a second and then I turn back around, taking a sip of my drink.

“I’ve realised something.” Jonny drains his drink in one gulp and places the empty glass back on the bar.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“You stare at the girls that look like Yara. If you think about the girls you’ve
dated
”—his eyes find mine and then he raises his eyebrows at me—“they all resemble her too.”

His words make me feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. In fact, I would rather him punch me than bring her up. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do,” he says, watching the guys as they tell each other how much money they’ve lost in the casinos.

“So, what are we doing tonight?” I ask, eager to change the subject. “And isn’t it customary to let your best man organise your stag party for you?”

“Yeah, but at least I’ll have a stag party that’s just what I wanted.”

“Fine. What are we doing?”

“Strip club,” he tells me.

I roll my eyes. “Like we haven’t been to those before.”

“Not one like this,” he says, grinning at me. “This one has a two-year waiting list.”

“Jesus, you’ve had this booked for that long? And what’s so different about this one? Tits are tits, Jonny.”

“This isn’t like that,” he tells me. His eyes sparkle with mischief and excitement, and it reminds me of when we were younger—when life wasn’t so shitty. When the past felt like something to cherish rather than regret. “They’re more like dancers than strippers. The website says that the girls train for three hours every single day and that some of them are ex-Olympic gymnasts. They make it into a real show, with music and lights and stuff. It’s just something I’ve always wanted to see, ever since I was old enough to know what a stripper was really.”

“Wow,” I say, laughing at him. “I hope you don’t come in your briefs the second we walk through the doors.”

Jonny laughs. “Gabriel, no fucker says briefs anymore.”

“Boxers, then,” I say with a huff. “Whatever.”

“What do you tell all those girls to take off when you’re talking dirty to them?”

I smirk as I grab some olives off the bar. “Who says I tell them anything?”

“Oh, right. I guess they just pull them off without you even asking, huh?”

“Something like that,” I mumble.

He laughs again and turns to face the guys. “Are you lot ready to move on to another bar?”

“Yeah,” they all cheer. I drain the remains of my drink and turn around to hand it back to the barmaid. She smiles at me as she takes it and slides a serviette across the bar. I glance down, noticing a scribbled phone number, then shove the serviette in my pocket.

“See you around,” she whispers.

I nod, but I don’t say anything. I won’t call her and I won’t see her around. I’m not interested in a booty call.

I follow the guys as they make their way out of the hotel and onto the bustling main street of central London. I’m not paying much attention as I trail behind them. We’ve already been out for half a night and only stopped by our hotel so some of the guys could get extra cash. It’s nearly midnight, and seeing as though I’ve been awake for twenty hours, I’d prefer to be back in my room getting ready for bed instead of heading off to some strip club that’ll be no different from any of the others I’ve been to.

I sigh, hating how negative I always seem to feel. I’m in the early stages of starting up my own business, and while business is booming—I even have a waiting list that’s three months long—my days are filled with brutal, hard work.

And I’m tired. I’m tired of not being able to sleep because my bones and muscles are hurting so much. I’m tired of feeling like my head is going to explode as I try to understand how I’ve ended up where I am right now.

Even though I’m only twenty-four, I feel like I’m on the verge of having a mid-life crisis. My body feels like it’s fifty, and instead of looking forward to Jonny’s stag party, I’ve been dreading it. No guy my age should dread a weekend away with the boys in London.

But I also know that my problems aren’t just physical. Every single day I ache with envy to the point that I can’t talk to some people anymore. I find myself not wanting to hire guys that are married or have children, even if they’re the best at what they do. I don’t want to hear about how happy they are in their lives or how great their wife is.

It’s not that I’m not interested. I am. But I just hate how much I crave what they have. Even the ones that complain about their wives nagging them. Even the ones that come to an interview apologising for being so tired because their baby kept them up half the night.

I should have all that.

I want the nagging wife and baby that kept me up half the night.

I want it all
.

I don’t have high hopes for Jonny’s strip joint, and as I walk inside and follow the rest of the guys into a large, private room, my hopes drop through the floor. It looks the same as all the others. It even smells like them too…like PVC and scented baby oil.

“I can’t believe we’ve paid three hundred quid for this,” grumbles George. “If I’d have known it was included in the original price, I would have told them I wasn’t bothered and not paid them.” He sits beside me in one of the deep, leather tub-style chairs, looking annoyed.

The topless waitress that led us in here stands in front of us all like a school teacher. “This is the VIP room,” she begins, waving her perfectly manicured, fake-tanned hand around. “This room is yours for the rest of the night, but the same rules apply in here as the rest of the club—rules I’m sure you all know by now. “No touching,” she says, wagging her finger at us. “There are security cameras, so don’t think just because you’re in a little room that you’re off the hook. You’ll start off with two dances from two different girls, and all the drinks you want. The third and final dance will be from The Papilio.” She shrugs as if she’s bored and then says, “Enjoy.”

“Weird name,” whispers George, “but whatever.” He stands up and untucks his shirt from his trousers. “I’m going to go and try to drink my three hundred quid in vodka.”

I start to check the emails on my phone while he’s at the bar. I can hear Jonny chatting with the other guys as I read through an email from my accountant.

“So...” Jonny says as he slips into the seat George just vacated.

I smile and tuck my phone back in my pocket. “So what?”

“Are you going to at least try to
look
like you’re enjoying yourself?”

I nod toward the empty stage. “There’s nothing to enjoy yet.”

He narrows his dark eyes at me. “You’ll enjoy this. I promise.”

I nod, even though I already know I won’t enjoy it. “Do you want a drink?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I want to talk to you for a minute.”

“About what?”

“I’m worried about you, Gabe. You don’t do anything but work, and when you’re not working, you’re thinking about working.”

I sigh and push my fingers through my hair. “I have my own business, Jon. It’s tough.”

“I’m know it is,” he says, “and you’re doing a great job. But you’re earning an absolute ton of money now. Why can’t you hire a manager or a couple of guys to do some of the manual labour? Surely there are some perks to owning your own fucking business.”

“I like things done a certain way,” I tell him, being a lot more honest with him than I originally intended. “I don’t trust the other guys to do it right.”

Jonny shakes his head as the lights begin to dim. “You’ve got to learn to trust others. Hire someone. Check their references and then make them work alongside you so they can learn your style. You’re the boss. They do what you fucking say. And if you’re still unsure, you can check in regularly or something. You don’t have to do everything yourself. You’re going to have a heart attack.”

“Maybe,” I say, realising that he has a point. “I guess I could advertise.”

“You should,” he tells me, nodding at the stage as the first girl comes out. “And then you should think about having a life again. One that isn’t just about work,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. George hands him a bottle and I watch as he sips some beer before standing up. “I’m going to the front to get a better view.”

George huffs when he sits back down. “Well, this one certainly isn’t worth any more than what I’ve paid before.”

I look up at the girl, realising I haven’t bothered to look at her properly before now, and see dark, curly hair and black stockings. “They’re all the same in the end anyway,” I mumble.

George laughs. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound like you’re talking from experience. But then we all know that the last thing Gabriel King has been doing is spending time in strip clubs.”

“Not you too,” I groan.

He holds up his hands, making the vodka slosh out of his glass. “I’m not saying anything else, except I’d like to see you more, especially when you’re not my boss.”

I nod and look towards the stage, my eyes quickly finding the girl. She dances quite well, but like I told George, they’re all the same. “Maybe you’re right,” I finally tell him. “Maybe I have been a little…preoccupied.”

Halfway through the first girl’s dance, I decide I’m going to drink myself stupid. If I can’t get some decent sleep naturally, then I may as well drink my way into a sleep-coma instead.

I sit on a stool at the little bar that’s situated at the back of the darkened room and watch the next girl like I’m supposed to. I’m watching her, but I’m not really watching her. She could be anyone up there. In fact, I’m pretty sure she could morph an extra head and I wouldn’t notice. I haven’t noticed half the things I should have lately.

I order whiskey after whiskey after whiskey. Sometimes I love drinking, but most of the time I hate it. I especially hate how it makes you forget the pain you’ve been feeling. It wipes all the bad shit away, and when all you’re left with is the good shit, it hurts ten times as much when you wake up the next day. And I want to remember the pain. The anger. The feeling of having my world completely ripped to shreds.

It’s about five whiskeys later when the lights go out. It’s pitch black, and I can hear the guys whispering and murmuring excitedly as they get ready for the finale. I couldn’t give a shit about this pappy-woman, or whatever she’s called. I mean, how different can she be?

“You might want to go and get a better seat,” the waitress tells me.

“I’m okay here,” I say, waving my glass at her. I hear her click her tongue, but then I feel more liquid being poured into my glass.

I blink a few times into the darkness, realising that there’s a cold, hazy, purple-coloured mist that’s hovering in the air around us. The darkness has almost blinded me, forcing the rest of my senses to go into overdrive. I shudder when the coolness drifts over my skin, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

My eyes are still trying to adjust to the absence of light when I ask, “Is that dry ice?”

“Yes,” the waitress says from somewhere behind me. “It’s all part of the show.”

When the hauntingly shrill yet beautiful operatic voice begins to float through the speakers, I feel almost violent chills instantly explode over my whole body. I sit stock-still as I try to place where I’ve heard the familiar voice before. Then my eyes snap to the stage, and I notice how empty and big it looks without a girl dancing around on it. The female singer’s voice continues to make me feel as if she’s standing right next to me, whispering words about the pain of losing love and the torture she put herself through as she tried to find it again.
I’m sure I know this song.