Butterflies & Vicious Lies (Fractured Rhymes Book 1)

“HOLY HICKEYS.” Lark’s blue eyes are huge as she sits down across from me and passes a black coffee my way. “No wonder you need this. Jesus, did he even let you sleep?”

Adjusting the hood of my cropped white sweatshirt around my neck, I nod in agreement. “He may have overdone it.”

Not only was Pax gone when I woke up, so was Rafferty. He may have been missing from my bed, but he left me with ample proof that he’d been there. Even if I was inclined to try to hide the marks covering my neck, shoulders, and boobs, I don’t have enough concealer in my makeup bag to do the trick. Plus, I know him. He wouldn’t want me to cover them. The hoodie will have to be our happy medium.

Lark sits back in her chair, the straw of her green juice in front of her smirking lips. “You like it, don’t you? You like that he’s basically put a neon sign on your ass that reads ‘she’s mine’.”

Sighing, I put my elbows on the table and hold my face with my hands. “Does it make me totally pathetic that I do?” I ask through my fingers.

Peeking across the table, Lark shrugs her narrow shoulders and takes a long sip of her drink. “I’m not in a position to judge.”

“Mystery Guy?”

“Mystery Guy.” Her nails painted in a pristine white polish tap against the side of her cup. “Does it make us batshit crazy for wanting guys that are without a doubt toxic for us?”

I don’t even hesitate before answering. “Oh, yeah, it for-fucking-sure does.”

Dropping my hands, I cross my arms over my chest. My leg bounces anxiously under the table. Last night was good—really good—but when I woke up this morning and he was gone, familiar dread filled my tummy. There’s a voice whispering in the back of my head telling me Rafferty thinks last night was a mistake and he’s brooding somewhere, rebuilding the walls that had dropped between us while he sharpens new knives.

I don’t know if I can survive any more emotional—or physical—cuts from him. My eyes close and I press my fingers into my temple as a stress headache starts to form.

Lark has just asked, “Are you okay?” when someone sits down beside me and an arm snakes around my waist. Eyes snapping open, I’m dragged from my seat and pulled into his lap. My back rests against his chest and all the tension melts from my body when I feel his lips against my temple.

He’s here.

Rafferty’s large hand spreads over my exposed tummy and I cover it with mine. Intertwining our fingers, I rest my head back on his broad shoulder. It’s scary how a simple touch can instantly put my mind at ease. If any of my fears were even remotely true, he wouldn’t be here right now, and he definitely wouldn’t want to be anywhere near me.

“Hey, Raff.” Rome, who had appeared in the chair next to Lark, points at my neck. “I think you missed a spot.”

With his free hand, Raff pulls at the collar of my hoodie. “Really? Where?” I shiver when his fingers trail over the marks he’s left. “I think I covered my bases enough to get my point across. Or maybe not since you’re still fucking looking at her.”

Instead of being deterred by Rafferty’s change in tone, Rome’s dark eyes light up in amusement. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. You’ve never cared about sharing before.”

Everyone at the table knows Rome’s just trying to push his buttons—even Raff knows—but that doesn’t stop him from tensing beneath me. It also doesn’t stop Lark from giving Rome a look I can’t quite put my finger on before her big eyes roll in annoyance.

“You say that like I have any interest in being shared, Rome,” I pipe up before Rafferty can issue some kind of violent threat to his friend. It does exactly what I wanted it to. He relaxes in the chair again and his thumb starts to casually rub back and forth above my navel.

“Fair enough.” Rome winks at me before throwing his hands up in surrender. “All I’m saying is you better hope that shit is gone before the gala next week. Otherwise, you’re going to be the center of some real unwanted attention. Or you’re going to have to wear some ugly ass turtleneck.”

Totally lost on what he’s talking about, I look between Rafferty and the pair across from us. “What gala?”

Lark groans, lowering her head to the table and bangs her forehead against the hard surface. She doesn’t answer my question, all she does is mumble, “Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“Daddy Holloway is having a big fundraising gala for his presidential campaign next week at the Seattle Art Museum. Attendance is unfortunately mandatory.” Rome pauses, head cocking at me. “Well, ours is at least. I don’t actually know about yours.”

Rafferty finally speaks up, his chest rumbling against my back. “She’ll be there.”

I turn in his lap so I can look at him. “I will?”

This is brand-new information to me, and something I probably should have known about seeing as I need time to prepare for such a grand event. I can’t exactly show up there in the sundress I bought from H&M this summer and my ballet flats. The only pair of heels I own are the ones Mollie picked out for me for the dance when I was fifteen, and the platform stripper heels Ophelia gifted to me in New York for her pole dancing class. I have a small hunch the latter option might be a little inappropriate given the elite guest list that will be at this gala.

Rafferty nods once. “You’re my date.”

He’s not asking me a question or giving me an option. He’s informing me of what I’ll be doing, and I could be annoyed at him for not telling me sooner, but I’m not. I’m actually a little bit excited. It feels like a somewhat normal way for us to spend time together again.

“What the hell am I going to wear to something like this?”

The corner of his mouth twitches in a ghost of a smile. “I’ve got it covered.”

“My only advice is to wear something with pockets.” Lark speaks into the table she’s still resting her face on. “It’s easier to hide your flask that way.”

HE’S WAITING for me outside my class’s building hours after we parted ways at the campus dining hall. His attention is glued to his cell phone and there’s a lit cigarette between his fingers.

Before he knows I’ve spotted him, I take a minute to take him in. It’s not very often he takes off his well-loved leather boots, but today he’s traded them for a pristine pair of white Nike sneakers. He wears black jeans and a charcoal denim jacket over his black hoodie. His wavy dark hair is falling over his forehead and curling around his ears.

The teenage version of Rafferty was hot, but the grown-up version of him has many knees weak and panties wet.

He looks good and the girls who are passing with their greedy eyes glued to him know it too. Within the small group heading his way, I spot a girl nudging her friend and gesturing not so subtly at Rafferty. Their heads dip close to each other while they whisper and stare.

Leaning against the railing of the short staircase that leads to the building’s door, I wait to see how this plays out with jealousy swirling in my gut. It’s an ugly and bitter feeling, and I don’t quite know if I have any right to feel this way, but I can’t control it. It’s like it has a mind of its own.

The girl who’d spotted him first waves her hand coyly at him as they approach, and her painted lips move as she greets him. From here, I can’t hear what she says. Not that it matters. I don’t need to hear it to know I don’t fucking like it.

Rafferty barely lifts his head to acknowledge her. His cold icy eyes blandly stare at her. The girl tries to say something else to him, but he’s not listening to a word she’s saying because he’s finally found me staring.

Arms across my chest and my ankle crossing casually over the other one, I cock my head at him. Lips pulling up in a knowing smirk, he wordlessly flicks his cigarette at the girl’s feet. She screeches and high-steps away to avoid being burned. The flirty look disappears from her face in an instant. Glaring, she snaps something I can only assume isn’t very nice as he pushes past her and heads in my direction.

Her pissed-off look only deepens when he hooks his fingers under the leather around my throat and yanks my face to his. The last thing I see before my eyes close and I succumb to his toe-curling kiss is her storming away with her friend following close behind.

The whole thing reminds me of our time at Hemlock Hill. I don’t know how he got away with it, but he was always waiting for me outside my classroom before the bell dismissed us. He’d kiss me in front of everyone like he is now, as if he needed to remind himself and anyone watching that I was his. I can’t help but wonder if it’s his motive now as his tongue runs along the seam of my lips and I open for him.

Wrapping my arms around his neck, he kisses me until my skin feels too warm and my breath is coming in short, needy pants. I have to pull back before we reach the point of no return and I’m dragging him inside to an empty classroom. If I had time for it, I wouldn’t think twice about doing so, but I have to get to work in twenty minutes and I still have to stop at my apartment to change.

“I don’t think she’ll ever flirt with you again,” I tease, teeth sinking into my bottom lip. Just to see what he’ll say, I sarcastically add, “Bummer.”

His eyes narrow and I don’t miss the glint of humor that flashes in them. “I’m devastated by the loss.” Thumb swiping over one of the many love-bites he left behind on my throat, he says, “You should get jealous more often. I like it.”

I shouldn’t say anything because I don’t want to ruin the good mood he seems to be in, but I can’t stop myself. “I wasn’t aware I had any right to be jealous.”

He stands there, staring at me. While he’s not saying anything aloud, I can see a hundred different thoughts reflected in his blank expression. He’s doing what he’s always done. Working through his thoughts and emotions and trying to find a way to put them into words.

Knowing I shouldn’t have pushed him, I wince and nervously take a step back. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”

He surprises the hell out of me by cutting me off and saying, “You have the same right as I do.” He pulls me to him by the cropped hem of my sweatshirt. “I meant what I said. I like when you’re jealous. It’s really fucking hot.”

I’m trying not to get too content with the change that’s happening between us, because I know he hasn’t fully forgiven me. Almost six years of anger doesn’t just disappear in one night. I think he’s trying to let go of it, but I know all it would take is one wrong move for it to all come rushing back.

“Okay,” I nod, fighting a small smile. “When I woke up this morning and saw you’d left without saying goodbye, I thought maybe you regretted everything.”

He takes my hand, and we walk down the few steps side by side. People are staring at us—well, at him—as we pass. Everyone on campus knows who he is, and they also know Rafferty Wilde doesn’t hold hands with girls. If he’s aware of the attention, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Pax woke up and almost puked on your carpet. He made it to the bathroom in time, but I knew there’d be more of it, so I got him out of there as fast as I could. You were out cold, and since I’d already kept you up most of the night, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh…” I mumble, feeling a little embarrassed by how much anxiety I felt all morning over the whole thing.

He’s quiet until we reach the parking lot and I spot his flashy black sports car.

“Shit, I keep forgetting.” Letting go of his hand, I dig through my canvas bag until I find what I’m looking for. “Here are your car keys back.”

The key fob with the Mercedes logo dangles from my fingertip, but he doesn’t reach for them. His head shakes instead. “Keep them. I don’t want you walking home in the dark anymore.”

I gape at him. “I’m not keeping your G-Wagen.”

His eyes roll at me. “I’m not giving it to you, I’m letting you borrow it.” Brows pulling, his face turns serious when I open my mouth again. “Don’t fucking argue with me. You’ll lose and you know it. Driving home will be safer.”

He’s right. I’ll lose this argument, and I don’t have time for it anyway. Reluctantly, I drop the key back in my bag.

Stepping close, he kisses the top of my head. “Pack a bag when you get home and head to my place after work. You’re staying with me.”

“I am?”

“Pax is sleeping in his own bed tonight, and I need to be there to make sure he doesn’t leave again. If I’m doing that, I can’t be in your bed fucking you. So you’ll need to come to me, because if you think I’m going a night without your pussy, you’re mistaken.”

“Is that an order?” I question, ignoring the way my stomach flutters and core muscles tighten.

“You’re damn right it is.”

Laughing at him, I shove at his chest. “Okay, I have to go find an outfit that will hide your artwork. I don’t want to explain what a hickey is to a roomful of seven-year-olds.” Or their parents.