Page 128 of Vicious Butterfly
No. I’m callous and unemotional,my brain screams. That’s what’s made sense for me. Couldn’t even muster a tear when Mom died, just rage. Now, I don’t know—all because of Ryan.
“You didn’t ask, but I’ll tell you what I think. Older brother privilege,” he says when my head snaps up. “Love can’t be controlled, so you never let it catch up with you. You went into hiding from it, but maybe it finally found you.”
If he weren’t so fucking proud of his diagnosis, I’d scoff. I wish it were that simple. But Luke doesn’t know what I really am, and I’m not going to rain on his parade. If he wants to think that I outrun love as some kind of a coping mechanism, he can. “I’m ready to go. Unlike you, I have work to get back to.”
“Yeah, I’m ready, too—oh my god, is that an antique key? That’s perfect! McKinnon willlovethat.”
He moves to grab my key, but I swipe it before he can. “I don’t think so, this is mine. You got everything else.”
“And you’d think I’d have found something better than some old quill. There’s probably better stuff in an attic somewhere, but that could take days to go through. Please? Please, please, please,please?”
“You’re pathetic. Fine. Take the key, which could lead to a vault of untold treasures. Leave me with the junk.”
“That isn’t junk, Tate,” he says, pointing at the cuff. “And see what you did? You gave me the key. Youloveme.”
He heads out the door, and I gather my shit. I get an idea. I know exactly what I’m doing with this cuff.
It’s about time I had something to make me feel good.
21
RYAN
“Ready to eat ice, McKinnon?” I say, bent over for the face-off. He smirks, and the motherfucker takes off with the puck. I hate that McKinnon has the perfect family lifeandhe’s just that good at hockey. It’s not fucking fair that he gets both.
But we win, and Coach Bruce is so happy that he actually tells us good job in the locker room. It’s a double Shadowridge weekend at North Point, a game on Saturday and Sunday. I sign out with the guys to attend the post-victory party we have to throw off-campus—there are no parties at North Point—but I don’t go to the party. They drop me at the hotel Tate requested I meet him at. Saturday night is the only day we can meet without arousing suspicion.
I thought about telling him to go fuck himself and heading to the party instead. I’m nothing but an afterthought to him, I should at least give the impression that he’s just as unimportant to me. But there’s no way I was going to do that. I’m pathetically in love with him. Against my will. Love takes hostages, and that’s a hill I’ll die on.
So even if it’s just me yelling at him, and him threatening to lock me in his dungeon next to Kline, I’m going.
“Um, for VanCourt,” I say to the receptionist. It’s one of those hotels where you need a card to get up to your desired floor.
She smiles, giving me a look that says she knows I’m about to fuck or be fucked. “Yes. Here you go. Your husband is waiting for you in the penthouse.”
He told this Gen Z girlie pop he was waiting for his husband? I flush, still not used to that. And it makes me feel owned, which apparently, I find hot. At least my body does, about to combust. I clear my throat. “The penthouse?”
Her head turns side-to-side as if she’s checking that the coast is clear. She leans forward. “Is it a special occasion?” she whispers. “We’re low-key curious.”
“We?”
“The staff. Sorry. I know it’ssounprofessional, I could lose my job for asking, but hardly anyone reserves the penthouse at this hotel. So, is it a special occasion? Or, oh my god, oh my god! Do you have one of those dreamy husbands who’s always doing super romantic things for you?”
There’s a pang in my chest. I don’t even need “super romantic things,” but a husband who talks to me would be nice. Ugh. To which I once again have to remind myself, I knew what I was walking into with this marriage. He’s a fake husband, not a real one.
Still hate him, though, almost as much as my pathetic ass loves him.
“We just got married,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. She’s so excited, and I want a piece of that thrill before I have to go upstairs and fight with said husband. “We haven’t had the chance to go on our honeymoon, so he’s trying to make up for it. I told him he doesn’t have to, but he refuses to take no for an answer.”
She squeals. “I knew it was something like that.” She winks. “Shoo. Get your man. I could tell he was anxious to see you.”
That’s odd. I roll that thought around as I head toward the elevator. Tate doesn’t have feelings. For someone to claim to see anxiousness on him makes me anxious. Did something happen?
It’s a long ride up to the penthouse. Tate might not feel much, but I feel everything, and every feeling imaginable congeals in my stomach. Even excitement. After weeks of not seeing him, and having a long, one-sided conversation, I can’t even help the tingling in my chest. I can’t believe I still want to see the asshole. Taking a breath, I knock on the hotel room door. It opens immediately, as if he were waiting there, and he yanks me into the entryway.
The door slams closed, lighting dim but enough for me to see his steel-gray eyes. Front-desk girl was right. There’s anxiety in them, but Tate will always suffocate anxiety with scrupulous control.
I’m in for a night.
