Page 14 of Broken Butterfly
New York City
Anyone who has readUnder the Tuscan SunorEat, Pray, Loveknows the romanticized tales of women who travel around the world to find themselves. That’s how I feel right now. A woman preparing to travel the world to discover who she really is. But first, this woman needed some clothes.
I learned something new today as a result of five hours of nonstop shopping through New York City. Fallon Montgomery is a clothes whore. The second thing I learned today is that he has impeccable taste. He picked out most of my new clothes and shoes. I didn’t care. It’s not like I could really say anything since he was paying for it. I refused, however, to let him choose my underwear and bras.
We’re staying in a penthouse suite at one of those swanky hotels near Central Park. We have our own elevator and a five-person staff. I’m having trouble believing this is real life, but then again, Fallon grew up around all this pampered, rich bullshit every day. How can people take this kind of wealth for granted? As an idea forms, I drop my pile of shopping bags on the bed and go find Fallon.
“Hey, Nutter Butter! Where you at?”
“For fuck’s sake, come up with another nickname that doesn’t sound so fucking stupid,” I hear him yell back.
“You call me kitten, jackass, so deal with it.”
I found out yesterday during our Halloween fun on his boat that Fallon has an addiction to peanut butter candies. After that, the nickname came easily. Fallon surprised me with his Halloween scavenger hunt. He hid things all around the boat for me to find using clues and a map. I’m pretty sure all the stuff I found was his. I am now the proud owner of tons of candy, an iPod, a men’s I Love NY T-shirt, a six-pack of beer, a dirty romance novel (not sure if it was his or Tatiána’s), and a sex-toy—I didn’t ask. Yeah, he got a kick out of that one before I threw it at his head. We spent the rest of our Halloween on the boat enjoying scary movies and sitting out on the deck again watching as the boat docked. As we prepared to disembark, I hugged Robert bye, and thanked him for his kindness. Then, Fallon escorted me to a car that was already there waiting to take us to our hotel.
“Hey, Nutter Butter!” I open a door but no Fallon. The penthouse suite is four-thousand square feet and takes up two entire floors of the hotel. I got lost last night trying to find the bathroom after we checked in.
“Marco?” I shout.
I hear a distant chuckle. “Polo!”
I walk around a corner to where the living area is. “Marco?”
“Polo!” he calls back. I’m getting closer. I walk up the curved set of stairs that leads to the second floor. I chose the bedroom downstairs and told Fallon he had to sleep upstairs.
I open a set of double doors and enter his room. Fallon is bent over the bed going through bags filled with the clothes he bought for himself. Fallon is also shirtless. I’m a girl who can appreciate good-looking guys, so of course I ogle his muscled back and the tattoos he’s sporting—that is until I see the crisscrossing of several faint scars that span the width of his torso. They’re barely noticeable, but I know knife wounds when I see them because I have several.
“Jesus, Fallon.” I rush over to him and lay my hands against his skin. His body goes rigid and taut.
“Elizabeth, I would strongly advise that you remove your hands.”
I ignore him. “What happened to you?”
He turns suddenly and grabs both of my wrists in a crushing grip. “Life,” he growls out.
My heart goes out to him because I understand. He really is just as broken as I am. I wrench my wrists out of his hold and step away from his furious gaze. I pull my shirt up and off and throw it on his bed. As he looks at my bra-covered upper torso, his angry gaze changes to shock then quickly morphs into desire.
I point to my butterfly tattoos that cover my scars. The scarsHegave me whenHeplunged a knife into my side and chest. “You should never be ashamed of your wounds, Fallon. They’re proof of how strong you are. That you’re a fighter. I should know.”
Fallon comes closer and falls to his knees in front of me. I hold my arms over my head so he can examine my scars better. He gently glides a finger up and down each raised ridge. I notice that his hands are shaking but his face is full of fury and his mouth is pressed into a tight line.
“Where’d you get your ink?”
“A non-profit in Seattle that helps trauma victims.”
His fingers gracefully glide over every part of each broken butterfly. I watch as his eyes travel south to my stomach. He touches my C-section scar above the waistband of my jeans, and I suck in a breath.
“What about this one?”
“That’s a secret for another day,” I reply and grab my shirt, pulling it back on. Fallon remains kneeling on the plush hotel carpet looking up at me. “Maybe one day you’ll tell me about yours,” I softly say down to him.
He nods and stands up. Clearing his throat, he tells me, “There’s a club I’d like to take you to. We can get wasted and dance until we pass out.”
Sounds perfect. “Oh, before I forget, I’m adding another condition to our deal.”
Fallon groans and throws himself back on the bed like he’s cliff diving into a pile of clothes.
“I promise it’s a good thing. I want to visit a women’s shelter while we’re here.”
