Page 19 of Z For Butterfly Man
He slides in beside me, his body pressed against mine in the cramped space. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close, tucking me against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat and smell the leather and musk that clings to him, and now me.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into his warmth, his strength. For tonight, at least, I’m safe. As his fingers trace lazy circles on my arm, I try not to think about what tomorrow will bring.
I try not to think about the fact that I’m thirteen and he’s seventeen.
I try not to think about the way my heart races every time he calls me baby girl.
I try not to think about how wrong this is.
I try not to think about what happens when this door unlocks.
Until it does.
“Shane,” I elbow him, the jiggling of the keys thudding in my chest, “wake up. She’s here. She’s going to see you.”
He barely moves.
“Oh my God, Shane, please, wake up, now.”
Finally, his eyes open, but it’s too late. The door opens, and Mother’s face pins me down with a glare. I almost pee myself, bracing for the worst. “She’s going to kill me this time,” I mutter to myself in surrender to my fate. Maybe it’s for the best. What I have isn’t a life to fight for.
“Shane?” my Mother asks quietly. “Is that you?”
He gets up and squares his shoulders, blocking me from her view. “Yeah.”
“Good morning,” she says.
Good morning?
He leans against the doorframe. “Next time you have a guest in the house, they sleep in this room because Reagan is gonna take the other one from now on.”
“But—”
“And your guests are the ones you lock in for Reagan’s safety, not the other way around, ya hear me?”
She pauses, and I feel her eyes on me even if I can’t see her. “She pissed in your ear, too? You’re sticking your neck out for this shitty whore now?”
“She’s not a whore,” he seethes. “And you won’t lay another hand on her. Do. You. Hear. Me?”
Another pause, longer than the first.
He’s pushing too far. I only want her to stop hurting me. I don’t need another room. I’d sleep in the bathroom if it got her to stop torturing me. “Shane, it’s okay. This room is fine. I don’t—”
He cuts me off with a glare. Then he looks back at Mother. “I asked you a question.”
She blows out an angry breath. “I hear you, son. You got it.”
Did I hear her correctly? Did she say yes?
“Good.” Shane winks at me, shifting a little off the door. “Now, I’m hungry. Reagan, too.”
My mother doesn’t even look at me. She turns away. “Fine. I’ll fix y’all something to eat.”
What?I can’t remember the last time she fixed me a meal. If I don’t make my own food, I don’t eat.
“Come downstairs to say hi to Mason.” And just like that, her footsteps trail down the stairs. She sees a boy sleeping in my bedand she doesn’t beat me or call me names or sew my vagina shut. She’s even making us breakfast.
Shane closes the door and smiles at me. “Good morning, baby girl. What’d ya like to eat today?”
