Page 10 of Butterfly
“I’ll sign that for sure, but I have something cool just for you,” I comment, turning toward Shiloh for the first time since I stopped the Jeep. His eyes are a bit wide as he meets mine, his head tilted to the side again like I’ve either amused him or done something offensive. I’m gonna guess it’s amusement. I offer a smile, then grab a card off the pile, uncapping the black sharpie to scribble my signature complete with the number forty-three on it. Shiloh watches me carefully, and again I feel like I’m being weighed and measured though I don’t quite know why.
“For you,” I say, turning back to the young boy and his mom. He takes the card with a delighted shout, holding it up for everyone else behind him to see.
“You got cards?” someone else yells out, and I nod. I stocked up on my rookie cards after I learned early on that being so new here meant I was signing things like old ticket stubs and paper scraps torn from notebooks. I’m an unproven commodity in this city, and while I can’t fault anyone for not having a jersey with my name and number on it for me to sign yet, that doesn’t mean the kids don’t deserve to have my signature captured somewhere cool.
I finish scribbling signatures on cards for the rest of the fans lined up at the sidewalk, answering questions about my career and taking surprising compliments for some of the saves I made last night in that shitty loss. One of the teenage girls asks for a selfie with me, and I agree, feeling Shiloh practically melt intothe seat beside me to avoid the camera’s lens. Finally, I roll up my window, and with a wave, pull out of the road that leads to the secured parking lot and head down the street, making my way toward Sal’s Place.
“Sorry about that,” I offer. “I can’t say no to the kids. Driving by them would be so rude after they waited in the cold like that.” Shiloh doesn’t say anything in response, but when I glance over his way, he’s leaned forward in the passenger seat, eyeing me carefully again. “It’s just part of my job, I figure. Signing autographs. Taking pictures. Sorry if it was weird?”
I’m running out of things to say, because I can recognize that it’s part of my job and weird as hell at the same time. Finally Shiloh speaks and breaks the awkward silence with a question I had not expected.
“You’re a big deal around here, huh?”
“Kind of? I guess?”
“People know your face,” he points out.
“Comes with the territory,” I offer with a shrug.
Shiloh hums softly under his breath like he’s deep in thought as he leans back into the seat again and peers out the windshield. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him grab the stack of cards and the sharpie from the center console. After a few seconds, I glance back as he opens the glove box and deposits them back inside, save for one card.
That card he tucks into his pocket before leaning back into his chair, humming thoughtfully under his breath again.
CHAPTER FIVE
SHILOH
I’m facedwith a bit of a conundrum. If I kill Donovan, I have a feeling people are going to realize he’s gone. I don’t know if it’s a Boston thing, or a hockey thing… but it seems like people know him. Like they expect him—like they’re waiting for him.
And maybe there’s a part of me that’s too intrigued by the way he went through his wallet, like there was something really valuable in there. I could see the relief sweep across his face in near visible lines, sending his worried expression into something relaxed and… honestly, really beautiful. I didn’t see anything in there worth freaking out about, but I’m honestly a shit judge of sentiment, so it makes sense that I didn’t understand. Iwantto understand.
But… it’s easier to blame my reluctance to follow through with my original intentions on the fact that someone would realize he’s missing, I think.
He slides me another sidelong glance as we get out of his car to have lunch. I’m not sure if he’s looking at me or the hoodie I’m still wearing, and after a second, he finally speaks.
“You know, I might believe your story a little more if you weren’t wearing my clothes.”
My story. He and I both know it isn’t the best story. Still, he’s taking me to lunch, and I still have his hoodie on, so apparently it was good enough to get me to where I wanted to be. Either that or he’s curious about me too.
“It’s a good Samaritan tax,” I finally offer, shoving my hands into the pocket of the warm, oversized material. “I went to your place to give you your things back. When you weren’t there, I realized I was going to have to come to your fishbowl?—”
“Arena,” he corrects, but I continue as if he didn’t.
“To yourfishbowlto give you your things back. I might not know much about hockey, but I know it’s cold.”
“Boston is cold.” He frowns as I cross my arms over my chest and wait for him to open the door to the restaurant. Like he can’t help himself, he steps in front of me to do it. “Why don’t you have warmer clothes?”
Because I came from California, and I fucked up on a kill, so I moved faster than I wanted to.
“Victim of circumstance.” It’s not a lie.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” He shakes his head and leads us to a table in the corner, watching as I shake his sleeves out to hide my fingers. It’s not because of the temperature. There’s just some weird part of me that wants to reach out and touch him—trace the back of his hands with my fingertips so I can memorize each curve of the veins that I can faintly see through his freckled skin.
“It’s warmer in California,” I offer, the only explanation I’m willing to give him. I watch in curiosity as his brows dip.
“Don’t you have money to buy a jacket?”
“Hm…” I shrug, rubbing my fingertips together before finally breaking down and snatching a napkin out of the dispenser beside me. I fish into his overly large pocket and pull out the pen I stole from his desk on my way out of his apartment. Donovanwatches me in curiosity as I start to sketch careful lines on the back of the napkin.
