Page 13 of Vicious Butterfly
Just yesterday, the dean stopped by to make sure I was alright.
“What happened to the pep in your step, there, bud?” he’d asked, his knuckles grazing my shoulder, a friendly punch.
Fucking Patrick. Always smiling. Always jovial. Sunshine always shining out of his ass. It’s disgusting. If only he knew the underbelly of the world, he’d know there’s nothing to fucking smile about. But I forced one, seeing as my mask of choice in this subterfuge has always been the hockey coach version of every dad from a nineties family sitcom.
He placed a hand on my shoulder. I waited to see if the warmth I knew must be there would penetrate me. It didn’t. “Thanks again for recommending your brother to the English department. You’re a lifesaver.”
I’m an opportunist. I needed Luke’s help this season with my talented but fucking chaotic captain, Ace McKinnon. I have goals.
“It’s the least I can do, Patrick,” I’d said.
“Well, I owe you. And I’m happy to return the favor. If you need to bend my ear, let me know, pal.”
That was just great. Pathologically pleasant Patrick wanted to spark a friendship with me, because I haven’t been smiling as much as Fake Me is supposed to. Can’t Fake Me have a bad day without alerting the sunshine police? I promised him I’d get some sleep. Hopefully, he never brings up “being there for me” ever again.
It only got worse from there, though. The football coach, Taylor, who I’m pretty sure is more of a psychopath than I am, asked if everything was okay. And what did I do?Almostfucking told him it wasn’t. The words were on my tongue. Stinging. Burning. Wanting relief.
Can’t fucking sleep. Can’t stop thinking about him. And don’t get me started on whatever fucking sunscreen he was wearing all over that golden tanned skin of his. He smelled like a tropical fruit salad. I’ve been to every drugstore on and off campus, trying to find that goddamn sunscreen.
I almost asked Taylor how many bottles of sunscreen in my bathroom cabinet says sunscreen fetish.
I bit my tongue before I said anything stupid, but the next person who says to come to them for help gets a knife up their ass. But I got the message. Lie better. Stay away from Ryan Savage. Don’t even fucking think about him.
The fact that I’m once again thinking about him has me murderous. Killing someone would be a good time about now. I’m sure there’s someone on my long list.
There’s a knock on my office door. Ace McKinnon pokes his dark-blond head in. “Ah, Coach?”
“What?” I snap. He jumps. God fucking dammit. Ace knows me as his pal, his buddy, his confidant. I only lose my cool like this when we’re getting demolished on the ice. I take a calming breath, but it does little to quiet the itch under my skin.
“Bad time?” he says.
“Nope. Just tired,” I say, affecting Attentive Coach as much as I can after that little slip-up. “What can I do for you?”
Patrick says things like that. I’ve studied him. It seems to relax people. Make them feel seen.
Ace smiles, making himself comfortable in the chair in front of my desk. Uncle Jasper would have skinned me alive if I’d done that before he gave me permission to sit. I hated it, so you’d think I’d be opposed to it, but my nose reflexively wants to wrinkle over his lack of decorum.
“Just wanted to chit-chat about this season, Coach. I’ve got some ideas I think you’ll be into.”
McKinnon natters on about dryland training, schedules, and even on-ice drills. He’s my captain, my workhorse—unless we’re talking about his schoolwork—and my cash cow. I give him enough autonomy to keep him happy, but I make the final calls. It’s going to be nice having my brother here to babysit his ass this semester. I’ll have more time to do what I need to do.
There’s no way Ryan’s as much of a slacker as McKinnon is. Henry Savage makes sure of that, I’ll bet. My hands ball into fists, and the urge to pound on something becomes the air that I breathe. The way he talked about Ryan as if he wasn’t there. I didn’t like it. Henry was very close to being put on my list.
The only reason he hasn’t been—yet—is because I’m more often rational than not. No doubt Ryan’s a spoiled rich boy. He probably needs someone to temper him, and his father has a name to protect. I get all of that. Uncle Jasper beat it into me.
I privately assured myself that it was nothing more than a father making sure his kid minded his manners—something parents seem to do well past the age they should.
But my instincts know better, and they won’t let me sleep because of it. Those same instincts whisper things to me. They think I should claim Ryan as my own. Creepy little echoes in my head getting louder and louder.
Take him. Take him. Take him.
Another voice whispers,you knew exactly what you were doing. You marked Ryan with your cum.
I smile on the inside. I sure fucking did.
“…and that’s the plan. What do you think about it, Coach?”
I haven’t heard a word McKinnon’s said. But it doesn’t matter. He was born to hockey, and he knows hockey. “Love it. All of it,” I say. He beams, preening over the praise. McKinnon’s such a puppy. If he had a tail, it would be wagging right now.
