Page 18

CHAPTER 18

Butterfly Man

Birdie loves motorcycles. She puts them in all her books, an accessory that adorns her protagonists. Is that what draws her to him, the man with the motorcycle that now calls himself her protector?

What are the odds of his showing up on that street, at that precise moment to scoop her away and play savior? Maybe, it was a mistake not going straight to my place after I snatched the book from her lawyer’s bag. Seeing Birdie in the flesh at the café should have been enough. I shouldn’t have followed her on her way home. Greed has its way of clouding judgment, but how could I resist walking down the street with her, as if it were our first date and I was walking her home, making sure she arrived safely?

I stole a glance or two at her profile under the moonlight—the curve of her cheek, the way her lips moved when she smiled. She was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. Did she feel the same electric tension as our footsteps echoed together? Did her pulse quicken as she realized I was there looking after her? Did she sense the unspoken question hanging between us?

“Thank you for tonight,” I’d say as we stood at the threshold of her door. “I had a great time.”

“Me too.” She’d smile, nervous, not knowing I was trembling on the inside.

The moment would stretch as I saw the war in her eyes, the desire to lean in and the fear of where it’d lead. I’d swallow and lick my lips. Then, hopeful, I’d take the first step and lean closer, my breath mingling with hers, my heart a frantic melody, wild yet desperate for permission.

I’d caress her soft skin and kiss her forehead, safe and respectful, but I’d want more. Much more.

Her gaze would flicker to my mouth, and her chest would heave. And then, as if surrendering to fate, she’d tilt her head, closing the gap.

Our lips would meet—a collision of warmth and need and madness, the first notes of a love song. Time would cease to exist; there would only be this kiss. There would only be us. But you prefer him—the man desperate to be your hero.

He, you let into your house. You grant him the pleasure of your company day and night. He gets to earn your trust. He gets to see the look in your eyes when you let him save you.

He enters the law firm building, confident he’ll save the day. I smirk at the disappointment in his voice when he realizes he won’t. Taking the book from the lawyer isn’t the only task I’ve accomplished when I accidentally knocked her briefcase open on the ground. I put a bug in it, too, and now I can hear every conversation she has.

Birdie thinks I can no longer see her after she’s made the man with the motorcycle take away my little windows of heaven. She’s wrong. Yes, I can’t watch her the same way I used to, but there are so many other ways to watch my little bird. Like placing bugs on people she has contact with. Like watching him.

Through him, I see you, darling. I see you, my little bird.

The book that has started this twisted game presses against my chest underneath my hoodie like a dirty secret as his bike gives a primal roar. I want to follow him. I want to end him and take his place. I’m so jealous. She makes me so jealous I want to kill him. I want him dead. He shouldn’t be here. He’s not the one who’s supposed to be there for her. I am. He has to die. I have to kill him.

My nostrils flare with a deep breath. Birdie’s naughty scent lingers from the pages and soothes my compulsions, just enough to clear the haze and bring me back to rationality. I can’t kill him now. She trusts him, not me. I have to show her I’m much worthier of her trust than he’ll ever be. Then I’ll kill him. He’ll be out of the way, and I’ll be the man she needs. The man she deserves.

I ignore the impatient urges and decide not to get sidetracked anymore. I’m out here on a time-sensitive mission.

Katie Saldana’s house isn’t far. She moved to Boston less than a year ago after her second book series—a poor rip-off of Bridie’s books—took off. It’s funny that she’s chosen to live in the same state as Birdie. Heck, even the house looks similar to Birdie’s, only bigger, much bigger, and tackier. It’s like a competition Saldana must win, fueled by envy and spite. Birdie moves to a two-story house on a small island in Massachusetts, Saldana moves to the biggest city in the same state and gets herself a three-story house. It doesn’t matter that it lacks taste. It matters that it’s more expensive. A show of who has more money, thus more success.

People who measure success solely with money are petty. After taking a good look at Saldana as she’s huddled behind her desk, blowing out a breath, frustrated at her own lack of creativity, I get it, though. She doesn’t have anything else.

Her creativity is less than mediocre. She isn’t much to look at. Her teeth are big—the only thing that’s big in her. They’re crooked and ugly. When she smiles, she looks like a donkey. Her hair is dull brown, and her skin needs years of facials and expensive fillers. Her husband is grabbing the maid’s ass in the kitchen while Saldana tries to patch Birdie’s work into hers to make more money that will let him stay with her anyway and tell her that her donkey teeth are the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

I lower myself behind the wheel of my car when her husband opens the front door. He’s wearing blue running shorts and a gray sweatshirt. Is he going out for a run?

He leaves the house and starts jogging down the street, but just as he rounds the corner, he stops. He glances right and left and then at his watch. A few minutes later, the maid leaves the house in her rundown car and picks him up on the corner. Then, as soon as he’s settled in her car, his tongue is down her throat.

Yup, they’re about to workout, together, in a sleazy hotel room or in the backseat of the rundown car. And my job has become a lot easier. I don’t have to worry about luring the thief out without her family noticing or getting rid of them if I have to.

She’s all alone, waiting for me.