The Butterfly Code (5 page)

I
shrink back down
and try to disappear against the wall.

Hunter has to show up now? When I’m covered in coffee? For god’s sake . . . why?

His black hair is rumpled, and a lock has fallen across his forehead. Despite his serious, weighty aura, it softens his intensity. For an instant, he looks almost approachable. Then he rakes the hair off his face, and I change my mind.

He scans the place, as if searching for someone. His eyes settle on me—warm amber irises meeting mine. His brow flickers as if in surprise. I read something else there, too. Unease? Frustration? Annoyance?

To my dismay, he turns to leave.

Just because I’m in here, he can’t stay?

Before he reaches the door, however, he pauses. Then, with deliberate steps, he turns and approaches the counter. His broad, tapered back is taut. He rolls his shoulders as if to ease the tension and stands reading the menu drilled to the wall.

The barista says, "Can I get a drink started for you?"

It’s a moment before he replies. "I’ll take some coffee."

"Dark or blond?"

"I’m sorry?"

"Light or dark roast?"

"Whatever you recommend."

"I’m a blond fan myself. Size?"

"What’s the choice?"

The guy wrinkles his forehead and laughs. "Uh, small, medium, and large? What, are you from the land where coffee shops don’t exist?"

"Medium will be fine."

The barista dispenses it with a chuckle.

Hunter takes the coffee and stuffs some extra bills in the tip jar. "Have a good day."

"Likewise, my man."

And then he’s turning to go. I’d wanted to question him about Dad. I’d wanted a chance to apologize for my rudeness in the bar. I’d wanted to ask why he sought me out with such interest in the first place. Well, this is it. Now is the time.

I brace myself as he starts walking, trying to work up the courage. My fingers grab at the table edge, causing it to rock slightly. Here I go.

I’ll simply stand up and . . .

He’s slowing down. He’s stopped. He’s fingering the lid of his coffee. His big hands are blunt-tipped, and the cup looks small in his grasp. His eyes meet mine. They twinkle like amber in sunlight. Not aggressive or angry. But intelligent. Searching. Curious. Earnest, even. His mouth is well shaped, not too large, not too small. It opens to speak and then closes again. Then it opens a second time. He’s going to speak. Which is great, because I literally can’t. My pulse is racing.

Suddenly, the coffee shop door bursts open.

My head whips around. It’s Gage. His blond hair gleams in the entrance, and he wears an expectant grin. He must have seen Dad’s car outside and guessed I was here. Sure enough, he catches sight of me and his grin widens. He doesn’t even notice Hunter until he nearly runs into him.

"What the—" Gage’s grin turns stony. "What are you doing here?"

Hunter clears his throat and salutes him with his paper cup. "Hello, Gage."

"Only my friends call me that."

"Sounds limiting."

Gage steps closer so they’re eye-to-eye, until mere inches separate them.

Every part of Hunter is chiseled for action. Life force hovers around him, almost visible in its strength. I swear he’s radiating an otherworldly glow. His forearms and hands are honed in a way that’s primal, animalistic even. Tigers have that same nonchalance, one that masks a deadly speed. Gage, with all his Viking height, is clearly no pushover, either. I hadn’t realized how strong he looks until this very moment.

Hunter isn’t looking for a fight, though. Instead, he takes a sip of coffee and winces at the heat. His eyes flash to mine. "Ouch. That could cause an accident."

Is he referring to my shirt? Is he teasing me?

I stare, oddly offended, feeling ugly in my wet, see-through top. My crossed arms tighten.

"Like I said," Gage snarls. "I’m surprised to see you in here."

Hunter takes a second sip and grimaces. "Nope, still don’t like coffee." He sets the cup down and says, "I hate to cut this fine conversation short, but I’m out of time."

"Then go."

"First, I must return the lady’s coat." He raises his jacket as if to cover me, yet only comes halfway. "I believe you dropped this?"

"I—"

He bends closer. "I thought you might need it." His voice is so quiet I’m sure only I catch it.

My hands come up and our fingers touch under the buttery-soft black leather. His are warm and our fingertips lock briefly as if in some spontaneous, private handshake. A thrill shoots to my toes, making me almost dizzy.

"Thank you," I whisper. Feeling Gage’s eyes drilling into me, I repeat myself, louder. "Yes, thank you." I pull it to myself, covering my stained eyelet blouse with its welcome heft. Instantly, I’m wrapped in his masculine scent—faint hints of cedar and leather and something spicy.

"Are you done playing gentleman?" Gage asks.

"Why? Did you need some assistance, too?"

"Very funny. I thought you were leaving."

"I am. You’re in my way."

Gage’s fists tighten and his shoulders expand.

What is with him?
I know he was hurt in a military accident. But I don’t see what that has to do with Hunter. Does Gage hate all medical researchers now? Would he have hated Mom and her work in human genetics, if she were alive?

They stand nose-to-nose, neither backing down.

"Hey," snaps the barista. "Wanna clear my doorway so people can get in?"

Reluctantly, Gage steps aside.

Before Hunter leaves, he shoots me a look. Brief though it is, it’s like those powerful, sensitive hands are gripping my shoulders, like he’s looking right into me. Goose bumps rush along my skin under the cover of his jacket. When his eyes release me, my heart is slamming.

Then he’s gone.

"Freak," Gage mutters. He lets out a big breath and smiles. "Hey, Aeris!"

"Hey," I manage back.
I can’t believe he gave me his coat.

"I saw your dad’s car out there. I figured it was you."

"Yeah."

"Shove over. I’ll grab some coffee. Want anything?"

My numbness is giving way. For some reason I’m furious with Gage.

I stand abruptly. "I’m leaving."

His eyes widen. "W-what?"

I angle my face away, bending over to gather my things. Frustrated tears prick my eyes. I can’t understand why I’m so upset, but I really am. And I know banging out of here is no way to treat a friend, but I can’t help it.

Why did I accept Hunter’s jacket? I have to give it back. Which means tracking him down. I swore I’d stop thinking of him and yet he’s everywhere.

"Aeris," Gage says, his face like a wounded puppy as he follows me outside. "You’re not mad at me, are you?"

His blue eyes are pleading. Under that big-guy muscle and grown-up bravado is the same kid who always had my back. My guilt turns into a knot. Despite his attitude toward Hunter, I know he means well.

"Are you?" he repeats, standing under the stop sign, the afternoon light catching gold strands in his hair.

"Sorry, it’s just . . ." I motion at my shirt. Even though I’m gripping Hunter’s coat like a shield, the stain is up to my collar. "I spilled coffee all over myself. I have to go."

"Oh. I didn’t notice."

"Talk to you later?"

He walks me around to the driver-side door. "Definitely."

I
take
my time driving to Dad’s, pausing at the ocean lookout to calm down.

When I get back, Sammy almost knocks me over with his greeting.

I bend to bury my face in his fur. "Good to see you, too."

He wags his back half, his big front paws stepping on my toes.

I sniff the air and frown. "Is something burning?" Standing, I head for the kitchen. "Dad?"

The hook where his keys hang is empty.

I open the oven. Cold.

The smell wafts from outside. I pad into the backyard with Sammy on my heels. There are two barbecues out here. The old one and one I’ve never seen before. And smoke is billowing from it. Sammy leads me to it, but I get hold of his collar.

"Come on, boy." He’s so heavy I can hardly budge him. "Come on, over here."

This is so completely unlike Dad. To leave something that could start a fire?

I head to the side of the house for the hose to spray it down.

The rumble of an engine stops me cold. A car is rolling into the driveway. From the sound of it, a muscle-bound racing car. A car I’m particularly attuned to. I edge up to the corner and peek around as Hunter’s glossy black vehicle purrs to a halt.

The passenger door glides upward.

Dad’s work boot is recognizable as he sticks one leg out and plants it on the drive. His hands reach up to grab the doorframe, and he levers himself out. His face is grim.

My mouth drops open.

What is this?

Dad’s jaw is tight. I’m suddenly reminded of those horrible years when he tried to track down Mom’s killers while the whole world insisted it was an accident. Grade school passed me by in a distracted dream, because I also was desperate to know the truth. I don’t know when my obsession turned to a dull ache, a buried hope that I rarely allow myself to consider; I only know it happened somewhere along the way. The realization makes my stomach clench.

When Dad’s clear of the car, the door reseals itself.

Hunter backs out of the driveway. With a roar, he accelerates down the country road.

What were they up to?

It can’t have been more than an hour ago that Hunter gave me his jacket. I recall how he’d burst into the coffee shop. Now I know who he was searching for.

Dad.

Like Gage, Hunter must have seen Dad’s Range Rover parked outside.

The smell of smoke wafts to me, and I put my questions on hold.

"Dad!" I cry, hurrying to meet him. "Something’s on fire."

He covers his surprise at seeing me by walking swiftly toward the front door. "Where?"

"Not inside, out back. The new barbecue."

"New barbecue?" His hand goes to his beard, and he takes on a puzzled expression. "Oh! My smoker."

"Smoker?"

"Grandpa sent it out." His voice is artificially bright. "I’m smoking some salmon. Come on, I’ll show you."

"Oh my gosh, I almost hosed the thing down."

"Good thing I got here."

There’s a beat of tension.

He clears his throat. Obviously, he wishes he hadn’t mentioned arriving in Hunter’s car.

In the distance, the ocean is a vast plane of hammered steel, curving at the horizon. Far off, barely visible mist swirls around Hunter’s verdant peninsula. It’s a place that promises secrets undiscovered. Birds wheel above it and then dive into the waiting arms of trees. A foghorn blows.

Chewing on my lip, I stand there in Hunter’s big leather coat, holding it tight around me. This is my chance, and I’m not going to let it slip away.

"Why were you with Hu—Dr. Cayman? I’m surprised, after what you said about him."

"Yeah, well. It’s just work."

I have to tread carefully. When he’s pushed, he turns silent as an old bear.

"I met him." I keep my voice light and stroke Sammy’s glossy ears. "He seems nice."

"Cayman? Where?"

"At the club, with Ella and Gage."

Closing his eyes under his thick brows, he mutters a curse.

"Dad, what is up? You were in his car. He can’t be all bad."

"Peanut," he growls, "you have everything going for you. Cayman is not worth your time."

"It’s not that. I’m only trying to understand this whole double standard. I don’t even get what you could possibly be doing for him."

"Yeah, well, sometimes I wonder the same thing. It was a mistake and I don’t want to talk about it." He’s stony as a mountain. "End of discussion."

I cross my arms over my chest. "All right. Fine."

"I haven’t seen that jacket before, have I?" he asks, his gaze honing in.

"It’s a loaner. From the coffee shop. I had an accident."

He stares at the coat a moment too long.

Sammy bumps between Dad and me, his doggy brows alive with worry. I loosen one hand and pat his big, furry back.

"I thought you were going to show me your smoker."

He blows out a sigh, as ready to drop our conversation as I am. "Right you are."

We turn and to my surprise he reaches around my shoulders and gives me a one-armed hug. "Did I tell you how good it is to have you home?"

I lean my head against him. "Yes."

"Well, I’m telling you again."

I
spend
the afternoon playing violin and staring out the guest room window. Whatever’s going on in this town is none of my business. I’ll be back in New York soon enough, and it will all be forgotten.

After dinner, I help Dad light a fire in the living room. He claims his armchair, book in hand. I sink onto the couch.

"You weigh a ton," I tell Sammy. "You’re not sitting on my lap."

"He thinks he’s still a puppy," Dad says.

"Yeah, more like a pony." I rub his nose. "Aren’t you, Sammy?" After a while, I crawl out from under his comforting warmth and go sit at the piano.

To my chagrin, the old fear creeps up and chokes me like a weed. After playing countless concerts in front of thousands of people, you’d think I’d have conquered it. I haven’t. When the fear comes, my fingers freeze and I’m certain I’ve lost every hard-earned shred of my musical ability.

It’s ridiculous.

I breathe in slowly through my nose and out through my mouth.

Bending forward, I depress the first note to my mother’s lullaby. Then the second.
Hello, old friend.
It’s been so long. The tune is beautiful and simple and lovely. I hum quietly, and everything is all right. Then I’m softly singing the words.

When did I stop playing this treasure? Why did I ever decide I’d outgrown it? Funny how we leave behind such wonderful things.

Hearing it again brings me back to the one vacation I remember Mom and I shared.