Butterfly Read online

  Rebecca Sherwin

  “A great beginning is sometimes at the point of what you thought would be the end.”

  ~ Dodinksy

  Copyright © 2016

  Rebecca R Sherwin

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, places, events and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Please do not copy, alter or distribute Butterfly.

  By purchasing this content, you agree to abide by copyright laws and will not copy, trade, pirate or replicate any of the content within this book.

  If you have not purchased Butterfly by Rebecca Sherwin, or it was not purchased for you (or, in the case of ARCs, sent to you directly from Rebecca), please return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  You can contact Rebecca via email to [email protected] if you have any questions or concerns.

  Thank you.

  The concept of Stockholm Syndrome plays in my mind. Feelings of trust or affection from captive to captor. I’m not stupid—I know that was his plan; to make me trust him, feel for him, while he broke me beyond repair. I’m not buying it. There’s something deeper. Something so powerful, no amount of therapy or talking it through will save me. Nothing can reverse the effects of his abuse. Nothing will alter the impact his love has had on me.

  On my existence.

  On my soul.

  On my ability, and want, to spread my wings and fly away from the hell that has become my home.

  “Ready, darling?” he asks, when he loosens my bindings and takes my hand.

  I nod.

  “Time for my little caterpillar to become a butterfly.”

  I’m ready. I’ve been ready for some time. But I won’t go alone.

  Oh no. I’ll take my captor with me. The man who stole me from the life I loved and made me fall for the life I loathe. I won’t be going alone. Without him I’m nothing, he made sure of that. But without me, he won’t survive.

  You see, butterflies are more than pretty little things that flutter blissfully in the garden. At least this one won’t flutter off—I wouldn’t if I could.

  This butterfly will kill. This butterfly will own.

  This butterfly will conquer death and hover over it on black wings stained with blood, watching on as the beauty of life slips away beneath her.

  The water displacement is minimal as I slink into the pool and feel it cocoon me like a blanket welcoming me home. The dark sky makes the water black, but the sliver of silver from the full moon high in the sky makes it sparkle around me like glitter. I break through the surface, taking my first breath and first stroke. My legs move fluidly, my core tight, muscles relaxed. When I place my face back in the water, I stare at the mosaic tiling at the bottom of the pool, using it to keep me swimming in a straight line, and to remind me that I’m home. Home. I swim length after length, performing turn after turn, and push after push from the wall to propel me streamlined through the water. My pace picks up as I settle into a rhythm and my lungs sing with every quick deep breath, and every exhale as the air bubbles from my nose and mouth, catching the glint of the moon and rippling out like silver ribbons. Thirty lengths. Forty lengths. Finally, I feel relaxed, finally able to kick and swipe the stresses of the day away with every stroke.

  I was born to be in the water. I knew it the minute I became conscious of my existence. As a child, I demanded going to the pool, while my friends played with their dolls and pushed miniature pushchairs around the neighbourhood. When I was six, my mother and father hired a coach, and my journey began. Today, I hold the world record for the 400m freestyle, at three minutes, fifty-five seconds. But I no longer compete. Competitions took the love of swimming away from me and I began to falter. I took the decision to retire before I lost myself, and the money and reputation I spent my life building up.

  And once again, I swim to exist.

  When I know my time is up, I stop swimming, cruising through the water until I reach the wall and emerge with a deep inhale. Settling my forearms on the side and resting my chin on my arm, I take breath after breath, letting the water lap at me before it slows to a gentle ebb. I push up, jumping onto the side and wringing out my hair. Midnight is my favourite time to swim, when the city is asleep and it’s just me and the water. As I strip out of my costume and reach for my towel, a dark shadow crosses my peripheral. I jump, fumbling to tie my towel around me before looking around. I’m alone, and there’s no other sound. Perhaps it was an animal outside, casting a shadow through the windows of the complex. I convince myself that’s the case, taking a deep breath and turning around before colliding with a wall I hadn’t noticed when I stopped at the bench.

  “Hello,” the wall says as I shake my head and gather my bearings.

  “H-hi.”

  My eyes fix on a wall of skin and muscle—golden skin and tight muscle. Then my gaze travels up, over smooth strong pecs, a clavicle that makes my mouth water, over a neck with a visible pulse, and to a face that stuns me.

  “Hi,” I say again, looking into his grey-blue eyes and taking a step back. “Sorry, I thought I was alone.”

  “I like to swim at night,” he says.

  His voice, smooth and raspy, deep and hoarse, sweeps over me and makes me giddy. I’ve always had a thing for Americans, the smooth take-no-prisoners accent of someone from across the pond. His accent is strange; clipped but relaxed, smooth yet aggressive. Just from the few simple words he’s spoken, he’s confused me and captured my attention.

  “Cooper Jennings,” he says with a nod.

  “Erin Thompson,” I reply, taking another step back to put some distance between us.

  He doesn’t move to touch me, and there’s a tension in his body that tells me he doesn’t do the physical contact thing. He was momentarily stunned when I turned and walked into him, like he wasn’t expecting the touch, and he didn’t welcome it, either.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” I say, pulling my towel tighter around me, conscious of the nakedness underneath. “I like to swim alone.”

  “Not with your team?”

  I still. Did I need to introduce myself? He knows who I am. He knows I once had a team, participated and competed as a four-piece.

  “I don’t swim professionally anymore. I swim alone.”

  “So do I.”

  “Are you new here?” I shake my head. No, I don’t have time to hang around and talk to this intrusive stranger. “Actually, I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  He nods once, but doesn’t move. He’s waiting for me to leave, and I want to run. But a part of me wants to stay. Most of me wants to stay, but my watch buzzes with the reminder that I have somewhere to be.

  I take a step back and slip into my flip-flops. He watches me. I can feel his gaze penetrating my towel, but I have no idea if it’s in interest or indifference. It’s just intense, and it stuns me. I turn back to him, to smile and say goodbye, but the way he glares at me, his grey eyes swirling like a summer storm from beneath a hooded brow, makes me catch my breath.

  “Uh…it was nice to meet you,” I stutter, walking backwards until I’m at a safe distance.

  “See you around, Erin.”

  I have a feeling he didn’t say that just because it’s a thing people say. Like ‘see you soon’, although it’ll be six months before you see them again. Cooper said it like it was a promise, like I’ll be seeing him around, without a shadow of a doubt. It frightens me, and excites me, and I feel like I need to swim all over again to rid me of the tension meeting him has twisted me up in.

  “Yeah.”

  I turn and walk towards the changing rooms, making sure I choose a cubicle that locks, and standing on the bench inside
to get dressed; what if Cooper comes looking for me with a gun in his hand, or both hands braced ready to choke me to death? He has the murderer feel about him—not that I’ve ever knowingly met a murder, but I have a feeling, if it had an aura, it would be labelled Cooper Jennings. Who is he? I’ve never seen him here before; the pool is my sanctuary, and it has never been intruded on until tonight.

  Why?

  When I’m dressed, after awkwardly fumbling to change whilst crouching on the bench, I shove my stuff in my bag and creep towards the exit of the leisure centre. The only problem is, I have to pass the pool to get to the only exit I have a key for. I step out of the changing area and glance at it. Then I stop. I’ve never seen something so beautiful in my life. Cooper swims like he lives in the water. Each stroke moves through him like he has become the water. His legs move effortlessly just beneath the surface, with barely a splash, but enough strength to propel him at an impossible speed. His dark hair is slicked back like oil, moulding him to the water he’s commanded. Ripples swirl out around him, dancing as they disperse, as if in celebration that such a swimmer has joined them. He’s captivating, the way he moves through the water stunning me. In all my years of standing around a pool, watching the boys—and eventually, men—training, or competing in heats, I have never seen someone who belongs in the water like I feel I do. And he swims a hell of a lot better than me.

  Ignoring the pang of jealousy, I creep past him, walking along the length of the pool as he swims past me. I hear the stillness of the water as he stops. I feel him watching me leave. I feel whatever he’s trying to throw at me penetrating every cell in my body.

  I don’t look back.

  “Jesus, Erin,” Griffin says, pulling me into him when I meet him at the bar. “You couldn’t leave the pool be for one night?”

  Shaking my head, I smile and reach up to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  “Sorry, darling,” I say sweetly. “I just did a few lengths.”

  He scoffs but smiles, shaking his head and holding me a little tighter.

  “Just brush your hair next time.”

  I nod, agreeing, but he asks me that a lot. He’s lucky I’ve worn a dress tonight, instead of the usual gym wear I sport just in case I feel the urge to take a quick dip somewhere. I keep a swim bag in both of my cars, by the front door at our place, and in the cloakroom at my parents’—and his. Swimming is who I am and although he doesn’t get it, Griffin Masters, my fiancé, puts up with it, like I put up with his whisky obsession.

  “Drink?” he asks, tapping the bar top to get the barman’s attention. “There’s a wait on the table. I figured you’d be late.”

  “Sorry,” I say again, although I know I wasn’t late. “Yes, I’ll have a drink, please.”

  He orders another whisky for himself and a glass of wine for me, a Sauvignon from South Africa—my favourite. After instructing the barman to add two cubes of ice and a splash of soda water to my wine—just how I like it—he turns to me and studies me the way he always does. It tells me he loves me. It tells me he lusts for me. It tells me he considers himself lucky that we stumbled into each other and found a love that was a little awkward, a little clashing, but entirely real and long-lasting.

  “So, how was your day?” I ask, as he holds my hand and plays with my fingers.

  “Good. Great, actually. We settled another account and the temp Mike brought in for the week wasn’t entirely useless.”

  I laugh. “I’d say the day couldn’t have got better if you had a competent temp.”

  He chuckles, heartily and deep. “True. I might see if we can keep her on, save me from having to do all the shit I pay the temps for.”

  Griffin is a divorce lawyer. No, that’s a lie. He employs divorce lawyers, working alongside his father and working magic to make sure whichever half of soon-to-be-free couples they like most gets the better end of the deal. Mike is his office manager, my best friend and godfather to our dog, Blue, but he has the tendency to employ the most attractive temps, and not those who can actually do their job.

  “Your table is ready, sir.” The maître d’ says, stopping besides us with a subtle bow. “Would you like me to take your drinks to your table?”

  Griffin nods, handing him his whisky and my wine, grunting an almost-thank you and gesturing for him to lead the way. Griffin is an alpha male, caveman genes floating around his body like the need to hunt and gather hadn’t been eradicated millions of years ago. He still feels the need to stamp his authority, force others to bow to him, and take what he thinks is his—respect. I love him for it, for being the assertive man all women want, but I also feel uncomfortable. I’ve been waited on hand and foot my entire life, with people to tie my shoes so I didn’t pull a muscle that would stop me swimming at my best, but I hate it. Another reason why I called it a day on my career. Griffin and I follow the maître d’ to our table and I sit across from my fiancé, insisting on pulling in my own chair and pouring my own water. Griffin frowns but smiles. It was why he fell in love with me—I think, while I fell for his charisma and the banter we share behind closed doors when his reputation isn’t being assessed. Griffin has a lot of enemies and it’s as much his job to keep his arse covered as it is to split bank accounts and sell houses.

  “What’s on today, mouse?” Griffin asks, accepting the smoothie I hand him as he walks into the kitchen and pets Blue.

  “Coaching,” I reply, taking a sip of my own green tea smoothie. “I have to go over the next swim meet schedule with Rob later, so I’ll be late home after my swim.”

  “Should I be surprised by that?” he asks, cocking a brow and pulling me into him.

  I feel his morning wood press into my stomach and I smile, wishing we had the time to take care of it this morning.

  “Nope.” I fix his tie, smoothing it down his hard abs. “But I’ll make it worth the wait.”

  With a groan, Griffin captures my mouth and kisses me like he’s starving. He is. We haven’t been able to have sex for a few days, thanks to Mother Nature, and it’s killing the both of us, the way it does every twenty-eight days. Griffin is a gentleman, refusing to come while I can’t. While I hope he just gives in and agrees to try anal, or at least attempt to make me come in ways other than penetration, Griffin is old-school and won’t even masturbate. So we both suffer…until the suffering ends with a bang that lasts all night and sends us both to work exhausted.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, squeezing my arse to pull me flush against him. “You’ll be home by ten?”

  “Ten.”

  I won’t promise it, but I know Griffin will take a win if I stroll in at eleven, still wet from the pool.

  “Okay. I’ll wait up.” I also wish he’d push his bedtime back a bit. Be a bit more adventurous. I laugh—that’s what my life has come to. “Something funny?”

  “Just you. I’ll be home before bedtime.”

  “Good.” I want him to laugh away bedtime and say we’ll spend all night fucking on the couch, but he doesn’t. I didn’t expect him to. He kisses me goodbye and lets me go. “I love you.”

  “Love you,” I say, disguising my sigh as I turn back to the sink and wash out my glass.

  Griffin leaves and I sigh again, dropping my head to stare at the bottom of the stainless steel sink, as the remains of my smoothie washes down the plug, along with more of my hope for…excitement.

  Jesus, I’m selfish. Shaking my head, I remind myself I have everything I want in Griffin Masters, deciding to drop the bullshit irrelevance of ‘out of the box’ sex, and grab my gym bag off the counter before leaving the house.

  “Kick!” I shout, holding my hands to either side of my mouth to encourage the sound to travel through the water. “More power! Push harder!”

  I look down at the stopwatch in my hand, convinced she won’t make it. Ella wants to beat her personal best, but she lacks the stamina to push through until the end. With a time of 400m in eight minutes, she’s not unskilled…she just needs the motivation to do better
.

  Like me.

  “Erin, my little cherub,” Rob says, stepping next to me and tipping his head to the side to watch Ella’s turn.

  “Morning, coach.” I click the button on the side of the stopwatch to split Ella’s time. “How’s it hanging?”

  “A little to the left this morning,” he laughs at himself and I shake my head. “I thought I’d shake things up today.”

  “Too much info.” I swat him away. “Go and start the trials in lane four.”

  “Yes boss,” he mocks with a salute, but does as he’s told, calling back that he’s left me a coffee on the side.

  It’s one of the many considerate things Rob does to remind me he’s thinking of me, making me glad I went into work with him instead of running away from it all.

  Rob took me on when I was a kid. When the swimming lessons my parents put me in led to a plateau in my skill and no way to progress, he stepped in and whipped me into shape. He helped with my transition into retirement and asked me to go into business with him to train future hopeful Team GBs. He kicks my arse daily, prompting me to remember every single thing I learned when I did my coaching qualification, and he also reminds me, every single day, that I can go back to being in the pool. But I can’t. I closed that chapter of my life and now I devote my skills to helping others succeed. I can no longer compete. I promised myself that the night I threw everything away in the Olympic Village.

  The day is full of classes. I pull on my costume and the leisure centre’s logoed t-shirt and jump in the pool with the little ones to cover for Priscilla who has her teaching assessment. I head for lunch with Rob and then, when night begins to fall, our team for the meet at the weekend arrive for time trials and tweaking.

  “Yes!” I cheer, fist pumping the air as Connor, our most promising to snag a medal, steams through the water, taking no prisoners. “Yes, Connor! Push, push, push!”