Straight ahead is an unmade queen-sized bed and a nightstand covered in miscellaneous items. From here I spot a lighter, a lava lamp, a beer can, and a couple of magazines.
Across from the bed is a small living room setup—a loveseat, cluttered coffee table, mid-century modern chair the color of olives, and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall, situated between two sizable art pieces, though in the dimly lit kitchen, I can’t make out exactly what they are or what kind of medium was used.
A brilliant blue electric guitar stands in the corner, next to a brown amplifier, and resting on top of that is a sketch pad and a box of opened pens.
“You done judging the place yet?” he asks, taking a swig of his beer. “Can we go sit down?”
“I wasn’t judging.”
“You’ve been staring at my place the way people stare at car crashes or couples who fight in public.” He treks across the room, taking a seat in his olive-green chair, elbows resting on his knees. Madden points to the loveseat beside him. “All yours.”
I take a seat as well, knees together like a lady, trying not to stare. The truth is, I think his place is actually pretty cool. It’s curated. And personal. Filled with personality. Exactly the kind of place I’d imagine a man like Madden would live. An interior decorator hasn't so much as set foot in here, and I love that.
“Good talk.” Madden slaps his thigh before getting up. Taking his phone from his pocket, he moves to his nightstand and docks it on some speaker before pulling up a music app and adjusting the volume.
Radiohead plays in the background. High and Dry, I believe it is.
“I feel like Radiohead is what guys play when they’re trying to impress a girl,” I tease, taking another drink. I can taste it this time, the bitterness settling on my tongue, but I keep a straight face.
“Who told you that?” He returns to his chair, leaning back, legs spread, eyes on me.
“No one,” I say. “It's just an observation I've made over the years.”
“From all the guys who’ve tried to impress you,” he says, not asking.
“Yep.” I take another drink.
“They all play Radiohead.” Again, he isn’t asking.
“Most. Yes.”
He scratches the side of his nose before resting his hand along his jaw, his index finger covering his upper lip. “And were you impressed?”
I squint. I haven’t the slightest idea where he’s going with this. “Not particularly. No.”
“What does it take to impress you, then?” he asks. “Inquiring minds want to know.”
“A lot more than Radiohead, I can tell you that.”
“Okay, so what’s your weakness? Fancy car? Rich dad? Trust fund? Chateau in France?”
I have half a mind to dump this beer over this asshole’s head, but I maintain my composure …
… for half a second.
“Smug bastard,” I mutter into the mouth of my beer bottle before taking a generous drink.
“I’m sorry, could you say that louder? Didn’t quite catch that over all this highly impressive Radiohead.”
Rolling my eyes, I sit the beer on the coffee table and stand. “I’m leaving.”
“Brighton.” He stands, hands out as if he’s trying to reason with me. “I was just fucking with you. If you haven’t noticed, it’s kind of what I do.”
“There’s a difference between messing with people and being cruel. I suggest you study up on that when you have the time.” Marching across the room, I slide my left foot into one of my shoes.
Before I have a chance to slip into the other shoe, the warmth of his hand hooking into the bend of my elbow captures my attention, and before I realize what’s going on, he’s turned me to face him and my back is pressed against his door.
“You going to try to kiss me again?” I ask, eyes holding his. Or maybe his are holding mine. All I know is I can’t look away. I couldn't if I tried.
“Is that what you want?”
I swallow the swell in my throat, but it returns. His hands are pressed against the door on either side of me, caging me in.
“You tell me.” I decide to beat him at his own game, now that I’m familiarizing myself with his strategy. “You suggested that I come in for a follow-up tonight. You invited me up for a beer. You’re trying to convince me to stay. I think it’s time we call a spade a spade, Madden. You want to kiss me.”
“Busted.” He smirks in the seconds before his mouth moves to mine. Only he takes his sweet time. The wait is slow—painfully slow, and I find myself sick with anticipation, air swelling my lungs until I remember to breathe.
The warmth of his lips grazes mine.
And then they’re gone.
“I'm going to be completely honest with you here, Brighton,” he says. “I want to kiss you. I want to kiss the fuck out of you. And hell, I’d do a lot more than that if given the chance. But don’t—and I repeat—don’t … try to take the upper hand from me because I’ll always get it back.”
I lick my speechless lips.
I’m pretty sure he just implied that he wanted to have sex with me and now my body is firing on all cylinders … the heat between my thighs, the hardening of my nipples, the ache dancing on my lips that only this infuriating asshole could kiss away.
“You think I’m crass,” he says.
I nod.
“You can’t decide if you want me or if you can't stand me,” he adds.
I nod.
“Feeling’s mutual,” he says. “For the record.”
“Good to know.”
“Also, for the record, I think you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I’m inclined to believe he’s messing with me again. Raising me up, just so he can drop me.
“I mean it,” he says. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
Shaking my head, I say, “I don’t. But it doesn’t matter. Flattery doesn't work on me.”
“Not trying to flatter you, the same way I wasn't trying to impress you earlier.”
“Just like you didn’t invite me up here just to put the moves on me.” My tone is laced in sarcasm.
“Put the moves on you? What year is this?” He laughs. I see now that he has dimples. Two perfectly placed dimples. How I missed them before is a mystery. And why I’m focusing on how much hotter they make Madden instead of getting up the courage to slap his ridiculously attractive face for being such a jerk, I’ll never know.
“What are we doing?” I ask with a sigh. “What is this?”
His arms fall to his sides but he doesn’t move. We’re still so close I can feel his body heat radiating onto mine. The playful glint in his eyes withers and all hint of a smirk has vanished from his perfect mouth.
“When I was a kid,” he says, “My dad gave me this net he’d found at a garage sale. I took it to the park one day and caught the most beautiful butterfly. It was one of those exotic ones, iridescent indigo outlined in the blackest black. Bright orange belly. Stunning. Took her home and happened to have this bug book, and there was a section on butterflies. This one was some rare kind mostly found in South Florida. She was a long way from home and she sure as hell didn’t belong in the Midwest, but I put her in a container so I could look at her a little longer, spend one night with her, then I was going to set her free the next day.” He stops for a second. “Next morning, she wasn’t moving much. She was still alive but a bit lethargic. I took her back to the park to set her free, watched her stretch her wings. She lingered for a little while before fluttering away, but it wasn’t a normal kind of flutter. It was almost like she was broken.” He pauses again. “I walked back after that, accepting the fact that she might not have made it home. And if she did, she might not have been the same after spending the night with me.”
Is this the meaning of my tattoo? Is this why he chose the black and blue butterfly for me? “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“Because, Brighton,” he says. “You’re the beautiful butterfly. I caught you in my net. I’ve taken you home. And I can’t promise you’re going to be the same if you spend the night with me.”
“That's where you’re wrong," I say. “I’m not fragile. I’m not going to break if you handle me too much.”
“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You say that now ...”
“You’re giving yourself too much credit. You can’t hurt me. You might be able to bruise my ego, but that’s as much damage as you’ll ever do, I can promise you that.”
Madden swallows, his expression blanketed in seriousness. “I’m only going to tell you this once, and then whatever you decide is on you.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t want this,” he says.
“Now you’re just flattering yourself.”
“I’m being serious.”
“You act like you’re some kind of monster,” I say. “But you’re just a man who happens to be a little more complicated than everyone else.”