No condemning eyes to continually remind of guilt.
No sneered attitudes from roommates who clash.
And sexy banter? Hell no.
But I haven’t had a still focal point, not since visiting the mariposa sanctuary for another assignment a few months back. On Demand had created commercials for the company while I illustrated the sanctuary’s brochure.
I took a million photos of butterflies.
Feeling a set of eyes on me, I look up. Outside of the picturesque window is a bicycle lane. Joggers, runners, and cyclists continue along. Bouncing tits and muscles abound at a volleyball game a little farther down.
“How’s it going?”
My shoulders jump.
“I’m so sorry,” says the owner, whose strawberry blonde hair matches her bubbly demeanor.
“No worries. Just thinking too hard.” I offer a soft smile.
“Good. I have something for that.” She holds up a cup of peach-colored slush.
“Thanks. I seriously need to add my Yelp review.” I take the cup. “Last time, I was calm as a cucumber after the other drink. Can I say that? Is that too cliché?”
She chuckles. “I was calm, too, after you helped me wheedle down a thousand potential models for my brand. The photo of the couple with the freckles, priceless.”
The redhead is prepared to continue chattering when my cellphone rings. “I’ll let you get to that.”
I smile as she walks away, answering Roslyn on the last ring.
“Ari’, you’re coming out with me tonight. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Snorting, I reply, “You answer a question for me, then I say yes, deal?”
“Sí . . . er, no. What’s the question first? How many tries do I get?”
“One.” I chortle.
“I’m your bestie. I’m familia. Let’s call it ten chances.”
“Girl, whatever. Since you’ve dated so many . . .” Men in general. “Cubans. What’s the significance of butterflies to the culture?”
“Do I get a lifeline or something?”
“Take all the lifelines you need. Get me an answer.” Again, I feel like I’m being watched. I glance across the trendy dining area of the bar. It’s all wood beams, and coal and gray finishes. Humongous floor-to-ceiling windows offer anyone outside all-access.
Roslyn seems to be fiddling with her phone while placing me on speaker. Upbeat music plays in the background. She has to be at the nightclub discussing the numbers for tonight. Then she mutters, “Sleepy Orange, White-Angled Sulphur, Cuban Kite . . .”
“Swallowtail,” I mutter with her. “Damn, Ros. You’re no help.”
“Okay, you’re reciting with me. What did you need me for?”
I slink into the empty booth. “I didn’t want you to google Cuban butterflies.”
“Shit, I was on a roll.”
Well, I doubt those butterflies have a connection to El Santo. “Has to be a symbol,” I mumble to myself.
Dominic Alverez is out. All the way out. But I don’t have the nerve to pursue El Santo tonight.
“First rule, I’m wearing pants to the club. Not some ass-crack-on-display skirt. Second, my attire is coming out of your closet. Third, when I’m ready to leave Triple Seven,” I mention the name of the club, “I’m walking out. You got that?”
Roslyn squeals into the phone.
I settle for skin-tight magenta pants and a napkin of a top. The sides of my breasts are out for all to see. Gramps would pop me with his old pipe at the sight of me, but Gram made him stop years ago.
Caterpillars, also known as fake eyelashes, lay on top of my own. Lowering my gaze to my cellphone, I notice the lashes block some of my vision. I search ‘butterfly’ plus ‘nightclub’ in Miami and in Cuba as a last-ditch effort to find a link to the serial killer. I climb out of the passenger seat of Roslyn’s car. Valet takes her keys.
A line wraps around the perimeter of the nightclub, rounding the corner. I groan at the sight of so many living, breathing humans. Inside of the buildings, sweaty bodies flush against each other. Arms raise; asses sway. On the main level, a dance floor is in the center. The place ascends three stories up. A tower-like projector of the dance floor covers the farthest wall.
On the top floor, Roslyn has a table to one side of the building. The entire section is shaped like a U. The sides parallel are for VIP lounges. The rear boasts another dance stage. Across from that is a flickering screen that spans stories high.
With the flute flush against my lips, I pause before taking a sip. Light flashes and twirls, blinding me, then dances around a male figure in the opposite VIP area. His shoulders span wide. The cut of his leather jacket hits all the right spots on his biceps. Flashing light draws around him, tantalizing every part of him aside from his face. He’s smoking. An amber light smolders then dims with each puff. When he pulls at the cigarette, warm brown skin is highlighted for a mere moment. Chiseled jaw, good lips. But I can’t quite tell if he’s staring at me.
Downing the drink, I climb back into Roslyn’s conversation. Every few minutes, my gaze magnetizes to the opposite side of the landing.
“I’ll be back.”
Roslyn pops up. “Aria, you aren’t lecturing me later for making you go to the ladies’ room alone.”
“I’m getting us drinks.” I lie.
“Why? I’ll get them free . . . Oh, okay. You have your eyes on someone.” She whispers the next part. “Text me after you get down there. If you need a save, another—”
“Text? Got it.” My head bobs slowly. A tipsy feeling runs flush across my skin.
“If you decide to take him home, text me his license, and—”
“Noooo.” I shake my head. Again, all my movements are in slow motion. Feeling a pull to the opposite side of the room, I glance over. The cinder of the cigarette lights up. My heart clutches in my throat in anticipation of viewing his entire face. Another puff of smoke thwarts my view. I make my way around the curve, being sandwiched, swayed against, groped, as I go. By the time I reach the table, the only evidence that I’m not out of my mind is the butt of a hand-rolled cigarette. Smoke ascends from the ashtray. It’s similar to the stick Dominic smoked the night he crashed into my life.
Chapter Eighteen
Aria
The next morning, instead of returning home from Roslyn’s place, I find myself at Dominic’s home. My place is a few blocks up the shore. I tell myself the need to help El Santo’s victims is the reason I’ve made the impromptu visit. I’ve showered and dressed in another one of Ros’s not-too-flashy ensembles. I look good.
“I’m only here because Dominic’s Cuban,” I tell myself. “I’ll inquire about the butterflies and their connection to his culture. That is all.”
I strut up the clay tile toward wrought iron gates. The select few times I’ve taken photos of him in the past, I climbed the stucco wall where the décor descended like steps.
At the gate, I hesitate at the thought of pressing the buzzer when the front door opens. A Latina in purple nurse’s scrubs saunters out. Shocks of long curly blonde hair whip across her face as she wheels a rollaway.