Note from author: Racetrack gets drunk later on in the chapter and goes a
little trigger-happy with a certain word that begins with the letter f.
This is not a rated R story for nothing. Don't say I didn't give you a fair
warning. Enjoy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The zephyr spliced through the insufferably humid twilight sky. It danced across Butterfly James's face, causing her to raise her head. It caressed her hair, throwing her moonbeam waves behind her like a fluttering cape. And as soon as it had arrived, it was gone.
Butterfly James elicited a minute, sorrowful sigh.
She readjusted so that her elbows were on the cool black railing, resting her weight on it. Her gaze fell to the scene above, below her from the Brooklyn Bridge. The sky was smeared with too many colors, colors only to be seen in an artist's palette. The calm waters reflected the image, making the whole scene to resemble a seamless flood of vibrant, brilliant colors.
Along came another wind and another sigh.
She turned, twisting her torso, allowing her gaze to pick up in the faltering darkness the bowed structure of the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. It stood, like an ancient presence dotted with tiny flickers of fireflies, the lights ablaze in the lodging house spilling through the cobwebbed windows.
She cocked her head. And inside that light flooded presence was a warped bunk, neatly made, awaiting her.
Gingerly, Butterfly felt in her pockets, finally pulling out a cheap cigar. She had stolen it from Racetrack. She shrugged.
He won't miss it, she thought as she also fished out a match, picking up her left leg and striking the match off her weatherworn shoe. Cupping her hand around the cigar, she raised the other, lighting it. The tip of the cigar erupted into vivid sparks of red as she threw the match down, snubbing it with the ball of her foot, inhaling.
She felt the smoke slither down her trachea, filling her lungs. This time she didn't cough. Instead, she did like Racetrack had told her to do: blow, blow like your blowing in someone's ear. Rounding her lips and releasing her breath, she watched as a perfect circle of hazy smoke lazily drifted into the air, before disintegrating.
A smug smile spread across her lips. If only old Col could see her now. Butterfly let the corners of her mouth fall, leaning her weight on the railing more, cigar clenched between teeth, dangling fitfully.
It only he could see her now. Yet, how the hell was that possible? She was in Brooklyn. He was in.Manhattan.
An unexpected choke came from her throat and she felt the first sensation of burning tears. Why was she getting so worked up over him? He was only some goddamn newsie.only a newsie. She had broken the hearts of plenty of them, and always had gotten sweet satisfaction from it. But, now it hurt. It was difficult being on the other end of the spectrum, and having your heart shattering.
The light wind came about again, causing some of the ashes to fall on to the railing. Butterfly gazed down, staring intently at them. What the hell was she doing in Brooklyn, damn Brooklyn of all places in the entire earth? Well, for one thing, she knew that Rylie Lyner wanted her exterminated-- now. Perhaps she had been overreacting when she saw the newspaper (so ironic, isn't is? she thought bitterly. Having a rush of lust by being seduced by him, silent promises of things to come lingering in the steamy air and you find THAT goddamn particular newspaper under his pillow.) But the reference to Queens and the girl's resemblance to her had been too much not to take to heed. How Lyner had found out she had been in Manhattan was beyond her.
Well, instead of staying low you were out and about in every place known to the public with HIM, just teasing it right the hell up like a pair of lovesick lunatics. You should have stayed in the damn Dump of Refuge.
Butterfly snorted, flicking the cigar stub off the bridge and into the glimmering waters below.
No, after you talked to Skiddy that first time you should have got right the hell out of New York to play it safe. Perhaps out of the United States.
She sighed. She knew the reason that she didn't leave New York, and it hit her heart like a heavy pile of bricks.
You love Queens too much, the memories of Queens and Jimmy too much, just to run away like a dog with its tail between its legs. You thought, and still think, that somehow, just somehow some glorious miracle is going to happen and the Lyners will be conquested and fall, once and fucking for all.
Butterfly stifled a sob, pushing the back of her palm to her mouth. Hot tears made the brilliant colors a glittery blur. She missed Queens. She missed Jimmy. She missed Skiddy. She missed that damn Racetrack Higgins. She hated being on the run, being in a place of playboys and drunken parties and poker and scarlet girls. She hated being in Brooklyn. Why she had come here was beyond her. It was the first place that her feet had carried her, and she doubted that if she hadn't been semi-paying attention to her surrounding the night she and Racetrack had come to Spot Conlon's poker party that she wouldn't have come here at all.
She had arrived here only a little shy of twenty-four hours ago, and yet she missed Manhattan. Those damn newsies in the morning and those damn newsies in the evening and that goddamn Racetrack Higgins all the time.
She shut her eyes, hunched over the railing, her elbows still resting upon it, and let the tears rush forth. She didn't resist the convulsions or the broken sobs. She bent forward, resting her forehead on the railing, perching her palms in her flaxen hair, and bending her right knee, placing her weight on the latter.
How long she stood there weeping was beyond her. Yet, it was when she heard the faint, concerned murmurs that she quieted and raised her head up, finding that night had fallen and the cold stars were out. A newsie with a bright shock of red hair and crimson lipstick smothered over his freckled face had his arms around a girl with a glossy auburn mane. They stood, gazes draped over her, concern rearranged on their features.
Butterfly straightened, smoothing her collar shirt that was tied at the abdomen. A solitary choke arose from her throat before she placed her hands in front of her, sheepish and forced smile on her lips. "It's okay.I'm okay."
"Are you sure?" the girl asked in a sweet New York accent.
Butterfly nodded, running a hand through her hair, moving away from the railing and the couple and towards the lodging house. "Yeah, yeah. I'm sure."
The girl nodded and smiled.
Butterfly returned an image of the smile, yet void of emotion. She turned, beginning the motion with her head, and began to stride towards the lodging house. The sound of the couple's passionate kisses and the redhead's soft moans filled her ears. She tried to block the sounds and the tears, for they conjured the painful mental pictures of Racetrack's and her embraces.
Involuntarily, she placed a finger to her lips, trying to remember every sound, every taste, every smell. Her eyes closed and a soft smile crept up her lips as she remembered, euphoria pulsating throughout every fiber in her body.
She was about to elicit a soft noise when a sharp growl filled her ears, dashing the sensations.
"Hey, watch where da hell ya goin'!"
She emitted a gasp, her eyes immediately fluttering open. She stood at the bottom step of the entrance of the lodging house. A thuggish newsie was giving her the evil eye, a drunken blonde tittering uncontrollably, slung over his broad shoulder. Butterfly sidestepped him, moving out of his path, placing her hands in front of her. The newsie snorted and the blonde hiccoughed through her hysterics as he trudged his way down the steps.
Butterfly's breath was released as a whoosh. Her gaze then fell to the lodging house.
My, my, my, good old Mr. Conlon must be having one HELL of a social get together tonight.
More like intoxicated orgy. Butterfly had to tip toe up the steps just to reach the porch, due to the impossible positions the wasted couples were able to contort to in their displays of affection. The hoards of girls on the porch just reassured Butterfly's notions that this poker party was much, much diverse than the one she had attended before. This one was in the category of sex, please.
Butterfly's gaze was so focused on one audacious couple in a chair on the bright porch that she was almost knocked over do to a young man's convulsions of ecstasy in the doorway. She let out an oath and a cry. Enough was enough. All she wanted was her ratty bunk.
Jaw set and temper visibly rising, she roughly pushed her way past the drunken party goers, dodged the ones draped on the stairs to the second floor, and angrily strode down the hallway, splintered boards whining and creaking under her weight, until she reached the little green door which marked Spot Conlon's room. When she had arrived here last night in hysterics, Spot had been drunk out of his mind yet had made the oh-so-wise decision that the bunkroom with all the other guys would be too rough on Butterfly, so she could shack up with him.
She shuttered and rolled her eyes. He most likely thought that they would be sharing the SAME bunk, yet Butterfly made it visibly clear last night that she intended not to enter any form of relations with him when she had sat crouched on the top bunk, throwing paraphernalia at him when he tried on numerous attempts to slither up the bunk.
With a screech, the knob turned and Butterfly pushed her weight against the door. Light from the bright hallway flooded the room, as she was not quite paying attention to the surroundings.
"SHUT DA DAMN DOOR! SHUT DA DAMN DOOR!"
She heard the bellows just as she had slid off her right shoe with her left heel. She jumped and let out an ear-shattering scream and stumbled back. Still breathing heavily with utter surprise, she allowed her gaze to narrow and fall on the two figures in the bed.
The white light bathed on the nude figures of Spot Conlon and Anytime Annie Murphy. Spot was arched over Annie, the moth-eaten, twisted sheets covering his lower section. They both shared in wide eyes and gaping mouths as they sat up, Annie fumbling to pull the covers over her exposed flesh. Spot's blue eyes shimmered in disbelief, his brown hair sticking up at all ends, his entire body smattered with the same shade of fire engine red lipstick that had once adored Anytime's lips.
Butterfly's disbelieving eyes immediately fell to Annie. Annie. Racetrack's girl. And here she was in Spot Conlon's bed.
If it walks like a slut and talks like a slut and dresses like a slut then it probably is a slut reverberated through her brain.
Her eyes suddenly narrowed and glimmered and her cheeks turned a wonderful stain of crimson to match Annie's mussed spirals. She felt her firsts clench at her sides and her jaw set.
Spot still stared at her with comical disbelief. "Housefly, shut da goddamn door!"
Annie, wearing a mask of surprise, sharply turned her head to face Spot. "You know her?" she shrilly asked.
Spot's gaze flickered between both girls. "Yeah.no.she's stayin' here."
Annie's eyebrows exaggeratedly arched as she pulled away from Spot. "Stayin' here? Stayin' here? Why da hell is she stayin' here?"
Spot simply stammered in reply and Annie emitted a frustrated snort, turning her angry glare to Butterfly. "You are stayin' here?"
Butterfly saw red and saw Annie Murphy. And saw the glorious mental picture of stalking over to the bunk, grabbing the damn girl by the hair and beating the living daylights out of her. Instead, Butterfly centered her weight, narrowed her eyes, and cocked her head. "Why are you stayin' here?" she growled in a low rumble.
Annie's eyes turned to slits as she started to arise from the bed, and suddenly, it seemed as though an emotion washed through her. Her features rearranged so her green eyes grew huge, her mouth gaped, and she moaned, "Oh no!"
"What?" Spot barked, tugging more covers away from Annie.
Anytime absentmindedly shook her head, staring blankly at the floor. She then connected gazes with Butterfly. "I.I know her. She knows Racetrack."
Apparently, Spot didn't share in the same reaction as Annie. Smugness lit up his face as he reclined back in the bed.
Butterfly allowed her gaze to wander to Spot and see his chauvinistic features, and she cast a disgusted look to him. "Impossible," she breathlessly whispered.
Annie, sitting on the edge of the bunk, head dangling between her legs, suddenly snapped her neck up, jade eyes glittering and spirals bouncing. "What's impossible?" she retorted in a semi-snarl.
Butterfly dropped her jaw in incredulity. "This!" she hissed, motioning to the illicit scene of Annie and Spot.
Anytime raised a perfectly arched brow. "This?" she asked in a low voice, straightening slowly. "This?" Her features were a mixture of anger and smugness. "This is impossible? What about you and Race? I saw da way you were lookin' at him with those lovesick little eyes, stupid little bitch."
"-slut!" Butterfly hissed in unison with Annie.
Both females shot hateful daggers with their set glares as Spot listlessly watched.
Annie was first to speak. "Oh, no? Den why are ya getting so woiked up about me and Spot?"
Butterfly felt as though a rug had been pulled from under feet, as though she had been punched in the stomach. She had been caught off guard. What was wrong with this scene? Annie was with Race. But Annie was sleeping with Spot. Annie was of course being a little whore, but couldn't Butterfly be called a hypocrite? Racetrack was not hers, he was technically with Annie. Yet, he had embraced Butterfly.wasn't he deceiving Annie with her?
Butterfly suddenly felt dirty. Was I acting like his little mistress? No. She shook the notion from her head.
Annie Murphy is the whore, not you. She does not love Spot, but you and Race.
Her jade and sapphire eyes narrowed as she felt her cheeks flame up. "Why am I getting' woiked up? Because Racetrack Higgins is my friend and he is goin' with a goddamn whore! That's why, you bitch!"
In another situation, it would have been very comical the way Annie Murphy's face twisted in impossible anger and her face deepened to accent her scarlet curls. With a scream and an oath, she was off the bed, her bare body slamming Butterfly breathlessly into the doorframe, her hands clutching the latter's neck.
Annie elicited shrill curses and Butterfly wheezed, gasping for air. Spot seemed to have come out of his drunken stupor for a moment, for he pushed off the bunk and dashed over to the pair, bellowing and desperately trying to push them apart.
"Annie, Annie, STOP IT!" he hollered, releasing Butterfly from the grasp, pushing hard on Annie, causing her to fall with a thud on the splintered floor.
Butterfly stumbled backwards, grasping her red throat, vacuuming in the glorious air. Spot's gaze flickered between them both before his glare fell to Annie. Anytime's eyes were narrowed into slits, her cheeks highlighted with maroon, her heavy breathing causing her bare flesh to shudder.
"What da-hic--HELL was-hic--dat 'bout?"
A unison gasp permeated the room as all three jumped, quickly averting their eyes to the door.
The newsie Butterfly recognized from the chair on the porch was stumbling about in the doorway with a daft smile on his lips, his arms around a hysterical with laughter blonde. Oh, the tittering blonde.
Spot suddenly realized his nudity, and quickly placed his hands in strategic places. "Whitie!" he hissed. "What da hell are you doin' here?"
Whitie stumbled back, the light catching the glitter-shot whisky bottle he held in his hand, almost falling backwards, causing the blonde to snicker even more. "Well-hic-me and--what's-hic-ya name?"
The blonde doubled over in drunken laughter. "Charley!"
"Oh, right-hic! Barley."
"Charley!"
"Parley."
The blonde was on her knees, hysterical and blinded by tears. "Charley!"
Whitie's glazed-over eyes fell to Spot, wearing the same stupid smile. He held Charley loosely by the arm as she fell into convulsions over the mere trifle on the ground. "Charley-hic-and me were getting-hic-to know each odduh in da oddah-hic-what was it, Charley?"
"Da room?" Charley howled.
"RIGHT!" Whitie cried, nearly stumbling over Charley. "Well-hic-What's-er- Name and me were-hic-getting to know each odduh in da room when we heard- hic-a, what's it called?"
"Noise?" the blonde replied.
"YEAH! NOISE! And I didn't know what it was-hic-an', an' What's-er-Name didn't know eithah, so we thought we'd come see what'smatter."
For some odd reason, a reason that remained illusive from all others in the room, Whitie and his blonde Charley found this so hysterical that he fell to his knees beside her, dropping the whisky bottle, causing it to shatter into a thousand shards on the floor. Their intoxicated, high pitched titters arose even more due to this, and Whitie crawled over to the shards, wheezing and with tears in his eyes, picking up the shards, letting them sift through his fingers. Charley's laughter came out shrill and Whitie joined in with deep honks.
In less than thirty seconds they were passed out stone cold in the doorway.
Spot furrowed his brow and uttered a disgusted sigh, striding over to the doorway, nudging Whitie's limp arm out of the doorway, slamming the door. He turned around, his eyes glinting, as he stooped down, reaching for his trousers that had been previously flung carelessly on the floor in a fit of drunken passion.
"Now, what da HELL was all dat about?" he snapped, gaze slowly flickering between the two.
Butterfly cast her eyes to Annie, unhappily sprawled on the ground and about to open her mouth when Butterfly turned to Spot, uttering the first thing that came to thought, anything just to get in words before that slut.
"Itsnotrightdayafuckinyabestfriendsgoil."
Incredibly, both Annie and Spot shared in the same expression: both dropped their jaws and heated to a delicious shade of crimson only because it was their natural reaction to something said so bluntly, so poignantly. Yet, it was when Spot began to stammer that Annie erupted into a terrible sigh of repulsion.
Both turned to her to witness her shaking her head, her glinting spirals bouncing about, awkwardly arising from the floor. It was only Annie's abrupt huffs that filled the air as she went about, scooping up her strewn articles of clothing, hurriedly redressing herself. When the last chartreuse stiletto had been placed on its rightful foot, she strutted over to first Spot to call him a wonderful string of oaths and then she halted in front of Butterfly, jade eyes glowering.
"Honey, you may think ya cute, playin' all dese little games and thinkin' dat ya so goddamn innocent. Sure, I may be fucking Spot and sure you may call me a slut. But I am still Racetrack Higgins's goil. And ya not. Play innocent all ya want, but I see it in ya eyes. Crazy for 'im, ya are. Ya jealous out of you mind ovah me. Jist think dis question ovah: am I da only slut in dis room?"
And with that, Anytime Annie Murphy brushed past Butterfly, disappearing in a flurry of bouncing hair and intoxicating lavender perfume.
Butterfly listened to the erratic clicking of the heels down the shrieking floorboards of the hallway, listened until they disappeared.
And then she felt the atrocious lump manifest itself in her throat and the hot, acidly tears start to form in the creases of her eyes and Annie's words echoed through her head:
Jist think dis question ovah: am I da only slut in dis room?
The words were like a dagger through her heart and the tears and convulsions and sobs came back yet again. She stumbled about near the doorway, nearly tripping over the bodies of Whitie and the blonde, when Spot let out a cry and came behind her, catching her under the arms.
"Whoa!" he said softly, awkwardly, as though trying to console her.
Jist think dis question ovah: am I da only slut in dis room?
The tears came harder and the sobs louder and more broken, her straw- colored hair falling in front of her face.
She felt Spots hand on her shoulder as he guided her, pushing her down on the bunk. She involuntarily complied, propping her elbows on her thighs and burying her tear-stained face in her hands.
Spot's words managed to find their way to her through the timbre of the audible hysterics.
"Are ya cryin' ovah what Annie said? Dat ya a slut foah likin' Race?"
And then a remarkable thing occurred. Butterfly James's mind cleared for a moment, as she realized that at this very minute she would gladly release any of the deepest, darkest secrets hiding under lock and key in the abyss of her heart, rather than come out and blatantly reveal her feelings about Racetrack Higgins, just proving Annie Murphy all the more right.
So, instead, she said, "If you were Sarah Sprites and Rylie Lynah wanted you dead, you'd been in damn hysterics, too!"
Butterfly didn't realize the extent of what she had uttered until the silence in the room seemed to be prolonged for what seemed like years. She spread he fingers and glanced at Spot, her heart immediately spotting and her breathing bating.
He stared at her, polar blue eyes wide and unblinking, face cadaver-like in the shade of off-white it took on, mouth burnt open and jaw dropped.
"What?" she cried, her sobs dying.
Spot Conlon only retained his look of shock.
"What?" she shrieked, throwing her hands to her sides. What had she said?
Animation found him again as his large eyes blinked and opened and his mouth closed. "Sarah Sprites," he murmured as though not believing his words. "You said dat you were Sarah Sprites."
And Butterfly froze. Her blood chilled, her pulse grew paralysed, and her breathing was murdered.
Sarah Sprites. He said Sarah Sprites. You said Sarah Sprites. WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY? her mind screamed.
"What did I say?" she numbly asked.
As though, like an animal that had been spooked by some unknown assailant, Spot Conlon jumped, jumped off the chair that he rode backwards, knocking it to the ground with a clatter. Disbelief and anger dominated his face. "Whoa, you'se Sarah Sprites?"
Butterfly stared up at him, unable to respond for the life of her.
"Sarah Sprites.Jimmy Sprites's sistah?"
When she didn't reply, he grabbed her wrists, causing her to jump. "Are you Sarah Sprites? Jimmy Sprites's sistah?"
Without anything else to say, Butterfly cast her gaze to his feet, reluctantly murmuring, "Yes."
She felt him drop her wrists as they fell limp to her sides.
"Sarah Sprites. Sarah Sprites. Sarah fucking Sprites. Jesus, I can't believe it's you." he stopped pacing. "Do ya know dat Rylie Lynah is lookin' foah ya? Wants ya dead!"
Butterfly felt a suddenly overwhelming wave of hate, and anger, and sadness as she felt the ball of fury start to well in her stomach. And it burst just like a balloon overfilled with helium. "YOU DON'T UNDAHSTAND!" she screeched, leaping off the bunk, the tears coming again.
Spot stepped back, clearly surprised by her reaction.
"You don't undahstand! No one undahstands! Don't you t'ink dat I know Rylie Lyner is lookin' foah me? The sonofabitch ruined my life! Demolished it! He took away da only thing that I evah loved in the woild-me bruddah!" The sheer abundance of tears was making the outline of Spot hazy now. "I was on the streets, in da House of Refuge. I nevah thought dat life could git any worse than dat.den I hear he has a bounty on my head." A high-pitched laugh permeated the thick air. "A bounty? And I should hide. What was I gonna do? Hide? Where da hell would a goil hide? WHERE? Where." her bellows subsided as emotion flooded over her, causing her to sink to the floor in absolute sobs.
The splintered boards creaked under his weight as Spot joined her. "When ya came here--if I'da knew dat ya were Jimmy's sistah-- If I'da knew--"
Butterfly's weeps were too intense to allow a reply. "Jimmy was good. Jimmy was damn good, Sarah," Spot said softly.
With that, Butterfly leaned over, her forehead touching the rough floor. Great, fantastic emotions and memories coursed through her entire being, they were too immense, just too fantastic. He had called her Sarah.
****** Racetrack Higgins felt his throat recoil, constrict. It felt, as though is whole body were on fire.
A soft groan resonated from beside him, as Annie Murphy pressed her perspiration-slicked body next to his, allowing him to inhale the musky scent of her skin.
He felt her mouth next to his ear, her hot breath enter his canal. "Oh, Race, why didn't we do dat befoah?" Her voice was husky as she ran a finger down his chest. Race felt a shiver tango its way down his spine.
When he didn't reply, he felt her take his chin roughly in her hand and press her lips to her mouth. He tasted the sex on her breath, but not his. No, someone else's.
She pulled away, slowly, causing a puckering sound to occur. He felt her lush lips on his neck, on his shoulders, on his chest, on his thighs.
"Tell me the story, again."
Annie abruptly stopped, raising her head. "What?" she asked, throwing her crimson hair out of her face.
"The story," he replied automatically, casting his eyes from the cracked ceiling to her.
Irritation seemed to fill the smooth creases of her face, but a half-smile came to her full, red lips as she slithered her way back up the bed, her elbows on either side of Racetrack.
"Oh, baby," she pouted, her lips finding his flesh, "why do ya want to here dat stupid 'iddle story again."
"Tell it," he growled, causing Annie's head to jerk up, her spirals bouncing with the after shock.
"Alright," she sighed. "As I said befoah I was ovah in Brooklyn meetin' some of me goilfriends, and I see dat Spot is havin' a pahty and I go inside to say hello. Ain't nowhere to be seen, I so check his room. Open the door and whaddya know, going away wit some blonde. I gasp and they look up, and whaddya know--"she lowered her voice and whispered into his ear in sultry satisfaction. "it's ya liddle friend from da odduh day undah him, what's her name.Buttahfly?"
Her smile heightened as she felt Race shudder under her. "Buttahfly," Racetrack echoed wearily.
Annie nodded. "Uh-huh. Dat's da one." She emitted an exaggerated sigh. "Can't imagin' what she was doin' in Brooklyn, but what d'ya know!" Her laughter was light like a tinkling bell. "Spot's been laid by nearly lady in New Yawk. Go figyah."
Racetrack was so utterly numb with disbelief that he allowed Annie's lips to return to his sweat-covered flesh. It was only she sighed, sat up, and said something in the context of, "Wow, Race, I still can't believe dat we nevah did dis befoah. Course, we WILL be doin' it again." that he acknowledged her presence and mumbled a reply.
The bunk creaked under her weight as she arose and then collected her garments from the floor. In a matter of minutes, she was dressed. She bent over him, pressing her lips to his, plunging her tongue into his mouth, before she pulled away. A smile sinister in nature under the skin was on her face. "Bye, baby."
Racetrack had sat up and hurriedly was groping for the whiskey flask on the bedside table even before the clicking of Annie's chartreuse stilettos had disappeared.
****** Amazingly, it felt as though an incredible weight had been lifted.
Butterfly James sat with her head resting against the scraped wooden frame of Spot's bunk, her knees bent. He sat in the old wooden chair, straddling it backwards, chin cradled in hand.
The only sound was their rhythmic breathing. The atmosphere had long since quieted down, ever since fed up citizens had called the boys citing noise disruption. The boys were sent to bed and the girls were sent off.
"Sarah?"
Butterfly twitched as though a current of electricity had been send through her body. She was not used by being called by that name.
"Yes?" she replied, her eyes falling to him.
A thoughtful look adorned his face. "Why does Rylie want ya dead now? I mean, if he wanted ya dead, he could have killed ya in that two years befoah he placed da bounty on ya head. If he really wanted ya dead, he would have jumped in da rivah aftah ya--"
Butterfly snorted. "Beats me. Skiddy Sniper found me aftah I had been in da House of Refuge and said dat all da guys were revolting, ya know, tryin' to separate da Sprites newsies from da Lynah newsies again. Woid is dat Rylie was gettin' scared because he knew dat dey had da will-powah, dat dey would break away. I think dat he figyaed dat if he killed off Jimmy''s sistah, dat dat would send some kind of.I don't know.shock through 'em and make 'em stop." She sighed. "I haven't hoid anything about Queens in a few weeks." Spot only uttered a thoughtful sound before he averted his eyes to the ground and silence one again filled the room. After a few moments, he made a noise as though he wanted to continue the palaver and Butterfly looked up, but he stopped, as they both heard what like faint cries from coming outside.
Their eyes connected. The yells got closer and clearer. They could both make out one word: Butterfly.
Butterfly pushed off from the ground and Spot arose from the chair, as the former carefully strode through the door, through the whining hallway, and down the dying steps.
Her inferences were correct. She could hear her name being called.
Butterfly's eyes narrowed in curiosity and her heels picked up as she reached the foyer. Though a wall barricaded her from the anonymous person, she could articulate the bellows perfectly.
"Buttahfly! Buttahfly! Buttahfly James! I fucked Annie! I fucked er hahd and long!"
Butterfly felt her stomach drop. "Oh, God!" she hissed in a low voice, running the rest of the distance, and quickly tugging open the door to the lodging house.
Her intuition had been correct. "Oh, God," she cried softly, the humid night air soaking into her skin.
Racetrack Higgins was stumbling about in front of the lodging house adorned in only trousers, the suspenders hanging down his sides and a whisky flask clasp loosely in his hand, glittering in the moonlight.
She felt the pangs and felt the tears and felt the overwhelming emotions. She desperately desired to run down there and be in his embrace and smother him with kisses.
Yet, something held her back, shaking in the doorway of the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House.
"Can! While you were fucking good ole Spotty boy, I was fucking Annie! How bout dat?"
She shook her head, trying to banish the hateful sounds. Yet, she only felt her heart being ripped out of her chest. And she forced herself to reply.
"What do you want, Racetrack?"
Racetrack threw his arms back in the white moonlight. "What do I want? A nice fuck, dat's what!"
Butterfly couldn't deny the tears that found their way down her cheeks. "This isn't you, Race. This isn't you. It's the alcohol," she whispered. "Go away," she called, as steadily as her voice would allow her.
Race wore an expression of mock shock. "Go 'way? Go 'way? Go where? Okay, I go 'way. Jist wanted to tell ya, Canny, dat I fucked Annie. Yup. I did."
Butterfly knew that she was being gutted alive. "GO AWAY, RACETRACK!" she shrieked through the marvelous sobs, slamming the door with a shudder, and falling against it.
The convulsions ravaged her body and she nearly collapsed. Her eyes fluttered open.
Spot was standing in front of her, a solemn, sad look on his face.
Dying inside, Butterfly sobbed and ran, crashing into Spot, relishing in the warmth of his flesh. She didn't give a damn as he pulled her close, as his mouth pressed against hers. She relished in the fever and the taste.
A faint moan escaped her lips as she felt his fingers caress through her hair. The exchange grew deeper as she twisted her appendages about Spot. Her sobs and sounds of pleasure combined gloriously as he lead her blindly into the parlor, where they fell over armrest of a threadbare couch.
Spot's knee pressed into Butterfly's abdomen as she feverishly rid him of his suspenders.
She cried out when he thrust his tongue in her mouth, and as he undid the knot of fabric at her abdomen.
Oh, God, Race.what about Race? Butterfly's mind cried.
Spot's kisses became harder.
She remembered reading in a hocked dictionary once about a word she was trying to think of. It fit her do correctly at the moment.
Spot was freeing of her of the hindrance called suspenders, his salty lips pressing more passionately into hers.
What was that damn word?
Spot was unbuttoning the uppermost buttons of her collar shirt.
It finally occurred to Butterfly.
Oh, fickle.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The zephyr spliced through the insufferably humid twilight sky. It danced across Butterfly James's face, causing her to raise her head. It caressed her hair, throwing her moonbeam waves behind her like a fluttering cape. And as soon as it had arrived, it was gone.
Butterfly James elicited a minute, sorrowful sigh.
She readjusted so that her elbows were on the cool black railing, resting her weight on it. Her gaze fell to the scene above, below her from the Brooklyn Bridge. The sky was smeared with too many colors, colors only to be seen in an artist's palette. The calm waters reflected the image, making the whole scene to resemble a seamless flood of vibrant, brilliant colors.
Along came another wind and another sigh.
She turned, twisting her torso, allowing her gaze to pick up in the faltering darkness the bowed structure of the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. It stood, like an ancient presence dotted with tiny flickers of fireflies, the lights ablaze in the lodging house spilling through the cobwebbed windows.
She cocked her head. And inside that light flooded presence was a warped bunk, neatly made, awaiting her.
Gingerly, Butterfly felt in her pockets, finally pulling out a cheap cigar. She had stolen it from Racetrack. She shrugged.
He won't miss it, she thought as she also fished out a match, picking up her left leg and striking the match off her weatherworn shoe. Cupping her hand around the cigar, she raised the other, lighting it. The tip of the cigar erupted into vivid sparks of red as she threw the match down, snubbing it with the ball of her foot, inhaling.
She felt the smoke slither down her trachea, filling her lungs. This time she didn't cough. Instead, she did like Racetrack had told her to do: blow, blow like your blowing in someone's ear. Rounding her lips and releasing her breath, she watched as a perfect circle of hazy smoke lazily drifted into the air, before disintegrating.
A smug smile spread across her lips. If only old Col could see her now. Butterfly let the corners of her mouth fall, leaning her weight on the railing more, cigar clenched between teeth, dangling fitfully.
It only he could see her now. Yet, how the hell was that possible? She was in Brooklyn. He was in.Manhattan.
An unexpected choke came from her throat and she felt the first sensation of burning tears. Why was she getting so worked up over him? He was only some goddamn newsie.only a newsie. She had broken the hearts of plenty of them, and always had gotten sweet satisfaction from it. But, now it hurt. It was difficult being on the other end of the spectrum, and having your heart shattering.
The light wind came about again, causing some of the ashes to fall on to the railing. Butterfly gazed down, staring intently at them. What the hell was she doing in Brooklyn, damn Brooklyn of all places in the entire earth? Well, for one thing, she knew that Rylie Lyner wanted her exterminated-- now. Perhaps she had been overreacting when she saw the newspaper (so ironic, isn't is? she thought bitterly. Having a rush of lust by being seduced by him, silent promises of things to come lingering in the steamy air and you find THAT goddamn particular newspaper under his pillow.) But the reference to Queens and the girl's resemblance to her had been too much not to take to heed. How Lyner had found out she had been in Manhattan was beyond her.
Well, instead of staying low you were out and about in every place known to the public with HIM, just teasing it right the hell up like a pair of lovesick lunatics. You should have stayed in the damn Dump of Refuge.
Butterfly snorted, flicking the cigar stub off the bridge and into the glimmering waters below.
No, after you talked to Skiddy that first time you should have got right the hell out of New York to play it safe. Perhaps out of the United States.
She sighed. She knew the reason that she didn't leave New York, and it hit her heart like a heavy pile of bricks.
You love Queens too much, the memories of Queens and Jimmy too much, just to run away like a dog with its tail between its legs. You thought, and still think, that somehow, just somehow some glorious miracle is going to happen and the Lyners will be conquested and fall, once and fucking for all.
Butterfly stifled a sob, pushing the back of her palm to her mouth. Hot tears made the brilliant colors a glittery blur. She missed Queens. She missed Jimmy. She missed Skiddy. She missed that damn Racetrack Higgins. She hated being on the run, being in a place of playboys and drunken parties and poker and scarlet girls. She hated being in Brooklyn. Why she had come here was beyond her. It was the first place that her feet had carried her, and she doubted that if she hadn't been semi-paying attention to her surrounding the night she and Racetrack had come to Spot Conlon's poker party that she wouldn't have come here at all.
She had arrived here only a little shy of twenty-four hours ago, and yet she missed Manhattan. Those damn newsies in the morning and those damn newsies in the evening and that goddamn Racetrack Higgins all the time.
She shut her eyes, hunched over the railing, her elbows still resting upon it, and let the tears rush forth. She didn't resist the convulsions or the broken sobs. She bent forward, resting her forehead on the railing, perching her palms in her flaxen hair, and bending her right knee, placing her weight on the latter.
How long she stood there weeping was beyond her. Yet, it was when she heard the faint, concerned murmurs that she quieted and raised her head up, finding that night had fallen and the cold stars were out. A newsie with a bright shock of red hair and crimson lipstick smothered over his freckled face had his arms around a girl with a glossy auburn mane. They stood, gazes draped over her, concern rearranged on their features.
Butterfly straightened, smoothing her collar shirt that was tied at the abdomen. A solitary choke arose from her throat before she placed her hands in front of her, sheepish and forced smile on her lips. "It's okay.I'm okay."
"Are you sure?" the girl asked in a sweet New York accent.
Butterfly nodded, running a hand through her hair, moving away from the railing and the couple and towards the lodging house. "Yeah, yeah. I'm sure."
The girl nodded and smiled.
Butterfly returned an image of the smile, yet void of emotion. She turned, beginning the motion with her head, and began to stride towards the lodging house. The sound of the couple's passionate kisses and the redhead's soft moans filled her ears. She tried to block the sounds and the tears, for they conjured the painful mental pictures of Racetrack's and her embraces.
Involuntarily, she placed a finger to her lips, trying to remember every sound, every taste, every smell. Her eyes closed and a soft smile crept up her lips as she remembered, euphoria pulsating throughout every fiber in her body.
She was about to elicit a soft noise when a sharp growl filled her ears, dashing the sensations.
"Hey, watch where da hell ya goin'!"
She emitted a gasp, her eyes immediately fluttering open. She stood at the bottom step of the entrance of the lodging house. A thuggish newsie was giving her the evil eye, a drunken blonde tittering uncontrollably, slung over his broad shoulder. Butterfly sidestepped him, moving out of his path, placing her hands in front of her. The newsie snorted and the blonde hiccoughed through her hysterics as he trudged his way down the steps.
Butterfly's breath was released as a whoosh. Her gaze then fell to the lodging house.
My, my, my, good old Mr. Conlon must be having one HELL of a social get together tonight.
More like intoxicated orgy. Butterfly had to tip toe up the steps just to reach the porch, due to the impossible positions the wasted couples were able to contort to in their displays of affection. The hoards of girls on the porch just reassured Butterfly's notions that this poker party was much, much diverse than the one she had attended before. This one was in the category of sex, please.
Butterfly's gaze was so focused on one audacious couple in a chair on the bright porch that she was almost knocked over do to a young man's convulsions of ecstasy in the doorway. She let out an oath and a cry. Enough was enough. All she wanted was her ratty bunk.
Jaw set and temper visibly rising, she roughly pushed her way past the drunken party goers, dodged the ones draped on the stairs to the second floor, and angrily strode down the hallway, splintered boards whining and creaking under her weight, until she reached the little green door which marked Spot Conlon's room. When she had arrived here last night in hysterics, Spot had been drunk out of his mind yet had made the oh-so-wise decision that the bunkroom with all the other guys would be too rough on Butterfly, so she could shack up with him.
She shuttered and rolled her eyes. He most likely thought that they would be sharing the SAME bunk, yet Butterfly made it visibly clear last night that she intended not to enter any form of relations with him when she had sat crouched on the top bunk, throwing paraphernalia at him when he tried on numerous attempts to slither up the bunk.
With a screech, the knob turned and Butterfly pushed her weight against the door. Light from the bright hallway flooded the room, as she was not quite paying attention to the surroundings.
"SHUT DA DAMN DOOR! SHUT DA DAMN DOOR!"
She heard the bellows just as she had slid off her right shoe with her left heel. She jumped and let out an ear-shattering scream and stumbled back. Still breathing heavily with utter surprise, she allowed her gaze to narrow and fall on the two figures in the bed.
The white light bathed on the nude figures of Spot Conlon and Anytime Annie Murphy. Spot was arched over Annie, the moth-eaten, twisted sheets covering his lower section. They both shared in wide eyes and gaping mouths as they sat up, Annie fumbling to pull the covers over her exposed flesh. Spot's blue eyes shimmered in disbelief, his brown hair sticking up at all ends, his entire body smattered with the same shade of fire engine red lipstick that had once adored Anytime's lips.
Butterfly's disbelieving eyes immediately fell to Annie. Annie. Racetrack's girl. And here she was in Spot Conlon's bed.
If it walks like a slut and talks like a slut and dresses like a slut then it probably is a slut reverberated through her brain.
Her eyes suddenly narrowed and glimmered and her cheeks turned a wonderful stain of crimson to match Annie's mussed spirals. She felt her firsts clench at her sides and her jaw set.
Spot still stared at her with comical disbelief. "Housefly, shut da goddamn door!"
Annie, wearing a mask of surprise, sharply turned her head to face Spot. "You know her?" she shrilly asked.
Spot's gaze flickered between both girls. "Yeah.no.she's stayin' here."
Annie's eyebrows exaggeratedly arched as she pulled away from Spot. "Stayin' here? Stayin' here? Why da hell is she stayin' here?"
Spot simply stammered in reply and Annie emitted a frustrated snort, turning her angry glare to Butterfly. "You are stayin' here?"
Butterfly saw red and saw Annie Murphy. And saw the glorious mental picture of stalking over to the bunk, grabbing the damn girl by the hair and beating the living daylights out of her. Instead, Butterfly centered her weight, narrowed her eyes, and cocked her head. "Why are you stayin' here?" she growled in a low rumble.
Annie's eyes turned to slits as she started to arise from the bed, and suddenly, it seemed as though an emotion washed through her. Her features rearranged so her green eyes grew huge, her mouth gaped, and she moaned, "Oh no!"
"What?" Spot barked, tugging more covers away from Annie.
Anytime absentmindedly shook her head, staring blankly at the floor. She then connected gazes with Butterfly. "I.I know her. She knows Racetrack."
Apparently, Spot didn't share in the same reaction as Annie. Smugness lit up his face as he reclined back in the bed.
Butterfly allowed her gaze to wander to Spot and see his chauvinistic features, and she cast a disgusted look to him. "Impossible," she breathlessly whispered.
Annie, sitting on the edge of the bunk, head dangling between her legs, suddenly snapped her neck up, jade eyes glittering and spirals bouncing. "What's impossible?" she retorted in a semi-snarl.
Butterfly dropped her jaw in incredulity. "This!" she hissed, motioning to the illicit scene of Annie and Spot.
Anytime raised a perfectly arched brow. "This?" she asked in a low voice, straightening slowly. "This?" Her features were a mixture of anger and smugness. "This is impossible? What about you and Race? I saw da way you were lookin' at him with those lovesick little eyes, stupid little bitch."
"-slut!" Butterfly hissed in unison with Annie.
Both females shot hateful daggers with their set glares as Spot listlessly watched.
Annie was first to speak. "Oh, no? Den why are ya getting so woiked up about me and Spot?"
Butterfly felt as though a rug had been pulled from under feet, as though she had been punched in the stomach. She had been caught off guard. What was wrong with this scene? Annie was with Race. But Annie was sleeping with Spot. Annie was of course being a little whore, but couldn't Butterfly be called a hypocrite? Racetrack was not hers, he was technically with Annie. Yet, he had embraced Butterfly.wasn't he deceiving Annie with her?
Butterfly suddenly felt dirty. Was I acting like his little mistress? No. She shook the notion from her head.
Annie Murphy is the whore, not you. She does not love Spot, but you and Race.
Her jade and sapphire eyes narrowed as she felt her cheeks flame up. "Why am I getting' woiked up? Because Racetrack Higgins is my friend and he is goin' with a goddamn whore! That's why, you bitch!"
In another situation, it would have been very comical the way Annie Murphy's face twisted in impossible anger and her face deepened to accent her scarlet curls. With a scream and an oath, she was off the bed, her bare body slamming Butterfly breathlessly into the doorframe, her hands clutching the latter's neck.
Annie elicited shrill curses and Butterfly wheezed, gasping for air. Spot seemed to have come out of his drunken stupor for a moment, for he pushed off the bunk and dashed over to the pair, bellowing and desperately trying to push them apart.
"Annie, Annie, STOP IT!" he hollered, releasing Butterfly from the grasp, pushing hard on Annie, causing her to fall with a thud on the splintered floor.
Butterfly stumbled backwards, grasping her red throat, vacuuming in the glorious air. Spot's gaze flickered between them both before his glare fell to Annie. Anytime's eyes were narrowed into slits, her cheeks highlighted with maroon, her heavy breathing causing her bare flesh to shudder.
"What da-hic--HELL was-hic--dat 'bout?"
A unison gasp permeated the room as all three jumped, quickly averting their eyes to the door.
The newsie Butterfly recognized from the chair on the porch was stumbling about in the doorway with a daft smile on his lips, his arms around a hysterical with laughter blonde. Oh, the tittering blonde.
Spot suddenly realized his nudity, and quickly placed his hands in strategic places. "Whitie!" he hissed. "What da hell are you doin' here?"
Whitie stumbled back, the light catching the glitter-shot whisky bottle he held in his hand, almost falling backwards, causing the blonde to snicker even more. "Well-hic-me and--what's-hic-ya name?"
The blonde doubled over in drunken laughter. "Charley!"
"Oh, right-hic! Barley."
"Charley!"
"Parley."
The blonde was on her knees, hysterical and blinded by tears. "Charley!"
Whitie's glazed-over eyes fell to Spot, wearing the same stupid smile. He held Charley loosely by the arm as she fell into convulsions over the mere trifle on the ground. "Charley-hic-and me were getting-hic-to know each odduh in da oddah-hic-what was it, Charley?"
"Da room?" Charley howled.
"RIGHT!" Whitie cried, nearly stumbling over Charley. "Well-hic-What's-er- Name and me were-hic-getting to know each odduh in da room when we heard- hic-a, what's it called?"
"Noise?" the blonde replied.
"YEAH! NOISE! And I didn't know what it was-hic-an', an' What's-er-Name didn't know eithah, so we thought we'd come see what'smatter."
For some odd reason, a reason that remained illusive from all others in the room, Whitie and his blonde Charley found this so hysterical that he fell to his knees beside her, dropping the whisky bottle, causing it to shatter into a thousand shards on the floor. Their intoxicated, high pitched titters arose even more due to this, and Whitie crawled over to the shards, wheezing and with tears in his eyes, picking up the shards, letting them sift through his fingers. Charley's laughter came out shrill and Whitie joined in with deep honks.
In less than thirty seconds they were passed out stone cold in the doorway.
Spot furrowed his brow and uttered a disgusted sigh, striding over to the doorway, nudging Whitie's limp arm out of the doorway, slamming the door. He turned around, his eyes glinting, as he stooped down, reaching for his trousers that had been previously flung carelessly on the floor in a fit of drunken passion.
"Now, what da HELL was all dat about?" he snapped, gaze slowly flickering between the two.
Butterfly cast her eyes to Annie, unhappily sprawled on the ground and about to open her mouth when Butterfly turned to Spot, uttering the first thing that came to thought, anything just to get in words before that slut.
"Itsnotrightdayafuckinyabestfriendsgoil."
Incredibly, both Annie and Spot shared in the same expression: both dropped their jaws and heated to a delicious shade of crimson only because it was their natural reaction to something said so bluntly, so poignantly. Yet, it was when Spot began to stammer that Annie erupted into a terrible sigh of repulsion.
Both turned to her to witness her shaking her head, her glinting spirals bouncing about, awkwardly arising from the floor. It was only Annie's abrupt huffs that filled the air as she went about, scooping up her strewn articles of clothing, hurriedly redressing herself. When the last chartreuse stiletto had been placed on its rightful foot, she strutted over to first Spot to call him a wonderful string of oaths and then she halted in front of Butterfly, jade eyes glowering.
"Honey, you may think ya cute, playin' all dese little games and thinkin' dat ya so goddamn innocent. Sure, I may be fucking Spot and sure you may call me a slut. But I am still Racetrack Higgins's goil. And ya not. Play innocent all ya want, but I see it in ya eyes. Crazy for 'im, ya are. Ya jealous out of you mind ovah me. Jist think dis question ovah: am I da only slut in dis room?"
And with that, Anytime Annie Murphy brushed past Butterfly, disappearing in a flurry of bouncing hair and intoxicating lavender perfume.
Butterfly listened to the erratic clicking of the heels down the shrieking floorboards of the hallway, listened until they disappeared.
And then she felt the atrocious lump manifest itself in her throat and the hot, acidly tears start to form in the creases of her eyes and Annie's words echoed through her head:
Jist think dis question ovah: am I da only slut in dis room?
The words were like a dagger through her heart and the tears and convulsions and sobs came back yet again. She stumbled about near the doorway, nearly tripping over the bodies of Whitie and the blonde, when Spot let out a cry and came behind her, catching her under the arms.
"Whoa!" he said softly, awkwardly, as though trying to console her.
Jist think dis question ovah: am I da only slut in dis room?
The tears came harder and the sobs louder and more broken, her straw- colored hair falling in front of her face.
She felt Spots hand on her shoulder as he guided her, pushing her down on the bunk. She involuntarily complied, propping her elbows on her thighs and burying her tear-stained face in her hands.
Spot's words managed to find their way to her through the timbre of the audible hysterics.
"Are ya cryin' ovah what Annie said? Dat ya a slut foah likin' Race?"
And then a remarkable thing occurred. Butterfly James's mind cleared for a moment, as she realized that at this very minute she would gladly release any of the deepest, darkest secrets hiding under lock and key in the abyss of her heart, rather than come out and blatantly reveal her feelings about Racetrack Higgins, just proving Annie Murphy all the more right.
So, instead, she said, "If you were Sarah Sprites and Rylie Lynah wanted you dead, you'd been in damn hysterics, too!"
Butterfly didn't realize the extent of what she had uttered until the silence in the room seemed to be prolonged for what seemed like years. She spread he fingers and glanced at Spot, her heart immediately spotting and her breathing bating.
He stared at her, polar blue eyes wide and unblinking, face cadaver-like in the shade of off-white it took on, mouth burnt open and jaw dropped.
"What?" she cried, her sobs dying.
Spot Conlon only retained his look of shock.
"What?" she shrieked, throwing her hands to her sides. What had she said?
Animation found him again as his large eyes blinked and opened and his mouth closed. "Sarah Sprites," he murmured as though not believing his words. "You said dat you were Sarah Sprites."
And Butterfly froze. Her blood chilled, her pulse grew paralysed, and her breathing was murdered.
Sarah Sprites. He said Sarah Sprites. You said Sarah Sprites. WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY? her mind screamed.
"What did I say?" she numbly asked.
As though, like an animal that had been spooked by some unknown assailant, Spot Conlon jumped, jumped off the chair that he rode backwards, knocking it to the ground with a clatter. Disbelief and anger dominated his face. "Whoa, you'se Sarah Sprites?"
Butterfly stared up at him, unable to respond for the life of her.
"Sarah Sprites.Jimmy Sprites's sistah?"
When she didn't reply, he grabbed her wrists, causing her to jump. "Are you Sarah Sprites? Jimmy Sprites's sistah?"
Without anything else to say, Butterfly cast her gaze to his feet, reluctantly murmuring, "Yes."
She felt him drop her wrists as they fell limp to her sides.
"Sarah Sprites. Sarah Sprites. Sarah fucking Sprites. Jesus, I can't believe it's you." he stopped pacing. "Do ya know dat Rylie Lynah is lookin' foah ya? Wants ya dead!"
Butterfly felt a suddenly overwhelming wave of hate, and anger, and sadness as she felt the ball of fury start to well in her stomach. And it burst just like a balloon overfilled with helium. "YOU DON'T UNDAHSTAND!" she screeched, leaping off the bunk, the tears coming again.
Spot stepped back, clearly surprised by her reaction.
"You don't undahstand! No one undahstands! Don't you t'ink dat I know Rylie Lyner is lookin' foah me? The sonofabitch ruined my life! Demolished it! He took away da only thing that I evah loved in the woild-me bruddah!" The sheer abundance of tears was making the outline of Spot hazy now. "I was on the streets, in da House of Refuge. I nevah thought dat life could git any worse than dat.den I hear he has a bounty on my head." A high-pitched laugh permeated the thick air. "A bounty? And I should hide. What was I gonna do? Hide? Where da hell would a goil hide? WHERE? Where." her bellows subsided as emotion flooded over her, causing her to sink to the floor in absolute sobs.
The splintered boards creaked under his weight as Spot joined her. "When ya came here--if I'da knew dat ya were Jimmy's sistah-- If I'da knew--"
Butterfly's weeps were too intense to allow a reply. "Jimmy was good. Jimmy was damn good, Sarah," Spot said softly.
With that, Butterfly leaned over, her forehead touching the rough floor. Great, fantastic emotions and memories coursed through her entire being, they were too immense, just too fantastic. He had called her Sarah.
****** Racetrack Higgins felt his throat recoil, constrict. It felt, as though is whole body were on fire.
A soft groan resonated from beside him, as Annie Murphy pressed her perspiration-slicked body next to his, allowing him to inhale the musky scent of her skin.
He felt her mouth next to his ear, her hot breath enter his canal. "Oh, Race, why didn't we do dat befoah?" Her voice was husky as she ran a finger down his chest. Race felt a shiver tango its way down his spine.
When he didn't reply, he felt her take his chin roughly in her hand and press her lips to her mouth. He tasted the sex on her breath, but not his. No, someone else's.
She pulled away, slowly, causing a puckering sound to occur. He felt her lush lips on his neck, on his shoulders, on his chest, on his thighs.
"Tell me the story, again."
Annie abruptly stopped, raising her head. "What?" she asked, throwing her crimson hair out of her face.
"The story," he replied automatically, casting his eyes from the cracked ceiling to her.
Irritation seemed to fill the smooth creases of her face, but a half-smile came to her full, red lips as she slithered her way back up the bed, her elbows on either side of Racetrack.
"Oh, baby," she pouted, her lips finding his flesh, "why do ya want to here dat stupid 'iddle story again."
"Tell it," he growled, causing Annie's head to jerk up, her spirals bouncing with the after shock.
"Alright," she sighed. "As I said befoah I was ovah in Brooklyn meetin' some of me goilfriends, and I see dat Spot is havin' a pahty and I go inside to say hello. Ain't nowhere to be seen, I so check his room. Open the door and whaddya know, going away wit some blonde. I gasp and they look up, and whaddya know--"she lowered her voice and whispered into his ear in sultry satisfaction. "it's ya liddle friend from da odduh day undah him, what's her name.Buttahfly?"
Her smile heightened as she felt Race shudder under her. "Buttahfly," Racetrack echoed wearily.
Annie nodded. "Uh-huh. Dat's da one." She emitted an exaggerated sigh. "Can't imagin' what she was doin' in Brooklyn, but what d'ya know!" Her laughter was light like a tinkling bell. "Spot's been laid by nearly lady in New Yawk. Go figyah."
Racetrack was so utterly numb with disbelief that he allowed Annie's lips to return to his sweat-covered flesh. It was only she sighed, sat up, and said something in the context of, "Wow, Race, I still can't believe dat we nevah did dis befoah. Course, we WILL be doin' it again." that he acknowledged her presence and mumbled a reply.
The bunk creaked under her weight as she arose and then collected her garments from the floor. In a matter of minutes, she was dressed. She bent over him, pressing her lips to his, plunging her tongue into his mouth, before she pulled away. A smile sinister in nature under the skin was on her face. "Bye, baby."
Racetrack had sat up and hurriedly was groping for the whiskey flask on the bedside table even before the clicking of Annie's chartreuse stilettos had disappeared.
****** Amazingly, it felt as though an incredible weight had been lifted.
Butterfly James sat with her head resting against the scraped wooden frame of Spot's bunk, her knees bent. He sat in the old wooden chair, straddling it backwards, chin cradled in hand.
The only sound was their rhythmic breathing. The atmosphere had long since quieted down, ever since fed up citizens had called the boys citing noise disruption. The boys were sent to bed and the girls were sent off.
"Sarah?"
Butterfly twitched as though a current of electricity had been send through her body. She was not used by being called by that name.
"Yes?" she replied, her eyes falling to him.
A thoughtful look adorned his face. "Why does Rylie want ya dead now? I mean, if he wanted ya dead, he could have killed ya in that two years befoah he placed da bounty on ya head. If he really wanted ya dead, he would have jumped in da rivah aftah ya--"
Butterfly snorted. "Beats me. Skiddy Sniper found me aftah I had been in da House of Refuge and said dat all da guys were revolting, ya know, tryin' to separate da Sprites newsies from da Lynah newsies again. Woid is dat Rylie was gettin' scared because he knew dat dey had da will-powah, dat dey would break away. I think dat he figyaed dat if he killed off Jimmy''s sistah, dat dat would send some kind of.I don't know.shock through 'em and make 'em stop." She sighed. "I haven't hoid anything about Queens in a few weeks." Spot only uttered a thoughtful sound before he averted his eyes to the ground and silence one again filled the room. After a few moments, he made a noise as though he wanted to continue the palaver and Butterfly looked up, but he stopped, as they both heard what like faint cries from coming outside.
Their eyes connected. The yells got closer and clearer. They could both make out one word: Butterfly.
Butterfly pushed off from the ground and Spot arose from the chair, as the former carefully strode through the door, through the whining hallway, and down the dying steps.
Her inferences were correct. She could hear her name being called.
Butterfly's eyes narrowed in curiosity and her heels picked up as she reached the foyer. Though a wall barricaded her from the anonymous person, she could articulate the bellows perfectly.
"Buttahfly! Buttahfly! Buttahfly James! I fucked Annie! I fucked er hahd and long!"
Butterfly felt her stomach drop. "Oh, God!" she hissed in a low voice, running the rest of the distance, and quickly tugging open the door to the lodging house.
Her intuition had been correct. "Oh, God," she cried softly, the humid night air soaking into her skin.
Racetrack Higgins was stumbling about in front of the lodging house adorned in only trousers, the suspenders hanging down his sides and a whisky flask clasp loosely in his hand, glittering in the moonlight.
She felt the pangs and felt the tears and felt the overwhelming emotions. She desperately desired to run down there and be in his embrace and smother him with kisses.
Yet, something held her back, shaking in the doorway of the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House.
"Can! While you were fucking good ole Spotty boy, I was fucking Annie! How bout dat?"
She shook her head, trying to banish the hateful sounds. Yet, she only felt her heart being ripped out of her chest. And she forced herself to reply.
"What do you want, Racetrack?"
Racetrack threw his arms back in the white moonlight. "What do I want? A nice fuck, dat's what!"
Butterfly couldn't deny the tears that found their way down her cheeks. "This isn't you, Race. This isn't you. It's the alcohol," she whispered. "Go away," she called, as steadily as her voice would allow her.
Race wore an expression of mock shock. "Go 'way? Go 'way? Go where? Okay, I go 'way. Jist wanted to tell ya, Canny, dat I fucked Annie. Yup. I did."
Butterfly knew that she was being gutted alive. "GO AWAY, RACETRACK!" she shrieked through the marvelous sobs, slamming the door with a shudder, and falling against it.
The convulsions ravaged her body and she nearly collapsed. Her eyes fluttered open.
Spot was standing in front of her, a solemn, sad look on his face.
Dying inside, Butterfly sobbed and ran, crashing into Spot, relishing in the warmth of his flesh. She didn't give a damn as he pulled her close, as his mouth pressed against hers. She relished in the fever and the taste.
A faint moan escaped her lips as she felt his fingers caress through her hair. The exchange grew deeper as she twisted her appendages about Spot. Her sobs and sounds of pleasure combined gloriously as he lead her blindly into the parlor, where they fell over armrest of a threadbare couch.
Spot's knee pressed into Butterfly's abdomen as she feverishly rid him of his suspenders.
She cried out when he thrust his tongue in her mouth, and as he undid the knot of fabric at her abdomen.
Oh, God, Race.what about Race? Butterfly's mind cried.
Spot's kisses became harder.
She remembered reading in a hocked dictionary once about a word she was trying to think of. It fit her do correctly at the moment.
Spot was freeing of her of the hindrance called suspenders, his salty lips pressing more passionately into hers.
What was that damn word?
Spot was unbuttoning the uppermost buttons of her collar shirt.
It finally occurred to Butterfly.
Oh, fickle.