Chapter 6 #2
The words don’t come out, merely bouncing around my cranium on repeat. Not with him. Not with your everything. Even though it’s a Saturday. He is busy…
My pulse quickens, and I stand, dusting off my dress.
"Outside?” I ask, squaring my shoulders, trying to remember that I am not the little deer he took shopping years ago, when he studied every outfit I tried on.
I am now to be his wife. Wives don’t need the same amount of attention, right?
I’m not a teenage girl, but a woman and mother.
“Among actual people?" The words tumble out before I can stop them.
One perfect eyebrow rises on Clay's forehead. "As opposed to imaginary ones?"
I twist my engagement ring nervously. "I just meant... a real outing? Beyond these gates?"
"Yes." His answer leaves no room for elaboration.
My gaze darts to the twins. "But my babies—"
"—will remain with me," Clay says smoothly. "Would you enjoy that, sweet girl? For a few hours, you can roam the markets at your leisure."
I flick him my sweetest look, adding a teasing tone.
"Will it be normal? Or like the last time I went out without you?
" Six months ago, with the twins freshly born, I'd begged Clay to let me visit a boutique for a nursing-bra. I didn’t want him to see.
They are not attractive. He'd relented but sent ten of his men with me.
They surrounded me like a moving barrier of designer suits, clearing shoppers from my path, inspecting clothing racks before I approached.
One henchman even tasted my ice cream. Everyone stared, and I heard someone whisper, "The Butcher's girl. "
"My middle name is normal," Bronson quips, cutting into my thoughts. “I guarantee complete normality.”
Clay half-smiles. "I thought your middle name was fun."
Did he just make a joke?
“Bronson Fun Normal Butcher, fucken ay.” He beams at my babies. “Got a nice ring-a-ding ding to it.”
“Normal? You?” I laugh.
Clay strides over to me and cups my face, tilting until my eyes meet his.
“I can practically see through your thoughts, little deer. This is for you. I am unable to join you this time. I wish I could be your playmate, sweet girl, but the business I am handling at the moment is of great importance. I only need a few hours, that is all, and then I will be yours for the remainder of the weekend, Se?”
God, I love him.
“Se,” I mock.
The flower market is alive.
Literally.
With bees and people.
It feels like home, bohemian and sunshine, as I’m pulled into the hive of it with Bronson holding a steady pace at my back. There is a light breeze that moves my pink dress around my knees and my long blonde hair around my shoulders.
Market stalls line the outdoor space, tables thick with stems and colour and scents. We move through the middle of them, the air thick with pollen. Inhaling, I can almost feel its fuzzy tickle inside my nostrils. I should sneeze, maybe, but sneezing was never a thing for me.
I glance over my shoulder, up at Bronson’s wide grin. Always grinning. Something tells me he’s as alert as he is excited. His smile is at ease, yet somehow sharp, as if cut from duelling blades—one carves mischief and the other carves warning.
“I know I’m pretty,” he says to me, and I turn back to face forwards, not having spent that much time with the wild Butcher Brother.
He is very handsome.
Not Clay Butcher handsome.
Not to me.
Sir makes even the most apathetic of people pause, breathless, as though they’ve been knocked off-balance. Sir, who claims the space just by existing in it. He has the same effect on every red-blooded human as a virus.
I turn to a flower stall, perusing lazily. “Sorry. You’re handsome, is all.” I laugh because it is easy with him. “Your smile is so free, unlike Sir’s.” Clay Butcher thrives under duress, not excitement.
“My beautiful brother is sane,” Bronson jokes, I think. “This is the smile”—he points to his smile— “of a killer, Bella.”
Twilight reference.
I lift a brow at him. “It’s not funny when there is truth in it.” I let out a little giggle, because he’s such a contradiction. “I’ve never watched Twilight.”
He gasps in mock horror. “What?”
I smile at him, at the flowers, at the easy conversation. “I know the references because I’ve seen memes, and I follow Tyler Warwick, that Hoa Hoa guy, on Instagram, but I’ve never actually watched Twilight or read it.”
“Hoa hoa hoa hoa,” Bronson sings.
I crack up laughing, swatting him.
“Movie night?” he adds.
“Sir will be so pleased,” I tease.
Smiling, Bronson and I dissolve into the market. Every time I stop to look at an arrangement, he is close, winks at me or nods at the blooms. I use my phone’s Notes app, to snap a picture of the flowers I like, and jot down their names.
Peony.
Carnation.
Banksia.
Such pretty names.
I continue walking, glancing back at Bronson every few stalls. He is always a few paces behind my left shoulder, hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket, casual, eyes coasting over the top of everyone’s heads, watchful.
The stall attendants natter until we pass, then they stop and stare.
I don’t blame them. Bronson is a looming, tattooed angel.
A beautiful paradox, somehow charming and formidable, charismatic and psychotic.
And me? A waif in obscenely expensive ballet flats.
Plus, we are at the centre of Clay’s security detail.
I sometimes forget that the entire city knows who the Butchers are—that The District is like Gotham, owned and run by a corrupt empire.
Henchman Jeeves strolls along the perimeter.
Scattered around him, I can see four henchmen positioned within earshot.
They fill me with more unease than the hustle and bustle of the flower market—I grew up on the coast in Carnarvon.
I spent hours at market stalls with my mother, finding trinkets and straw hats, buying cheap jewellery that made my fingers go green.
God, I loved her. I hated her, and I loved her with the same true, unbidden intensity.
When she was around, when she was happy and present, she was fun.
Free.
Kind of like Bronson.
Clay does not permit outings like this—not for me—not without a two-week briefing and a blood-oath and all the X-Men present. I imagine Clay here now, practised smile in place, mind chewing through a million strategies, recalling meetings, planning… stuff? I don’t know what.
But this is what normal people do, what I used to do. This is how they act. Shopping with my fiancé’s brother. Normal? Yikes, I’m nearly convinced by the illusion until I catch sight of yet another henchman, stationed near a wall of blossoms, subtly scanning the crowd.
How many are there?
This man taps his ear.
Bronson halts beside a messy trestle table displaying blooms and stems that look homegrown.
"Alright, Sister Fawn. Thoughts?” He strong-arms the florist into letting him arrange things himself, plucking flowers from their positions.
“This one reminds me of Maxipad.” A stiff-looking native comes first, sharp and upright as a blade, then a white rose, then a small teardrop thing in a bruised-pink hue.
“This one is my Outlaw’s favourite colour. ”
I laugh at him, snapping some photos before accepting a small brochure. We continue to peruse. It feels nice, but something is missing…
Oh, right—Clay.
I try to stay present and not dwell on his absence. There are so many beautiful options and no sense of urgency from Bronson. So we wander and wander, almost mindlessly now that I have accepted the henchmen and the press of eyes.
Then I gasp, noticing a large stall with a silk cloth, the entire table covered in blooms that look so crisp and clean they appear almost plastic. This stall looks different.
As I approach the display, a lady in a black suit, her brown hair pinned into a neat bun, appears from behind the satin banner.
I touch one of the plastic-looking flowers, feeling its softness.
It is real. It’s almost peach in colour, similar to a rose but with tighter folds and more layers of petals.
Leaning down, I inhale. “This one. What is this?”
The flower attendant smiles widely—she has perfect teeth, straight and white. “I found this one specifically for you and Mr Butcher. You have a good eye.”
I blink at her. “You knew I was coming?”
She taps her nose. “Of course, we rarely do market stalls, but the committee received an announcement from your security detail.”
I flick Bronson a look. “Normality?”
He shrugs. “What is normal?”
“Are all these patrons actors?” I ask, eyes bouncing around the market grounds.
“Not all of them,” he says through a laugh. “I’m messing with you, Sister Fawn, none of them are. I could have closed the market down for a few hours, but I didn’t want you to feel rushed. Xander told me you don’t like to stand out. Which is a shame and something we should work on, yeah?”
“I don’t want to put anyone out, is all.”
“How is spending Clay Butcher’s money putting these fine people out? Not to mention the eye-candy.” He gestures at himself. “Lucky little minxes.”
Rolling my eyes at him, I turn back to the light peach rose. “What is this one called?”
“A Juliet Rose,” the attendant says, “well, her descendant.”
“She is perfect. How many can you get—"
“For four months’ time?” She pulls out a tablet, scrolling and looking. “How many do you need?”
Fuck. I don’t know. Five hundred? “Um…”
“Twenty thousand,” Bronson says.
I stumble on my own legs—legs I’ve managed to use adequately for nineteen years until now. Like what the fuck? Twenty thousand? “What?”
He uses his tattooed fingers to count. “Approximately fifty tables, two hundred roses per table? That alone is ten thousand stems. Then you have the stairwell garland, the bridesmaids’ bouquets, the arch garlands…” He nods. “At least twenty thousand.”