Imago Read online

  IMAGO

  N.R. WALKER

  BLURB

  Nerdy, introverted genius lepidopterist, Lawson Gale, is an expert on butterflies. He finds himself in a small town in Tasmania on a quest from an old professor to find an elusive species that may or may not even exist.

  Local Parks and Wildlife officer, Jack Brighton, is an ordinary guy who loves his life in the sleepy town of Scottsdale. Along with his Border collie dog, Rosemary, his job, and good friends, he has enough to keep from being lonely.

  But then he meets Lawson, and he knows he’s met someone special. There’s more to catching butterflies, Jack realises. Sometimes the most elusive creatures wear bow ties, and sometimes they can’t be caught at all.

  Lawson soon learns there are butterflies he can’t learn about it in books. They exist only in a touch, in a kiss, in a smile. He just has to let go first, so these butterflies can fly.

  Imago is the story of finding love, bow ties, and butterflies.

  Contents

  IMAGO

  BLURB

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SPECIAL MENTION TO JULIE BOZZA

  About the Author

  Contact N.R. Walker

  Also by N.R. Walker

  Copyright:

  Cover Artist: Harper By Design

  Editor: Labyrinth Bound Edits

  Imago © 2017 N.R. Walker

  Publisher: BlueHeart Press

  First Edition February 2017

  All Rights Reserved:

  This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

  The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Warning:

  Intended for an 18+ audience only. This book contains material that may be offensive to some and is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations.

  The author uses Australian English spelling and grammar.

  Trademark Acknowledgements:

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Google: Google, Inc.

  Range Rover Defender: Jaguar Land Rover Limited

  Esky: The Coleman Company, Inc.

  iPad: Apple Inc.

  Justice League: DC Comics

  GLOSSARY FOR AUSTRALIAN TERMS

  Esky: a portable cooler

  Pub: (short for Public House) A hotel, primary function is a drinking establishment and meals.

  Bowlo: (short for bowling club) A community sports centre for lawn bowls.

  Kitchen bench: kitchen counter.

  2iC: A person who is 2nd in command/charge.

  Ute: (short for utility) Trayback utility

  Rouse: (rhymes with house) To scold

  Dedication

  To the folks who watch butterflies, and wonder…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jack Brighton

  The flight from Melbourne to Launceston was usually uneventful. A quick hour across the Tasman Sea, away from the rat race of city life, back to my home state of Tasmania where the air was clean and the people still said hello.

  I’d attended a week-long national meeting for regional managers of the Parks and Wildlife Services. I had the best job in the world, and meetings like that―while good to keep up to date on news and trends―reminded me that my place was in wide open spaces and the great outdoors.

  I didn’t go much on Melbourne. The nightlife was better for a man such as myself than it was in my hometown, though this trip had been uneventful on that front too. I had to say, being a twenty-eight-year-old gay man in a small country town in the northeast corner of Tasmania, my options were limited. And when I said limited, I meant zero.

  I went out every night I was visiting Melbourne, and there were guys interested in one-nighters, but I was done with that. The instant gratification was all good and well, but I would leave with a hollow, detached feeling that never quite went away. I’d hoped to find someone I could connect with, hook up with when we could, talk on the phone, video chat during the week type of thing. But there was not one guy who sparked my interest. I wasn’t too happy to have come up empty handed either.

  Empty handed was the only thing my sex life wasn’t.

  I snorted at my lame joke, and only then I realised the guy taking his seat across the aisle from me thought I was snorting at him. He gave me a rather dirty look and quickly turned his head and sniffed. I contemplated telling him I wasn’t laughing at him, but then he was busy telling the flight attendant to be careful with his carry-on. He was late boarding the plane and he looked flustered enough without me adding to his troubles.

  I was soon enjoying the feeling of taking off and heading home, and the guy across from me quickly had his laptop out and was typing away furiously, so I let my head fall back against the headrest and closed my eyes.

  After we’d landed in Launceston, I stood up and went to collect my bag from the overhead cabin and accidentally backed into the person behind me. I’m six foot two and kinda broad shouldered, not exactly built for confined spaces.

  “Oh, sorry,” I quickly apologised, and upon turning around, saw it was the flustered guy from before who thought I’d laughed at him. I offered him a smile. “Not much room for guys my size.”

  He looked up at me like a rabbit in a spotlight, blinked several times, blushed a deep scarlet from his cheeks right down his neck, and desperately set about shoving his laptop away, all while muttering what sounded like an apology with his head down.

  Well, that was an interesting reaction. One that had my attention, that’s for sure.

  I took a moment to look him over. He was maybe five ten, thin build, with short brown hair parted on the side and combed to perfection. He had pale skin, the pinkest lips I’d ever seen on a guy, without lip gloss anyway. Which I wasn’t exactly opposed to, just so you know. But this guy was wearing a chambray business-style shirt with a navy bow tie.

  A goddamn bow tie.

  If I were to look up Hottest Fucking Nerd On The Planet, this guy’s photo would be it.

  Like seriously. He made my insides do stupid things.

  He looked back up at me, and I couldn’t even be embarrassed that he’d caught me ogling. He didn’t seem too happy about it, frowning as he slid his blue blazer on. He put his head back down, trying to make himself smaller, tucked his laptop bag under his arm, and bustled past the people trying to disembark.

  And I stood there with my mouth hanging open like a Neanderthal.

  With a shake of my head, I got my gear together and waited my turn to deplane.

  Man, why couldn’t I have met a guy like that in Melbourne?

  Putting it down to shitty luck, I got off the plane and collected my suitcase from the Arrivals carousel. But as I was walking toward the exit, I saw bow tie guy at the car rental kiosk and he seemed to be flustered. Again. Maybe flustered was how he got through his day, but he really didn’t seem to be havi
ng a good one at all.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Gale,” I heard the car rental lady say. “There seems to be some mistake. We don’t have a booking and all vehicles are taken.”

  Bow tie guy, whose name appeared to be Mr Gale, had both elbows on the counter and let his head fall forward. With a deep breath, he looked up. “Well, what am I supposed to do? I have an appointment at the museum in forty minutes. I need the vehicle because I can’t very well take my suitcase to an appointment with a professor, can I? And I’m supposed to be staying out of town, which I obviously will need to drive to. Surely there has to be another vehicle?”

  She made a face. “Sorry. But we don’t have a booking. Can I suggest a taxi?”

  I almost laughed, because good luck getting a cab from the airport to a hotel to the museum in forty minutes. The poor guy looked defeated and on the verge of tears.

  “It’s a very important meeting,” he said weakly.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I stopped beside him. “Sorry for intruding. I couldn’t help but overhear. I’m headed your way if you need a lift?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lawson Gale

  “I beg your pardon?” To say I was surprised by the interruption was an understatement. Not so much the offer, but who it was from.

  It was the man from the plane. The one who’d laughed at me when I was taking my seat, the same man who’d almost knocked me over when the giant decided to stand in the aisle at the same time as me. It wasn’t my fault he was absurdly tall and built like a mountain. And of course he had to be gorgeously handsome with his perfect scruffy brown hair and perfect twinkling brown eyes. And a dimple. Of course he had a dimple. It completed his perfect face.

  He was wearing a shirt with a Parks and Wildlife emblem over the right breast, dark jeans, and work boots. The outdoor type that worked with his hands was not a look that would normally catch my attention, but it somehow made him even more… perfect. One side of his mouth cranked upwards. “I couldn’t help but overhear you, and I’m going your way if you need a lift.”

  I stared up at him and his stupidly perfect face.

  His brow furrowed. “To the museum?”

  “Oh.” Right. He’d asked me a question. Or offered me a lift, more to the point. “Well…” I composed myself. “I’m not in the habit of taking rides from strangers.”

  He found something about this funny because he fought a slow grin and lost. He stuck out his hand. “The name’s Jack Brighton. Now I’m not a stranger.”

  I swallowed hard and looked around nervously. No one seemed to be paying attention. The car rental lady was on the phone to what sounded like another disgruntled customer. Probably the person she gave my car to. I quickly shook the offered hand in front of me. I aimed for a firm grip because I loathed limp-fish handshakes, but I needn’t have worried. His hand was warm, hard, calloused… perfect.

  “Lawson Gale,” I declared. “And thank you for the offer, though it would hardly be wise for me to accept. I’ve spent a lot of money on education; I’d hate for my epitaph to read that I was indeed an idiot, who rather stupidly got into the car with a man I just met. Who turned out to be a serial killer.”

  Jack stared at me for a second before he laughed. “Right. Well, I’ve been assumed to be a lot of things. A serial killer has never been one of them.”

  I scraped my fingertips through my hair, fixing it into place. A nervous habit I was trying to quell. “I meant no offence.”

  His smile was warm and wide. “None taken. I’ll just be on my way then. Good luck getting to the museum in”—he looked at his watch—“thirty minutes.”

  I watched him turn and leave, wheeling his suitcase behind him.

  Bother.

  I was out of time. And out of options. I quickly scanned the taxi rank through the large glass doors to find it empty. Double bother.

  I started after the man I’d just called a serial killer. To his face. His ludicrously perfect face. “Mr Brighton!”

  He stopped and turned back to me.

  “Mr Brighton, please wait,” I said, hurrying to catch up to him while struggling to pull my suitcase and keep my laptop satchel strap over my shoulder. “I apologise for my rudeness, and I would graciously accept a ride. If you’re still offering, that is. I’d most appreciate it.”

  He smiled. “Sure thing. Truck’s this way.”

  I followed him out to the car park where he stopped at a large four-wheel-drive utility with a Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife logo emblazoned on the side. He unlocked it, then threw his suitcase into the back tray like it weighed nothing.

  I looked at my suitcase, which was half my size, and wondered how I could lift it in. Maybe if he put the back tailgate down, I could slide it up…

  Without me asking, he effortlessly hoisted my suitcase into the back with his. The muscles in his arms expanded and bulged. He waved at the passenger door. “Well, get in or you’ll miss your appointment.”

  Right, yes. Of course. Clutching my laptop satchel, I climbed in. “Thank you again,” I said, clicking my seatbelt in. “I really am very thankful.”

  “No worries,” he said, starting the engine. He shifted the gearstick into reverse, looked over his shoulder closest to me, and backed out of the parking spot. He spun the wheel, slid the gearstick into place, and the four wheel drive lurched forward. It was bumpier than I expected, and louder, but it seemed the outdoor nature of the vehicle suited him.

  “You work for Parks and Wildlife,” I stated the obvious. I didn’t need to be a detective: he wore their shirt and drove their car.

  “I do.” He smiled brightly as we sped down the highway toward Launceston.

  “An interesting occupation,” I noted. “Do you favour the flora or fauna?”

  “Love it all.” Then he chuckled. “You know most people would just say plants or animals.”

  And there it was. The ever-forthcoming dig at my vocabulary. “I’m not most people.”

  He just seemed to smile wider. “You certainly aren’t.”

  I feigned interest at the passing scenery instead of trying to pretend I wasn’t offended.

  “That wasn’t an insult,” he went on to say. “Just the opposite, actually. I like the way you speak. You’re obviously pretty smart.”

  “Above average IQ, one could say,” I offered modestly.

  Mr Brighton scoffed at me. “Right. And where exactly do you fit on the cognitive designation bell curve?”

  I shot him a look. He knew what the measure of IQ was? Normally I would rebuff his question, uncomfortable discussing such matters, particularly with someone I just met. But I found myself wanting to be honest with him. “Genius.”

  The dimple in his cheek appeared when he smiled out the windscreen. “Thought so.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Hell no. Why would it? Believe me, the last thing I am when it comes to a man’s intelligence is threatened.” He gave me a strange look with a questioning eyebrow as though he was implying something else.

  Intelligence was not an issue for me either. I was, however, reminded constantly by those I worked with that I lacked social cues. And heaven knows small talk was not my forte.

  “So,” he started again. I must have let my side of the conversation lapse too long. “Important meeting at the museum, huh? Is it for a job?”

  “Not really. Well, in part, yes.” I cleared my throat. “I’m meeting a retired professor from my field. I have a two-week case study as part of my doctoral degree.”

  “Doctoral degree? As in medicine?”

  “Oh no. Not a medical doctor, heavens no. I don’t have the stomach for blood.” Even the thought of it made me uncomfortable. “I’m a lepidopterist.”

  He nodded slowly. “And that is…?”

  “I study butterflies and moths. Predominantly butterflies.”

  “Wow. Interesting,” he said, seemingly genuine. Most people thought it was cute that I chased butterflies like a child. “They’re complex little thi
ngs, I bet. You know, my favourite animal is a dragonfly. Don’t tell my dog that, she’ll never forgive me. And I know butterflies and dragonflies are different, but dragonflies are… well, I dunno, they just defy logic.”

  I stared across the cabin at him. “Dragonflies are an incredible insect. I’m not sure what you mean by defy logic, though. Logic for which purpose? For whose purpose? Because logic is a human reasoning and hardly quantifiable in the Animalia kingdom.”

  He smiled broadly. “I just meant they look like they shouldn’t be able to fly, but they can. And they look kinda alien. Not that I’ve seen any aliens to quantify this generalisation.”

  I sighed. “I apologise. I don’t mean to offend…” I picked at the cuticle on my thumb. “My boss, leading Professor Michael Asterly, keeps reminding me of my inability to hold a conversation. Of course dragonflies can defy logic, and I apologise if I implied it was a foolish thing to say.”

  Now he laughed. Though it sounded loud in the confined space of the utility cabin, it was a warm sound, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I thought we were holding down a conversation just fine. And it sounds like your leading Professor Asterly might not know how to have interesting conversations with intelligent people.”

  I found myself smiling. “The professor is a smart man.”

  “But not as smart as you.”

  I shook my head, unable to draw my eyes away from this confounding mountain of a man who liked dragonflies. “No, he’s not.”

  Mr Brighton stared right back at me and licked his bottom lip. “Um.” He cleared his throat. “Well, the museum awaits.”

  I looked outside, only to find us parked out the front of the Queen Victoria Museum. I hadn’t even been aware we’d stopped moving, let alone arrived at my destination. “Oh, right.” I grabbed my satchel and quickly checked my watch. It was 11:55 a.m. I had five minutes to get inside. I quickly opened the door, then stopped. “You do know Da Vinci drew the very first design of a helicopter, hundreds of years before the Wright brothers designed the aeroplane, based on a dragonfly?”