Sparrow (30 page)

“Why are you answering your phone? You should be working,” I barked. She took her job seriously, and I knew she wasn’t happy at Rouge Bis. Sparrow was born to be free. She wasn’t built to function under the realm of the likes of Pierre. Or me. She also didn’t care for fancy food. She was the opposite of Catalina. Her style was oily, homey, comfort street food. She was a pancake kind of girl.

“If you know that I’m working, why’re you calling?”

“To piss you off, of course.”

“Mission accomplished.” I heard the amusement in her voice, and then a sigh and the rattle of pots. “Pierre’s giving me shit.”

“Sausage fingers?” I rolled a fresh toothpick in my mouth. I hated that she had a shit time at my restaurant, but loved that she hadn’t given up. “You’re doing a good job.”

“I know,” she said evenly. “That’s why it kills me.”

“Deal,” I prompted her.

“Oh, I fully intend to. I’m going to raid your liquor cabinet the minute I get home.”

Home
. This wasn’t the first time she’d called it that. In the beginning it was always
your
apartment,
your
sheets,
your
kitchen. I liked that it had become ours, even if I had a feeling it was a temporary thing.

“Wait up for me. I could use a drink or six.”

“Another bad day at the office?” she asked.

“The worst.”

“Maybe you should change your profession.”

“Sure,” I snorted. “To what, exactly? Social worker? Maybe an environmental specialist?”

“Perfect. I was thinking along the lines of saving polar bears or wild birds. Somewhere far from civilization would suit you.”

“I’ve already saved one wild bird,” I reminded her. “And she keeps me damn busy.”

“Saved, huh?” She laughed, the sound an unintended accusation. “Pick this wild bird up some Chinese takeout before you come home. I’ll open up a bottle. See you there.”

I was almost tempted to come clean to her, on the phone, out of nowhere. Luckily, I came to my senses quickly. I knew it wouldn’t do me any good—that she’d never forgive me. Or my father. Her mother. Any of us.

I turned up the volume on the radio. “In My Head” by Queens of the Stone Age blasted through the speakers. Was I pussy-whipped? Yeah.
Literally.
Spending time inside my wife had become my favorite hobby. I had finally found my weakness, and sure enough, it was between Red’s legs. That’s where I wanted to live, and that’s where I wouldn’t mind dying.

But it wasn’t just that. The thought of spending time with that little smart mouth tonight made me feel weird. Not exactly happy, but oddly excited. I hated liking her. In a sense, it was like handing her the keys to the pit of my soul while she was tanked as hell and telling her to drive carefully. No one fucking promised me that she would.

Our “arrangement” of fucking around without having any sort of relationship had me confused as fuck. There was nothing romantic in what we were. We didn’t go out, share gifts or watched fucking Netflix together. We didn’t make love, we made war. When she was pulling, I was biting. When she was scratching, digging her nails into my flesh, I slammed harder, faster. Our sex was furious, it was raw, untamed, wild…but it wasn’t selfish.

It wasn’t about who Red was that I liked—it was about who she wasn’t. She wasn’t a woman who wanted me because of my power, status, job or bank account.

Buying her shit only pissed her off, and trust me, I’d had my people filling her wardrobe with designer shoes and dresses. She gave them all away to the homeless shelter down the street like they weren’t worth a dime. In fact, there’s a crazy homeless woman in downtown Boston walking around in a Stella McCartney suit and a pair of Jimmy Choo’s, yelling at traffic lights that she was the real Messiah.

Yeah. Red either ignored my flashy gifts like they were contaminated, filthy, unworthy, or worse, tucked them under her slim arm and gave them all to charity. I wanted to kill and kiss the shit out of her in the same breath. It pissed me off and delighted me all at the same time.

She wasn’t a woman who cared for superficial shit, someone who was motivated by the wrong things. She was a blank, clean, white sheet for me to scribble on.

And I scribbled.

On her lips, on her jaw, her neck and collarbone. I jotted my hunger for her in vivid colors as I sucked on her pink nipples, grazing my teeth over them, at first slowly and very carefully, and then with more force, when I realized that inside little Sparrow, lay a wild bird waiting to be untethered. I rubbed her until she almost bled, until her moans became growls. I scrawled my initials all over her as I licked her up and down and made her cry my name. Again.

And again.

And again.

And the fucked-up thing was that I didn’t want her to be done. I wasn’t anxious to get it over with, to get my turn to climax. I let her have her fun. What’s more, I enjoyed watching her through heavy-lidded eyes. For the first time in my life, sex was not about me, it was about her.

Hell, sex, I’d been doing it wrong all these years.

This was not me. I was not the caring kind. Last time I cared, I let Brock, Catalina and a bunch of other shit into my life, and it didn’t end well.

Feeling a wave of angry heat wash over my skin, I punched Jensen’s number. Jensen was my guy for everything hacking-related. He had access to Sparrow’s bank account, among other things.

He answered the call but didn’t utter a word. Yeah, he was that kind of guy. Cheap with his words and generous with his actions.

“She cashed the check yet?” I asked.
Paddy’s money.

“No,” he answered, “Still as broke as her hell, same as when you married her.”

“Beautiful. Let me know if that changes.”

I hung up, feeling smug. Sparrow would cash the check, I had no doubt, but she’d do it when she ran away and needed the cash. After all, she still didn’t know she’d be rich no matter what, seeing as my father made sure of it in his will.

I pressed back into the leather seat behind the wheel of my car and took a deep breath for the first time since I’d left the cabin. For now, she was here. With me.

I intended to keep it that way.

SPARROW

I HAD TO
dodge Brock’s advances for another diner date. He hadn’t been at work since my confrontation with Catalina, but he waited for me on the corner of the street again after my shift on Monday night.

“Forget it,” I said, walking past him without sparing him a glance.

He caught up with my pace, his hands tucked inside his jeans pockets. “Give me a minute? It’ll be worth your while.”

“You keep saying that,” I ground out, the memory of his wife’s afternoon visit a couple of days ago still fresh in my mind. “But I don’t think you know what it means. Look, I’m sorry if you and Catalina aren’t working out, but I’m not diving headfirst into your mess. You’re married, so am I.”

It was disappointing to find out that sweet, beautiful Brock, whom I was initially attracted to, couldn’t take a hint, even when it was the size of a mountain.

It was even more disappointing to know that his wife was screwing my husband until a few short months ago, including after he married me.

Naturally, it wasn’t my business to tell Brock that. I was trying to put out fires, not ignite a blaze that’d scorch us all to hell, Sam included. That’s why I hadn’t talked about it with Troy since she came to see me. I didn’t need unnecessary drama. They were done. He’d fulfilled his side of our deal. There was nothing else to talk about.

“Sweetheart, I don’t want Troy to harm you. He’s dangerous.”

Was he kidding me? Did I give him a damsel in distress vibe? I was pretty sure I handled myself gracefully, even when help
was
needed. As it happened, I didn’t need saving. I was standing up to Troy on my own.

“Come with me. Let me show you something.” He stopped in front of a car, not as glitzy as Troy’s toy but eye-catching nonetheless, and opened the passenger door for me. “I promise, if you still think it’s not worth it, I will leave you alone.”

“The answer is no.” I picked up speed, almost breaking into a run. “Goodbye.”

I ran all the way back to the penthouse, trying to tell myself that I wasn’t scared, and merely pissed off. That Brock had good intentions, and I was just too drunk on Troy to realize that he was trying to help.

Back at home, I cracked open a bottle of something vintage and placed two glasses of wine near the white wool carpet by the fireplace downstairs. I polished off two drinks just to take the edge off the Brock encounter—the guy was radiating seriously stalker vibes. Then I went into the bathroom upstairs, the one I shared with Troy, to comb my hair and wash off the last of my day at Rouge Bis.

It saddened me that I put up with my husband’s secrets. Saddened me because I was no longer able to deny the truth. I was desperately in love with my husband.

Every day he took up more space in my heart. With every moment, it became a bit more difficult to breathe when he wasn’t around. My love for Troy Brennan wasn’t romantic or sweet—it was violent and needy. It was a cancer, spreading inside my body, multiplying into hundreds and thousands of new cells with every beat of my heart. No chemotherapy, no miracle cure. Every heartbeat, I slipped a little more. Drowned a little deeper. Fell a little further into the bottomless ocean of feelings for him.

I heard the bedroom door slamming shut and dropped my head back, closing my eyes just so I wouldn’t have to see myself in the mirror. Facing yourself was hard when you’d given up yourself for someone else.

“Is it possible to feel your heart breaking, even when you’re falling in love?”

I brushed my long hair.
Yes.
It was. Here I was, falling in love, and getting my heart broken at the very same time. A knock on the bathroom door reminded me of the first time we talked, on our wedding day. How much had changed since then. Yet, some things remained the same.

“You better not be decent. I’m coming in.”

He opened the door, filling its frame with his impossible size. His azure blues scanned me intently. I dropped my gaze to his hands. They looked busted, his skin peeling. He smelled of bleach and gasoline. I shook my head.

“I can’t believe you,” I said quietly.

“It’s not what you think.” He threw a crooked grin my way. “I didn’t forget the Chinese. It’s downstairs.”

I pointed at his hand. “What the hell have you done now?”

His gaze became hooded, guarded, and his shoulders tensed. Still, I didn’t regret bringing this up. If he was going around killing people like life was a Quentin Tarantino movie, I needed to know.

He looked down to his knuckles, frowning. This was not him. He was always good at covering his tracks. It was almost like he wanted me to find out, consciously or not.

“Troy…” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m done looking past what you do. Tell me.”

“Sparrow, really.” He tried to stroke my arm.

I took a step back. “Now, Troy.”

His smile vanished. “I’m going to go ahead and be really honest about one thing, but beware. It’s not pretty, and I take betrayal very seriously, so I’m trusting you to keep your mouth shut.”

I looked up at him as his chest bumped into my body. He was so close, I was able to smell his delicious sweat and everything else he carried with him that day in the mix of bleach and gasoline.

I nodded. “I won’t betray you.”

“I know.” His tone was harsh all of a sudden. “Remember, you’ve been pushing for some kind of truth. So here’s the thing I want you to know. I’m not a hitman. I don’t kill people for a living. Never been paid to finish someone off, but…” He raised his hand, twirling a lock of my hair around his finger. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I did kill Billy. And I killed Father McGregor, too. Both deaths were ugly, but so was what they did.”

My knees buckled, and my stomach lurched, but it wasn’t from fear. I was elated. He had confided in me. He was cracking. My monster, my capturer, my corrupter.
My lover.

“What did they do to deserve this?” I croaked, watching his finger playing with my strand of red hair.

“Billy killed my dad, a cold-hearted murder for money. McGregor told him where and when to find him, knowing his intentions. They took away the only thing I cared about.” His eyes dilated as he watched his index finger playing with my hair, his voice lost in thought. “They had to pay for their sins.”

“And you’re Boston’s God,” I finished softly.

I wanted to cry but was too stunned to do something so natural and instinctive. I shouldn’t have been surprised—the gossip warned about my husband all along—but I was. How did he live with the fact that he’d taken not one, but two lives? Then again, no one ever murdered my parent.

“Does it scare you, little lovebird?" he breathed into my ear, his huge body engulfing my small one, “To know that I’m capable of these things? I’m still on the lookout for the person who sent them to kill my dad, you know. I’m not done with my list.”

Troy let go of my hair, taking a small, yellow slip of paper out of his pocket, pressing it to my chest. I plucked it out of his hand and read it. Crupti and McGregor’s names were struck through. He didn’t know who the third person was. There was a question mark.