Sparrow (8 page)

I couldn’t help but admire his smile. He didn’t look scary and didn’t act like a silent, unpredictable sociopath.
Like my husband
. It made hating Brock a challenging task.

I snorted, desperate to gain some control of the situation. Even if it meant being bitchy to him for no reason. “Thanks for sharing, Buddha.”

“Actually…” He looked around him to make sure no one was listening and leaned forward as he dropped his voice. “I wanted to check on you. You seemed upset at the wedding.”

I looked away.
He doesn’t care
.

He eyed me intently, ignoring my grouchiness. “Talk to me. I’m not one of the bad guys.”

“Pretty sure you’re not one of the good ones either.”

He paused, actually considering my statement. “I’m not here because Troy sent me to sniff around, if that’s what you think. I’m just…worried. Talk to me, Sparrow. How’s married life treating you?”

“Badly,” I deadpanned, “and since I heard the secret to a happy marriage is to want to be married to the person you’re with, guess I’m screwed.”

I was so brutally honest it almost felt reckless.
Almost.
I wasn’t afraid of him telling my new husband how I’d badmouthed our marriage. Brock knew I was forced into this bond. I’d read that between the lines when he spoke to his son at church the other day. But even if he did decide to rat me out to Brennan, it’s not like what I shared with him would be news to my husband.

“It gets better,” Brock said softly, rubbing the back of his neck and looking adorable.

The air thickened.

So did my voice. “Does it?” I cleared my throat.

“That’s the rumor, anyway.” He downed the rest of his coffee like a shot and banged his mug down on the kitchen island. Getting to his feet, he grabbed his jacket, draped on the back on the chair, and shot me a charming smile, flashing those pearly-white teeth and making my knees weak.

“You’d better check on your bath before it overflows.” He nodded in the direction of the distant sound of streaming water.

I nodded wordlessly and turned, walking back toward the bathroom. I was glad to put some distance between us. Being attracted to him was not something I was proud of, and I knew it’d only bring more complications to my already messy love life.

“Sparrow…” His voice halted me mid-step. “What do you do all day?”

I didn’t turn around. Was afraid he’d read the confusion on my face.

“Sit around here,” I answered, my voice brittle with the burden of the truth. “Mostly just trying to remember who I am, figuring out what to do next.”

“Your husband is a very capable man, you know.”

I gripped the belt of my robe, my teeth digging hard into my lower lip. “So people keep telling me.”

I turned around now, and our eyes locked. There was some space between us, but not much. Not enough for me to ignore the heat pouring from his body.

“What I mean is…” He licked his lips before taking another step in my direction. “Troy owns a restaurant just off Tremont Street. Rouge Bis. I manage it for him. Maybe you’d like to help out there.”

I almost clapped a hand over my mouth in disbelief. Rouge Bis was widely considered the most romantic place in Boston, so it was comical to find out that it was owned by the least romantic man in New England.

“Wait, how do you know that I’m a cook?” I frowned.

“Maria mentioned you keep making a mess in her kitchen. Plus, I noticed the fridge’s full of stuff that’s not just condiments. That’s a first in the Brennan household. Also, there’s the newspaper.” He nodded toward the island where he’d sipped coffee. “You highlighted a job as a cafeteria cook in the local schools. So, yeah, you’re not really keeping a low profile about it. Look, I’m sure you can give us a hand at the restaurant. You should probably ask Troy about it.”

“I doubt he’d be too happy to have me around.”

“He’s not there all that much.” Brock’s tone held a hint satisfaction, almost like he, too, couldn’t stand the presence of my husband. “If he’s game, I promise I’ll make it work. Instead of wandering, find yourself again, Sparrow. I’ll help if I can.”

I looked down, biting back my smile and fighting the butterflies that took flight in my stomach in full force.

Is he playing me?

Is he genuine?

Am I an idiot for feeling grateful?

“Okay,” I finally said, looking up to meet his eyes. “I’ll ask him. Thank you.”

“Sure thing. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Have a good day, Brock,” I said as he headed for the door.

“You too, sweetheart.”

THAT NIGHT, I
crawled to bed with a headache as oppressive as the thunderstorm outside pelting the windows with rain. Summertime my ass. It was like the lack of sunshine mimicked my feelings.

Brock’s words looped in my head all day, and I tried to think of ways to convince Troy to let me work at his restaurant. It was the first time in the last two weeks I was feeling a little hopeful.

Ever since he’d taken me from Pops, I felt like I was handcuffed and locked inside a brakeless car, rolling downhill at the speed of light.

Working in a kitchen was something I’d dreamed about ever since I was in middle school and watched
Ratatouille
. Pops gave me the DVD for Christmas and I played it so many times over, I remembered every single sentence. I’d worked my butt off, taking every class and course I could afford, to make it happen.

Now I was close. So close. The only thing standing between me and fulfillment was him.

Food.
I loved making it. Loved watching people enjoy the fruits of my labor as I served my dad and his buddies with a hearty meal. They’d sit there with their shirts open, undershirts beneath, their white-haired chests and bellies poking out against the small wooden table in our kitchen and shovel in my food. Be it Irish stew, homemade pasta with fresh sauce, or just my famous blueberry pancakes. Cooking and baking made me feel like someone, and someone was better than being the no one I was growing up to be.

Everyone was known as something. The pretty one, the athlete, the nerd, the bitch, the accountant or the mobster. I was known as the one with no mom, and I wanted to reinvent myself as the girl who could make mean blueberry pancakes.
The chef.

I waited for Brennan in bed for what felt like a decade. The clock ticked, painfully and almost deliberately slow, as my thoughts swirled in circles.

Will he be his usual, asshole self?

Will he surprise me and agree?

Is this even a good idea, to work for my fake-husband?

I heard the door open and slam shut at around two a.m. downstairs. Brennan’s place barely had any furniture, and so the echo carried all the way to the second floor. At first, I waited patiently in bed, but when fifteen minutes turned into thirty I hopped to my feet. My long hair flowed over my shoulders, tickling the small of my back as I climbed down the stairs. By the time I was in the dimly lit foyer, I started tiptoeing. I always treaded lightly around this man.

Brennan had his back to me, scanning the view overlooking the city skyline from his high-rise penthouse, and downing a tumbler of whiskey in big gulps. The scent of the alcohol was like my past slapping me in the face, and memories of my dad passed out on our couch punched me in the stomach.

Only difference was Troy’s alcohol didn’t smell of hardship, of Bushmills and sour sweat.

I stood there silently, trying to think of what to say or do. His dark suit, pressed and new looking, masked the obvious realities of his line of work. There was a dangerous buzz around him. He sometimes radiated it. Tonight, I suspected, was a bad night to ask for a favor. Something in the air around him felt wrong. Stormy, like the weather outside. The apartment was stark and chilly, but his body poured angry heat in waves. My stomach tightened as I contemplated whether I should just turn around and go back to bed. I could always ask him for a favor when he was in a better mood.

“You’re up late.” He crushed some ice between his teeth, making me shudder. His voice was gruff and thorny.

Like all sociopaths, I suspected my husband was emotionally impotent. From the week we’ve lived together, I knew that he rarely showed any feelings, and when he did, they were usually on the detached and disinterested spectrum.

“I waited for you,” I answered, a little surprised that he’d heard me.

He turned around, inspecting me with his piercing eyes like he was trying to see beneath my words. His jaw stiffened. So did his fist around the whiskey glass.

“You look…upset,” I whispered.

“Am I usually the jolly kind?” he mocked.

“You’re usually not miserable. Just scary as hell,” I shot back, eying the bruise on his forehead.

His shoulders rolled back, making him look a little less guarded. I noticed that he enjoyed my unapologetic comebacks, especially when they were at his expense. I wondered if it was refreshing, having someone answer back for a change. And I was stupid enough to be that person.

The change in his expression increased my confidence. I erased the space between us, flattening my palm against his chest. The gesture felt unnatural but necessary. I was used to putting up with bad behavior from years of living with my dad, but mostly I just wanted him to hate me a little less. I needed him for this job, after all.

“Bad day at the office?” I tried.

“Your pretense insults me,” he said evenly. “No need to act like you care. You already have my credit card.”

“Not all women are interested in only money, Troy. Especially if the money is dirty,” I clarified.

I realized I’d called him by his first name and pressed my palm deeper into his hard chest. I wasn’t sure if I was trying to soothe him or me, but his name and the human touch were consoling. Like we weren’t complete strangers.

“What do you do for a living?” I asked, more proof of how little I knew my husband.

“Money,” he answered. “I make it.”

“What do you do for this money?” I pressed.

“I have a grocery store, a restaurant and a few private poker joints. Your dad is a bouncer in one of them. You know this shit.”

“The grocery store in Dorchester was losing money even before it opened. The poker joints are small and people always owe you money. That’s not how you pay for a Maserati and a penthouse the size of a football field.”

He arched an eyebrow, giving me a slow once-over with those frosty baby-blues. “She’s sharp, too.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I croaked.

“There’s one thing I do know, and it keeps me from spilling my shit in your ears—you hate my guts, Red.”

“I don’t hate your guts.” It took all the effort in the world to say it. Because I did. I hated Troy Brennan for marrying me, caging me, owning me and chaining me to his grim life and destiny for no reason other than because he could.

“Anyone ever told you that you're a terrible liar?” His nostrils flared, but he kept his cool. He jerked me closer, wrapping his hand around the nape of my neck, his breath falling on my face with a whisper. “You wear the truth on your sleeve.”

I tiptoed my hand up to his face, my heart picking up speed as I stroked his bruise. Ballsy move, but I was afraid of him. Afraid that his frustration with me would swell and that he’d send me off back to the bedroom.

Fear is a prison, and in prison you played by different rules to survive.

Troy’s eyes narrowed on mine skeptically. The epitome of ruthless, his lips turned into a challenging smirk. “Prove you don’t hate me.”

And I did. I leaned up and pressed my lips against his softly.

I kissed him.

I kissed the husband I hated so much. Against reason, against logic, against everything my heart was telling me.

I kissed him because I wanted something from him. A job. A chance at happiness. Some
freedom
.

He fisted the hem of my nightshirt and in two big steps shoved me to the nearest wall, slamming me against it. My back felt the impact, and I arched to soothe the pain trickling down my spine. It felt different than the usual ache of flesh hitting concrete. Made my body buzz with something unfamiliar. Desire bit at my insides, and just like that, I got lost in his touch again.

His lips searched for mine angrily as he took one of my thighs and wrapped it around his waist, lifting me off the floor, only him and the wall supporting my weight. His erection pulsated beneath the fabric of his suit pants, and I resisted the instinct to grind against him. I lifted my arms to touch his smooth hair, running my hands down his slick mane.

He was a cheater.

A criminal.

A murderer.

And I was…fascinated.

If I was trapped in his golden cage, might as well enjoy the perks that came with it.

I traced his muscular chest with my fingers, roaming, exploring, longing. When my hands traveled down his abs, he stopped me, clasping my narrow wrist with his huge palm. I shrieked when I realized why.

“Careful now, Red,” he groaned into my mouth, removing my hand from his holster and catching my lower lip between his straight teeth.

Holy shit
. I tried not to freak out and yell.
I just touched a gun
. I’d never touched one before, and even though I knew Pops owned one, I’d never seen it up-close.