Sparrow

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, * 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.