Sparrow

But that didn’t happen. See, Sparrow Raynes had a little fight in her, and I was intrigued. So much so, that I tried to test her boundaries, scare her. Play with her a little.

The sexy gift wasn’t my idea. I wasn’t the one who picked it out, and my mistress would pay for distressing Red too soon and too fast.

But the blood? That was all on me. When I tasted her blood, knowing it was from her foot, I searched her face for a reaction. She looked appalled and shocked, but held back the tears. And underneath the distress…she f*cking loved it. She had a dark little soul, just like mine.

Yes, Red was brave—so much braver than some of the men I had to deal with every day that I felt compelled to spare her virginity. I had very little interest in it anyway, even though she was hot and ready for me. I knew want, recognized it from miles, and Sparrow’s body reacted to me so fast, so hungrily that I had to make a point.

She was mine to take if I wanted her, and that was good to know.

Since that first night, work had taken over. I was too busy to try and f*ck her. Frankly, she didn’t look like she was worth the time. Inexperienced, innocent, and pretty but in a pasty, wallflower way.

Red was cute, but was also categorically not my type. Her dress sense made me want to lock her in a designer store with a herd of stylists and come back for her next year. She wore Keds, black hoodies and casual mom jeans. Sure, she had a banging runner’s body and an ass to fill those pants like nobody’s business, but a little effort wouldn’t hurt.

I supposed it might not be that hard to get used to that sort of look. A part of me hoped she’d take offense to my remark about her going to buy something nice for herself. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d almost come to terms with her feistiness.

Of course, when she’d stood in front of me in the living room, trying to strike up a conversation, all I could think about was how screwed up my day had been.

I’d begun the day by crushing the kneecaps of two ambitious little gang nobodies. A job for one of my clients, an up-and-coming rich politico who happened to like it rough and was a sub for a transgender girl who tried milking him for half a million dollars after she secretly videotaped them. Normally, I’d settle the score directly with the girl, only in this case, things got messy.

The gang members broke into the girl’s apartment, stole her shit and unfortunately her camera too. Instead of erasing everything on it and selling it, they found the video footage of the politician and his dom doing ungodly things. Things respectable, proper community leaders like him weren’t supposed to be doing. Somehow, don’t ask me how because gang members are usually as stupid as turds, these two realized the full potential of what landed in their laps and decided to blackmail the preppy bastard, too. Only they wanted a million. I had to step in and do some damage control.

Getting myself into trouble by solving other people’s shit was part of my job description. This wasn’t a first, but it had still sucked ass. By the time I got to the office at Rouge Bis, I’d looked like shit.

I walked in with a lump the size of a baseball on my forehead, courtesy of one of the blackmailing lowlifes.

And he sat there behind his desk, typing on his laptop.

Brock took care of my legitimate businesses. I mostly hired out for the illegal stuff to people like Connor, but Brock managed the fronts I used to launder the money I was paid by people like the f*cking politician. Along with Rouge Bis, Brock handled the grocery store and the gambling joints. (Strictly speaking, those joints weren’t legal, but the police overlooked this little fact for the right price.) Brock also had one other skill. The sonovabitch knew how to perform as a field doctor and could detox junkies as expertly as I broke faces.

“Shit hit the fan?” he asked, not looking up from his Excel spreadsheets.

I took off my blazer and blood-stained black shirt (I knew better than to wear white on workdays) and tossed them into the trash. I opened one of the drawers in the filing cabinet and pulled out a plastic bag of instant-ice and one of the clean shirts I kept stashed there.

“Smashed their kneecaps with my Callaway golf club,” I grunted, squeezing the bag and pressing the now ice-cold rectangle against the knot on my head

Brock kept typing. “And you’re bummed because they’ll never be able to walk again?” He sounded skeptical.

“I’m bummed because I f*cked up my Callaway’s shaft. It was my favorite.” I buttoned up my clean, crisp black shirt

His expression hardened, but not with nearly as much disgust as six years ago, when he first started working for me. “Does your new wife know how sick you are?” Disapproval dripped from his voice. He still didn’t look up.

“Probably, if she’s got half a brain.” I mentally added, but your wife knows exactly how sick I am.

His fingers stilled on the keyboard, and this time he did look up. “Don’t feel obligated to act like an * to her.” He was talking about Sparrow. “She didn’t do anything, and it’s bad enough what you did to her mother.”

My fist tightened around the ice pack. I slowly raised my chin, a patronizing smile on my face. “Mind your own f*cking business, Greystone.”

And before he could retrieve some of his pride, before he could answer back, I turned around and walked out the door.

I’d leave him a note to replace that golf club later. Treat him like he was the secretary. Like a waitress at Hooters. Then I’d take him out for a beer. After all, we were friends, weren’t we?