Sparrow(21)

“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.

“Oh.” I collected my wits, still flushed. “That was your gun? I thought you were just happy to see me.”

He laughed a hearty laugh and carried me with my legs wrapped tightly around him to the leather sofa. The persistent, cold summer rain knocked on the windows, but the living room felt hot and charged with what was happening between us.

What the hell was wrong with us? We couldn’t hold a five-minute conversation, and our only communication so far involved heavily making out and taunting each other like high school kids. Nevertheless, I felt like a bundle of quick-firing nerves in his arms.

“Troy…” I moaned his name into his mouth, giving in to the moment of sudden lust, tasting the Johnnie Walker Black Label on his breath and trying hard to suppress the memories that particular smell—a brand my father would never be able to afford—brought with it. The stranger who ruined me, whose name I never told anyone.