Sparrow

“Touch me again and I’m telling your boss,” I said, turning around and storming toward the exit. I felt his gaze on my back as I pushed the diner’s door open, almost slamming it in a random jogger’s face.

Brock stayed put in his seat, knowing he’d done enough. He’d planted a seed. Knew I drooled over him like all the other women with functioning organs, and that now I knew I could have him.

Passing by the diner’s window as I bolted down the street, I saw him easing back into his seat with a stupid smile on his face, tapping his lips with his sugar-coated finger.

I ran all the way back home, not stopping to catch my breath, and had an ice-cold shower the minute I stepped in.

Brock was the last thing I wanted.

And the first thing I needed to get over Troy’s betrayal.

TROY

THE IDIOT ARRIVED in the middle of the night, just when Flynn Van Horn threw up all over my Derby shoes, crawling on the floor toward the wooden table at the end of the hideout cabin and trying to get to the phone on top of it.

“Damn junkie,” I muttered, stepping over his puke to open the door for my employee. Brock stood on the other side, looking stupidly smug. His car lights were still on, illuminating the hills around us.

Originally, my dad bought this place, in the middle of The Berkshires and faraway from civilization and Boston, to spend time with Robyn. When I inherited it, I used it mostly to take care of business. And right now I had a junkie to detox, only I didn’t know shit about shit when it came to rehabbing a drug addict.

But that’s what I had Brock for.

Flynn’s father, George Van Horn, had insisted that his son could not attend a regular rehab facility, where someone could find out about his loser spawn. I took him to the cabin because its walls swallowed the secrets of my clients. They were soaked with them, big and small, dirty and crazy. Secrets everywhere. The blackmailing mistresses I had to deal with. The coercing gang members I had to throw out of town. The rich people who needed to disappear for a while. I swear, if these walls could talk, Boston Metro Police would have enough work for the next three centuries.

“I said one hour, not nine.” I flashed my teeth angrily, and Brock pushed past me, walking into the cabin with his kit. He was looking all kinds of chirpy. What the fuck have you done now?

“Where’s our little patient?” he asked.

Just then, Flynn began to gag, reaching up for the table and trying to struggle to his feet. He fell flat, facedown and the sound of a bone cracking filled the air. I shook my head and sank into the squeaky yellow sofa my dad’s mistress picked. She had a horrible taste. Cozy braided rugs all throughout, a small, wooden kitchen and a bunch of deer heads mounted on the log walls. The cabin looked like a perfect place for a Stephen King character to murder his victims.

“I’m going to die!” Flynn yelled, just as Brock squatted down to take a look at him. He hovered over the frail kid and spoke to him calmly, explaining what he was going to do in order to determine his physical situation.

In truth, I believed Flynn. From the moment I stepped into his rundown apartment and yanked him off of his junkie girlfriend while he was trying—and failing—to nail her in their dirty sheets, he’d been shaking, purging and crying uncontrollably, muttering throughout the whole car drive to the cabin that he was sick and needed his next fix. I wasn’t a doctor, but the fact that he was blue didn’t leave me optimistic about his physical wellbeing.

“He needs to get to the hospital,” Brock announced, getting up on his feet from Flynn and yanking off a pair of disposable black gloves. “Immediately.”

Snarling, I kicked a nearby footstool.

I couldn’t take Flynn to the ER, and Brock knew that damn well. I was paid to handle him quietly and discreetly. Failing wasn’t an option. Never was in my line of work.

As if on cue, Flynn passed out on the rug, a trail of puke running from the side of his mouth and pooling beneath his cheek. Nothing but watery fluids. His eyes were shut and a coat of cold sweat began to settle on his damp skin.

“Oh, fuck me.” I kneeled down, pressing two fingers to his neck. He was still alive. The pulse was there. It was faint, but it was there. “No hospital.” I jerked my head to the heroin addict. “Do it here.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“His dad would rather he be dead than getting well in a public hospital. We don’t make the rules,” I fired back.