Sparrow

Jesus Christ. This man.

TROY

THE INVITATION TO dinner was an impulse I might regret. Taking her out on a date? What the fuck was that all about? This wasn’t Pretty Woman, and Red sure as hell wasn’t Julia Roberts.

I’d made up the story about church. I hadn’t watched her. In fact, I’d tried my best to pretend she didn’t exist, suppressing the idea that one day this kid would be my wife. Even when her preteen friends inched close to me after mass, giggling, and she stood beside them, shyly eyeing me like I was fucking ET. Even back then, I knew that Sparrow Raynes was not for me. Her quiet behavior screamed something I didn’t want to hear. I knew her mother deserted her and her father was an alcoholic, that life had fed her shit from all directions. But she never got under my skin. Not many people did, and only one woman ever had.

So, truly, the feelings I had for Sparrow Raynes were the same as I had for every women other than the bitch who broke my heart—a big, fat, hollow nothing.

I took a leak and shower, letting the water wash off the last of my crappy day and not caring if she’d followed me to bed.

The only reason I’d given her false hope that we shared some kind of history together, at least from my end, was because I wanted to shut her up. She was getting all let’s-talk-about-it on my ass, and it reminded me of the stupid, misguided women who’d tried to get through to me over the years.

I admit I was a little intrigued when she came out of the bathroom the night of our wedding and produced blood from her pussy. I saw the socks on her feet, her slight limp when she entered the room like a mouse with a thorn in its foot instead of the lion. She’d purposely hurt herself to buy time. She chose pain over humiliation. The daughter of the drunk, the spawn of the runaway mother, had pride and wits.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by it, but I was.

As it turned out that night, Sparrow was the only girl from our neighborhood who didn’t lose her shit and drool over any affluent, suited man who walked down the dark path.

Even before she marched out of the bathroom dripping blood, I knew she wasn’t one of those girls who’d just spread her legs for me. She probably thought I’d rape her. That she’d just lie there and take it like a dead body. That we would both hate the situation—and one another—but with a bit of luck, I’d manage to knock her up and hope that would shut her up for the next nine months.

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 fucking 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 fuck 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.