Sparrow

Sweating away my guilt, I dragged the sofa out to the patio, doused it with gasoline and lit that too. Stinking fire rose from the old sofa, a long cloud of black smoke climbing up to the gray, cloud-covered sky. I scrubbed the cabin clean, everything Flynn touched, until my skin peeled and my knuckles bled. It took me a good few hours, but I couldn’t take any chances.

On the drive back to Boston, I tried not to think about the Van Horns. It was that part of the job that I didn’t care for. Normally, I was a bad guy messing around with bad guys. But every now and again, a Flynn would slip onto my radar, an innocent person who was just at the wrong place, or more often than not, born into the wrong family, and that’s when things got messy. Fucking people over who didn’t deserve my wrath wasn’t my style. I had my own version for justice, and I applied it whenever I saw fit. I tried to tell myself that this was life. That sometimes you were Batman…and sometimes, the Joker.

Flynn didn’t deserve to die, and I could have prevented it, but it would have cost me a client and caused trouble for me. Simply put, covering my ass was more important to me than Flynn’s life.

Trying to push this thought and the looming confrontation I’d have to have with Brock about it away, I dialed Sparrow’s number. I knew she had a shift, but an overwhelming urge to hear her smartass voice took over. She answered after the fourth ring.

“Why are you answering your phone? You should be working,” I barked. She took her job seriously, and I knew she wasn’t happy at Rouge Bis. Sparrow was born to be free. She wasn’t built to function under the realm of the likes of Pierre. Or me. She also didn’t care for fancy food. She was the opposite of Catalina. Her style was oily, homey, comfort street food. She was a pancake kind of girl.

“If you know that I’m working, why’re you calling?”

“To piss you off, of course.”

“Mission accomplished.” I heard the amusement in her voice, and then a sigh and the rattle of pots. “Pierre’s giving me shit.”

“Sausage fingers?” I rolled a fresh toothpick in my mouth. I hated that she had a shit time at my restaurant, but loved that she hadn’t given up. “You’re doing a good job.”

“I know,” she said evenly. “That’s why it kills me.”

“Deal,” I prompted her.

“Oh, I fully intend to. I’m going to raid your liquor cabinet the minute I get home.”

Home. This wasn’t the first time she’d called it that. In the beginning it was always your apartment, your sheets, your kitchen. I liked that it had become ours, even if I had a feeling it was a temporary thing.

“Wait up for me. I could use a drink or six.”

“Another bad day at the office?” she asked.

“The worst.”

“Maybe you should change your profession.”

“Sure,” I snorted. “To what, exactly? Social worker? Maybe an environmental specialist?”

“Perfect. I was thinking along the lines of saving polar bears or wild birds. Somewhere far from civilization would suit you.”

“I’ve already saved one wild bird,” I reminded her. “And she keeps me damn busy.”

“Saved, huh?” She laughed, the sound an unintended accusation. “Pick this wild bird up some Chinese takeout before you come home. I’ll open up a bottle. See you there.”

I was almost tempted to come clean to her, on the phone, out of nowhere. Luckily, I came to my senses quickly. I knew it wouldn’t do me any good—that she’d never forgive me. Or my father. Her mother. Any of us.

I turned up the volume on the radio. “In My Head” by Queens of the Stone Age blasted through the speakers. Was I pussy-whipped? Yeah. Literally. Spending time inside my wife had become my favorite hobby. I had finally found my weakness, and sure enough, it was between Red’s legs. That’s where I wanted to live, and that’s where I wouldn’t mind dying.

But it wasn’t just that. The thought of spending time with that little smart mouth tonight made me feel weird. Not exactly happy, but oddly excited. I hated liking her. In a sense, it was like handing her the keys to the pit of my soul while she was tanked as hell and telling her to drive carefully. No one fucking promised me that she would.

Our “arrangement” of fucking around without having any sort of relationship had me confused as fuck. There was nothing romantic in what we were. We didn’t go out, share gifts or watched fucking Netflix together. We didn’t make love, we made war. When she was pulling, I was biting. When she was scratching, digging her nails into my flesh, I slammed harder, faster. Our sex was furious, it was raw, untamed, wild…but it wasn’t selfish.