by L.J. Shen
With that, he disappeared up the stairs, leaving me high and dry.
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.
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 fucking 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 fucked 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 asshole 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 fucking 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?
Keep your friends close and your enemies
closer, they said. Brock’s leash was shorter than my temper, and I made sure that I was always three steps ahead of him.
And that I always had the upper hand.
I FINISHED OFF the disastrous day by paying a visit to Catalina, thinking I’d let off some steam and give her a piece of my mind about Sparrow’s inappropriate wedding gift.
Catalina was my Friday piece and only long-term mistress. Tonight was an unscheduled visit.
It was a risky thing, like anything else worth doing. Brock worked late at the restaurant on Fridays. I always made sure he was extra busy those days so I could play with his wife, even though a part of me really did want him to find out.
Tonight, I wasn’t in the mood for fucking. Maybe it was the Callaway, and maybe it was the fact I knew I’d be going back to a penthouse full of Sparrow, a chick I didn’t know or like. Hell, maybe it was just me growing bored with my mistress’s crazy antics.
Catalina was a virus encased in a sexy dress. Easily spread, but you know that shit is bad for you. There was a time—it was long ago—that she made me believe she was an innocent little lamb, in need of rescuing. Today, I knew she was the person people needed to be protected from.
Either way, I was feeling extra devilish. “Kneel,” I ordered coldly when she walked into her dark bedroom.
She jumped, surprised and startled by my presence, but then quickly dropped to her knees, her breath already growing heavy. I pushed myself off the window sill I was leaning against, closed the short distance between us and slammed the door shut so her son wouldn’t hear. Her cleavage rose and fell with the rhythm of her breaths. She wanted this so fucking bad, it was almost a turn-off.
Looking down at her, I unzipped my pants. “Now suck.”
She didn’t budge. The bitch wanted to play, but I wasn’t game. I repeated my request.
“No. Do me first.” Her voice was shaky.
My jaw twitched. I didn’t have time for this. Fisting her dark hair from the base of her skull and yanking her closer to my junk, I murmured, “If you won’t, Sparrow will. I’ve been meaning to test-drive her.”
Her lips pinched, and she drew a long breath before moving her face to my cock. A quivering hand wrapped around my shaft.
My threat had worked. Cat had a problem, and her problem was me. I was her ambition, her love, her hate and every other feeling occupying her cold little heart. It was sad, but true.
After I came, I zipped up before she even had the chance to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. Slumping onto the floor, she dragged her gaze up to see if I’d return the favor.
I was not a good lover. Always took care of myself first, never thought twice about the women I was with. Women overlooked my moody behavior and shortcomings because I never gave them a chance to object. And Cat? She fucking lived for my cruelty. Loved it, lusted after it. The more monstrous I was, the hotter she was for me.
So I was the nastiest to her.
That particular night, I was in no mood to do her, let alone go down on her. I hadn’t gone down on a woman in years.
When I started for the door, she peeled her eyes away from my face, crawling on the floor, clasping my leg. “Don’t go to her,” she whined in decibels more fitted for a slasher film.
My cum was still dripping down her full lower lip and onto Brock’s carpeted floor, but she didn’t seem to give a damn that her son was downstairs and could probably hear her. I shouldered into my jacket as I watched her squirming at my feet. Recently she’d started crying. A lot. Cried when we fucked, cried when we didn’t, and especially every time I left. Surprisingly, I didn’t enjoy seeing her like this. I seldom enjoyed the misery of the weak—it was the resilient that I wanted to bring to their knees.
I spat out my toothpick, watched it roll under their bed and shook my head at her. “You’re a mess.”
She sniffed, bending her head down. “It kills me that you’re with her now.”
“Don’t butt into my shit, Cat. You have a kid to take care of and a life outside this cushy arrangement. We can stop if this is getting to be too much for you. I’m not the only person in the world with a dick. Your husband’s got one, too.”
“No, no.” She got up to her knees, looking like Alice Cooper, the mascara running down her cheeks in chunky strikes. Her palms were pressed together and she matched my pace, crawling on her knees.
Make no mistake, she loved this mess. Would never quit this affair, this drama, or me.
“I’m good. I’m just…you know, with you getting married and…” Her eyes fluttered shut as she heaved a sigh. “You’re right.” She shrugged, forcing a cunning smile as she got to her feet. “It’s just something I need to get used to.”
I would give her a piece of my mind about that slutty gift. But not tonight.
When I walked out of her house, Sam was in the living room, watching a cartoon in the dark, clutching a teddy bear under his armpit. “Bye, Mr. Troy,” he muttered almost to himself, eyes still glued to Bugs Bunny and Road Runner.
I grunted in response.
I was the scum of the earth.
The biggest scum on the planet.
And still, I couldn’t help myself.
SO, WHEN I GOT back home, poured myself a drink and heard Sparrow’s little feet climbing down the stairway, I decided I’d done enough damage for one day and spared her the truth about our marriage.
She was trying to be nice, and I was trying not to resent her.
The truth about our marriage was that I wanted nothing more than to be out of it. But as it happened, my father had made me promise I’d marry Abraham Raynes’s daughter.
Until his murder, I couldn’t, for the fucking life of me, understand why.
Raynes was a loser, a drunk, a man with no prospects, who never even made it to becoming a real mobster back in the day when every illiterate piece of shit was a legitimate part of the mob. He used to get the shittiest jobs the organization had to offer. My father let him work with the rookies. Abe extorted like a teenager, threatening people who owed us money, and he had some gigs as a bouncer and filled in for our errand boy when the latter was sick.
My father always spoke fondly of Sparrow Raynes, Abe’s daughter. Which didn’t explain why, when I turned eighteen, he invited me to his office (something he very rarely did, despite us being close) and made me promise that one day I would marry her and bring her into the family.
Marry. Sparrow. Raynes. The kid who was so off my radar, I wasn’t even sure I’d understood him right.
But I loved my father fiercely, adored him and would have died for him, so I rolled with the plan. I was eighteen, and she was eight. It was twisted and barbaric, and it was my very first taste of the unfairness of life, but it would be years before I’d have to worry about it. I put that plan on the backburner.
Needless to say, as we both got older the very idea of marrying the Plain Jane down the road sounded about as appealing as fucking a hedgehog. I warned everyone around Sparrow to stay the fuck away—guys were not to look, take interest or touch her. Always made sure the bad crowd kept away from her, not that she was drawn to it in the first place.
And always, always pressing my father to tell me why the hell I had to marry the little redhead. He never did.
The day he died, I found out why.
See, I always knew da had a side piece, but finding out it was Robyn Raynes – the runaway mother next door – made sense.
By then, I was older, wiser and colder, after having my heart broken into a gazillion pieces. I knew that the road to success was paved with sacrifices.
Sparrow Raynes was my sacrifice. I promised I’d marry her, and I had.
Truthfully, I would have happily waited a few more years, but my father’s lawyer made it pretty fucking clear that I wouldn’t see a dime or an acre he had left me until she had a ring on her finger.
And Cillian Brennan wasn’t taking the “all the days of my life” part of the wedding vows lightly. Clause 103b of his will stated that if S
parrow and I divorced, she would get the majority of my inheritance.
The majority. Un-fucking-believable.
At thirty-two, I was ready to collect what was mine. What had always been mine—my father’s hard-earned wealth.
The money was especially needed, now that my mother had decided to leave Boston in favor of a place in Nice, France. Most folks retired to Florida or Arizona. Andrea Brennan, though? Fucked off with her younger boyfriend to one of the most expensive places on earth. The French Riviera. And she didn’t even have a job to retire from.
Someone had to pay for her fancy shit, for the fact Maria was still needed at her house three fucking times a week because my mother let her lazy friends stay there every now and again. And despite her lavish lifestyle, my mom was a little strapped for cash. Most of the family money was invested in stocks and properties for tax reasons.
I couldn’t help but think that Andrea and Catalina had a lot of things in common.
Anyway, if Red learned the truth—why my father made me marry her in the first place and how I kept her virginal and untouched just for me all those years, scared all those potential suitors away—not only would she try and kill me, she could also go to the police, and have me locked up. For life.
So I was trying to be civil with my new wife.
Only now I had no fucking idea what to do with her. Court her? Ignore her? Fuck her against her will? The first and third options weren’t my style. Ignoring her had worked for a week, but left me annoyed. I was sick of hearing she was aimlessly wandering my apartment most of the day and pretending to be asleep whenever I returned home.
And then the shit in the living room happened downstairs, and she was so miserable and vulnerable, I’d spat some bullshit story about seeing her at church and even offered to take her to dinner.