by L.J. Shen
“For the love of God, drag your asses back to work before you set my place on fire,” I roared.
Everybody jumped back to their stations, other than the head chef. He eyeballed Sparrow like she had just kidnapped his family at gunpoint and thrown them in a cellar full of venomous snakes. I turned around to glance at my wife. Despite her obvious embarrassment, she returned a challenging glare to the chef. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by his stink eye.
Atta girl.
I curled my finger behind my back, signaling her to step deeper into the kitchen. She did. I kept my eyes trained on what’s-his-name, who bit his hairy upper lip in barely contained frustration.
“Go on,” I murmured, my scowl lingering on his face. “Test her.”
He blinked a few times, trying to digest the situation. Then he sighed, looking around him for support. No one even dared to look at us now.
“Come with me,” he instructed her.
I followed them. Pierre—he introduced himself again when I referred to him as “the cook”—plucked one of the menus from beside the stove and shoved it into her hands. He didn’t have a clue that she was my wife, and I wanted to keep it that way. To find out whether she really knew what she was doing.
I wanted her out of the house, but not at the expense of giving my customers food poisoning.
Pierre stabbed at the menu with his oily finger, leaving a stain on the parchment as he pointed at one of the dishes. I couldn’t help but notice it was the most expensive, long-titled entrée on the menu. A fucking trap if I ever saw one. My eyes narrowed in annoyance, but I didn’t move. Just took out a toothpick from my breast pocket and placed it between my lips, rolling it from side to side with my tongue.
“Roasted venison loin, grains, parsnip puree and sauce poivrade.” His smile was triumphant.
Sparrow turned her gaze to him, not a muscle in her round, freckled face flinching. “It takes about three and a half hours to make this dish,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“I have time,” the chef hissed, nostrils flaring.
A sudden, unexpected urge to cut the son of a bitch to tiny pieces washed over me, but I leaned against one of the steel counters instead, looking both bored and content. “So do I.”
She looked between us like this was a conspiracy, but threw her red mane behind her shoulder and shrugged off our attitude. “Better get started, then.”
Sparrow got down to business straightaway. She almost flipped Pierre the finger when he sarcastically offered her an apron. I watched as she filled up the empty station he assigned her with the ingredients she needed. Her movements were swift and confident as she got comfortable and found everything she needed. I knew the chef set her up with an unfair task. He just gave her the name of the dish and hoped she’d fuck up. But by the look on his face every time she ran from side to side, holding carrots, beef stock and bay leaves, I had a feeling this girl knew her way around the kitchen, much to his dismay.
While I watched her cook, I suddenly realized it was her art. The pan was her canvas, the ingredients her paint. She cooked with fire in her eyes, with passion in her soul, with love in her heart.
Occasionally she’d wipe her forehead with her milky-white, freckled arm and smile apologetically, probably thinking she looked like a mess.
But she was wrong. This was a much-needed reminder that Red was kind of hot, in her own quirky way, anyway.
Like the way she curled the tip of her tongue on her upper lip when she concentrated. Something about it made me so hard I almost shoved her against the stove and proved to her just how much we could enjoy each other’s company. Or the way my wallflower suddenly became the center of the room, working the hardest without calling attention to herself or rambling about it. She glowed. Corny as it sounds, she fucking glowed.
“Hey, can you fetch the red wine from over there?” she asked at some point, running between one point of the kitchen to the other. I was so taken aback by her request, I felt almost offended.
“No, I cannot,” I answered evenly. “Can you not overstep your fucking bounds? You’re here auditioning for a job.”
“Someone’s on that special time of the month,” she grinned, grabbing the wine bottle by its neck.
“Just do your thing, Red.”
“O-kaaaay,” she drawled, still wiggling her ass to an inaudible tune in her head. “So just look over the pan and make sure the olive oil’s not overheating while I get the bottle opener.”
She finished making the dish a little after the restaurant closed for the night. Her red hair was everywhere—face, neck, sticking to her forehead—and Cat’s dress looked like she had just lost a food fight. But she looked happy, and that’s a look I’d never seen on her face before.
I ordered Pierre to follow me to one of the black leather banquettes, where he poured us both red wine while she served the food.
“Gentlemen.” She couldn’t contain her wide beam as she presented us with the plates, repeating the name of the dish and finishing off with a little bow. “Enjoy your meal.”
We both picked up our silverware and stabbed into the food. The minute I shoved the fork into my mouth, I was done for.
Yeah, she was that good.
I knew Pierre thought so, too, by the way his mouth hung open halfway through his bite, looking up at her with hate-filled eyes.
“Too salty,” he gritted through his teeth.
“Bullshit,” I sneered. “It’s excellent.”
Her gaze bolted to me, her face opening up with something sincere I probably didn’t deserve. She was just as surprised as I was by my compliment. “You think?”
“Yeah.” I threw my cloth napkin on the table and stood up. “Tell your culinary class friends your evenings are no longer free. You can start a week from Monday. I’ll let Brock know so he can do the paperwork.” I turned to Pierre. “Don’t give her more than five shifts a week. Make sure she’s always stationed doing something meaningful. I don’t want her cutting vegetables or working an intern position. You report back to Brock about the new employee, should any difficulties occur. And you…” I nodded toward her. “Ruined that dress. No surprises there. Let’s go home.”
Pierre jumped to his feet, looking like a heart attack waiting to happen. Judging by his puzzled look, a dozen questions were swimming in his head, but the only thing he seemed to have managed to stutter was, “H-home?”
Her hair smelled of onions and garlic as I dropped my arm around her shoulder, just to see the blood draining from the fat chef’s face. But I was surprised when Sparrow’s reaction was to wrap her hand around my waist like we were an actual couple. We walked out of the restaurant, and she looked up at me, her eyes bright.
“Stop smiling at me,” I said.
She started laughing.
“Cut it,” I groaned. Positive attention is the kiss of death to natural born killers. We just don’t know how to deal with reassuring feedback.
“I can’t!” she giggled. “I can’t. I’m sorry. My friend Lucy is going to piss in her pants when she finds out.”
For the first time since we got married, I didn't feel the bitterness that accompanied looking at her face. The burden I had to endure when having her around.
We walked into the chilly summer night and I disconnected from her touch. The valet who’d parked my car immediately broke into a run, cutting into the alley where he’d left the Maserati. I gave him a fat tip for the extra hours and for waiting, and ushered Sparrow into the car. She was still laughing like a drunk.
Secretly, I had to admit, her laugh was not that horrible to listen to.
That should have been my first warning that Sparrow wasn’t the only one cracking up. Her laugh was not that horrible to listen to. At all.
SPARROW
DRUNK WITH HAPPINESS and high on bliss, I could barely contain myself during the drive home. The thought of working in the kitchen of a high-end restaurant made me want to break into a silly dance in the middle of the street. I was g
oing to get five shifts a week, which meant my culinary school days were over. But my real career was only just beginning.
Sparrow Raynes. Runner. Summer-air lover. Boyfriend-jeans enthusiast. Chef. Hear that, Mom? Your daughter, the girl you so easily tossed away like an empty soda can, is someone.
Will be someone.
My imagination went wild. I could gain some experience and then go and do my own thing. Truth be told, I wasn’t the fancy-food type of girl. I’d buy a food truck and serve blueberry pancakes to all the suits working in downtown Boston. Be the height of their gray working day. I’d hire Lucy to work alongside me, and maybe Daisy, too. She couldn’t bake or cook to save her life, but she was always good with people.
I practically jumped up and down in my seat next to Troy. He shook his head and ignored me for the most part, but occasionally, I’d glance sideways and catch him grinning to himself.
Something in him had cracked. I could feel it, and despite my best intentions to stay away, to protect myself, it stirred something in me. Did he feel it, too? Did he care?
In the elevator, I studied his face, drinking in his reaction. Searching, guessing…
“You care.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed.
Yeah, he definitely cared.
Even though I wasn’t tired, I danced my way upstairs and into the bedroom. Troy was left behind to get himself another whiskey and to lock the front door. He had a habit of checking all the rooms in the apartment, looking for God knows what before he went to bed every night. I’d heard him when I was pretending to be asleep.
I guess I, too, should have been worried about my safety, but everything about his security measurements pissed me off.
And especially Connor, my very own guard dog.
I felt Troy enter the bedroom, my back to him, a few minutes later. I was pulling my PJ’s out of my drawer, just about to go into the bathroom and change.
The thing about Troy was that he always walked into a room bringing the atmosphere he wanted to convey. Like a human thermostat, he not only controlled every situation, but also the mood you were in. Sometimes he brought anger and rage, sometimes gloom, sometimes terror and very rarely something positive and hopeful.
Tonight, he brought lust.
He took a step toward me, and then another one.
More heat gripped my body. I blamed adrenalin and the damn alcohol—I’d downed three more drinks while Troy and Pierre were tasting my food. The drinks and the rush from my new job were a lethal combination. Something buzzed in the air, something that made the space between my thighs quiver in response, a pool of heat washing over my lower belly.
I knew if I opened up to him, it would end in tears. The writing was on the wall, the text smeared in blood, no less. Stay away, Sparrow. Don’t let your curiosity get the better of you.
The floor-to-ceiling windows were fogged with condensation, and my breathing grew heavy. My back still faced him, and I knew that if I turned around, I’d cave. I was holding the top of a six-drawer dresser, the expensive kind, my feet still clad in those goddamned high heels. He closed the space between us and stood behind me, his body pulsing heat at mine, wave after wave.
But he didn’t touch me, and somehow, it made me want him even more.
My body froze, legs clenched together in fear and...No. He was corrupted. A monster. No.
My mind raced and I struggled to read my own feelings. He said I needed to reciprocate. But also that he wasn’t a rapist. That with him, I’d want it. So right. So wrong. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
“Bend over,” he ordered, his lips pressed behind my ear. I wanted to respond, but felt his fingers already moving down my back, unzipping my dress slowly, deliberately brushing my spine in the process. I leaned forward to take off my heels, and he yanked me closer to his body by my waist, my ass hitting his groin. “Leave them on.”
My dress fell on the floor, exposing my simple cotton underwear and matching white strapless bra. I stepped out of the pool of fabric beneath me. He kicked the dress into a pile and, still behind me, trailed one of his long fingers along my collarbone. A shiver tickled my skin, raising goose bumps in its wake.
“Spread your legs.”
I did.
He moved away from me for a second. My heart drummed fiercely with anticipation as I placed my palms on the dresser, my body bent and my ass up in the air. I heard something click and watched as his hand snaked from behind my back, reaching over my shoulder. He put his gun on the dresser top in front of me. His holster dropped to the floor with a thud. Still completely and impeccably clothed, he trailed his lips over my neck, just barely touching me.
My skin was on fire and I lowered my head, staring at our feet. I was so needy I thought I’d collapse.
“Hold the dresser real tight unless you want a busted lip. I don’t want you hitting something.” His hand covered my throat as he pulled me into his face.
I had no sexual experience to speak of. I didn’t know what was about to happen. But truthfully, I didn’t not want it to happen either. If there ever was a good night to do something with Troy, this would be it. Hell, I wanted to experience what other girls were having.
I gripped the edge of the dresser, sucking on my lower lip.
“How’s your magical period tonight?” he taunted into my ear.
I moaned, arching my back to meet more of his body. He shoved his huge, warm hand into one of my bra cups, massaging and tugging at my nipple. I groaned, not uttering one word.
“Tell me you don’t want this.” His tongue flicked over my earlobe as his hand moved down to my stomach, his rough fingers caressing my skin. His mouth traveled down my jawline, stopping inches from my lips. “Tell me that you’re not ready yet, that you want me to stop.” He nipped the tip of my chin seductively, and my head dropped backward, to his chest.
Suddenly, it felt so hot in the room I was barely able to breath.
I cleared my throat. “Would it even matter?”
He nodded yes into my shoulder, his firm body pressing into mine. I didn’t want him to stop, thought I’d die if his hands left my wanting body, but I hated to admit that he was right. I loathed him but loved his touch.
“Don’t stop,” I barely whispered, my self-control evaporating.
Troy dropped to his knees behind me, ignoring my silent plea for him to keep teasing my nipples. His head disappeared between my thighs, and then he tipped back his head, pressing his lips upward to my underwear. He kissed my opening through the cotton. A shudder ripped through me, head to toe. I gripped the bureau tighter.
“You’ve never had oral sex.” His voice was silk, traveling the short distance between my thighs to my pussy.
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer. There was something intoxicating about seeing him below me like this, this powerful man, on his knees for me. His coal black hair contrasting with my white skin, his mouth so hot, so close…
“So this…” His long finger trailed between my folds, over my panties. “Has been waiting for me all this time. Did someone ever touch you there?”
I thought back to that awful day when someone did, despite my pleas, and all the days he did it over and over again after. I shook my head no, fighting my gag reflex. Brennan wouldn’t care, and it was too intimate to share with him anyway.
“You’re lying,” he said, hooking his index fingers into my underwear from each side, his voice suddenly harsh behind me.
Another statement.
His mouth was there again, between my thighs. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling my legs shaking. Desperate… wanting…falling in lust with this twisted man. One step from grinding my crotch against his face.
“I know how to smell bullshit from miles. So tell me now, who was it?” His warm breath felt good on my skin, especially as I could barely make out his face from that angle and didn’t know when it was coming. “Who was stupid enough to mess around with you?”
It sounded peculiar, eve
n insulting—why would a guy be stupid to be with me? But at that moment, logic and thinking weren’t the thing on my mind. With my head hanging low, I felt the familiar burn behind my eyes and the lump in my throat.
“Paddy.” My voice thickened. “At his wedding. When I went to the girls’ room. Paddy Rowan touched me there. And many times after. It became a hobby of his at some point.” I swallowed a bitter lump. “I was only nine.”
I didn’t break down in tears. Instead, I delivered the information like I was talking about someone else’s problems, someone else’s sexual abuse. Maybe because I’d hidden it for so long, a part of me almost doubted it had really happened.
After all, no one knew. Not a soul. It went on for nearly a year, and yet, nobody knew. I couldn’t tell my father. He was working for Paddy and Cillian back then, and I knew how much he feared them and needed the paycheck. I had to choose between the truth and food on our table. So I kept it to myself.
Until now.
Admitting this to Troy made me feel more naked than I physically was—it was like giving up an imaginary bulletproof vest. A part of me wanted to see if it would push him away. After all, now I was damaged goods. Tainted by his father’s right-hand man. Troy’s shiny new toy was broken and cracked. Would it put him off? Would he back down? I wanted to know if taking off my armor would inspire him to shoot me where it hurt.
I peeked down to search his face, but he was still behind me.
"What did he do exactly?" He pressed his face to my panties, inhaling gently. He sounded composed and attentive, but clipped. Even though his voice barely gave him away, the sudden twitch of his hand caressing my lower stomach did the job. He was disturbed by what I’d said, but not disgusted by me.
