Sparrow - L.J. Shen Page 0,57

shit. It made me eerily proud of her. When she’d stood before me and repeated her vows, I’d imagined the girl I married would break in no time. Little did I know that Sparrow possessed the same quality I had when it came to people: For the most part? She didn’t. Fucking. Care.

I changed my mind. Cat was wrong. She was not a kid—she was a woman who refused to turn a blind eye when it came to her husband’s infidelities. She was more of a woman than my mom and Cat, combined.

"If you can afford a Maserati and a penthouse the size of a medium-sized island, you can also afford a nice hotel room downtown. This…” She pointed at the wall - was she able to detect Cat’s sweet, unbearable fragrance? - “Is the last time it happens under the roof where I live. God, I can’t believe I messed around with you. I feel so filthy."

There wasn't anger in her voice. I was so used to crazy-ass women tailing me around, begging for what Sparrow had carelessly rejected, I was almost disappointed with her reaction.

But I just leaned toward her, my posture relaxed. "If I tried to take you right now on the floor, you would do it all over again. You can run. Run all the way across the country, but you can’t run away from your mind. And Sparrow, my little birdie…” I flashed her a confident smile. “I’m deep in your head, and you know it. Now, pack."

She tipped her chin up, marching straight to the walk-in closet, and disappeared between the vast, dark-oak shelves.

“You need a suitcase?” I got up from the bed.

“I’ll find one myself,” she snapped from the depths. “Meet you downstairs.”

Hesitating only for a moment, I turned around and headed for the living room. Fuck it, I wasn’t a gentleman, and if she wanted to handle a heavy suitcase, I really wasn’t going to argue with her.

It wasn't until I walked into the kitchen and saw Connor's head under the running tap as he gasped for air, crying like a goddamned baby, that I realized that I’d just had my ass handed to me on a plate by a twenty-two-year-old virgin.

She didn’t even give me a side of ketchup.

Just sent me to the fucking naughty spot.

I narrowed my eyes on the sturdy man in front of me, furious that he was being more of a pussy than my underweight, five foot three wife.

"Connor, you're fired. Take your shit and leave. I'll send you your last check when I get back from Miami."

His mouth fell open, water dripping from his hair in fat drops straight to his mouth. His imploring eyes fell to the floor, and he pushed himself slowly, depressingly, to a stand-up position.

"But what about your wife? Who's gonna watch over her?"

"She doesn't need watching over." I snorted, opening my front door and prompting him to get the hell out of my place. "Just look at the state of her and look at the state of you."

SPARROW

HE CHEATED ON me in our room.

In my room.

This was crossing the line. Hell, it was sprinting right past it, crossing a dozen more lines I never knew even existed. Yeah, we weren’t a real couple, but this had nothing to do with love. It was about respect.

Obviously, Troy had none for me.

After a silent cab ride, in which I stared out the window and moved my jaw from side to side while he made some cryptic business phone calls, we made it to the airport. We checked in, light-jogged our way to the terminal, two strangers with a mutual destination but very different paths, and waited for the flight wordlessly, both of us engrossed in our cell phones.

When my ass hit the seat on the airplane, it dawned on me that I was scared of flying. Scared of everything, really. Scared of leaving Boston for the first time, scared of doing it with Troy, of all people, and scared of the prospect that Brock had lied to me. Flying to Miami wasn’t going to do me any good, after all.

I’d told my husband that I wasn’t scared of him, but that was a lie. I was frightened. Not that he’d hurt me physically. I knew that’d never happen. But that he’d break me mentally. That, I had no doubt, was something he was more than capable of doing.

Naturally, turning to Troy for comfort was like turning to a hooker for abstinence tips. I