Sparrow - L.J. Shen Page 0,72
his neck and jerked him closer to my face. We were nose to nose now. “Your conscience is already tainted, pretty boy. Just do as you’re told.”
Eyes narrowed, we stared at each other before he shifted, moving sideways and walking back to Flynn. He unzipped his duffel bag—AKA his detox kit—and took out a syringe and a small bottle. I looked away, out the window, closing my eyes as I inhaled deeply. I heard Flynn gasping and Brock fiddling with plastic and pill bottles.
Yeah, rich kids had the tendency to screw around with the hard stuff, and Brock knew how to detox. At least he was good for one thing.
“How was Red’s first day?” I asked, not because I cared, but to remind him who she belonged to. My eyes remained fixed on his car outside the cabin, the headlights still on, illuminating the cold rain. I liked it when it was cold in the summer. It was like the universe was on my side.
“Why don’t you ask her?” Brock sounded amused. “Thought you were on good terms.”
I turned around to face him, and he motioned with his head for me to help him move Flynn onto the sofa. I took him under his armpits and Brock took his feet, and we laid his limp body on the yellow couch. Brock strode to the bedroom and came back with a blanket, swaddling Flynn like he was a baby.
When it was all done and dealt with, Brock took a seat on a stool near the couch and dropped his head to his hands. Lighting a cigarette, he threw the still-burning match toward Flynn. The match jumped on the young man’s skin, putting out slowly against his bare wrist. Flynn was too out of it to feel the burn. Yup, Brock’s good-boy façade always cracked around me.
I wasn’t Catalina, Maria or Red. I was an asshole, just like him, and he didn’t need to impress me. I already knew who he was. He was like the first scene in David Lynch’s Blue Velvet, the insect underneath the well-kept lawn. That was Brock. A cheesy, Hollywood smile disguised the outside, while he was rotting beyond repair inside.
“She came back pissed off. From Miami, that is,” he said, his eyes on the floor. “Tell me you’re not abusing her in any way, because I told her I would keep her safe.”
He told her what? What business did he have butting into my shit?
“And if I am?” I taunted, leaning against the countertop of the galley kitchen. “What if I made it my mission in life to make her miserable? Don’t pretend like you have any power over this, Brock.”
“Oh, but I do.” He lifted his head, blowing a plume of white smoke directly in my face. “Don’t forget I have the key to your can of worms. I know exactly why you married her. What you did to her mother. In fact, I know enough about you to want someone as innocent as her to stay the hell away from you, but since what’s done is done, let me explain myself slowly.” He blew another cloud, grinning behind it. “Harm this girl and I’m giving away every single secret you have to the highest bidder. And you and I both know the competition would be tight. Got it?”
Was he fucking threatening me? Did he forget who I was, what I could do to him? Did he forget he was on my payroll, that I paid for his wife’s fancy shit, for his son’s school and for all those goddamn, David-Beckham-wannabe preppy clothes?
Not thinking clearly, and perhaps not thinking at all, I charged at him, slamming my fist straight into his face. He didn’t see it coming. The sound of my fist against his bone filled the air. Brock dropped his cigarette on the floor and stood up, swaying. He balled his fist and tried to throw a jab my way. I dodged it, and he fell on the floor, still dizzy from my punch. His nose bled all over the floor as he lay there, grunting. He rolled into a fetal position when I stood over him, took my handkerchief out and wiped his blood off my hands. Squatting down to my colleague so he could hear me clearly, I tipped his face up with my finger, looking him in the eye.
“I wouldn’t threaten someone like me when it comes to my secrets. Remember, the reason my secrets are so extreme is because I