Sparrow - L.J. Shen Page 0,95
too long, because as I plucked out my earbuds, “Monster” by The Automatic playing, to watch the birds flee from the rain, my fate was sealed.
I smiled to myself when I thought about how, for the first time since I was probably born, I wanted to stay put and not take flight.
My happiness cracked, collapsing into a frown, when I spotted him. Brock stood in front of me, blocking my way on the narrow pavement between the tall red-brick buildings.
This time I was scared. It started to look less and less like a coincidence and more like the stuff Fatal Attraction was made of. Boston was not that small, and he’d shown up where I was four times.
It was almost like Brock knew where I’d be. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was all too eager to follow Troy’s suggestion—okay, order—and keep my distance from the guy. He leaned against a lamppost, one foot bent, as he puffed on a cigarette. When he saw me, he pushed off the lamppost, his face cracking into a smile.
“Oh, hey,” he said through an exhale. I twisted back to where I came from, trying to resume my run, but he grabbed my arm, his voice still easy. “I need to talk to you.”
“No, you don’t,” I said, “unless it’s work-related.”
Things at Rouge Bis weren’t going as planned. Pierre still hated my guts, no matter how hard I tried, and Brock still tried to get close to me. Still, I knew they wouldn’t fire me, though a small part of me wanted out of the place just so I could look for something better.
Brock tucked his free hand into his heavy wool jacket. “It’s about your husband.”
“No,” I stated, scowling. Why was it that every time Brock talked about Troy, I felt like my heartbeat slow and my breathing got more shallow?
Because I knew that he knew. Knew whatever it was that I didn’t about why he’d married me.
I reached for my phone inside my hoodie pocket with every intention of calling Troy, but he yanked it from my hand and tossed it into an open dumpster. My eyes almost popped out of their sockets, and I felt the blood draining from my face.
“What the hell?” I roared.
He didn’t answer, but his face changed. He looked seriously and royally pissed. He pulled me into his body, my chest bumping into his. No more easy and cutesy for Brock, I gathered. He was done playing nice with me.
“Come with me,” he growled.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, asshole.” And then I felt it. He shoved the barrel of a gun deep into my stomach, so hard I was sure it’d leave a mark. But my fear numbed my pain.
“My car’s down the street. Be quiet, and don’t make me hurt you more than necessary.”
Shit. Even his accent changed. Suddenly, he sounded local. He sounded…Boston?
I looked around me, frantically trying to spot someone on the street, but there wasn’t a soul within earshot. My fault for running every morning right before dawn. I hadn’t seen anyone else for at least ten minutes, and then it was a woman walking her dog in the opposite direction.
I was alone. No, worse—I was with Brock.
“Brock, please.” I wasn’t sure what I was asking. Was I asking for him to let me go? Fat chance, considering the fact he’d just thrust a gun in my side.
He spun me in the opposite direction and led me to his car, prodding me along with the gun. I felt his breath on the nape of my back, and it sent a shudder down my spine. My mouth was dry, and I fought not to panic.
“Get in the passenger seat,” he said from behind me. He swung the door to his Audi open.
I did as I was told.
He walked briskly to his side of the car and buckled up, his fingers still wrapped around his gun. “See? Now we’re on the same page. It’s a shame you needed that little push in the first place, Sparrow. Men don’t normally dig difficult women.”
I didn’t answer, staring at the gun like Brock’s voice came from its barrel.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He smirked, admiring his weapon as he held it up and turned it right and left for me to see. “I love how it feels in my hand. Like the world is in my palm. Powerful shit, huh?”
But not as powerful as my husband, I wanted to bark back.
“Hands all the way up, sweetheart.”