Page 9 of Deadly Little Sparrow

The drunk on my other side mutters a curse and clambers off his stool clumsily, letting it fall with a loud clatter against the wood floor. The jarring sound doesn’t even make me twitch. I’m too focused on the clearly custom-made revolver in front of me.

“What’s this?” I ask, darting my tongue out to wet my lips as I look away from the weapon and back at the man himself.

“It’s a gun. Although, if you don’t know that, I might be sitting here with the wrong man.” The teasing in his voice is masked by the deep, even rumble, but it’s there.

“I mean why are you giving it to me, Tony Soprano?”

This time a full-blown grin finds its way onto his lips. “I’m not the Tony Soprano of this operation. Thank fuck. And I’m giving it to you so we can have a conversation without you spending the entire time waiting for me to pull it out and shoot you.”

I hum thoughtfully, eyeing the weapon again. “You don’t even know me. I could be crazy. Deranged. A sociopath with no regard for human life,” I taunt, reaching out and dragging my finger along the cool metal handle of his gun.

He leans in, his breath ghosting over my cheek. “If you’re trying to make my dick hard, it’s working.”

My breath catches and my cock throbs. Is he trying to throw me off or is he actually flirting?

“How do I know you’re not packing any other weapons?” I challenge, eyeing him again. The only bulge that catches my attention is the very prominent one between his legs that he doesn’t bother trying to hide. My skin heats and I shift in my seat, my knee bumping his.

“You can pat me down if you want,” he offers.

“Oh, I don’t think you want that,” I warn, still absently stroking a finger along the short barrel of the gun. “I do cavity searches the rough way.”

“I was counting on it,” he purrs, not missing a beat.

His response throws me off center. Are we really flirting? And if we are, how exactly did it happen? I broke his nose last night and he tracked me down just to let me stroke his gun?

The bartender approaches, eyeing the gun warily. He doesn’t say anything about it though. I’m guessing that has something to do with the man in the suit. I doubt anyone in this bar has the guts to tell him what to do. The fantasy of him on his knees flickers through my mind again. I wonder if he would behave if someone did have the audacity to order him around.

I reach for my drink and take a gulp to cool the fire blazing in the pit of my stomach at the thought.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” he orders, and the bartender nods.

“It’s just soda,” I warn him.

“Perfect.” His gaze lands on my face and he studies me silently for several seconds. “You didn’t answer my question before. What lesson were you teaching me, Sparrow?”

“To keep out of things that have nothing to do with you,” I answer, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, they feel a little too harsh. “But I shouldn’t have broken your nose. I’m sorry. I thought it was that idiot brother of his grabbing me.”

He gives a single nod and takes the drink the bartender passes him.

“Everything in this city is my business,” he says.

I shift in my seat again, angling myself so I’m fully facing him now, the rest of the bar fading around me. Maybe I’ve been asking the wrong people where to find the Reapers this whole time. All the lowly drug dealers and petty criminals in this city are too afraid of the bikers to cross them, but I get the feeling this man doesn’t scare that easily.

“That so?” I cock my head. “Maybe you can help me find who I’m looking for then.”

“Maybe I can,” he agrees, taking a sip of his drink, his throat bobbing with his swallow, filling my mind with more filthy imagery that can only lead to distractions I don’t need right now. “Who are you looking for?”

“The Sleepless Reapers. A couple of guys, specifically.” I pull out my phone and open the photo gallery. The screenshot I’ve been staring at for too damn long immediately fills the screen. I turn it to show him the photo of four men supporting the limp body of my brother hours before he died.

He frowns as he studies the picture. “Do you know their names?”

I make an irritated noise. “I don’t fucking know. Shit Stain, Monkeywrench, Ball Licker… Some stupid fucking biker nicknames. Do you know where they hang out or not?”

I black out the screen and put my phone away. He runs his hand over his mouth, conflict dancing in his eyes.

“Why are you trying to find them?” he asks after several long seconds.

It’s been too many days in a row of dead end after dead end, of people too damn scared of these thugs to give up any information about them, and my patience is hanging on by a fraying thread.

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