Page 11 of Deadly Little Sparrow

Enough blending in. It’s time for them to notice me.

I pass right by their table, faking a stumble and catching myself on the back of Shit Stain’s chair. I giggle and then hiccup, slapping my hand over my mouth like I’m embarrassed by how drunk I am.

“Oh my god, I’m so so—” I hiccup again. “Sorry.” I finish with another tittering giggle, still clutching the back of his chair.

He looks over his shoulder at me, the furrowed look of irritation melting away the instant his eyes land on me. His hair hangs in greasy clumps around his face, the stench of beer heavy on his breath as he turns to get a better look at me.

“No worries, sweetheart. Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll buy you a drink.” He uses his foot to nudge one of the empty chairs away from the table in invitation.

“I’d better not,” I say as demurely as I can manage, leaning in closer and fighting the urge to gag when his odor washes over me. “My mama always warned me that men who buy you drinks expect certain things.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I can’t lose my virginity in exchange for a couple of drinks.”

At the v-word, his eyes light up. He’s a lion spotting a wounded gazelle. I can’t decide if I’m impressed with myself for knowing exactly what would set the perfect trap for a man like this, or disgusted that this is actually going to work.

“One drink,” he barters.

I pretend to think it over for a second before stumbling into the offered seat. “Fine, just one.”

He flashes me a smile full of yellowed, cracked teeth and motions to the bartender.

In my three weeks of observation, I learned a couple of very important things about Velcro, and yes that is actually his club nickname. Shit Stain would have been better if you ask me, but what do I know. One: his friends put away drinks like it’s their last night on Earth and he pours drinks down the throat of whoever he’s set his sights on for the night, but he never touches a drop himself. And two: he takes frequent smoke breaks in the alley behind the bar… alone.

My original plan was to just wait out there to ambush him, but I decided that this way it’s more of a test. If by some miracle this man manages to dig deep and find so much as a single fiber of human decency inside of himself, he might live to see sunrise. Personally, I’m not holding my breath for that outcome.

“Haven’t seen you around here before,” drunkie from the bathroom says, eyeing me with the same predatory gaze as his friend, albeit a much sloppier one.

“I’m new in town,” I answer, matching his sloppy grin. “You guys have matching jackets. That’s so cute.”

The third man, who’s not nearly as drunk as the first but not sticking to sobriety like Velcro is, scowls at my subtle jab.

“We’re members of the Sleepless Reapers,” he informs me with a prideful growl.

“Ooh, what’s that? Is it like a club? Do you have a secret handshake?” I laugh and sway in my chair like I might tip over. Velcro, gentleman that he is, catches me and keeps a hand on me even after I’m upright again.

It takes everything inside of me not to recoil. A little shiver runs up the back of my neck and for a second, I get the distinct feeling that I’m being watched. It’s not the first time. In fact, it’s something that’s become a near constant over the past few weeks. I glance over my shoulder as subtly as I can, but with a quick look, it’s impossible to get a good look at who’s in the crowded bar or whose attention is on me.

“We’re the baddest men in the city,” Velcro answers with a cocky smirk.

My drink is delivered and I pretend to take a sip to cover the urge to roll my eyes. The Reapers are definitely the worst men in the city. The baddest though? I’m going with a no on that one.

For an annoying moment, the smooth, unruffled expression on Xaviaro’s face three weeks ago dances through my mind. Confident, deadly, and without a hint of bragging about either quality. He gets my vote for baddest in the city. Although, if I pull this off tonight, I might be feeling cocky enough to claim the title for myself. The mobster has heeded my warning to stay out of my way since he gave me the information I needed. Now, if he would just get out of my damn head, I’d be happy.

Velcro scoots his chair closer, putting an arm around my back.

“I told you, I’m not having sex with you,” I remind him, feigning another sip from my drink. When he looks away for a moment, I spill some onto the floor so it looks like I’m actually drinking it.

“Never say never,” he purrs the words as if he thinks they’re somehow seductive. Fucking gag.

“Never,” I say as sweetly as I can manage, earning raucous laughter from his friends at his expense. Velcro’s expression darkens. As expected, my words do nothing to deter his advances.

His hands wander, sliding over my thigh and stroking any inch of bare skin he can find while I continue to pretend to drink and sweetly make my lack of interest clear over and over. When I reach the bottom of my glass, the contents soaking into the grimy carpet next to my chair, I ready myself for phase two.

“Oh my god, that drink really went to my head.” I fall into another fit of giggles. “I think I need some fresh air.” I stand up on wobbly legs. “Thanks. G’night.” I flap a hand in a drunken wave. I stumble away slowly, making my way towards the door to the alley.

The stench of rotting garbage that hits me as I step outside is actually a relief after the last half hour of having to breathe in Velcro’s stink. I cast my eyes one way and then the other, getting the lay of the land as quickly as I can. Aside from a few smokers now and then, the alley is typically empty. There’s a single light that hangs over the door and no security cameras anywhere to be found. It’s like they want people to commit crimes back here.

I pick out a good spot and get into position, slumping over like I’m passed out. It’s only a matter of seconds before the heavy sound of the metal door swinging open fills the night. Velcro’s footsteps are slow as he approaches me. I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, assessing me in the dim lighting to figure out if I’m conscious and whether I’m breathing. I hold myself deathly still, one hand under my shirt, wrapped around the hilt of my sheathed dagger.

A derisive laugh echoes off of the buildings surrounding us as he stops in front of me. It’s a Herculean feat to keep my eyes closed, refusing to give myself away with so much as a muscle twitch. Come on, fucker. Make your move.

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