Page 21 of Deadly Little Sparrow

I reach for my phone and enter the number, saving it under the name Good Boy before typing out a message.

SPARROW: You left without waking me. Do it again and there will be consequences.

I hesitate with my thumb over the Send button. Will there be an ‘again’ with Xaviaro? Should there be? The answer to that one is simple. He’s a distraction and he’s more than likely to get in my way. This whole thing is dangerous enough as it is without letting things get complicated. But…

A desperate ache pulses inside my chest. What I should do and what I want to do are two very different things. I want to track Xaviaro down right now and order him to his knees again just for the thrill of it. I want to take him apart and then hold him and soothe him again. I want to taste him and own him.

This thing between us is pure gasoline, and all I want to do is light a match.

I hit Send, then toss my phone onto the bed while I shuffle to the bathroom to take a piss and crank on the shower. I strip out of my underwear and get in without waiting for the water to warm up. I learned the first week I moved in here that the water heater is broken, so there’s no use waiting.

I shiver under the stream of cold water, using the unpleasant feeling to focus my mind. One Reaper is down, but I’ve got three more to go, and now I have the added challenge of staying under Xaviaro’s radar at the same time. Or, at the very least, figuring out a way to keep him from interfering.

Step one, I need to do some digging to work out where I’ll be able to get to my next target without walking right into the lion’s den, a.k.a. the clubhouse. Although… maybe there’s something to be said for that angle. They feel safe there, which means their guard will be down. I can definitely work with that.

I finish my shower as quickly as I can, drying myself off and slinging the damp towel over my shoulder as I stride out of the bathroom to start a pot of coffee. As I fill the pot with water from the sink, I notice the peeling laminate floor along the cupboards and the mold growing unimpeded along the back edges of the counter. I wait to feel a wave of longing for my old place—expensive and pristine, the best a trust fund could buy—but the feeling doesn’t come.

Thoughts of that life feel more like something someone else told me than memories of my own. When I read my own obituary months ago, nothing about it felt like a lie. Seth LeBlanc died the same night his brother, Benny, did. I reach up and run my fingers over the sparrow on the side of my neck, and a slow grin creeps over my lips.

Little Sparrow. I hear Xaviaro’s voice purr the affectionate name in my ear. Deadly Little Sparrow. The thought fills me with the same confident thrill I felt as I plunged my dagger into Velcro’s throat.

With a huff, I give in to the rising urge to check my phone for a text back. I abandon the half-filled coffee pot in the sink and cross the small space to pluck my phone off the bed. Sure enough, there’s a message waiting for me.

GOOD BOY: Yes, Sir.

Of course he uses proper punctuation in a text. My smile widens, a heated, charged feeling sparking along my skin as I read the text a few more times before dropping my phone again without responding.

Three more men to deal with, and then I’ll be free. Then… who knows? Maybe I’ll have time for distractions.

Chapter 8

XAVIARO

I slide on a pair of sunglasses to block the glare of the sun as I slow my car to a crawl, ignoring the irritated blaring of a horn behind me before the prick speeds around me like he has a death wish. Lucky for him, I have better things on my mind than taking time out of my day to teach him some fucking manners. Namely, the deceptive dominant man walking on the sidewalk a few feet away, making my heart race with memories of the other night.

I roll down my window, keeping pace with him until he finally realizes he’s being followed. Sparrow whips his head around, one hand already reaching for the dagger I know he keeps tucked under his clothes, his pretty mouth twisted into a feral snarl. I ease on the breaks right in the middle of the road and flash him a grin.

“Get in,” I say, hitting the button to unlock the doors.

His defensive posture melts away and the teeth-baring expression is replaced by a flat look. Sparrow crosses his arms and arches an eyebrow at me.

“Get in, please?” I try again, and he unfolds his arms, sauntering into the street to lean into the open window.

“Maybe I have places to be this morning. Did you ever think of that, Killer?” His eyes rake over me and the flash of heat that flickers through them makes me think he’s picturing me bound and on my knees for him again.

It took me three days to fully get my head back on straight after that night. Even now, I’m having a hard time remembering the numb feeling that was so familiar before he walked into my life carrying a stick of dynamite and a match.

“Three seconds to get in the car before I make you get in the car. And if I have to do that, you’ll be riding in the trunk instead of the passenger seat,” I threaten, pulling back my jacket to flash my gun at him.

His bored, guarded expression shatters with a grin and a snort of laughter as he yanks the door open and slides into the passenger seat. As soon as the door is closed behind him, I lay on the gas, peeling out from my parked position and speeding up to the next light. The scent of bergamot and leather fills my car, and I glance at Sparrow out of the corner of my eye. His leather somehow smells distinct from the interior of my BMW. My leather smells like it’s fresh from the factory, crisp and clean. His smells like it carries memories of everywhere he’s been, with hints of rain on the asphalt and stale smoke.

“To what do I owe this kidnapping?” he asks conversationally, turning the dial on my radio to flip through the presets before stopping on one of the classic rock stations.

“It’s not a kidnapping.” In all honesty, I didn’t expect to see Sparrow this morning. It’s become a habit to detour down his block on my way to or from jobs. But once I saw him, my body decided before my brain caught up, and there was no way I was just going to drive right by. “It’s a date.”

He barks out a laugh, reclining his seat an inch. I ordered him into my car and here he is making himself at home without a second thought. Why is that so fucking hot?

“Sure, all dates traditionally start with the threat of being tossed into the trunk at gunpoint,” he says in a deadpan tone.

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