thing.
SPARROW
Five Days Later
ONE DAY SWALLOWED the next one, time sticking together like pages in a new, unopened book. And me? I was running out of options to entertain myself between the thick, suffocating walls of Troy Brennan’s penthouse.
When he’d imprisoned me for ten days before our wedding, he only visited his tastefully furnished, clinical-looking apartment once, and that was to tell me I was going to be his wife. Back then, I’d wondered if he wanted to scare me or give me time to come to terms with the new arrangement. Now, I knew for certain that his absence had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his job.
These days, he came home every night long after I pretended to be asleep, reeking of stout beer, other women’s perfume and the sour-sweet scent of a man’s sweat. He left for work early, so when I woke up, his side of the mattress was always cold and empty.
He didn’t try to touch me again. Hell, he didn’t even try to strike up a conversation the few times I saw his face. And for the most part, I was content with this arrangement.
I left the penthouse for my morning runs and for my evening culinary classes. I visited Pops twice, cooking and cleaning for him out of habit, with Connor shadowing my every move, following my every step like an eager Pit Bull puppy. I wouldn’t let him inside my father’s apartment, so he sat outside the door, in the kitchen chair I dragged into the hallway, patiently waiting, chewing tobacco tucked in his jaw and, undoubtedly hating every second of me being out of his sight.
Any attempt by me to leave the penthouse late at night (and there were attempts to do so, especially the first couple of days) was blocked by my sturdy, bulky bodyguard, who looked like the human equivalent of an industrial fridge. Connor would wordlessly fold his arms over his gorilla-like torso, marching in my direction as I stumbled back into the apartment, my head hanging low.
For the first time since I was fifteen, I had a curfew. I hated Brennan for imposing restrictions on me, interfering with my life even without taking part in it.
But at least I had other company.
Troy had a housekeeper named Maria, a small, cranky, sixty-something woman with white hair and brown skin, who came in every other day, working for both Troy and for his mother, Andrea, as the family help since Brennan was a kid.
Maria didn’t speak good English, so we communicated in the most universal way humanly possible—with food.
I spent hours practicing and cooking for no one in particular. I prepared delicious dishes only to admire them silently, tuck them into disposable Tupperware and hand them to the closest homeless shelter. But first, Maria would help herself to a serving or two and offer great input about the spices, tastes and flavors (mostly in Spanish.) Her suggestions and compliments made me happy, her presence a drop of solace in the sea of desperation I was drowning in.
Almost a week into our fake marriage, I got back to Brennan’s penthouse after my morning run and walked straight to the first floor bathroom. His apartment was a modern two-story affair, with the master suite and study upstairs. I always used the bathroom near the guest room on the first floor, because it felt less his. It wasn’t personalized with his products, towels, razor and singularly manly scent. With him .
Ever since our wedding night, I’d tried to keep my exposure to Brennan to an absolute minimum and treated him with a suspicion usually saved for convicted terrorists.
I kept a small knife under my pillow, the one I used in cooking class for removing meat from the bone. I added 911 to the speed-dial on my phone. Like a good Girl Scout, I was always prepared.
Today, I kneeled down in the bathroom and ran myself a bath, throwing salts and other luxuries I wasn’t even aware were on the market in the tub. I toed off my running shoes and threw my yoga pants and soaked shirt into a sweaty
SPARROW
Five Days Later
ONE DAY SWALLOWED the next one, time sticking together like pages in a new, unopened book. And me? I was running out of options to entertain myself between the thick, suffocating walls of Troy Brennan’s penthouse.
When he’d imprisoned me for ten days before our wedding, he only visited his tastefully furnished, clinical-looking apartment once, and that was to tell me I was going to be his wife. Back then, I’d wondered if he wanted to scare me or give me time to come to terms with the new arrangement. Now, I knew for certain that his absence had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his job.
These days, he came home every night long after I pretended to be asleep, reeking of stout beer, other women’s perfume and the sour-sweet scent of a man’s sweat. He left for work early, so when I woke up, his side of the mattress was always cold and empty.
He didn’t try to touch me again. Hell, he didn’t even try to strike up a conversation the few times I saw his face. And for the most part, I was content with this arrangement.
I left the penthouse for my morning runs and for my evening culinary classes. I visited Pops twice, cooking and cleaning for him out of habit, with Connor shadowing my every move, following my every step like an eager Pit Bull puppy. I wouldn’t let him inside my father’s apartment, so he sat outside the door, in the kitchen chair I dragged into the hallway, patiently waiting, chewing tobacco tucked in his jaw and, undoubtedly hating every second of me being out of his sight.
Any attempt by me to leave the penthouse late at night (and there were attempts to do so, especially the first couple of days) was blocked by my sturdy, bulky bodyguard, who looked like the human equivalent of an industrial fridge. Connor would wordlessly fold his arms over his gorilla-like torso, marching in my direction as I stumbled back into the apartment, my head hanging low.
For the first time since I was fifteen, I had a curfew. I hated Brennan for imposing restrictions on me, interfering with my life even without taking part in it.
But at least I had other company.
Troy had a housekeeper named Maria, a small, cranky, sixty-something woman with white hair and brown skin, who came in every other day, working for both Troy and for his mother, Andrea, as the family help since Brennan was a kid.
Maria didn’t speak good English, so we communicated in the most universal way humanly possible—with food.
I spent hours practicing and cooking for no one in particular. I prepared delicious dishes only to admire them silently, tuck them into disposable Tupperware and hand them to the closest homeless shelter. But first, Maria would help herself to a serving or two and offer great input about the spices, tastes and flavors (mostly in Spanish.) Her suggestions and compliments made me happy, her presence a drop of solace in the sea of desperation I was drowning in.
Almost a week into our fake marriage, I got back to Brennan’s penthouse after my morning run and walked straight to the first floor bathroom. His apartment was a modern two-story affair, with the master suite and study upstairs. I always used the bathroom near the guest room on the first floor, because it felt less his. It wasn’t personalized with his products, towels, razor and singularly manly scent. With him .
Ever since our wedding night, I’d tried to keep my exposure to Brennan to an absolute minimum and treated him with a suspicion usually saved for convicted terrorists.
I kept a small knife under my pillow, the one I used in cooking class for removing meat from the bone. I added 911 to the speed-dial on my phone. Like a good Girl Scout, I was always prepared.
Today, I kneeled down in the bathroom and ran myself a bath, throwing salts and other luxuries I wasn’t even aware were on the market in the tub. I toed off my running shoes and threw my yoga pants and soaked shirt into a sweaty
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