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“That was before,” she spat, every muscle in her face quivering.
Right, that unfortunate Catalina fuck in our house. It seemed like a decent idea at the time, to try and kill the little obsession I’d started nurturing toward my wife. But in retrospect? Worst fuck I’d ever had, and entirely not worth it.
I pivoted back into the room, not wanting to show any kind of emotions. Hell, what was I talking about? I didn’t have emotions toward this weird kid. I stopped at the mini bar and grabbed a bottle of hard liquor, not even sure which, twisting the top and taking a sip straight from the bottle. She followed me into the room, pouring angry heat from every pore of her body.
“Don’t pretend to give a damn about who I fuck, Sparrow. Not when you keep on saying everything we do is a fucking mistake. Stop acting like the betrayed wife.”
“You think I care about you screwing around?” She threw her hands in the air, frustrated. “Sorry you didn’t get the memo, Brennan. For all I care, you can dick your way to every STD known to mankind and even create new ones in the process.”
I turned around and got in her face, still holding the bottle by its neck. “Then what the hell are you talking about? What made you so pissed off now?”
“Forget it!” She shoved me back, her eyes glinting with impending tears.
Fuck, she wanted to cry. Red never cried, even when she married me, when I took her in, when crying was the only thing she could do.
I felt my anger faltering. “What happened?” My voice came out so gentle it startled me. “Why are you so upset?”
“Like it matters. You wouldn’t share anything with me, won’t tell me anything.” She wiped the tears from her face, and I hated that a part of me wanted to do it for her. “Just leave me alone.”
“We have reservations for nine.”
“I’m not hungry,” she bit out.
“It’s the best place in Miami. Two Michelin stars. You can hate me tomorrow, the day after and for the rest of your life, but who knows the next time you’ll be able to visit a world-class restaurant other than the one your husband owns.”
Why was I trying to convince her to go out with me? I could have picked a woman better dressed and more agreeable at the hotel bar and actually enjoyed my time tonight. But for some screwed up reason, I wanted her to go ape-shit when she saw the restaurant. Red was food-crazy.
“Still not interested,” she said coldly, yanking the bottle from my hand and taking a long sip, fury in her eyes. I grabbed the bottle back and pointed its neck in her direction.
“Put your fucking shoes on, Sparrow. I won’t ask twice.”
Okay, this was not the best strategy, but damn, she frustrated the living shit out of me.
“Yeah? What are you going to do if I won’t? Will you kill me, like you killed Billy Crupti?” She hit me with her tiny balled fists. She was too small to make an impact, but that didn’t mean Sparrow didn’t try. Shoving me deeper into the room, she continued, “Will you cut me into tiny pieces? Throw me into the ocean? Make sure there’s no trace of me left, but not give a damn that the whole freaking city knows?”
I shook my head, scrubbing my face and raking a hand through my hair, so frustrated I wanted to punch something. If she was bringing the Crupti shit up, she had nothing more to lose. She wasn’t scared anymore. Or at least not as much as she was pissed off.
Sparrow was not going to come to dinner, and for the first time in my life, I knew there was nothing I could do about it.
I had no leverage over her. I couldn’t restrict her, because she refused to use my money. And I couldn’t hurt her, because I didn’t want to.
She didn’t deserve to be ruined. She wasn’t Catalina.
Quietly, I turned around and stalked into the bedroom. I got dressed, put on my Rolex and some cologne, tousled my hair and walked out of the room, leaving her to polish off the alcohol I had left.
When I marched out to the hotel bar, she was still lying on the carpet, drinking herself to oblivion.
I took a seat on one of the stools and ordered a whiskey. A tall blonde of the model variety who was sitting two seats away from me smiled in my direction. I didn’t smile back.
I drank two, three…four drinks before she came over and offered me her hand.
“Kylie.” She pouted her name, but I didn’t reach for a handshake. “And you are…?”
“Not interested. Sorry.”
Two hours after I’d left, I walked back into our suite, drunk as hell and way beyond fed up with the Red situation. Talk about a liability.
