The little sparrow was reputed to be largely monogamous, and yet they sometimes had a secret, sneaking out and singing to attract another lady. Often that lady had her own male, who seemed to turn a blind ear to the new upstart singing to entice the female out of the nest to go meet with him.
Gideon sang softly, a very short whispered song to entice afemale to him. The answer came immediately, as he knew it would. He’d made friends with the female, and she was nesting in the bushes he’d planted, which now grew thick on the wall farthest from him.
She came to him in little stops and starts. It wasn’t difficult to tie her to him and send her out to investigate for him. He needed eyes and information. The little sparrow wouldn’t be noticed, and if she was, no one would ever equate her with spying. That had always been his advantage. Because even as a child, he was so stoic that no one ever thought his imagination would enable him to envision calling birds to him and making them his allies.
His little sparrow flew down three long blocks on the same side of the street to land on a windowsill and peer in. The bar was noisy, packed and popular. It wasn’t one of the bars the local fishermen gathered in after coming back to the harbor. This was new, with a frenetic dance floor, mood lights and a young, hip crowd. When the bar had opened, no one thought it would do very well, but the locals hadn’t counted on the draw of the harbor and old-world San Francisco culture.
The bar was just far enough away that his team didn’t have a lock on the building yet. They could tap into the cameras easily enough, and Jaimie—Mack’s wife—or Javier could lock into the security system inside the bar. Javier might just be doing him a payback much sooner than either of them thought, because somewhere inside that building, with all those civilians drinking and laughing and hooking up, there was one woman whose laughter had the ability to erase—even if for a few minutes—the utter darkness of his past.
Laurel “Rory” Chappel lifted a hand to her fellow coworkers as she wound her way through the narrow maze that should have been awide hallway leading to the back employee entrance. She was tired. More than tired. Exhausted. She was a night owl—awake all night and asleep during the day, except she hadn’t been sleeping much.
She was a rolling stone, a nomad, a woman who liked to travel and see what was around the next corner. She’d been drawn to the harbor, a strong compulsion that had brought her there to check it out. She loved the water, the feel of the fog and spray on her skin. The newer buildings, farther down from the actual working harbor, were clean and inviting. She needed clean. The bar, fortunately, didn’t allow smoking, so she was free to work there.
She had skills when it came to bartending, so the moment she hit San Francisco, she had researched the best-paying and most popular bars. Then she went to each district and walked around, immersing herself in the neighborhood to see if anything appealed to her. She always waited for something to click so she knew she was supposed to be there. She had instantly clicked with the harbor.
It was nice to be outside in the night air. She wasn’t someone who enjoyed being indoors, or at least in cramped spaces. The bar she worked behind was ideal for her. Long and slightly curved, it went nearly the length of the room, giving plenty of space for each bartender to have his or her own workstation. Behind the bar there was room to maneuver, so when it was extremely busy, the bartenders didn’t run into each other if they did have to step out of their own work area.
Rory thought she’d found an ideal situation. Her apartment was fairly new, in a building three stories high, and she was able to choose from several apartments. There was a waiting list for the first floor, but no one had requested the third-floor apartments. Each had a stairway to the roof, where they had their own little section, railed off from the neighbors for privacy. She was told she could put in a garden if she wanted. What she wanted most was to sit outside onher rooftop sanctuary and breathe in the ocean after the stale air of the bar.
Her apartment building was on the opposite side of the street as the bar but down two and half blocks toward the harbor. She was fortunate that across the street from her apartment, the building facing hers was only a couple of stories versus three or four. That meant she had a fantastic view of the harbor and, farther out, the ocean from her rooftop patio.
The building had a keypad to put in a code to access it, making it a safer place to live. Rory thought it was a good idea, but the manager didn’t seem to have a very good sense of safe people to rent to. She’d used the gym nearly every day since she’d signed her lease. Ordinarily, because she worked nights, she could count on any gym she used being fairly empty during the time she chose for her workout.
Unfortunately for Rory and the other women choosing to work out in the early afternoon, a few of the apartments had recently been rented to four single males who didn’t appear to work. They had money, but they hung around and leered at the women as they used the various machines. They also tended to be in the laundry room at inconvenient times.
There was no doubt in Rory’s mind that the four men who pretended to be no more than casual acquaintances were not only working together but running drugs and possibly other illegal things she didn’t want to know about. She did her best to avoid them, just as the other women in the building did. She’d learned early that there was always a fly in the ointment with any place she lived or worked. Nothing was ever perfect, and she accepted that. It was simply life.
Rory let herself into her apartment and tossed her bag onto the nearest chair as she hurried through the open living room and dining room to the door leading to her bedroom. She kicked offher shoes and unbuttoned her white shirt until she could whip it over her head with one hand, dragging in a lungful of air as she did so. Both hands dropped to the black trousers, the standard uniform the owner preferred his bartenders to wear while they were working. She peeled them down her hips and legs to kick them off. She did what she always did the moment she got home: she stepped into the shower as quickly as possible.
One of the apartment’s best features, other than her rooftop patio, was the shower with hot water. She scrubbed her skin and rinsed out her hair. Next was moisturizing her face, throwing on flannel pajamas to stay warm, wrapping her hair in a towel and rushing up the stairs to her rooftop. Her breathing machine was inside a weatherproof cabinet, and she set it up on the little table beside her favorite chair. She liked that lounge chair. No, shelovedit. It was the most comfortable outdoor chair she’d ever come across, and she carted it around with her wherever she went.
Rory tucked her feet under her and tipped back her head to look at the stars as she gave her laboring lungs a treatment. She could normally last an entire shift with just her inhaler as long as she went straight home afterward and used her machine. She wouldn’t get rashes from an allergic reaction to the cleaning chemicals she used when she closed if she got home fast and made it into the shower. The key was to shower with cool water first and make her way to hot. She had it down to a science after all the times she’d been bartending when things had gone wrong fast.
She had sensitive skin and weak lungs. There was no getting around those two things. She’d been born that way. It hardly mattered to anyone but her. She really detested using an inhaler in front of anyone, as if that made her weak; not her lungs—her. She’d been taking care of herself for years now, and doing a pretty good job too, but she had so many problems. Not just her health. She hadissues.
Rory made a face around the mouthpiece she was using to get the medicine into her lungs. Early on, she’d realized she wasn’t going to be that girl that men raced to make a life with. They didn’t want someone with her precarious health and neuroses to be the mother of their children. She wanted a home, children, a family, but once she allowed herself to be realistic, and her lungs didn’t get better no matter how much time she put into exercise to strengthen them, she accepted that she was always going to be alone. Hence her decision to see as much of the world as possible. She couldn’t be a wife and mother, so she chose the next best thing—she was a traveler. She was a darn good traveler, and for the most part, she was happy.
She continued to stare up at the stars. The clouds had darkened slightly, but they moved with the breeze. Fingers of fog drifted across her patio. She liked the harbor at night. Lights shone on the water, and boats rocked and swayed with the tide. She had excellent hearing and very good eyesight, a trade-off for her faulty lungs. The sounds of the waves breaking against the piers and numerous fishing boats were a kind of lullaby, allowing her to relax after so many hours on her feet.
Rory had a memory that allowed her to remember names and faces better than most people. She didn’t forget drinks, not even if the customer hadn’t been in for a while. That was a gift that did make her a good bartender. She also had the uncanny ability to sense lies, but that didn’t help in the bartending business. It only prevented her from going on dates if she considered it at all.
The medicine had finally run out, so she could shut off the machine and just enjoy her favorite spot. As she carefully wrapped up the nebulizer and made her way across the rooftop patio to the weatherproof cupboard, a small bird flew past her ear. It was so close, the tip of its wing brushed her skin. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of wicked talons before an owl pulled up,screeching in dismay at missing its prey. Simultaneously, she heard athunkas the sparrow hit the open cupboard door and dropped to the floor right at her feet.
Rory’s heart sank. She didn’t like any animal hurt or killed. The owl had to eat, so she couldn’t be upset at the owl. She had opened the cupboard without thinking as the sparrow approached, cutting off its escape. The little bird ran right into the door, which meant its demise—if it was dead—was on her.
She shoved the breathing machine into the cupboard and quickly closed and locked it before sinking down in a crouch. “Are you alive?” She placed one palm gently over the bird to feel the flutter of its heartbeat. A sigh of relief escaped her.
“I’m going to examine you to make sure you’re just stunned. I was afraid the door broke your neck the way you flew into it.” Rory sat on the floor and cuddled the bird in her palm while she gently moved two fingers over the delicate bones and feathers. “Everything seems to be okay. No broken bones. Your little beak isn’t cracked or broken. Your wings are good.” She rubbed gently with her two fingers on the bird’s chest in an effort to stimulate it.
The beak opened and closed. One foot twitched, the three toes with the thin, curved nails moving jerkily.
“That’s it, little one, come around. You need to be getting home, where you’re safe. What in the world were you doing out this time of night?”
Rory breathed warm air onto the bird and then straightened to tip her head back and look up at the stars again. The mist touched her face, feeling good on her skin. She was very tired and wanted to go to sleep, but she wouldn’t abandon the sparrow. She thought it best to keep the bird outside, where it could fly away the moment the creature was feeling better. In any case, since coming to San Francisco, her nightmares had been increasing.
It didn’t take long for the sparrow to open its eyes and regardher silently for a moment before it turned over in her palm and stood quietly, staring at her.
“I can see you’re still a little dazed,” Rory whispered, afraid to move. She didn’t want to frighten the sparrow after its scare with the owl. “We can just sit here for a few minutes until you’re fully recovered. I can see I’m going to have to look up what kind of bird you are and why you would be out at night.”
