Sparrow's Story - A Girl Defiant

Chapter 19

Sparrow closes her eyes sure she’s too tense to sleep, but the alarm rockets her conscious at 11:15.  Outside the windows, the city sky glows a sickly yellow even though it’s almost midnight. 

Imran is waiting for her. 

She zips open her suitcase, and dig deep inside for the bra and panties Dad has no idea she owns. They are satiny smooth, and the inky blue silk gleams when she holds it up to her body. 

The shower fills with the scent of orange blossom and narcissus as the salt scrub polishes her skin. Imran grew up with a garden dotted with orange trees, and she imagines the surprise and pleasure in his face when he smells the scent on her.  

She pins her hair up, picturing how Imran will reach up and free it. She can feel his fingers in her hair, his breath on her neck, and her skin prickles as if he’s already touched her. 

But one glance in the mirror, and she pulls out the clip and musses her hair. She can’t look like she’s going to a “rendezvous,” when she walks into the other wing. She has to look as if she’s trying to find Dad. 

Her yoga pants slide right over the silky panties. She checks her hoodie in the mirror. Zipped, you can’t tell she’s not wearing a shirt underneath. 

She’s dressed to be undressed, and the thought makes her smile.

She feels through her hoodie and finds the foil packet hidden in a pocket by her hip. I shouldn’t, she thinks, the temptation is too great. She has to be a virgin at her Verification, or she’ll derail Imran’s chance to buy her. 

She pulls out the packet and tosses it in her suitcase, but when she goes to zip the suitcase shut, she can’t. Her pulse thumps in her ears as she tucks the packet back in her pants, cursing herself for always needing a plan B in case of failure.  

Sparrow stuffs her pockets with crumpled tissues, so if she runs into Dad or Damon, she can claim she was freaking out and needed to see them.

 Her phone says 11:56. She stands inside the door to her room, forcing herself to stay put and distracts herself by calculating how in the next four minutes, the earth will travel forty-four hundred miles, lightening will strike it at least two hundred times, and the planet’s tectonic plates will slam in twenty unstable locations.   

At midnight, she opens the door. The hall is empty and she strides towards the security door in her athletic gear. 

The door swings open, and Imran is waiting on the other side of the foyer. He hits the cameras with a scrambler, and she steps out.  

An elevator rattles in one of the shafts. She wants to sail into Imran’s arms, but she makes herself walk slow and purposeful just in case the cameras are still recording. 

 She passes Imran as if she doesn’t know him and doesn’t want to.  Up on the left, a door is cracked open.  She slips inside, and Imran follows. The door closes with a soft click. 

The light is muted. His room is red and dark wood, not like her shimmery peach. Music is playing, Indian strings. Hypnotic. 

 For a moment, neither of them moves, then he reaches around her waist and whispers, “Sparrow.”

She leans back and he sweeps her hair to the side, his lips travel up her neck, and  she turns in his arms so she can kiss him. 

His hands are cautious, almost reverent the way they hold her. “I won’t break,” she murmurs. 

“I know.”

They inch towards the bed. 

His touch is a green fire under her skin, hunger that ignites and deepens as they press together and their arms and legs entwine.