Sparrow (5 page)

Brennan wasn’t exactly basking in the attention, but he didn’t seem too bothered by it either. Overall, he looked tough, unfazed and a little irritated with the time he had to waste on the mundane event.

“Since it is your intention to enter into marriage, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and His Church,” O’Leary instructed, and my emotions got the better of me.

I gasped when the groom took my small hand in his big one, clasping it firmly. While the people in the pews chuckled, thinking it was the sweet, authentic reaction of a nervous bride, black dots clouded my vision and I thought I was going to faint. He stared daggers at me, his jaw stiff as stone, and I forced myself to smile weakly, continuing with the charade.

“I, Troy James Brennan, take you, Sparrow Elizabeth Raynes, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you, all the days of my life.”

Women were wiping the edge of their heavily mascaraed eyes with handkerchiefs, sniffing their noses as they nodded their approval. Men exchanged contented grunts, sticking their chins out like this freak show was genuine. My face drained of color, blood and life.

My turn.

The priest turned to me and asked me to repeat his words, which I did, albeit with a shaky voice. “I, Sparrow Elizabeth Raynes, take you, Troy James Brennan, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you, all the days of my life.”

The priest continued rambling, but I tuned him out at this point, concentrating solely on the fact that I was almost married to this man. A criminal.
A murderer
. My promise to Troy Brennan left a bitter taste in my mouth.

A part of me wanted to yell at everyone sitting in front of us and smiling like idiots, to lash out angrily. I was twenty-two. He was thirty-two. We hadn’t even gone out on one date.

Never been out together.

Barely spoken to each another.

This was a lie. How could they let this happen?

My shaky relationship with humanity took another nosedive when Brennan’s best man, a plump man with ratty, mean eyes handed him my ring.

“Take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Brennan slid the ring down my finger.

When it was my turn, I spewed the words on autopilot. Plucking my husband’s ring from a pillow held by a young girl—she and my three bridesmaids, all complete strangers to me and probably hired—I slid the band onto his finger with a quivering hand.

“You may kiss the bride,” the priest announced with a satisfied grin when the deed was done.

Brennan didn’t wait for me to move or get hold of my emotions. Showing off his wolfish grin, he stepped into my personal space and tilted my head back, holding my neck like he’d done it hundreds of time before.

And I bet he had, just with so many women who weren’t me.

His taste exploded in my mouth as his lips crushed mine. Surprisingly warm and unapologetically masculine, he conquered my mouth. A mix of bitter stout beer (Guinness probably), the sweetness of a cigar, and freshness of mint gum swirled on my tongue. I stiffened, pinching my lips instinctively, not allowing more of him to invade me.

But my new husband would have none of it. He engulfed me with his arms, his broad shoulders shielding our faces from the crowd that stood up and cheered, clapping, whistling and laughing, a firework of happiness. The church boomed with ecstasy, while I worked hard on trying not to throw up in his mouth. His lips left mine, traveling up to my cheek, leaving traces of hot, charged breaths on my skin, before settling on the shell of my ear.

“Pretend to be happy, or I will provide you with a real reason to be sad.”

His hissed whisper sent a jolt of panic straight to my stomach. His eyes were still heavy lidded with the kiss when he leaned back, looking down at me. I squinted at him, but didn’t kick his balls with my impossible stilettos like I so desperately wanted to.

“Am I clear?” He dipped his chin, lips thinning into a hard line.

I swallowed. “Crystal clear.”

“Good girl. Now let’s shake some hands, kiss some babies and get back to the limo. I have a surprise for you.”

FOR THE NEXT
hour, I played the role I was cast in. I shook hands, smiled big, hugged people I didn’t know and whenever things got too real, reached for a glass of champagne and numbed the bitter bite of reality. Brennan wanted to get the guests happy-drunk before we all left for the reception venue—and so bizarrely, there was an open bar on the sidewalk in front of the church.

While we mingled outside, occasionally, a photographer would gingerly interrupt whatever we were doing and ask to take a picture of us. Both my new husband and I complied. He looked at ease, clutching my waist assertively and placing a rough hand on my shoulder whenever was appropriate. Me? I stared back at the camera like I was begging the person behind the lens to call the police and save me. I knew I looked awkward, like my body was a rental I had yet to learn how to operate.

My father steered clear of me and my groom, opting to stay at his spot near the deadbeat wannabes of our neighborhood, all of them men who somehow found themselves being bossed around by the younger generation of criminals. Some because they lacked the intellectual ability to lead, like Sloppy Connelly, who according to the rumor, was just a few brain cells better than a potato, and some because they lacked discipline, like my drunk father.

Depression washed over me every time I glanced his way and saw him clinking a glass with his friends. The bitterness of my situation, paired with the lingering taste of Brennan’s kiss and the fact that I, too, drowned my sorrows with alcohol today, made me feel hopeless.

I saw Brock, Sam and his mother minutes before we walked back to the limo. The small family approached to give us their blessing and good wishes, just like all the other guests who treated Brennan like subjects kneeling in front of their king.

Brock was stunning, so I shouldn’t have been surprised to find out that his wife was as equally breathtaking. She looked Hispanic, with smooth golden skin, endless legs and curves that went on forever. I figured standing next to her made me look like a poor excuse for a teenager. She had short, coffee-hued hair cut in a stylish bob, while mine was long, straight and sunset red. Her eyes were the color of whiskey, a little slanted and inviting, while mine were light green and wide. She oozed sex appeal—I barely looked legal.

Still, it occurred to me that Troy Brennan could have taken her for his wife had he wanted to. It wasn’t that Troy had more charm than Brock. Quite the opposite, if you asked me. It was just that Troy had made a name for himself as a human bulldozer.

Brock’s wife bowed deep, her cleavage almost popping from her hot, tight red dress as she greeted Troy. “You make one hell of a handsome groom.” She gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek, leaving a lipstick stain on the edge of his jaw. “And what a lovely bride. I’m Catalina Greystone.”

We shook hands, Catalina applying enough force to break a bone or two in my fingers as she scanned me like I was a contagious disease.

“Pleasure,” I lied, a toothy smile frozen on my face. “I’m Sparrow.”

“Well, that’s a peculiar name.” She pouted, narrowing her eyes.

“Well, that’s a predictable comment,” I retorted.

She dropped my hand like it was made of shards of glass.

Brennan lifted one brow, amusement dancing in his cold blue eyes. So he liked my bitchy comebacks. Good, because he’d need to get used to ’em.

Brock and Troy shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Despite being similar in height and bone structure, Brock was more of a pretty boy and Troy was rougher, rugged in features and a lot scarier. Brock looked like a poem; Troy, like a heavy metal song.

“My good man,” Brock said to Troy as he clapped his shoulder. “Lovely ceremony, gorgeous bride. Take care of her.”

Troy brushed his thumb over his lips, scanning my body like it was dessert. “I intend to.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brennan.” Brock nodded to me, not giving away for a second the fact that we had already met.

I blushed for some unknown reason.

Looking for a distraction, I squatted down and offered Sam my hand. “I’m Sparrow,” I said, ignoring the grown-ups. It’s not like I felt like I was a part of them anyway.

“I know,” he answered matter-of-factly, and everyone, including me, broke into a relieved laughter. “It’s a cool name. Is it your real name?” he continued, his face serious but open. “Not a nickname?”

“I’m afraid it is.” I wrinkled my forehead, my smile growing wider. “I guess my parents felt original.” Not that original, my mother’s name was Robyn, but this was my standard line.

“Mine didn’t.” Sam shrugged, returning his attention to the blue toy truck he was holding in his small fist. “My real name is Samuel. It’s just a boring old name.”

“I think it’s pretty. And I bet you aren’t a boring boy. In fact, I’m sure you’re really bright. Don’t you think so, Troy?”

For the first time in my life, I voluntarily acknowledged my new husband’s presence. He seemed as taken aback by the gesture as I was, but recovered quickly, taking a slow slip from the whiskey he cradled in his palm and looking down at the glass, avoiding the little boy.

“Too soon to tell.” His dark smirk told me he was enjoying offending everyone around us, me included.

Catalina’s forehead wrinkled into a frown, but she kept her eyes trained on my husband, not her son. Brock jerked Sam to his side, stroking his head as he fought an angry twist in his lips. Sam was too focused on his little truck to care what the grownups were discussing.

I realized I was gaping at them when Troy nonchalantly used his pointer finger to press on my chin and close my lips with a snap.

“Careful,” he mocked, taking a step closer and whispering into the crook of my neck, “don’t want a fly to wander into that pretty mouth of yours.”

When we got into the limo taking us to the historic manor where nearly four hundred strangers would celebrate our fake wedding, rain knocked on the tinted windows. I swallowed a sarcastic remark. I might be a June Bride, but of course it was going to rain on our wedding day. Some people claimed rain meant good luck, but I knew better.

A handful of guests went through the usual motions, gathering on the sidewalk and throwing birdseed at our vehicle.
Birdseed
. At least my new husband wasn’t as predictable as to try and make a joke about my name.
Instead, as we merged into the busy Boston traffic, he handed me a wide, deep white box tied with a pink satin bow.

“From me, to you,” he said, his expression emotionless.

I took the box carefully from his hand and untied the bow with shaky fingers. Pausing, I glanced up at him, suspicious. Dammit, would I ever stop acting like a sheep led to slaughter around this man?

“Sorry I didn’t get you anything,” I said, ignoring his predator eyes. “As you’re aware, this wedding was pretty rushed and unexpected.”

“I’ll live,” he said tonelessly.

Yup, unfortunately.
I bit my lip to suppress the nasty comeback.

He waved his hand impatiently. “For fuck’s sake, Red. Unwrap the damn thing.”

I ignored the fact he called me Red again. Yes, I was a redhead, but he was an asshole, and you didn’t see me walking around calling him that without making sure he liked his new pet name first.

I poked aside the tissue paper in the mysterious white box. When the contents registered, bile shot up my throat and my blood froze. Almost screeching, I threw the box in his lap like it was a nest of snakes.

My gift was very revealing and degrading lingerie items. I’m talking leather, fishnets and all that crap.

Tears stung my eyes. I fought them, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. A traitorous tear managed to sneak out, rolling down my right cheek. I swiped it away and clenched my jaw to stop my chin from quivering. If this asshole was hungry for my pain, I planned to keep him starving.

Brennan’s stony face broke into a taunting smirk. “What’s that, Red? Not even a thank you?” His low voice crawled deep under my skin.

I shook my head no. I assumed sex was going to be a part of the package, but in the ten days he’d caged me in his penthouse, alone and afraid, he hadn’t visited more than once, let alone tried to touch me.

This was a reminder that just because he hadn’t yet, didn’t mean that he wouldn’t.

“So you need a leatherette bra and a vinyl teddy to be turned on? I didn’t peg you for a cliché, Brennan.”

His eyes lit with something devilish. “And I didn’t peg you for someone who answers back. Don’t worry, little birdie. We’ll have plenty of time to explore one another.”

I stared straight ahead, focusing on the back of our driver’s head and biting my tongue. I hated that he called me
Birdie
. Only people I loved called me that.

“Chill out, Red. I have no interest in tapping your ass unless you’re willing and begging.”