Sparrow

“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.