Sparrow (4 page)

By the number of security guards marching through the entrance, you’d think I was marrying the Pope.

As my gaze roamed the entrance of the church from the limo I sat in, it occurred to me that the flower arrangements flanking the doors had probably cost more than a year’s rent at the apartment Pops and I shared for the past twenty-two years. The mere thought of marrying someone so obscenely reckless with his money sent a cold shudder down my spine.

I was trying to control the hysterical emotions swirling in me when Pops took my quivering hand in his warm, rough one and squeezed it tight for reassurance.

“You’re doing the right thing, you know that, right?” Hope gleamed in his eyes.

As if I was given a choice.

But I knew what my father didn’t have to tell me. Even if he hadn't accepted Brennan’s request to take me as his wife (and Troy Brennan was undoubtedly one of those hypocritical, old-fashioned assholes who asked your dad for your hand), Brennan would have made it happen one way or the other.
No
was simply not in his vocabulary. What he wanted, he took.

And right now, he wanted little old me.

It made no sense at all. I wasn’t particularly beautiful, or at least not in the way to attract the attention of men of his caliber. My lips, probably my best feature, were pink, narrow and heart-shaped, but otherwise I was ordinary at best. I had a short, scrawny frame; long, fire-engine red hair; almost sickly pale skin and freckles peppering every inch of my round face. I was not Troy Brennan’s type.

I knew this with certainty, having flipped through the gossip pages of the local newspapers here and there. He was always seen with glamorous women. They were tall, curvy and gorgeous. Not mousy, ruby haired and a little on the odd side. So as I sat in the limo, about to walk into a church I’d never been inside, full of people I didn’t know, to marry a stranger I feared, a chant rang between my ears, its echo bouncing on the walls of my skull.

Why me? Why me? Why me?

“We’re up next,” I heard the limo driver announce, as the vehicle dragged leisurely forward.

My heart picked up speed, banging wildly against my sternum. A thin layer of sweat formed over my skin.

I wasn’t ready.

I didn’t have a choice.

Dear God.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I was praying for God to step in and prevent the ceremony from happening, even though I was at his holy home.

A small, quiet but persistent, voice in me taunted that this was my punishment for being a bad Catholic. For not giving the Almighty the respect he deserved. I’d stopped going to church long ago, and even as a kid, I wasn’t particularly interested in faith.

All those years drifting off as a child at Sunday mass.

All those years attending youth group solely for the cookies and to ogle the young, handsome man who lectured us about God’s marvelous ways. Tobey, I think his name was.

All those years and now it was payback time. And Karma? She was well known as a hormonal, raging bitch. God was going to punish me. I was going to marry a monster.

“Here we are,” the driver said, tilting his hat forward.

I caught him eyeing me curiously from the rearview mirror, but at this point I no longer cared. Better get used to it, because once I was Brennan’s wife, people would ogle me like I was a unicorn at a magic zoo.

“Everyone’s taking their seats inside. Shouldn’t be more than a couple more minutes, ma’am.”

I looked back to my father as he handed me the purple bouquet. He leaned forward, kissing my forehead gently. He reeked of alcohol. Not the cheap kind either. Brennan must’ve spoiled him with the good stuff now that we were all about to become one big, unhappy, screwed-up family.

“I wish your mom was here to see this.” He sighed, his wrinkled forehead collapsing into a frown, his eyes two pools of grief.

“Don’t,” I cut him off flatly, relieved to hear there was not a trace of emotion in my voice anymore. “We haven’t laid eyes on that woman since I was three years old. Wherever she ran off to, she doesn’t deserve to take part in this, or anything else in my life. Besides, you did a good job taking care of me on your own.” I patted his thigh awkwardly.

It was true. Robyn Raynes wasn’t my mother, she was a woman who gave birth to me and left shortly after. I supposed most people would feel more strongly about it on the day of their wedding, but (a) this wasn’t my wedding, not my real one anyway, and (b) when your parent deserted you, you had two choices: you either let it define and rule you, or you moved on, making a point to show the world that you didn’t give a rat’s ass where your mother had gone.

I tried falling into the second category, and I rarely slipped.

Pops loved what he was hearing. His eyes shone with pride and surprise. Of course, I’d sugarcoated the hell out of our history. But somehow, I recognized today was just as difficult for my dad as it was for me. A raging alcoholic or not, he’d always put a distance between me and his job with the Brennans, and I knew he wanted nothing more than to shield me from these people.

As for his parenting abilities, truth be told, he had taken care of me on his own ever since I was a toddler. He was never abusive or impatient, even if he was a little on the clueless and insensitive side. There were even women he’d dated who’d played house and were my temporary “mommies” until they realized my father’s love for the hard stuff would always run much deeper than his love for them. Mostly, though, it was just me and him.

Well, me, him and the alcohol.

Even though I loved him, I knew my father wasn’t a good man. When I was growing up and he worked for Cillian Brennan, too often he came home bruised from fights. I dealt with surprise visits from the cops, and I brought him fresh clothes and cigarettes plenty of times when he was arrested. He was now employed by Troy, probably doing something just as illegal.

Pops was an alcoholic and a terrible Casanova with the ladies, but he was also the only person who loved me, who cared, who burnt himself on the stove trying to make chicken noodle soup for me—not the canned type, the real deal—when I caught pneumonia.

He deserved a little happiness, even if it was on my account.

“I love you, Birdie.” He let a single, fat tear roll down his wrinkle-mapped cheek as he pressed both his paws to my face.

I nodded, leaning my face into one of his palms. I stroked his forehead with the pads of my fingers. “Love you too, Pops.”

“Alrighty-o. Ready? Here we go.” The cheery driver pushed his door open and walked around the limo, opening the door for me.

I slid out carefully, noting that the front yard of the church was mostly empty, other than few elderly men scattered around, still caught up in business talk. Pops followed behind, but broke to the left where he spotted the small group of washed-up men.

“I need to catch a word with Benny. I’ll be back in a minute. Let the groom wait a little while. Be right back, little darlin’.” He winked and marched toward the herd of suited men at the corner of the cobblestone church.

I frowned, adjusting my dress. It was an uncharacteristically cold June day, but I knew better than to think goose bumps broke on my skin because of the chill. I eyed the opening in the high stone wall beside me and spotted a tiny garden with a bench. I wished I could hide there.

Then I heard him.

A man speaking softly to his son on the other side of the wall. His voice was gentle, but still throaty and gruff at the same time. I’m not sure why, but the sound of him seeped into my body like warm liquor on a stormy night.

“Of course, Abraham wasn’t a bad man, but he did what he thought he had to do, and that was to sacrifice his child to God.”

A trail of cold sweat dripped down my spine, and I leaned forward on one heeled foot toward the voices, straining my ears.

“But Daddy, dads love their children, right?”

“They do. More than anything else in the world, Sam.”

“And God loves his children?”

The man paused briefly. “Very much.”

“So how come God did what they did to Isaac?”

“Well, God wanted to test Abraham’s faith. Isaac was okay at the end of the day, remember, but God received proof that Abraham would put his adored son at the altar for him.”

“Do you think,” the little boy pondered, and by his voice, he couldn’t have been much older than five, “that God is just testing our Abraham? Maybe his daughter and Mr. Troy won’t get married today.”

The man chuckled to himself humorlessly, and I felt my heart sinking.

“No. That’s not a test, little champ. People want to marry each other. It’s not punishment.”

“Did you want to marry Mommy?” Sam asked.

Another silence filled the air before the man answered.

“Yes, I wanted to marry Mommy. Which reminds me, where is
our
mommy?”

Just then, the man’s strode through the opening in the wall and his hard body bumped into mine. I squeaked, almost falling flat on my ass, but managed to grab the wall with my hand that wasn’t clutching the bouquet.

“Shit, sorry,” he said.

I straightened, raising my head, and my eyes bugged out and my mouth dried up instantly. He was handsome. No, scratch handsome. He was a masterpiece in a sharp black suit, stealing my breath and momentarily shaking me free of my mental breakdown.

He was about six two, a little shorter than Brennan, and just like my husband-to-be, the way he filled his custom-made outfit told me he made it a point to work out at least four times a week. His chestnut-brown hair, wavy and thick, tousled and soft, stuck out in a few directions, despite his best effort to slick it back. His gray eyes studied me, narrow and intelligent, as he rubbed his strong jawline.

“You said a bad word!” His son practically bounced with happiness, waving a little blue truck in his hand. “You need to put a dollar in the jar when we get back home.”

But Sam’s dad seemed to have been sent to a parallel universe, judging by the way his gaze held mine. He looked surprised to see me, and I wondered how much he knew. I froze, trying to shake off the weird effect he had on me.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” I hurried to explain, smoothing my dress. His eyes dropped to where my hand stroked the fabric of my vintage Valen-something, and I immediately jerked it away, feeling self-conscious.

“I wasn’t accusing,” he answered serenely. That voice. That authority. He was one of Troy’s crew, I immediately knew.

“Of course you weren’t.” I blushed, turning away toward the church door. “It’s my wedding in there. So, you know, I better…” My dumb mouth kept spitting out stupidity.
Yes, Sparrow. It is your wedding. Otherwise, you just showed up in the most inappropriate dress on the planet.

“It is. And I’m sorry,” he said gravely, his meaning clear.

More emotions stormed inside me, and my stomach flipped at his minor act of kindness.

He was married, with a son, I reminded myself. Oh, and also, I was about to get married in approximately five minutes to one of the most dangerous men in Boston. This made him firmly off limits. And me, a raging idiot.

I rubbed one hand over my face, grateful that Sherry wasn’t there to yell at me for messing up all the layers of makeup she’d caked on my skin.

“Me too.” I shrugged. “I hope you and your family enjoy the ceremony.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but I couldn’t deal with more of his kindness. I didn’t trust men these days, especially not those who were hypocritical enough to offer solace.

Turning away, I put two fingers to my lips and whistled to my dad. “Hey, Pops…” I waved him over with one hand as all the men in the churchyard stared at me, dumbfounded. I bet they thought Brennan would marry a lady and not some weirdo tomboy redhead. “Let’s get this over with.”

Pops jogged the short distance between us. Panting, he acknowledged the beautiful man with a nod. “Brock.”

“Abe,” Brock returned with his own nod. “Congratulations on the wedding. I trust you know I’m here should any of you need anything at all.” Brock turned his gaze back to me, and my heart squeezed just a little more with self-pity.

Brock and Sam turned around, walking into the church, hand in hand.

Pops took a step closer and grasped me by the shoulders. “It’s show time. Let’s get my little Birdie married.”

OBJECTIVELY SPEAKING,
my wedding to Troy Brennan was a beautiful event. Obscenely lavish and obnoxiously wasteful. Brennan spared no expense when it came to what was his. Be it his penthouse, his cars, his women or his wedding.

The candles, floral arrangements, aisle runner, soloist, organist, floral archways and extravagantly decorated pews were all impeccable and plush. In fact, I was surprised the altar wasn’t built exclusively from blood diamonds and rolled one-hundred-dollar bills.

Nonetheless, to me, it was as pointless as Henry Cavill with a shirt on. So much detail and beauty shouldn’t be wasted on fraud. And that’s what Brennan and I were—a lie. A charade. Doomed people trapped in a marriage built on the ruins of extortion and lies.

We exchanged vows in front of four hundred guests, all teary-eyed and joyful. Father O’Leary performed the ceremony with grace, or so I assumed, seeing as my vision was blurry and my head spun. I tried not to sweat away the equivalent of my body weight in anxiety and mimicked what the priest was saying whenever appropriate.