Sparrow

by L.J. Shen

  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 will
ing and begging.”

  “That’s interesting, because you sure seem to have a healthy interest in lingerie shopping. Too much spare time?” I deadpanned.

  His smirk widened. “I didn’t pick those items.” He tilted his chin to the gift nestled in layers of tissue paper.

  “No?” I blinked slowly.

  “No…” He leaned forward, bringing his mouth closer to mine. “My mistress chose your gift.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance, a truck beeped as it reversed and the angry hum of my blood buzzed in my ears. Still, somehow, time completely stopped despite the busy streets of Boston flashing by outside. Our driver kept swallowing hard and looking straight ahead robotically, but I knew he was listening. Saying I wasn’t comfortable having this conversation in front of a complete stranger was the understatement of the century.

  I pressed my lips between my teeth, trying not to launch at my husband like a cornered animal. This man promised me his faithfulness in front of a priest less than an hour ago. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe he’d ever take this marriage seriously, but he didn’t have to rub his affairs in my face.

  “She really doesn’t like you if she goes around buying lingerie for your wife.” My voice barely trembled.

  “She just knows what’s best for her. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from her.”

  I tucked my hands under my thighs to keep from trying to strangle him. “Tell her to send me the syllabus. I’m especially interested in How to Tame the ManWhore 101.” I offered him a sweet smile, folding my arms over my laced-covered chest.

  Just then, the limo came to a halt and the driver rushed to help us out of the back and onto the steps of the eighteenth-century landmark where the wedding reception was taking place. Troy got out first, offering me his hand. I didn’t move, ignoring his gesture.

  “Remember, play nice.” He kept his palm open, yet uninviting.

  “Whatever. Fine,” I muttered slapping my hand into his. We walked and waved, smiling to our guests through plastic grins.

  “But I like your fight,” he said softly through our make-believe joy as we made our way, arms linked, like the two happy lovers that we weren’t. “Can’t wait for you to show me some of it in my bed.”

  SPARROW

  I SHOULD HAVe known he was a man of his word.

  But he should have known that on top of hating his guts, I was also a virgin.

  A virgin, despite my best efforts.

  Contrary to what anyone might think, I wasn’t especially keen on saving my virginity for that special someone. I’d grown up in a rough neighborhood, among people who didn’t buy into fairytales. Prince Charming was about as feasible as Santa Claus to me, if not less. There was not one romantic bone in my scrawny body.

  No, my cliché virginity was due to the fact that I just hadn’t met anyone who wanted to share more than a few kisses and the occasional grope with me. I was notorious for my bad luck with the opposite sex. True, I wasn’t particularly striking or sexy, but I wasn’t a hag either. Yet somehow, guys always kept their distance from me.

  At school.

  At work.

  And especially in and around South Boston.

  So I’d quietly carried the burden of my virginity, hoping I’d find a man who’d be sweet enough to guide me through the dos and don’ts of lovemaking.

  I had a feeling Troy Brennan, with his physical size, strength and brutal way of living, was not the best tour guide for a beginner like me. If there was one ray of light in my grim situation, it would have been my hope that Troy was too busy messing around with half of Boston to notice I had a pair of boobs and an ass, too.

  But he did. He noticed.

  Right after we got back from our wedding celebration, to be exact.

  We arrived back at his glitzy penthouse in Back Bay, thoroughly drunk and understandably flushed.

  Brennan walked into his lavish bedroom and started taking off his clothes silently, folding them in a neat pile on a sleek black bureau near the huge king-size bed. He stripped down to his briefs, giving me a full view of his muscled body. All male, not an Abercrombie & Fitch-ad type of guy, but a real, hairy, big, demanding one.

  Furious and frightened, I walked swiftly into the master bathroom, shutting the door behind me with a loud bang and locking it for good measure.

  “Don’t be long,” he instructed from the bedroom.

  I ignored him, took a seat on the edge of his giant Jacuzzi and, regulating my breathing, plucked out the hairpins that dug into my skull one by one. I threw them into the sink with a blissful plink. Then I tackled the impossible dress, struggling to reach the laces in the back and shimmying until I finally managed to crawl out of the corset more fitting for a Barbie doll.

  I opened drawers and cabinets. Stalling, stalling, stalling. After all, he was drunk. Maybe he’d fall asleep, pass out…or throw up and choke on his puke. Maybe I had nothing to worry about.

  After forty minutes, I tiptoed back to the bedroom wearing a pair of socks and my old PJ’s—gray sleep shorts and a white cotton tee—and crawled onto the far edge of the immense bed. I wanted to curl into myself and disappear between his sheets as far away from Brennan as I could manage.

  Not breathing, barely moving, I peeked sideways to check to see if he was safely asleep.

  His eyelashes fluttered up and down against the red and blue city lights spilling into the darkness. He was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, the covers thrown back on his side.

  “Scared of sex, huh?” His menacing voice cut through blackness with an amused bite. “Well, no surprises there.”

  I didn’t fail to notice that he was shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of Calvin Kleins. They were white, tight and emphasized his erection.

  His body was muscled steel. Tantalizing and smooth, with the exception of three, old scars running from his stomach to his chest, his shoulder to his bicep, and a smaller one near his throat. A shamrock was tattooed on his chest across his heart, timeworn and faded.

  A flashback of my friend Daisy and I eavesdropping on the teenage girls whispering in our apartment building’s stairwell made my heart stutter. I was just a kid, six years younger than the high school girls, when one of them excitedly told her friends that she’d finally managed to bed Troy Brennan. That he was a certain kind of guy: his body was built for fighting and fucking, and he did both with a passion, rage and brutality most girls wouldn’t forget.

  But even if I wanted to get nasty with my husband, I couldn’t forget who he was—the guy who murdered Billy “Baby Face” Crupti, a murder so brutal the media reported that Crupti’s body had been chewed on by animals prior to being dumped in the water. And there was a priest who’d been found dead in our parish church, his tongue cut out.

  Everyone in South Boston knew that Troy had killed them both.

  No one said a word.

  That should have told me a thing or a dozen about my husband.

  His cruelty was infinite. His hands had touched blood, weapons, knives, dead bodies. Thinking about him caressing my body with those hands should’ve made me nauseous. Yet somehow, it didn’t…

  “Not scared at all. You don’t know anything about me.” I turned in bed, offering him my back and hugging my knees to my chest. I buried my face in the soft pillow.

  His side of the mattress lifted unexpectedly. I heard him pad across the floor to the bathroom, but he didn’t bother to close the door. I listened closely. He took a leak and washed his hands, whistling. When he returned, he stood there at the end of the bed in his underwear, his cock saluting in my direction.

  “First time you've seen a boner?” he mocked.

  I didn’t want to tell him the truth. Yes. So I gulped and looked up, concentrating on a piece of modern art, a painting of a naked woman behind him. I shrugged. “Yours is nothing special.”

  “That’s where I can prove you wrong.” His smile almost passed for human.

  “Thanks for the offer, but beside the fact I’d rather
chew on used needles, I just got my period.” I pulled the duvet all the way up to my nose.

  “Bull-fucking-shit.” His mouth twisted into a vicious smirk. “Let’s see it.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s. See. Your period,” he said slowly. “Take off your briefs.”

  I scooted away from him, looking around me, trying to marshal my thoughts. “You’re not serious?”

  “I don’t do humor, Sparrow. Besides, you’ve shown some spine so far, don’t wanna ruin it by chickening out on me, do you…wifey?”

  “But…”

  “The butt is a good option,” he said evenly, not a trace of amusement in his voice, “but I’m more interested in seeing your blood right now.”

  I glanced around me, looking for...what? Sharp objects to throw at him as I ran? He could probably kill me just by breathing in my direction. Instead of taunting him like a three-year-old, I should’ve told him the truth.

  “I’m not chickening out.”

  He moved closer toward me. “Actions speak louder than words.”

  Screw it. He wanted to play, and I was starting to understand his twisted game.

  I stood up in front of him and peeled my PJ shorts down an inch at a time. My fingers scraped my pubic bones and despite my hatred of him, I found myself self-conscious about my scrawniness. I bet he was used to sleeping with women who were all curves. And I looked like a boy, with my pale skin, fragile frame and bonfire hair.

  But he’d challenged me, and I had my stupid pride to keep intact.

  “Underwear, too.” Brennan sat, falling onto my side of the bed with a soft thud as I stood in front of him, removing my clothing inch by inch.

  My body vibrated as I held back my hatred. His gaze zeroed on my pelvic area, tucking one hand into his underwear and stroking himself leisurely. I took off my underwear, feeling a mixture of disgust and thrill with the situation. What the hell is wrong with you, Sparrow? Appalled, I wet my lips, watching him. Are you freaking high?