The Guilt of a Sparrow

by Jess B. Moore

  “No, Dominic, it doesn't. I stopped fighting with him ten years ago.”

  I didn't have to say I wasn't sorry when he died. No one was sorry. Except his own mama; she was sorry enough for all of us. Otherwise the town was caught in a torturous place of being relieved he was gone, and feeling a healthy dose of guilt over not missing him. When his name came up, people would mutter God rest his soul, but it always sounded more like good riddance. It was a tired tale that had thankfully become old news as years wore on.

  “You stopped being a lunatic about Maggie ten years ago. But no way did you stop caring about her.”

  “Shut up, Dom.”

  Only a few stragglers remained at the park. Moms folding blankets and wiping dirty hands. Teen girls running around in too little clothes, showing off miles of leg and pretending they didn't notice when you noticed. The tail ends of conversations - well wishes for the weekend, hopes the weather would hold or conversely prayers for rain, last minute plans made for grilling and outings. It all faded into the background of our town, of the central park, of the normal Friday night after jam wrap up. The Hunters and Maggie wouldn't be the only ones to follow up the jam with a trip to Prissy Polly's.

  “Why are you fighting this? Just go out with us. Be there, at the same place as this girl, and see what happens.”

  “Why are you pushing this?” I roared at him before I reined it in. I clamped down the flood of anger. The bloom of red in my brain that left unchecked would haze my eyes. The automatic tightening of muscles, tensed and ready to fight. It had become vitally important I keep control of myself and I had spent a lifetime learning to not lose my temper. “You know good and well I don't date. And you know why. I am not going there.”

  “I know you think you're a monster. An out of control raging person. I also know that isn't true. You have yourself under control. Never mind which you spent so many years looking out for that girl, there's not a chance in hell you'd hurt her. You'd beat your own ass before you let yourself hurt her.”

  He had a point. Didn't Dominic MacKenna always have a god damn point? I would rather die than hurt her. A primal protective instinct came into play with her, and it included shielding her from the likes of me. I couldn't risk it.

  I sighed, a slow thin exhale of stale air through my nose. I hated the self-doubt. I hated the seclusion. Not that I was a social person by nature. But going home and having a drink by my lonesome wasn't always appealing. On occasion I did want to go out, relax and have a good time, and do it with friends. It had been too long, and the idea of going out started looking good. It tugged at me, urging me to give in.

  “I'm pushing this because I know how you feel about her.”

  “Does everyone know?” And by everyone, I meant our brothers. I meant Maggie.

  “Nah. Denver never pays attention to anyone but himself. Joe knew back in the day, but he thinks you got over her. Especially after you were with Haley for so long. Beau knows, of course.”

  I sighed again, a faster rush of air forcing its way out. I did not wish to discuss this. I wasn't the least bit surprised Beau knew; he always knew everything about everything.

  “Maggie doesn't know.” The way he said it was like he had a whole lot more to say about it. But he didn't elaborate. Quiet assurance that was strangely full of secrets.

  Questions pressed up my throat and I swallowed them down. How did Dominic know what Maggie knew? Did I want to know?

  “Fine, Dom. I'll go.”

  Fighting my own damn self was exhausting. Even as we walked toward the parking lot, I was kicking myself. It was wrong to put myself in her path. She had looked at me like ... like she wanted to keep looking at me. Like she wanted me to keep talking to her. Like she wouldn't mind if I stood there at her side a bit longer. Like I was something. Then I'd gone and scared her. It was probably a good thing, a reminder she ought to keep her distance. A reminder for myself that she was afraid of me, and she darn well should be. But it hurt. Stabbed right between my ribs and deep into my chest to see her flinch away from me. I never wanted to see fear in her eyes. I hated the reminder that she had reason to be afraid of men; that she had grown up with a bully of a brother that instilled fear in her. I hated stupid fucking Lucian Porter all over again whenever I thought about Maggie.

  Chapter Four

  Cotton

  I trailed into Prissy Polly's behind Dominic. Hulking broad shoulders, smooth but bold walk, full of confidence. A bright light in any place, happy to lend that easy assurance to others. A magnet that snagged attention, heads turning to watch him, hands lifting to say hello, greetings called out across the wide room.

  I was content to stay out of the spotlight, following behind and not responding to the bevy of hellos and how the heck are yous? as we passed.

  Prissy Polly's was originally an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town; a squat wooden building with a deep front porch. The place had been a spectacular dive bar since as long as anyone could remember. The current owner was a gal named Iris, not that folks much remembered that detail. Far as I knew every owner of the establishment through the years had been a woman that went by the name of Polly.

  Scuffed smooth wood floors spread wide and deep. Darkness clung to the corners, offering cover for less savory deeds. Hand jobs, drug deals, mess I stayed clear of and didn't want to know about and ignored gossip about. Tables scrubbed shiny over too many years pocked the space, circled with mismatched chairs prone to wobbling. Country music played a touch too loud competing with the myriad of voices in the packed bar. Beer, sweat, perfume, all tinged with an edge of anticipation permeated every inch.

  At a table halfway to the back, Jacob and Alyssa sat with their chairs pushed close together. He had one hand over hers and waved the other in accordance to whatever story he told. Maggie sat across from them, her elbows braced on the edge of the round table. Her smile wide and free, unlike I usually witnessed, and I was entranced by her.

  “Jakey Poo.” Dominic leaned in and clapped Jacob on the back. Jacob gave him the bird as soon as he pulled back. “Alyssa. Maggie.”

  “Holy MacKenna Brothers, Batman.” Alyssa hopped up and threw her arms around Dominic for a quick hug. She paused in front of me, looked me over, and then gave me a small side hug. My smile was inevitable. She was impossible to dislike. “Twice in one night, Cotton. Color me shocked.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  Maggie looked like she'd swallowed her tongue and she on purpose didn't look directly at me. When I went to move toward the chair nearer to Jacob, Dominic shoved me out of the way and stole the seat. He laughed uttering a string of happy curse words. I shot him daggers with my eyes then turned to the open chair beside Maggie. Hands gripping the seat back with too much force, I did not take the seat. My back was too straight, a rod down my back, a dead giveaway to my sudden discomfort. I expended as much effort not looking at Maggie as she did not looking at me.

  “I'll get the next round. What's everyone having?”

  My generosity a ploy to escape the scene. I chose to walk to the bar and be busy rather than to sit beside Maggie. At the bar I relayed the order. Fucking coward, Cotton. Jacob, Alyssa, and Dom were all having beer. Maggie wanted nothing, so I ordered her soda water with a twist. I ordered two whiskeys for myself; downed one at the bar letting it burn my throat and warm my stomach, and brought the other back to the table.

  “I am not even kidding! She said that.” Alyssa snorted through her laughter, animated by her tale.

  I passed out drinks and reluctantly took my place in the vacant chair. All without looking toward Maggie. I didn't need to look to know she was there. Her presence at my side was a pulse that beckoned to me; begged me to slide closer and lean my mouth to her ear and neck. No, I didn't look at her. My fingers wrapped firmly around my glass and I concentrated on not chugging the whiskey.

  “She did not. No way. No one is that awful.” Dominic laughed and took a long swig of his dark beer. A coffee porter from a brewery a few towns over, the mo
cha scent encircled him.

  “No, it's true. Tell the story, Magpie.” Alyssa urged her friend to speak, with a tilted head and pleading smile. A knowing glance passed between them, speaking volumes.

  It was harder to not look at Maggie after the story was tossed her way. Alyssa kept laughing and she moved in a way that looked like she kicked her friend beneath the table. Jacob hid behind his beer. Dominic watched me, waiting for me to give in and turn toward the beautiful girl at my side.

  “We were at Darlene's for coffee.” Maggie's voice was soft. We all had to quiet down and lean in to catch her words. She did that, sank into herself so far that you had to work at staying with her. “It was stupid o'clock in the morning, so I hadn't bothered with real clothes. Anyway, I was walking up to the counter for a muffin to go along with my coffee, and Mrs. Albright was there at the front counter.”

  I was having trouble following because I didn't know what real clothes meant versus not. I was thinking about the proximity of Darlene's Coffee Shop to my studio, and how close that put Maggie to me. Mrs. Albright. A horrible old biddy. White blue hair, deep set wrinkles, and an affinity at spreading ignorance.

  “She looked me up and down, and said, “I didn't even see you back there, which is surprising seeing as you're dressed like a homeless tramp.” So, naturally, Darlene was working and overheard, which was so embarrassing. But she sure gave Mrs. Albright an earful.”

  See now, this is what happens; this is the problem for me. I cannot endure this sort of casual story. Knowing that someone was awful to Maggie. Then knowing she didn't stand up for herself, and instead someone else stepped in. Someone that wasn't me. I was grateful to Darlene, but hated she had to get involved. I wished Maggie had the backbone needed to stand up for herself. I clamped my mouth shut and stared hard at the single cube of ice in my whiskey. The edges had softened, melted into the drink. I made a list of words to describe the color of the whiskey to occupy my mind and stop thinking about the injustice in the world. Gold. Russet. Burnished. Mahogany. Henna. Burnt Umber.

  “Oh my God, for real though,” Alyssa went on, indignant on her friend's behalf. A quality I admired about the outspoken girl. “And she was wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt. Not trampy in the least.”

  “Are you saying I looked homeless?” Maggie's voice was light, playful even, not caring. Maybe that was why she didn't say anything to the old lady who had insulted her. Maybe she just didn't care. Her lips curled into a relaxed smile, as she shifted in her rickety chair to aim her body my way. A subtle movement that sent the signal to my own body, turning me slightly so that my knees bumped into her, hot skin on hot skin.

  In my mind, Maggie should have been upset with old Mrs. Albright, ready to defend herself. In reality, she told the story with a laugh and seemingly without a care. Truth was, no matter how much I had convinced myself I knew Maggie, I didn't really. What she thought remained a mystery to me. One that drew me to her, wanting to know more.

  “Oh, yeah, for sure. You look homeless right now.” Alyssa barely got the words out with a straight face.

  The girls continued their conversation and I was still hung up on my efforts at unraveling the sweet mahogany haired girl with the shy smile. I had to scramble to keep up. Had to work to keep my face calm, only showing a minor level of interest rather my intense and growing regard.

  I glanced over at Maggie before I could stop myself. Her shorts were cut offs, and had ridden up her thighs to expose the length of her legs. Her tank top was pretty and feminine, silky with a floral print, draped neatly over her perky breasts. Her hair was a mess, but it was always a mess. Her curls were out of control even when she worked to get them under control. The effect was that I wanted to thread my fingers into the mess of curls and get stuck there. I wanted to control the tilt of her head when I kissed her.

  “I have to go.” I stood up so suddenly my chair rocked. I spoke too loudly and people turned to look at the disruption.

  “You haven't finished your drink, man. You okay?” Dominic leaned back heavy in his chair, tipping the front legs up off the ground, and gave me a look that said exactly what he thought of my erratic behavior. My brother was able to pass a message in a look, and he wasn't impressed with my showing.

  I picked up the glass, downed the amber liquid, then slammed it back to the table. I lifted my brows in challenge to my meddling brother. I could pass a look right back with as much ease.

  Five steps, maybe six, summer sandals slapping on the wood floor, and I heard Dominic send Maggie after me. Shit.

  I slowed my pace so she would catch me. I wanted to be caught. Running away, I still wanted her to catch me. There were moments when I couldn't remember why I bothered running. I blamed the whiskey for pickling my brain and bolstering my bravado.

  She didn't say anything or try to stop me, stepping softly in time behind me, so I kept walking. I held the door for her, and we stepped out to the porch. The night remained thick with heat and humidity, suffocating within seconds. It only served to further drown my resolve.

  “You okay, Cotton?”

  Good lord, my name from her mouth was something else. The slow spread of poison through my body. I wanted to fall to my knees and beg her to say it again. Instead I looked out toward the parking lot, carefully avoiding looking down the loose tank that Maggie wore.

  “I'm fine.”

  “You don't have to go. I'll go.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you're leaving because of me, right?” Her small shoulders lifted, and she was brave looking up at me, meeting my insolence head on. “I'll go, so you can stay.”

  “Why would you say that?” My anger was getting the better of me once again. I was in control enough to keep my voice fairly level, but I still noticed the spark of worry that drained the color from Maggie's face.

  “It's okay. I know you don't like to be around me.”

  So simple. The way she said it made it sound uncomplicated. She had no idea what she was saying. Maggie couldn't be further from the truth.

  “What makes you think I don't like being around you?”

  I shouldn't have asked, because I didn't want to hear the answer. I didn't want to hear her say that she knew I had been avoiding her for a good ten years. I didn't want her to leave on the grounds of making things easier for me. I hated every second that was passing because it was all wrong.

  “Because it's true.” She shrugged again, like she didn't care. Like, no big deal. But I could see past the small sweet smile and the motion of her shoulders. I could see the pain in her eyes, the hurt that welled up there coupled with confusion.

  Without letting myself think, knowing if I did I wouldn't go through with it, I stepped into her space. I placed my body too close for polite conversation. I looked down at her, and I liked the way she tipped her head back to look at me, the way her neck bent and begged to be touched and licked. Her waist invited my hand to take hold and drag her ever closer.

  “That is not true, Magnolia Porter.”

  She swallowed, and I watched the nervous movement. Her eyes were big, and she shivered. This wasn't the same as her earlier edge of fear. Maggie wasn't scared of me hurting her, yelling at her, or picking a fight. This was longing, and a frustrating fear of rejection. As if I might turn her away. All of which made perfect sense, seeing as she was correct and I'd spent a good many years turning away from her.

  “I don't allow myself to be around you. That isn't the same thing as not liking it.”

  Because I was crossing all the lines I'd drawn, I touched her. I placed one hand around her arm, securing her in place. I used my other hand to tuck a thick lock of hair behind her ear, and let my fingers linger, moving slowly, trailing down her neck and to her collarbone. Chills erupted along her skin despite the heat, a reaction to my touch. Her eyes drifted closed. She wanted me to kiss her, body swaying into mine. Her lips were luscious and promising, waiting for me. I could kiss her. I could let myself taste her, then go home with the taste of he
r still on my mouth. Because I was a greedy bastard I pushed reason out of my head, and leaned down to devour her.

  There was no gentleness, not like there should have been. My hands shook as I held her to me. Maggie's soft warm body flush against mine. My lips pressed hard into hers and took from her. She was supple and giving. I nipped her lower lip with my teeth, and she gasped her mouth open. I took full advantage and entered her mouth with a lashing of my tongue. Her hands went to my head, my neck, my shoulders, down to my waist. Small fingers grasping and clinging; searching. In the end they settled on my arms, gripping tightly, like she was afraid I'd leave.

  Maggie was soft, trusting, open to me. She was sweet. Her mouth tasted of the tang of lime from her drink, and I licked the far corners of her mouth to claim it for my own. I wanted more. As I continued to kiss her right there on the front porch of Prissy Polly's, my head spun ahead to possible outcomes. I could bring her to my car and lay her across the back seat. I could bring her 'round the side of the building and press her up against the wall. No way could I stop kissing her long enough to bring her home to a bed.

  But it was all wrong. I wasn't supposed to be kissing Maggie. I wasn't supposed to have her. She wasn't mine. She would never be mine. I had no idea her level of sexual experience, and I refused to think too hard about it. Either way, she wasn't the kind of girl you took in a back seat or on the sidewall of the bar. She was too good for that. She deserved better.

  I ripped myself free from her, panting, and forced my feet to put space between us. Back. And back again.

  She worked to catch her breath, chest heaving with effort. She had one slim hand cupped around her throat, and the other reaching into the space I had vacated, fingers clasping open air where they wanted to find my body. Her eyes watched me carefully, anticipating my next move. I could see how she braced herself for me to walk away. She was a smart girl, and she knew already that I would hurt her.