Sparrow(12)

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.