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.
Brennan wasn’t exactly basking in the attention, but he didn’t seem too bothered by it either. Overall, he looked tough, unfazed and a little irritated with the time he had to waste on the mundane event.
“Since it is your intention to enter into marriage, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and His Church,” O’Leary instructed, and my emotions got the better of me.
I gasped when the groom took my small hand in his big one, clasping it firmly. While the people in the pews chuckled, thinking it was the sweet, authentic reaction of a nervous bride, black dots clouded my vision and I thought I was going to faint. He stared daggers at me, his jaw stiff as stone, and I forced myself to smile weakly, continuing with the charade.
“I, Troy James Brennan, take you, Sparrow Elizabeth Raynes, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you, all the days of my life.”
Women were wiping the edge of their heavily mascaraed eyes with handkerchiefs, sniffing their noses as they nodded their approval. Men exchanged contented grunts, sticking their chins out like this freak show was genuine. My face drained of color, blood and life.
My turn.
The priest turned to me and asked me to repeat his words, which I did, albeit with a shaky voice. “I, Sparrow Elizabeth Raynes, take you, Troy James Brennan, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you, all the days of my life.”
The priest continued rambling, but I tuned him out at this point, concentrating solely on the fact that I was almost married to this man. A criminal. A murderer. My promise to Troy Brennan left a bitter taste in my mouth.
A part of me wanted to yell at everyone sitting in front of us and smiling like idiots, to lash out angrily. I was twenty-two. He was thirty-two. We hadn’t even gone out on one date.
Never been out together.
Barely spoken to each another.
This was a lie. How could they let this happen?
My shaky relationship with humanity took another nosedive when Brennan’s best man, a plump man with ratty, mean eyes handed him my ring.
“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.