TWO
Marco Martinez is a shifty character. That’s what Mollie thought the first time she met him anyway. He is too lanky, the gums of his mouth too wide, his teeth too narrow. But three years ago when Mollie got jumped outside of the club she was gigging at in East Knoxville, Marco came to her rescue. Well, she thinks as she sits next to Marco in his beat up El Camino, rescue is being overly generous. He slammed his face against the robber’s fist over and over until the punk got bored and left. That night, Mollie took Marco to the ER and paid for the ten stitches he needed across his cheek. They’d been friends ever since.
When he called yesterday afternoon to tell her he’d heard about a Cavanagh U drop out who’d bought her mixer and light board from a guy out of the trunk of his ‘67 Shelby, she could have kissed him. Instead, they made plans to stake out the kid in Sevierville at some fancy banquet.
“What time is it?” she asks Marco.
For the fourth time he looks at his cell, but doesn’t make a face or complain about her impatience. “Nine-fifteen.” When he looks at her, Mollie sees the faint scar under his cheek shine against the console light. “It’s gonna be a while, chica. Be cool.”
“You’re funny. ‘Be cool’ he says. This asshole probably got my stuff for less than half of what I paid for it. I’m not capable of cool right now.”
She looks out at the parking lot of this uptight-looking place and frowns. The building seems too white, the columns too high as though it belongs on some sprawling plantation estate and not on the outskirts of tourist central. There are sleek, black luxury cars lining up to drop couples decked out in finery; they all look affluent, all dressed in clothes that likely haven’t seen a rack. Without realizing she’s doing it, Mollie tugs on her plaid skirt. It is too tight, second hand, and doesn’t cover the small bruise above her knee. Her combat boots are worn on the tips and her white Ramones t-shirt is threadbare, barely covers her belly button.
In every row of parked cars is a state trooper cruiser. Converging around the entrance are men and women dressed in trooper garb, fine blue formal suits with gold lapels and badges that gleam against the moonlight. Great, Mollie thinks. Fabulous. This idiot buys my stolen property and I get surrounded by troopers.
When Mollie hears the sharp click of a lighter and then smells the sticky sweet whiff of a blunt, her gaze jerks to Marco.
He answers her glare with a confused squint. “What? You want some? I didn’t think you were into this.”
“We’re surrounded by cops, idiot. You wanna catch a bid for possession? Put it out.”
Marco listens to her and deposits his blunt and lighter in the ashtray, but the scent lingers and instantly Mollie is reminded of the night her father was arrested. She hasn’t smoked much since then, just the occasional experimental hits with Layla and some of her musician friends, but that was twice, perhaps three times, in the past ten years. Just the smell of weed brought her back to her father’s home and the chaos of her first hit of the herb. The night the State of Mississippi took her father away from her for at least twenty years. She misses him and there isn’t a thing she can do about that. Not unless she wants to quickly incur her mother’s wrath.
“I can’t sit here.” She pushes open the car door before Marco can stop her. The rusted hinges protest against her heavy slam and she walks toward the building, purposefully avoiding the front entrance for the side where caterers and waiters weave in and out of vans like black and white bees.
“Hold up, chica. You can’t just barge in there and demand your shit back.” Marco catches up with her, tugging on her arm to stop her before she moves around the wait staff and into the kitchen of the opulent building. “This kid probably didn’t even realize he was buying stolen equipment. From what I hear he’s barely twenty and dumb as shit.”
Mollie pulls away from Marco, closing her arms across her chest. “I can’t just sit and wait. I want my stuff. Besides, he’s been playing for two hours straight. He’s going to take a break sooner or later.”
Marco still smells of the blunt and his breath is warm against her neck as they sneak past the wait staff, the men in suits and ties that direct them and into the corner of the banquet hall. Her friend’s constant refrain is “be cool,” and “don’t catch anyone’s eye,” but Mollie is too focused on the banner above the stage in the center of an elegant ballroom. TENNESSEE STATE TROOPER’S HONORS BANQUET. She feels out of place, a chipped tooth on a flawless, straight smile. Marco’s hand circles her elbow, pulls her back when the music stops and the Governor steps onto the stage and taps the microphone twice with his fingertip.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome…”
The crowds’ attention is on the Governor and though she eyes him, trying to figure out why the man’s sandy brown hair doesn’t match the gray above his ears, a movement to stage right catches Mollie’s attention.
The lanky DJ is tiny, barely 5’7, and the suit he wears looks a size too big for him, like he lifted it from his dad’s closet. She sees the kid’s head bent against her earphones, spinning tracks that Mollie had named “Elevator Music,” and her unease quickly whips into anger. Mollie tries again to walk into the room, but Marco moves her back, whispers something about “cops” and “a scene” and “not a fucking good idea” in her ear before she stills.
The Governor continues to speak, something about heroism and the brave men and women who guard Tennessee streets and then she hears a name that forces her gaze back onto the stage.
“The late Rick Winchester gave his life for the protection of our people…”
Mollie wonders if he is related. She doesn’t think it’s possible. Winchester, after all, isn’t that unusual a name, but when the Governor, carrying a large plaque in his right hand, motions into the crowd, and the spotlight above moves between the standing, clapping crowd, the air in her lungs completely escapes.
Vaughn. Right here. On the stage, standing next to a gorgeous blonde.
He is perfection in his Marine dress blues, all starched and proud, his back straight like a sword, his chest broad and thick. Mollie had seen a few of his tattoos, several along his forearm the day they went to the final rugby match before regionals. She remembers seeing the ends of a dragon tail, the brief glance of a fin, but not much more than that. Tonight none of that is visible. He doesn’t look like the sweet, placating man who brushed her off three nights ago. Tonight he looks like the perfect Marine—all straight lines and order. Mollie thinks he is breathtaking. She thought that the day she invaded his club, interrupting the class he was teaching, ogling his massive arms and the beautiful ink that covered his bicep and the quick drop of her stomach returns, heart hammering in her chest just at a quick glance of him.
Almost as gorgeous as Vaughn is the elegant woman shaking the Governor’s hand. She is blonde, like him, but there are faint, barely there lines at the corners of her eyes. The bob she sports is without even the slightest muss, not one strand out of place and the red gown she wears clings to her, accentuates her ample breasts and tiny waist.
Who am I kidding? Mollie thinks. Vaughn is in a class far higher than hers. She’s biker baby where he is distinguished hero. They’d only clash. Of course he thought she was a little girl. Compared to the woman at his side, she is a kid.
She waits a moment too long, taken in by the woman’s confident voice, blocking out whatever eloquent thing she says to focus on Vaughn’s forced smile and the way his eyes stay grounded to the woman. She thinks Vaughn moves his head in her direction, but then there are claps again, more standing from the crowd and she tugs on Marco’s arm, leading him out of the room.
“Come on, let’s wait outside.”
The air outside has grown warmer, but Mollie can’t help another tug on her shirt or crossing her arms so that they hide her visible midriff. She doesn’t like feeling like this, all awkward and nervous. She doesn’t like the out of place, you-don’t-belong sensation just being here evokes in her. It reminds her too much of being a biker’s kid in Jackson; of being called “trash” and “whore” at an age when she didn’t fully understand what those words meant.
“What’s up with you?” Marco flips his long, black bangs out of his eyes.
“Nothing. I just don’t like being around so many cops.”
“Oh.” Marco knows she won’t elaborate; he knows about her dad, they’ve talked about their less than stellar childhoods many times over the years.
Vaughn’s presence has unnerved Mollie, makes her second guess the logic in confronting the kid who has her equipment. She hates that she’s thinking of chickening out, hates more that she’s allowed some guy to make her question herself at all. Even if he is the most gorgeous thing she’s ever seen, she doesn’t like feeling like she’s out of place; that she’s somehow beneath him.
Her thoughts are so distracted by her doubts, at first she doesn’t notice the plume of cigarette smoke lifting in the air behind one of the catering vans. But then she hears a soft cough, not deep enough to be a man, not high enough to be a woman, and she drags Marco behind her to investigate.
The wannabe DJ looks no more than twelve, with narrow hips and a chest so slight that Mollie wonders how he was even able to move his equipment. My equipment, she corrects herself.
Spotting them, the kid straightens up, moves his hand behind his back as though he’s afraid he’ll get caught smoking. But then the frown on his face shifts, his lips stretch and he nods at Marco. “What’s up, man?” He takes a drag of his smoke and moves his chin toward Mollie. “This your girl?” he asks Marco.
“I’m Mollie Malone.” By the high lift of the kid’s eyebrows she can tell he’s heard of her. She tries to remain cool, to let her temper simmer so that she doesn’t make this kid nervous, defensive. “I’ve been hearing a few things about you.”
“You… you have?” He sounds awed.
“Oh yeah,” she says, taking a step forward.
He abandons his cigarette and moves his palms down the front of his thighs. “I haven’t been spinning that long, but I’m good, I think. What did you hear?”
Marco is at her side; a skinny, pathetic imitation of back up. “Oh, you know, how good you are.” It’s a lie, but Mollie is cool, convincing. Until Marco mentioned the kid, she hadn’t heard a word about him. “How you’ve been hitting these high dollar gigs to save up for some stellar equipment. I get that. Been there, you know?”
“Yeah.”
It’s hard for her to forget that time, to forget the absolute obsession to get into the game, be a part of something that freeing, that jovial. But it doesn’t excuse what he’s done or reason away him buying stolen goods. She can tell that the kid is nervous. She’s not an idiot; her name, at least among the club circles, carries a fair bit of weight. She’s earned that respect. But this kid doesn’t seem to wonder why she’s here. Another step in his direction and his shoulders straighten, his confidence increasing.
She has to refrain from smacking the cocky grin off his face. “When I was coming up, I did anything to earn some cash. Birthday parties for twelve year olds; bar mitzvahs, weddings, hell I even did a bridal shower once where all those stupid chicks wanted me to play was the Backstreet Boys. They all sucked, but you know, I did it, because I was hungry. You see what I’m saying?”
His frown returns and Mollie thinks he’s starting to get confused, perhaps worried. “I… I guess.”
She forgets her earlier discomfort, forgets that just seeing Vaughn in his elegant dress garb made her confidence slip away from her. “What’s your name, kid?” She likes how the boy’s eyes immediately shoot to Marco as if one glance at her friend will alleviate his confusion.
“Bret… Bret Richards.” The kid pulls against his collar.
“Well, Bret, I guess the question is, just how hungry are you?”
Marco squares his slight shoulders and although Mollie knows he is not a threat to anyone, she can tell Bret is uneasy, like he knows she’s gearing up for a confrontation. “What… what do you mean?”
“I just think that if you’ll stoop so low as playing a gig for freakin’ cops, then maybe you’d stoop lower.” Two steps and Bret is against the van looking very much like he’s trying to figure out the best way to escape Mollie’s scrutiny. This only makes a quick smile slide across her face. “Like, say, so low that you’ll buy equipment out of the back of some asshole’s Shelby.”
Bret’s eyes round, he starts to speak, but then a shadow moves behind them; a large, imposing shadow that swallows up the dim light surrounding them and whoever stands behind her forces utter terror to stretch across the kid’s face. “This kid stole from you, Mollie?” Vaughn’s voice is low, calm, but sinister.
She doesn’t want to turn around. If she turns around, then she’ll have to look him in the eyes. She’ll have to see the worried, ‘this girl is a stalker’ look that is almost certainly on Vaughn’s face. Mollie takes a breath, hoping the brief pause will do something to ease the hammering rhythm of her heart, but at the inhalation, she picks up a whiff of Vaughn’s cologne—the twin aromas of musky aftershave and the distinct male scent that every man carries on his skin.
Her mouth instantly waters.
Still, her Daddy didn’t raise a coward and so Mollie lifts her chin and looks over her shoulder, trying hard not to let Vaughn see how much she likes him in his formal uniform. But, damn, is it hard not to react.
Up close Vaughn looks like some heavily photoshopped version of a Marines recruitment ad. He is so tall, so broad that Marco and Bret look like preschoolers next to him.
Mollie maintains her cool, but only just. She feels Vaughn’s eyes glare over her face, stopping a moment to examine the dark bruise on her cheek. But he is a skilled veteran of composure, that much she can tell. Mollie won’t allow him to divide her focus and so she only offers him a nod and then pulls her attention back to the cowering DJ. “Look, I get it. You want to be the shit around here, maybe make a little cash. Nothing wrong with that. But you see, that asshole you bought your stuff from? Yeah, he robbed me the other night. Took all my shit.”
“I… I didn’t know.”
“Now you do. So the question becomes, what are you going to do? I want my shit back.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Bullshit.” Marco grabs Bret by the collar.
When Vaughn steps to the side, backing up Marco like some burly sentry, the kid’s eyes round, shifts between the three of them. “I swear, man, all I have is the headphones and some of the CDs. Well, and the five hundred these people paid me for this gig. I broke the equipment bringing it into my apartment.”
Mollie can’t focus, can’t shake the feel of Vaughn’s eyes on her, of his towering stature looming too near. She just wants her stuff. She wants this night over with. Marco releases Bret when Mollie slaps his hand away because he looks like he’s about to wet himself. “Who‘s boards are you using tonight?”
“My brother’s.”
Then the kid gets desperate. He bypasses Marco, seems to forget that the hulking Marine is standing just feet from them and grabs Mollie’s arm. Instantly, Vaughn steps forward, throws him back against the van.
“Don’t touch her,” he tells the kid and Mollie tries her damndest not to grin like an idiot.
“Look, I know who you are,” Bret says to Mollie. “I love your beats, Malone and I’m sorry as hell that you got ganked, but I don’t have your boards. Not anymore. I… I can give you the cash I made tonight.” He immediately digs into his pockets, twenties and tens falling down by his feet.
There is a heavy gleam in Bret’s eyes and as he lowers to pick up his fallen bills, she notices how his fingers shake so that he drops his money several times. I’m a hateful bitch, she thinks to herself, releasing some of her anger. The kid is hungry, eager. She remembers that feeling, remembers how it consumed her until she had what she wanted. This kid is clueless and Mollie is struck suddenly by overwhelming guilt.
Bret pushes the scatter of cash toward her, shaking his wrist for her to take it, but she waves him off, more interested in information than money.
“You know the guy you bought my stuff from?”
“No. Mannie, who runs the pawn shop on Third in Chattanooga, called me. He knew I was looking for some boards. Said this dude came in looking to sell. I got there when the guy was unloading his trunk so the stuff didn’t even make it into the pawn shop.”
“This Mannie guy might have a name for you.” Vaughn doesn’t look at her, doesn’t do anything but continue to glare at Bret. Mollie returns his statement with a nod of her head, trying to fight back the curiosity of Vaughn’s sudden interest in her dilemma.
“I’ll check it out,” she offers, determined to keep her attention on the kid and not the domineering Marine who is now searching her face and burning a glance over her skin.
Bret seems to have relaxed. With Vaughn not hovering over him, the kid’s body isn’t as rigid, his spine not quite as straight and he is just about to say something, Mollie thinks it is likely another apology, but he’s interrupted when a middle-aged man in a black suit approaches. One snap of his fingers and jerk of the head and Bret hustles away from the van. “Look, I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t know.”
She shrugs and they all watch Bret run back into the banquet hall.
“I can check it out tomorrow.” Marco walks next to Mollie toward the parking lot. Vaughn is steps behind them, listening, and Mollie wonders where his sudden interest has come from.
She doesn’t want Marco any more involved in this mess than he is. Besides, she’s already seen his inability to put up a fight. She likes him. He’s a friend and she doesn’t want to see him hurt on her behalf once again. “Nah. I’ll get Declan to go with me.”
Mollie hears him exhale and smiles at the obvious relief on his face. “Good idea. You need muscle to ask your questions.”
“Why don’t you let the cops handle it?” Vaughn says, stopping the pair from their retreat to Marco’s car. She faces him and tries to ignore how the electric lights behind him cast a soft halo over his face.
Marco laughs, shares a smile with Mollie. Ignoring Vaughn’s question, she turns again toward the parking lot. Just walk away, she tells herself, sure that Vaughn’s mild curiosity is more about the mystery of uncovering her burglar than with any interest he might have in her.
“Let’s head out. I’m tired and still have to get the mess handled at my place.” Marco nods, but there is a tension working through the warm air. They make an odd trio—Mollie with her inappropriately bare stomach, Marco with his ragged boots and baggy jeans and Vaughn in his finest Marine blues. But as the Marine in question steps closer, right next to her, Mollie shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable once again. Marco meets her glance, catches the jerk of her head and the unspoken command resonates with his narrowed eyes. “Give me a sec, okay?” she tells Marco and ignores his hesitant pause. She cocks an eyebrow up as if to say “scram little dude” and her friend shrugs once before he takes off toward his El Camino.
“Something funny about getting the cops to help?” Vaughn takes a small step toward Mollie. When she doesn’t immediately respond, he stands in front of her, blocking her attention away from Marco.
That quick connection she felt at the Dash returns, but it’s only for a second and by how Vaughn keeps space between them, Mollie guesses the sensation is one-sided. “It’s a long story. And, it’s not your problem.” She can’t help but stretch her neck, stare into his eyes. Mollie doesn’t like the way Vaughn frowns at her, as though he thinks she’s some reckless kid that needs a good dressing down. When he doesn’t lose the stern glower, Mollie shakes her head, lets out a long sigh. “My friend’s boyfriend is a big son of a bitch and he’s got my back.” She starts to walk away and he follows. She thinks they must look ridiculous together, him in his finery, her looking like a reject from Forever 21.
“If you got robbed then maybe your place isn’t the safest place right now.”
She smiles. “Not concerned for me, are you, Semper Fi?”
He doesn’t miss a beat, completely ignores her mild flirting. “You live alone, don’t you?” Vaughn points to her cheek and an odd, almost angry scowl hardens his features.
More of the little girl bullshit, she thinks and the idea of his over-protective Daddy Act only pisses Mollie off. For some reason she isn’t intimidated by Vaughn; not his size, not the worried, grim set of his mouth. Her natural reaction at being looked down on, at him dismissing her completely, is to cradle that dimming anger that settled into her gut the moment she was knocked out by a punk robber. “And?”
“It’s just not safe. Not if someone can get into your place and steal from you.” Vaughn slips his hands into his pockets, moves his shoulders once as though his explanation is completely logical, obvious.
This guy must think I’m helpless. She doesn’t know why that is. Her age maybe? The fact that she told him she’s still in college? He’s older than her, but dammit, she knew she felt something all those months ago when he helped her down the mountain at the Dash. Was that it? That day, to him, she was helpless. Muddy, cold, with a crooked finger and egging on her friends, telling Autumn and Sayo to go on without her. She must have looked like a kid. Vaughn must have thought she’d acquired some sort of hero worship when he picked her up, set her finger and warmed her with his hoodie. Then she pops up at his business? Passing back his property was a sad, obvious excuse to see him, but that doesn’t mean she is a helpless kid. She knows that Vaughn’s concern is likely well placed, that he’s used to rescues, accustomed to solving problems.
Not exactly what she wants from him. “I’m fine,” she finally answers him, pulling her arms around her stomach to hide her bare skin. Mollie doesn’t want this; not his placating little smiles or his intrusive queries. She’s managed without a father for ten years and God knows she doesn’t want Vaughn to fill in for her dad. Oh sure, she might like to call him “Daddy” but those two things are completely unrelated in her mind. She heads toward the El Camino again and for some unknown, utterly mindboggling reason, Vaughn keeps time with her every step.
“I was surprised to see you here.”
“I wasn’t following you.” Mollie knows that the explanation is too quick, that she is being defensive and unnecessarily rude to Vaughn when really he’s done nothing to earn her attitude. But her pride is wounded, her libido is throbbing just by breathing the same air as Vaughn. From their last encounter together, it’s clear to Mollie he’s uninterested. This Disappointed Daddy thing only drives that home. She slips her glance up to his face and frowns harder when she spots the quirk working between Vaughn’s lips as though he’s fighting the urge to smile at her, possibly pat her head and tell her to be careful. “I wasn’t. Marco found out this kid bought my stuff. I was checking it out. I had no idea you’d be here.”
He nods and she thinks he might actually believe her, but then Vaughn’s eyes move over her head, back to the building behind them. “They gave us an award for our dad.” His voice is soft, like it’s difficult to get the words out. When she only frowns, confused, Vaughn exhales. “He was a trooper, thirty years. Got killed in the line of duty last year. My sister dragged me here tonight to get this commendation for him.”
Sister, she thinks, trying very hard not to clap her hands like a twelve year-old. She pushes back that irrational glee because she doesn’t want her anger, her annoyance to fade. It’s easier to dismiss him, to remind herself that to him, she’s just some stupid kid with a crush. But his expression has gone hard, regretful, and a small bit of her irritation is forgotten. “Well, I’m sorry about your dad.” Her dad might be locked away in a cell, but she still gets to speaks to him, weekly phone calls monitored by some nosey prison guard. But if he were gone completely? If he were dead? No, she can’t fathom that at all and the fiercely held annoyance she felt at Vaughn’s dismissal of her as anything but a stupid girl disappears.
His expression is difficult for Mollie to make out. There is a small smile pulling his lips, but then Vaughn frowns, looks off into the parking lot as though his father isn’t a topic open for discussion. She can relate and can’t help but touch his hand. When her fingers meet his large hand, the electric pulse rises back up and Mollie quickly pulls her hand away. She thinks he feels it too. She thinks there is a moment when Vaughn’s eyes leave her hand and jump to her face where he notices the spark. If he does, he buries his reaction behind a few blinks and the return of his impassive, small frown.
“Anyway, like I said, I was here to find out who took my stuff,” she says, covering that mild electrical rush by pulling on the hem of her threadbare t-shirt.
Marco revs the engine and Vaughn looks up. “And that guy is your back up?”
Mollie waves at Marco, flipping her hand to get him to wait a second. “That guy, is a friend. Another DJ.” When Vaughn’s stoic expression shifts into a grin, Mollie tilts her head, curious. “What?”
“I just can’t imagine you in a smoky club spinning records. It seems kinda out of character.” His smile is wider, his shoulders shake as though something he keeps to himself is amazingly amusing.
“And you know about my character how, exactly?”
“Come on, Mollie. You?” She doesn’t like how his voice has taken on a condensing tone or how his smile widens. “You’re a tiny little thing. You out late with a bunch of drunks, amping up a crowd?”
“I’m actually pretty good. Don’t make judgments, Vaughn.”
His laughter flips a switch in her and Mollie decides she doesn’t need to stand around this guy waiting to be ridiculed. She’s got Layla for that shit. She turns, tries not to stomp as she approaches the El Camino, but Vaughn pulls her back, grabbing her wrist to stop her before she reaches the car. “Look, you’re right, I have no idea about your life.”
“You really don’t.” She meant to jump in the car and leave him standing there by himself. But that niggling little voice in her head tells her that she has to explain herself, that if she doesn’t, Vaughn’s opinion of her as a pathetic kid is going to stay stuck in his mind. She can’t have that. “I didn’t mean to just pop up at your place the other day. I… I thought maybe you’d want your hoodie back.”
“After months? In the middle of summer?”
“It wasn’t mine and you GI Joe types tend to be funny about your stuff. My dad always was.”
Vaughn lifts his eyebrows, his curiosity obvious. “He was in the Corps?”
That makes her laugh. The idea of her dad in the Marines. “God no. He was a Navy SEAL and wouldn’t let me touch any of the stuff he had from his service.” She notices that his shoulders have relaxed, his humor and condescension now missing. “Anyway, I thought you might want it back. The hoodie.”
Vaughn leans against Marco’s car when he revs the engine again. “Well, thanks. It was sweet of you.”
That wasn’t sincere appreciation and Mollie doesn’t know why Vaughn is even still sticking around. “Whatever,” she says, reaching for the door handle.
Vaughn stops her, slides his hip over the door. “You know, you sure do have a temper.”
“You got no idea.”
“Maybe…” he starts, standing closer to her, “maybe you wanna let me find out.”
“What?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’m curious.” Again his gaze moves toward Marco and the loud boom of the stereo that he cranks up. Vaughn couldn’t be jealous, not of Marco anyway, so Mollie figures it’s the burglary. This guy can’t help himself, seems like he has to be the hero. Always.
“I was, too.” She steps closer to him, but he doesn’t even lean away from her when she invades his personal space. “And then I went to see you, and you acted like I was a first grader with a crush on my teacher.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You called me a little girl.” He winces, then laughs. Mollie pushes him back so that she can open the car door. Instantly the quiet parking lot is filled with Marco’s bass. “Besides, I don’t need any heroes. I got this.”
“Do you, now? You sure?” Vaughn jerks his chin toward Marco, clearly unimpressed. “Seems like your backup is a bit underqualified. I’m sure a girl raised by a damn squid would have better taste in protectors.”
The car window rattles when Mollie slams the door shut. “Get this straight. I can take care of myself. And I don’t need some fucking jarhead disrespecting my father.” She doesn’t care that there is no humor on Vaughn’s face now. She doesn’t care how attracted she is to him or how hopeful she was that there was something between them. When she comes within inches of him, Vaughn straightens, his defenses set firm. “No one, and I mean no one, talks shit about my dad.”
Mollie doesn’t wait for his reaction. She doesn’t care that she’s likely blown any shot she ever had with Vaughn. She’s pretty sure now there was never any real shot at all. To her, anyone can say what they want about her. She doesn’t care, but mess with her friends or her family, and she skates a bit on the psycho side.
Mollie was never jealous of her friends. There was a time, right as she turned fourteen and her mother’s ridiculous badgering ran along the lines of “what do you mean you got a B?” and “stop laughing like that. You sound like him” that Mollie wished she had the stable home life of her best friend Layla or a sweet, consoling mother like Autumn’s, but otherwise, she never got jealous.
Now, standing in a low-lit pawn shop with guitars and fiddles hanging from the ceiling and the smell of second-hand oily tools cluttered around the floor right next to Declan Fraser’s enormous form, Mollie would admit to being a little envious of Autumn. She doesn’t want Declan, not the way she wanted Kenya Washington freshman year or like she wanted Vaughn the first time she saw him at the Dash, but as Declan crosses his arms, the thick veins on his forearms protruding and the heavy scent of grass and cologne wafting from him, she thinks at least that Autumn is a lucky bitch.
Declan Fraser is an intimidating man. He doesn’t blink, barely seems to breathe as Mannie, the pawn shop manager, explains his rather flimsy excuse for considering taking in stolen property.
“So, I’ll ask you again, arsehole. Who was the guy in the Shelby?” Mannie shrugs for the third time and Declan remains cool, calm. He throws his arms away from their curl on his chest in a quick flash, making Mannie flinch, but instead of taking a swing at the pudgy guy, Declan simply rests his fists against the glass counter, those enormous, tattooed arms of his flexing. “Sorry, but I don’t know what that means,” he says, mimicking Mannie’s shrug.
“Man, I don’t know. I’d never met the guy before. Just some dude with a bunch of tattoos on his neck wearing a black hoodie and sunglasses. He barely spoke. Acted like he didn’t want anyone hearing or seeing him.”
“Did he give you a number to call if you found a buyer?” Mollie hurries to ask, hoping that she could get some viable information from this guy.
Mannie barely glances at her before he answers. “Look, it’s like I told that other dude, I didn’t pay attention. Not really. He drove a black Shelby and mumbled a list of what he had. Said the stuff belonged to his cousin and then gave me a number to call if anyone was interested.” The cash register dings when he opens it and lifts the cash tray, digging underneath.
“What ‘other dude’?” She watches the man rummage through credit card receipts before he hands Declan a slip of paper.
Another shrug and Declan leaned across the counter. “Answer her.”
Mannie’s neck is filthy, as though he hasn’t had a good wash in weeks and mustard spots stain his too tight Batman t-shirt. “Big blonde bastard, came in here in fatigues.”
Son of a bitch. She shares a glance with Declan, jerks her head once for him not to ask questions before she heads to the door. Vaughn. Had to be him and she doesn’t know why a sudden urge to kick him in the face has replaced the other baser ideas she’s had about Vaughn since that day at the Dash.
He called Dad a squid, she thinks to herself. And me a kid. And now he was butting into her small investigation. His nerve was quickly flushing out any connection she thought she might have had with him.
Mollie knows she’s stomping out of the pawn shop. She knows that not offering Mannie a “thank you” or even a curt nod of gratitude goes against her mother’s “be a nice girl” southern daughter rearing. She doesn’t really care.
Declan opens the door to his silver Mustang and Mollie slips inside, eager to pull out her phone and text the nosy Marine.
“That Vaughn bloke is the blonde, do you think?”
“Yep.” Her thumbs quickly move across the keys of her phone.
Declan weaves between the Friday lunch hour traffic as his fingers tap against the steering wheel. The air in the mustang is thick, hot with the scent of leather, and Mollie is grateful when Declan lowers the windows to relieve the stifling heat in the cab. “Hmm. Why do you reckon it’s him?”
Mollie finishes her text, barely refraining from calling Vaughn a “caveman asshole” before she answers Declan. “I ran into him the other night in Sevierville.” She knows Declan stares at her, as if expecting a bit more clarification, but Mollie doesn’t bother to glance up until she’s sure the text has gone through. Her screen goes dark before she exchanges a glance with Declan. “When Marco and I went to question that kid about my stuff.” Spotting Declan’s frown, she knows a lecture is flirting on the tip of his tongue. “And before you start again with the ‘you should have let me go with you’ shit, I wasn’t in any danger.”
“That Marco bloke couldn’t have helped.” Declan speeds through the heavy traffic. “McShane said he’s a…”
“Yes, Dad, I know what Autumn says about Marco, but he insisted on going and I didn’t want to bother you until I had some information to share.”
“Bollocks. You aren’t a bother, none of you are.” He laughs a bit to himself. “‘Cept maybe Layla, but that just because she is giving Donovan fits.”
“How’s that your problem?”
“Because that arsehole gives me fits when Layla gives him fits.” He pauses, relaxing against the seat with his arm resting on the steering wheel. “And I’m not too keen on fits. Especially when theirs could be settled with a quick round of ‘hey how are ya?’”
The visual isn’t pleasant, but Mollie laughs anyway. Her best friend and Donovan have been driving everyone crazy with all the pranking and arguing they’ve gotten up to over the past few months. “God, I know. I’m tempted to lock them in a room together and tell them to sort that shit out.”
Declan’s smile is wide, near menacing. “That might do alright.”
Before Mollie can make any concrete plans with Declan that involve Layla and Donovan tied together in a forced game of “White Flag,” her phone chirps with a text alert and all humor vanishes from her face.
Don’t know why you’re upset. Vaughn’s reply reads. Just thought I’d find out what I could for you since I live closer.
“That him?” Declan asks, but Mollie only offers him a quick nod in reply.
Thanks, Semper Fi, but I don’t need your help.
“Must be impossible for him not to play the hero.”
“Army blokes are like that.”
“He’s a Marine. Big difference.” Mollie waits for a reply from Vaughn and looks up at Declan as they continue down the highway. The mountains inch closer the further toward Cavanagh they drive and the cool breeze in the car from the downed windows relaxes her.
“It was the same back home. Lads I’d known my whole life went off to training and came back unrecognizable. Fair play on them, God bless them for what they do, but they come back different and don’t seem able to let go of the hero bit after their time is up.”
“My dad always said the military breaks a man down so they can build them back up the way they want them. I guess it’s the same process all over the world.” She doesn’t tell Declan everything her father said about the military, and certainly not his conspiracy-theory, doomsday prepper mentality that had her stockpiling canned goods and planting gardens from the time she was able to pull weeds.
“I reckon that’s true,” Declan offers, but then his own phone rings and his voice raises a few octaves and words like “love” and other ridiculous endearments Mollie tries to ignore lift out of Declan’s mouth and she knows he’s talking to Autumn.
She thinks about being silly, making smooching sounds to annoy Declan, but then her phone chirps with another alert and Mollie has to force herself not to frown at Vaughn’s reply.
Vaughn: You still pissed I called your dad a squid? I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.
Mollie: You really shouldn’t have. He’d kick your ass for that. I should by proxy.
Vaughn: You going to proxy ass kick me?
Mollie: Thought about it. A lot. Especially when I found out you’re putting your nose in my business.
Vaughn: Trying to help, you know.
Mollie: Got plenty of help YOU KNOW?
Vaughn: Ouch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re telling me to keep away from you. Don’t really want that, do you?
Vaughn Winchester is the single most confusing man Mollie has ever met in her life. The mixed signals he sends her has her head spinning and she isn’t sure how to respond to that last little dig for information. If he thinks she’s a kid—and his behavior at his studio certainly made Mollie think that’s exactly what he thought—then why is he flirting? Why is he so concerned about getting information from Mannie?
“Absolute fuckery,” she says to her phone.
“What’s that?” Declan asks, as he hangs up.
“Nothing.”
She stares at her cell, at Vaughn’s last cryptic message as the car continues down the quiet highway. She doesn’t answer the text. She doesn’t speak much at all as Declan makes small attempts at conversation or sings off key to whatever comes on the radio. Instead, as two hours pass, then another half hour, Mollie thinks about how to best avoid Vaughn’s attention. It’s something her instinct tells her not to do, but that baser inclination niggles in her mind; the one that tells her Vaughn is only curious about the burglary. He is, after all, a soldier, a hero. That surely is his only motivation.
Finally, Declan pulls into Cavanagh and Mollie decides to ignore Vaughn’s inquiry about her wanting him to stay clear of her.
“Hey, drop me off at Financial Aid. Layla’s going to bring me by my apartment when she gets off of work.”
Declan nods and they enter the campus proper before Mollie works up the nerve to respond to Vaughn.
Mollie: What did you find out from Mannie?
The campus is quiet. They are between semesters and on each bristle of wind, there is the anticipation of the end of summer and the preparation for fall. Teams still practice. Families still take picnics in the courtyard and professors meander through the campus like shoppers loitering in the mall parking lot on Thanksgiving night. And it is the quiet, the stillness, that Mollie enjoys most; like the university is a private place for her and her friends to keep to themselves. The burglary and Vaughn insinuating himself into her life threaten that privacy and Mollie doesn’t like how uneasy both make her feel, how fractured her calm is quickly becoming.
Vaughn: I’ll tell you when we have coffee.
“Is here good? You don’t want me to walk you in?” Declan parks next to the building where Layla’s father has forced her to work over the summer.
“Nah. I can manage the fifty feet to the entrance, Deco.” Mollie gets out of the car and leans against the door, smiling at Declan as he darts his eyes between the sidewalk and building. “Hey,” she says, bringing his attention back to her. “You worry too much. I’ll be fine.” Mollie squats down, resting against the open car door. “It’s not your job to look after us, you know. Autumn is the only one you have to concern yourself with.”
Declan’s smile is easy, brief, as though Mollie’s declaration is ridiculous. “You lot are Autumn’s family, love. I take care of my family.”
Mollie wants to hug Declan, just then, but she knows that would only make him uncomfortable. Yes, she’s jealous of Autumn, but not because she wants Declan. She just wants someone to love her friends the way he does. “Thanks, Deco, for everything. Especially for taking me up to Chattanooga.”
He shrugs, waves off her gratitude before putting his car in gear. “Think nothing of it.”
As Mollie walks toward the building, she knows Declan watches; his overprotective chaperone act is one she doesn’t mind. It’s not like Vaughn trying to project a father role over her. She knows Declan’s concern is genuine, but she doesn’t look over her shoulder as he watches her walk up the sidewalk. Instead, her attention returns to her phone and the annoying Marine’s insistence that she should see him.
Mollie: We’re not having coffee.
Vaughn: No? You asked me out for coffee.
Mollie: When?
Vaughn: After the match.
Mollie: That was months ago and you blew me off.
Vaughn: I didn’t blow anything.
That has Mollie stopping just outside the building doors. Laughter warms her stomach and she looks up when Layla throws a wad of paper at the glass to get her attention. Her best friend holds out both of her palms as if to say “give me ten minutes” and Mollie nods before she sits outside the building on a brick planter holding an assortment of daises and evergreens.
Vaughn: That didn’t come out like I meant it.
Mollie: Whatever dude. Totally none of my business what you do behind closed doors.
Vaughn: You’re hilarious.
Mollie: What did you find out?
Vaughn: Tell you later. When do you want to meet?
She doesn’t understand his insistence. Mollie will admit her attraction to Vaughn; there was still that bubble of electricity she felt the moment she saw him at the Dash and it had returned that night in Sevierville when she touched his hand. But she doesn’t understand the signals he gives off. One minute he acts like she was some punk kid. The next, he flirts like he can’t help himself.
“Men are stupid,” she says to herself, eyes downcast at her cell.
“I mean, duh, I’ve been saying this since we were thirteen.”
Mollie’s head snaps up at Layla’s approach and instantly her shoulders sag. Her best friend seems to be in the planning stage of yet another prank attack on Donovan. “What the hell, Layla?” She nods toward the enormous bag of silver glitter in her hand and the long Slim Jim under her arm. Mollie instantly understands that the glitter will end up in Donovan’s car and the Slim Jim will make jimmying the locks a breeze.
“Mollie, he stole my baby. You remember that? He thought it was funny.” Layla pushes Mollie over to sit next to her on the planter. “He thinks I forgot all about that, but no one messes with my Honey.”
“God, you treat that dog like he’s your soul mate or something.”
Layla nods, frowns at Mollie with her eyebrows pushed together as though this is the most obvious thing Mollie could have said. “This is what I’m saying.”
“That’s not a good thing, dumbass. You can’t diddle a dog.”
The sunlight glints on Layla’s perfect manicure as she waves her hand, dismissing Mollie’s assessment. “Anyway, I have plans for that jackass. You don’t mess with my baby.”
“Is this why you wanted me to come here? So I can help you break into Donovan’s car?”
“Well, no, but, you know—” Layla nudges Mollie with her elbow and lapses into her “But I’m Your Very Best Friend” eye batting. “You have skills I don’t.”
“I am not breaking into his car, Layla.”
“Mollie. He stole my baby. A week! I didn’t know where Honey was for a solid week!”
“That was over two months ago.”
“I know that. I wanted that jackass to relax. This,” she hoists up the heavy bag of glitter onto her knee, “will quickly remind him not to screw with me.”
Mollie shakes her head, moves her attention back to her cell and away from her best friend’s attempts at a pout. “No, that will only provoke him to retaliate.”
“Molls, please? I can’t jimmy the lock. You can.”
“It’s against the law.”
“So?”
Mollie stretches her legs and takes a breath. Layla doesn’t often see reason and it’s Mollie’s job to make sure her more spontaneous plans are thought over before they are initiated. Sometimes, logic works. Sometimes, not so much. “Sweetie, your father is the coach of the rugby team and your boyfriend is a campus cop.”
“Yeah. And?”
“And, Walter would have a fit if he finds out his girlfriend broke into someone’s car just to vandalize it. And your dad—”
“My dad and Walter don’t have to find out, Molls. You’re good at this shit. It’s genetic or something.” When Mollie glares at her best friend, the blonde hurries to explain herself. “I just mean that you’re good at functioning under the radar. Besides,” she continues, “I am letting you stay with me while your place is fixed.”
“Guilt? You’re pulling a guilt trip on me?” Mollie stands, eager to end the conversation, but before she can take more than three steps, Layla interrupts with a particularly low blow.
“Kenya,” she says, making Mollie stop in mid-step.
“That’s rude, Layla.”
“I liked him so much,” She releases an exaggerated sigh. “I doodled his name all over my Trapper Keeper.”
“You’ve never used a Trapper Keeper in your life and Layla, we were freshman. You didn’t tell me you liked him.”
She ignores Mollie and moves her long hair off her shoulder. “I baked him brownies, Mollie. Me. Baking.” The bag of glitter falls to the ground in a silent thump when Layla relaxes her hands against the brick planter. When she speaks, her voice has taken on a somber tone that Mollie suspects is forced. “I go to his dorm to bring him the brownies and who do I find there but my very best friend.”
“Layla—”
“In nothing but Kenya’s Bob Marley t-shirt.”
Layla is queen of manipulation. Logically, Mollie knows this, but the guilt of stealing your best friend’s crush doesn’t die easily. Even after four years. The beauty of the summer day on an isolated Cavanagh campus is utterly destroyed by the heavy guilt Mollie suddenly feels. The loud chirp of the sparrows singing in the oak trees falls mute. The sweet hum of the lake in the distance seems to still as Mollie takes in Layla’s challenging, lifted eyebrow and pursed lips. Even the loud roar of a black car speeding by can’t distract her from her best friend’s frown. “Fine.” She drags Layla off the planter by her elbow. “I’ll do it, but this is the last time you get to play the Kenya card.”
Layla’s fabricated glower immediately disappears and her lips are pulled tight with the enormous smile she sports. “Awesome. Thank you so much, Molls.”
Mollie shakes her head, and leads Layla toward the parking garage near the rugby pitch, trying her best not to laugh at her best friend’s automatic excitement.
“You know, I did you a favor hooking up with Kenya.”
“Hardly. He was so beautiful, you bitch.”
“Yeah, well Mr. Beautiful gave me crabs.”