FOUR
Vaughn felt mildly shifty. It wasn’t his fault, not really. He was, after all, doing a favor for his sister. Still, as he waited for Mollie to finally make an appearance at the coffee shop on Cavanagh’s campus, he couldn’t help thinking that if she knew their first introduction was a bonus to the job he’d been given, she would be mortified.
It hadn’t been on purpose; he was scheduled to oversee the Dash anyway, but when the tiny girl staring at him on the starting line matched the name and photo in the file Viv had given him, Vaughn made the most of the coincidence. He’d only meant to watch her, see how she interacted with her friends; see if she really was the spoiled little girl he thought her to be.
He hadn’t expected to like her. When he first read her file, all those months ago, Vaughn, being the cynic that battle and service had turned him into, had made some assumptions. Biker’s daughter, barely in of her teens, attending a private university, living with her mother and sister in one of Cavanagh’s most exclusive developments; those factors had him guessing that she was likely pampered. After all, she couldn’t have seen much struggle, not growing up in her mother’s home as she had. She’d been taken from the biker’s home at thirteen and Vaughn doubted those short years had been enough time to be corrupted by criminal elements. Besides, what Viv had told him of Mollie’s father had him believing that she’d been shielded from the truly gruesome elements of his life. What father in his right mind, even an outlaw biker, would let his daughter get caught up in all that?
Compared to his life at that age, Mollie Malone had little, he thought, in the way of real world experience. But now he was discovering that he liked being wrong. She wasn’t the pampered princess he’d envisioned. She was funny, tough, and despite the hardened exterior, she was a sweet girl.
A sweet girl with soft doe eyes. A sweet girl whose bottom lip always looked bee-stung. A sweet girl who smelled like vanilla and who Vaughn bet tasted just as good.
Shit.
Viv had been right. Mollie was off limits and he knew any entanglements with her would be unwise. It wasn’t like he was eager to fall into anything remotely similar to a relationship. The past had proven that he sucked at them. But seeing Mollie on the television, huddled under a blanket with fire trucks and police cruiser lights bouncing off her pale skin, made him restless to see her. That she refused to return his text until the next day only heightened his already frayed nerves. But why? She was a job, just like he told Viv. She was important to the witness and Vaughn had been given the task of seeing her safe. So far, he failed miserably in that regard. So far, the job hadn’t been handled very well, but that shouldn’t have him frazzled. He shouldn’t be shooting his gaze toward the door every ten minutes in wait for her appearance. His hands shouldn’t be shaking as he sat at the table nearest to the exit.
Where the hell was she anyway?
For the third time, Vaughn glances down at his cell to see if she’d changed her mind. Their plans were simple: meet at the coffee shop, discuss his chat with the pawn shop guy and find out what Mollie knew about the fire. The plan may have been simple, but getting Mollie to agree to it hadn’t been.
I’m busy, her text had said.
Vaughn: I thought you wanted to discuss what I found out.
Mollie: I do, but other things have gotten my attention.
Vaughn: Stop deflecting and meet me. It’ll only take a half hour.
Mollie: Will that get you to stop bugging me, Semper Fi?
Vaughn: It might.
Mollie: Fine. I’ll be there at two.
It was now two-fifteen and Vaughn is getting antsy. He shakes his head, laughs at the way his leg has taken on an unconscious bounce. He is a Marine. He’d stayed up thirty-six hours on patrols. He’d spent hours upon stifling, baking hours atop dusty rooftops scanning empty streets for snipers and now this girl was making him antsy. He begins another text to her, this one intended to piss her off, maybe call her an irresponsible brat for making him wait, when the door opens with a chime and she finally walks through. Automatically, he stands at her approach.
“Hey,” she says as though she hasn’t kept him waiting. She pulls the chair out and sits instead of offering him any real greeting.
“You’re late,” he tells her, sitting opposite her.
“I told you, I’ve been busy.”
Vaughn presses his lips together; a fleeting effort to keep his complaints to a minimum. Just a job, he reminds himself, though it’s hard to convince himself of that, especially when Mollie is wearing her hair down and its soft, long waves are cascading over her shoulders. She doesn’t look like a kid today, not like the last time he saw her. There is no midriff baring her defined stomach. She’s softer somehow, wearing a simple wispy dress that clings to her generous chest. Her legs are long, sculpted with muscle and her feet are small, petite in a pair of brown sandals.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he offers, deciding that he would not let her cool attitude affect him. He can’t have her running off and though the Marine in him wants desperately to complain about her tardiness, the information he requires deems he bite his tongue.
“No, I’m okay.” She fidgets in her seat, leans on her elbows against the table. “Thanks, though.”
“Everything all right? Your friends? The news was a bit vague about the fire.”
At this, Vaughn notices her fidgeting increase. It seems something is weighing on her, that the details about the fire have her uncomfortable. “Yeah, everyone is good. It really wasn’t that big of a deal. Probably just some kids being stupid.”
“Is that what the police think?”
Mollie shrugs and Vaughn notices the slight roll of her eyes. He knows her history, Viv made sure to give him Mollie’s background, so the attitude isn’t a surprise. “They say they’re investigating but since there wasn’t much damaged, it’ll probably get swept under the rug. That’s what cops do, right?”
“You don’t like cops?”
“I don’t trust them.”
“I see.” He leans back against his chair.
Mollie doesn’t seem to miss the tight set of his shoulders and the defensive way he folds his arms. “There’s something you should know about me.” When she leans further on her elbows, Vaughn has to force his gaze away from her cleavage. “My family is, well… let’s just say that the way I was raised sort of influenced my attitude about authority.”
“How do you mean?” Vaughn knows he should tell her that he already knows about her past. He thinks about stopping her, thinking full disclosure is necessary, but he likes the way she bites her bottom lip, the way she can’t seem to meet his eyes. The nervousness is highly adorable to him.
“I know you were in the military. I know your dad was a trooper and that’s cool, that’s brave. But my dad, well, he stopped being a SEAL a very long time ago. He was a bit of anti-government, ‘screw the rules’ kind of guy and that’s how he raised me.” When Vaughn doesn’t react, makes certain to keep his expression blank, impassive, Mollie continues. “I’m not saying I believe the same things he does, but my instinct is to take care of myself. I respect your service. I respect your dad’s, but that doesn’t mean I can turn off my gut reaction to distrust the cops.”
“And the government?” he says, curious.
“I am so not getting into a political debate with you, Semper Fi.” They stare at each other for just a beat and then Mollie caves under his scrutiny. “What did you find out from Mannie?”
Vaughn is cautious, slow to react. He likes how Mollie loops the ends of her hair around her fingers. He likes that his slow reaction has her adjusting her seat and messing with the napkin holder. Finally, he grins and Mollie relaxes. “The guy drives a black Shelby, but you knew that.”
“I did.”
“He came by the pawn shop twice.” Vaughn digs a slip of paper out of his pocket and slides it across the table toward Mollie. “That’s the license plate number.”
“How did you get this?”
“I had those cops you’re so distrustful of check the surveillance video from the street.” When Mollie’s mouth drops open, Vaughn smiles. “My sister is the D.A. in Maryville and my dad was a career trooper. We have connections.”
“Anything come up on the plates?”
“It’s stolen. The owner reported it about a month ago and I doubt the guy is still driving the Shelby. It’s likely he ditched it.”
She smiles, cheeks dimpling and Vaughn blinks, quickly admonishes himself for focusing on all the things he likes about Mollie Malone. Just a job, he tells himself. Stop being a punk.
“Well,” Mollie starts, folding the slip of paper between her small fingers, “that’s helpful. If those, um, friends of yours find the car then they can dust for prints.”
“They could. Yes, but that’s not likely.” Vaughn doesn’t return Mollie’s smile. He won’t encourage her, won’t slip into anything unprofessional with her. Not again. “It wouldn’t be hard to track down, but if this guy has any clue what he’s doing, then he’ll have wiped the car clean.” He takes a sip of his cooling coffee and sits up straighter in his seat. “What I’m more concerned about is the possible connection between the robbery and the fire.”
“You sound like Declan.” Vaughn frowns and Mollie must take his expression for confusion. “He’s the boyfriend of a friend. Sort of like our unofficial bodyguard.”
“Well, he’s not doing a very good job is he?”
“I said unofficial.” Her tone is clipped, hinting at her annoyance.
“Fine. So what does the unofficial boyfriend bodyguard say?”
The sound of a cappuccino machine breaks the intensity of Mollie’s stare and for a moment Vaughn lets himself notice how she moistens her lip, how the tug of her white teeth pinch at her mouth. “Why do you care?”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s just that none of this is your business. Why are you making it your business?”
Cool, calm, Vaughn summons his patience, years of training that makes this girl’s interrogation something of a joke. He could tell her the truth. He could let her know that his sister has asked him to protect her; that the witness stipulated that any harm coming to Mollie would end their negotiations very quickly. But, for the most part, Mollie has gone unscathed. The robbery could be random, so could the fire. And as long as she thinks he’s simply being nosy, then there won’t be any calls to the witness warning of a potential threat.
“You really don’t like anyone giving you a hand, do you?”
At this, Mollie laughs but it is a harsh, condescending sound. “Not when the hand is attached to someone I don’t really know.” She scoots forward, mouth pulled down into a firm line. “Not when that someone is using me for some sort of pet project.”
“How am I doing that?”
“You’re home how long now?”
Vaughn clears his throat, uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. “A year.”
“Uh huh. A year. And what were you doing those few months you were away?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“I’m trying to prove a point here.” The line her mouth makes softens, but only just. “See, I’ve been around guys like you before. Hero types trying to rescue me. I’ve seen it a hundred times since I was a kid. Guy spends his adult life in the military, years and years of duty and responsibility and purpose. Then he comes home, maybe he gets cabin fever, certainly he could be bored because civilian life is not guns and ammo and missions that must be completed.”
“I lived it. No need for the rehash.” Vaughn crosses his arms, face stern as he stares at Mollie. If she’s expecting me to flinch, she’ll be waiting awhile.
“Exactly. My guess? You did some sort of muscle work. Maybe you bounced at a club outside of town.” She narrows her eyes, scans his face for any reaction. “Nah. Not club work. I can’t see you going from Afghanistan to tussling with ornery drunks.”
“You can’t?” This girl was good, perceptive, but Vaughn wouldn’t give her any hints.
She seems to like that. Mollie smiles, keeps a small laugh under her breath. “Bodyguard? Your sister is Joanie Law. Maybe it was a politician.” When Vaughn’s expression remains impassive, Mollie releases the withheld laugh. Vaughn suspects she thinks his non-reaction gives away more than any confirmation would. “Am I warm?”
“Is there a point?”
She points to herself. “Pet project.” The slip of paper in her hand is folded in quarters, then unfolded as she watches him. “I’m thinking you did this gig for your sister, taking care of something for a friend or family member and when that gig ended you come back home.” She shrugs. “It hasn’t been that long and already the cabin fever emerges again. Hence you nosing into my robbery.”
This time when they stare at each other, an unspoken challenge of who will blink first, Vaughn falters, moves his eyes to the left and Mollie’s smile is triumphant.
“You can wipe the stupid grin off your face.” When she laughs, Vaughn can’t help but return her humor. She had to know she couldn’t rattle him, not with those weak attempts at guesswork. Vaughn relaxes, unfolds his arms to rest his hands in his lap. “And for your information, smartass, it was a buddy of mine. His kid brother has a band. Stalkers and groupies were getting out of hand.” Let her think what she wants. Let her have no doubt that my interest comes from sheer boredom. The longer she thinks that, the easier Viv’s case building will be.
The thought of his sister has Vaughn recalling the mission, the job. Even though Mollie’s smile lights up her whole face; even though she smells like vanilla and the shine of her skin makes Vaughn’s mouth water, he knows he has to remember that she’s just a job.
“See, and I thought maybe you liked me,” Mollie says, a cocky, smug smile on her face as she offers him a wink.
But Vaughn doesn’t return the look. He wants to, but he doesn’t. There will be no more flirting with Mollie Malone, not if he wants his sister’s case to have legs. She notices his lack of response, she has to. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t do much more than look away from her and lift an eyebrow to make her see he’s not interested.
“So,” he says, motioning to the waitress for another cup of coffee. “Tell me about this fire.” He hates that the smile has vanished from her face. But she deflects her disappointment, passes it aside with the firm set of her jaw and a quick nod. Vaughn instantly misses the warmth in her cheeks, the way her eyes brighten with her laugh. More than anything, he hates that he’d do anything to make the pretty smile return to her face.
July in Cavanagh was stifling. Nine a.m., with the heat bubbling around them like a humid halo, and Mollie and Layla are already sweating.
“Why are we here again?” Layla asks, fanning the back of her neck with her hand.
“Autumn wanted us to keep her company. Also? Hello, rugby?” Mollie waves her hand to the pitch in front of them. Ninety-five degrees on a Saturday morning and the crowd swells as various amateur squads from around the region section off into matches.
“Ugh.” Layla falls back from her sitting position to lay on the blanket. “I could be at Comic Con right now. I can’t believe Sayo went without us.”
Mollie rolls her eyes. Layla has been bitching about missing their yearly trek to Geek Mecca all summer. She’d miss it too; the hot California breeze, the epic displays of CosPlay and here and there sightings of the actors, writers and personalities they all loved. Mollie would save for months, sometimes regulating her diet to Ramen and marshmallows just to put up enough for that flight to the coast. But with her equipment being stolen and her job prospects thin, Mollie couldn’t justify spending her savings on the trip. “Sayo needed a break. She works too hard. Besides, you only wanted to go to the Nerd HQ panels anyway.”
“Shut up.” Layla slaps Mollie with her empty water bottle. “So did you.”
“Hello, Zachary Levi.” Mollie thinks that should have been obvious. She knows no Geek girl worth her salt would miss seeing the “Chuck” star and the panels he hosts.
“God, that man does things to my ovaries.”
At Layla’s regretful swoon Mollie chuckles. “That man does things to everyone’s ovaries, Layla.” She lays next to her best friend on the blanket, shielding her eyes with her arm. “Besides, you couldn’t go. You have to work and I couldn’t afford it this year.”
“I hate my father.”
“He’s trying to teach you to be a productive member of society.”
“No, he wanted to make sure I didn’t get arrested in San Diego.”
A shadow falls over them and in unison, Layla and Mollie move their heads to the left. A sweaty, mildly stinky Declan looms down at them with damp hair sticking to his forehead. “You lot see Autumn?”
Mollie sits up. “No, but she’s only a half hour late. That’s on time for her.”
Declan nods, but seems distracted as he looks over the crowd. “She and Joe were coming to watch the tournament. She was meant to bring me my new trainers. I can’t run properly in these things.” He motions to his sneakers.
“When she makes it, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.” Mollies watches Declan as he walks backward, still looking through the crowd on his way back to the pitch.
“That man is sprung,” Layla says, returning to her spot on the blanket.
“And paranoid. You’d swear Cavanagh is about to go all ‘Red Dawn’ the way Declan carries on.”
“He’s just worried.” Layla sits up to watch the matches on the pitch. “I need another water. You want anything?” When she stands and stretches out her back, her spine popping, Layla’s eyes catch onto to something several hundred feet away. She reaches down, pulling Mollie up by her wrist.
“What, Jesus, Layla.”
Her best friend stands facing her, coming nearly nose to nose before she whispers in Mollie’s ear. “Okay. Be cool and don’t look out there yet, but past Declan and Donovan’s squad is your Marine.”
Mollie lifts her eyebrow, keeps her face trained toward Layla’s and moves her eyes to the right. Leaning against the bleachers several yards away from where Declan and his squad are stretching and preparing for their next match, she spots Vaughn talking to a group of guys all wearing matching red jerseys.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Mollie narrows her eyes at his back, at the way he picks his legs up by the ankle to stretch it. Tattoos cover one of his shoulders and Mollie can see a scaly, tattooed tail inching up toward the back of his neck.
“Obviously, he plays.” Layla turns around and joins Mollie in a small ogle of Vaughn and his friends. “And if he’s playing against Deco’s squad, he’s about to be highly embarrassed.” Layla’s head moves just a few inches and her eyes lock with Donovan. “Jackass.”
Mollie tries not to laugh as she notices the occasional sparkle of stray glitter on Donovan’s skin, the leftover remains of Layla’s attack. “At least try to be civil today, please. I don’t have the energy for the L and D Civil War.”
“He’s going to retaliate. I’m just waiting for his move,” Layla returns the glare that Donovan gives her. “Oh yeah, buddy,” she says to him, her voice low, “bring it on.”
Mollie ignores the small snarl her best friend and Donovan exchange, preferring instead to watch Vaughn as he walks toward the pitch. He moves like a tiger, cool, collected, his shoulders straight and wide. Mollie swallows thick when she takes in the corded muscles of his bare arms, the way the veins on his hands and forearms stick out against his tan skin. She feels her cheeks heat, remembering the way he brushed her off last week at the coffee shop and the awkwardness between them after her small grilling. She left that day feeling ridiculous for flirting with him, then angry that he didn’t respond. When he walks up to Declan, shakes his hand and both men turn toward her, the small blush on her face deepens and Mollie knows that the quick fever of her skin has nothing to do with the scorching temperatures.
“What the hell is he saying to Declan?” Layla grabs Mollie’s hand to walk toward the pitch.
“Stop. I don’t wanna go over there.” She pulls her hand away from Layla’s grip and tries not to focus too much on the way Declan crosses his arms, defensive, or how Vaughn glances in her direction and then continues on with whatever he’s telling the Irishman.
“Why? We were going down there anyway. You know that’s where Autumn will force us to sit once she gets here.”
But Mollie doesn’t answer Layla’s curiosity. She’s too concerned with how Declan and Vaughn are now laughing together, how they continue to make quick glances in her direction.
“I’d give my left tit to know what they’re talking about.”
Layla moves her head to the side, as though she’s trying to decipher Mollie’s meaning. “Why the left one?”
“Duh, it’s bigger than the right.”
When Mollie continues to stare at Declan and Vaughn, Layla grabs her arm, pulls her around to get her attention. “Since when do you get all nervous and shy around a guy?”
“I’m not.”
“You don’t wanna go over there and watch our friend play because Vaughn is talking to him? That’s bullshit, Mollie.” She rests her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes at Mollie. “You’re gonna let Vaughn screw with your baking day in the sun? Who the hell are you and what have you done to my best friend?”
“Shut up,” Mollie says, but she knows Layla is right. Vaughn is on her ground, in her territory, talking to her friend. She knows he’s likely fishing for information, trying to get Declan to disclose things she wouldn’t. And it pisses her off, his audacity, his continual butting into her life. “Screw this.” She pulls Layla toward the pitch. When they approach, Declan nods a greeting and Vaughn smiles, though it isn’t an overly friendly gesture.
“Mollie.” Vaughn’s acknowledgment is quiet and he barely meets her eyes before he walks back toward his squad mates.
When he’s out of earshot, she turns on Declan. “What the hell was that?”
“He’s not the enemy, love.” Declan catches the ball that Donovan throws to him, as though Mollie’s presence is barely worth noticing.
“Declan…”
He returns the ball to Donovan and waits for another toss. “He’s a good lad. Just trying to find out what I knew about the fire.” Mollie steps in front of the ball and catches it, bringing an end to Declan’s dismissal. He sighs, resigned, but finally focuses on her. “I don’t know why me talking to him hacks you off.”
“He’s sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Declan pauses for a moment, his gaze moving over her head to where she knows Vaughn is standing with his friends. “I thought the pair of you…”
“No. He thinks I’m a kid.” Over her shoulder, Mollie glances at Vaughn, but his attention is diverted, in a quiet discussion with one of his squadmates. “He blew me off last week, made me feel like an idiot for flirting with him so no, there is no ‘pair of us.’ I’d appreciate it if you kept my business out of his ear.”
Declan’s forehead is dipped, and a small line works under his eyes as though he’s debating something over in his head. “Fair enough,” he says, giving Mollie’s shoulder a soft punch before he heads to the pitch for the beginning of the match.
Mollie pulls Layla toward the shaded base of an oak tree just off of the pitch, yanking her best friend away from whatever nasty thing she mutters as Donovan passes them. She ignores Layla’s grumbles, thinks she hears something about “dog snatcher” and “glittering, rugby-playing Edward Cullen clone” before the blonde finally joins her. The squads enter the pitch, immediately form into the scrum when the referee calls them, but Mollie isn’t interested in watching the match. Instead she digs her phone out of her pocket and sends Autumn a text. She’s the reason they came, after all, and her ginger friend wasn’t doing either of them any favors by being late.
Where the hell are you? she texts Autumn before she leans against the oak tree.
The match moves forward, and is particularly violent as one of Vaughn’s squadmates tackles Donovan to the ground. Mollie sighs at Layla cheering on the guy with COLLINS draped across the back of his jersey and a penalty is called. She looks down at her cell a few minutes later when Autumn replies.
Autumn: About to be there. We have to drop something off. Sorry!
Mollie: Your man is doing that worried, Declan thing. Hurry up.
Autumn: Be there in ten.
Mollie isn’t really interested in the match, that’s what she tells herself anyway. She doesn’t care that Vaughn seems to be a fairly decent player, especially for someone so new to the sport. She doesn’t care that he’s playing a bit more aggressive than she thinks he should, especially when Declan and Donovan barrel down the pitch and waylay several of Vaughn’s squadmates like they’re high schoolers playing with National League vets. She really doesn’t care that if Vaughn isn’t careful—garnering penalty after penalty as he tussles against players that are lither and younger than him—that he’ll do some real damage to himself.
“Hasn’t played much, has he?” Layla’s head moves up and down the pitch as the match powers on.
“No idea, but I don’t think so.” She frowns when Vaughn and the Collins guy run into each other as they both make a play for the ball. “This is actually kind of pathetic.”
Then, she echoes Layla’s quick hiss of disapproval as Vaughn and Collins collide on the field yet again. When Vaughn continues to lay on the ground, the girls stand, both moving their head to see if he manages to get up.
The thing about league tournaments, especially in Cavanagh, is that there isn’t an overabundance of caution taken in the organization of the matches. Most residents are happy to watch the matches simply because they miss the university’s season. But these tournaments don’t have the funding that the Cavanagh squad does. They are essentially just pick-up matches to fill the time between seasons. The refs tend to be coaches from the high school leagues. The pitch is rarely maintained in the off season and there are never any EMTs or even trainers there to treat any injuries a player may sustain during a match.
That’s probably not something Vaughn realized when he agreed to this tournament and Mollie is sure that’s something he probably wouldn’t want to hear right now as he is still on the ground.
“Shit,” she says when Declan looks her way and shakes his head. Mollie has zero formal training in medicine, but she has had to learn a thing or two over the years at the Compound. You can’t be a kid living the life she did without some “on the job” training.
When she and Layla jog out to the pitch, Vaughn isn’t moving. He’s awake, staring out above the other players surrounding him, begging off their calls of concern.
“I’m fine.” He waves off Collins and Declan as he slowly moves to his feet.
“You sure, mate?” Declan asks only to have Vaughn frown at him.
“Happens a lot, actually.”
Vaughn moves his completely motionless shoulder in an odd wiggle and at the gesture, Mollie hears Layla next to her, covering her mouth as though she may vomit. The joint of his shoulder is lowered and protrudes against the skin. Dislocated. Mollie would know what that looked like anywhere. How many times had a fight or drunken horseplay at the Compound resulted in this exact injury?
Despite her awkwardness with Vaughn the last time she saw him, Mollie knows how painful this injury is. She also knows that if it isn’t taken care of immediately, the treatment will be worse than the injury itself.
“You’ve done this before?” she asks Vaughn.
Despite his coolness to her earlier, Vaughn manages to look her in the eyes. “Yeah. I probably need surgery, but haven’t gotten around to it. I can pop it back.” But Mollie notices how hard Vaughn winces, how his bottom lip is trembling from sheer pain.
“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”
“It’s fine.” He takes a step back as she walks in front of him. “Besides, there isn’t any medical personnel here to take care of it.”
“Let me take you to the ER.” Collins nods toward the parking lot.
“Hell, no. It’s fine. I don’t need a doctor.”
“You can’t stay like that,” Collins tells him, but Vaughn isn’t watching him. Instead, Mollie notices that his eyes are focused on the large oak tree she and Layla had used for shade.
Mollie follows his gaze and then quickly looks back at him, understanding that he thinks slamming his body against the old tree would be an easy way to get his shoulder back into socket. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Nobody here can treat it,” he says, looking down at her. She walks up to him and tries to disregard how his eyes have lowered, how despite the pain, he’s looking at her like he’d very much like to devour her. Though, she thinks, that could just be the mind numbing pain.
“I can.” She doesn’t return his smile when he laughs. “Something funny?”
“What do you weigh, one-ten? No thanks, little one, I can do it myself.”
Mollie doesn’t think it would be wise to punch an already injured man, but it’s difficult to remember that when he’s looking at her like she’s an eight year old asking a classmate if he wants to play doctor.
“Right. Enough of the G.I. Joe bullshit.” She looks at Declan, then to Donovan. “Take him down, boys.” And in an instant, both men have wrestled Vaughn to the ground flat on his back. He begins to fight them, to get their hands and arms away from him, but the pain must strike him fast; his winces and low curses tell Mollie that the pain is cresting.
When she straddles his waist, Vaughn’s protests slow to mild complaints. Around them, the players back off, giving Mollie room to work.
“Fine.” His voice is nothing more than a growl, “but if you’re going to do this be sure you get your knee in…”
“Hey, Semper Fi, shut it.” Mollie’s bare legs move along his ribs, dragging his shirt with them so that her smooth skin slides against his body. She rests her hands on the ground around his head, hovering just above him. There’s a small blink of time where she catches Vaughn’s eyes and they stare at each other, their breaths heating between their open mouths. “I know what I’m doing so can the instructions.” Vaughn wets his lips, eyes drifting down to her chest which is only millimeters from his mouth before he focuses back at her face. “This isn’t my first time.”
Despite the pain and the awkward tension building in front of their small audience, Vaughn manages a smile. “Well, will you be gentle?”
“No.” Mollie climbs onto Vaughn’s chest, lifting her knee just below the dislocated shoulder. Before she pushes her leg up, she leans down, catching a whiff of his sweat-slick skin to whisper just above his mouth. “Baby, I’m always good, but I ain’t never gentle.”
FIVE
Vaughn hates hospitals. They always remind him of the desert, of the men and women in his unit that went in with missing limbs or gaping wounds and never came out. Hospitals in the States are nothing like hospitals in the desert. Logically, he knows that. But they all smell the same. There is always that sterile, putrid scent that burns the nostrils.
This ER waiting room smells like shitty diapers and stale Fritos. There are two families waiting their turn as he sits next to Mollie. His arm in a sling, Mollie had insisted on the ER visit, wanting to score Vaughn some anti-inflammatories, maybe some pain meds. He just didn’t have it in him to argue. It seems when Mollie makes up her mind about something, there is no changing it and so he answered the young doctor’s questions, listened as the man berated him about a possible rotator cuff surgery and then he sent Vaughn and Mollie out into the lobby to wait on the prescriptions.
The orange, plastic chairs squeak every time Vaughn moves. He watches Mollie’s foot shake, her spine straight as she avoids him, as a little kid sitting across the lobby from him smears chocolate across his dirty face. At least, Vaughn hopes it’s chocolate.
The woman calling back to the kid, voice droning, whiny, holds an infant; the baby is swaddled in a thin, pink blanket and the woman pats its bottom, cooing to it in between fusses at the chocolate-faced boy. When the blanket falls from the infant’s head and Vaughn spots the billowing tufts of white blonde hair, he closes his eyes, heart clenched, air constricting him at a flash of memory, of potential, that left him a year before. His past, his wife, what she did, what was lost, all coalesces in that moment and it’s only when Vaughn shuts his eyes and focuses on the movement of Mollie’s jiggling foot and the smell of her skin—intoxicating vanilla—that the quick flash of pain eases from his heart.
Mollie’s foot moves faster, shakes the ends of her sandals against her heel and Vaughn rests his hand on her knee to stop the movement. Her skin is soft, smooth but when she freezes, eyes downcast at his fingers covering her knee, he jerks his hand back.
“You don’t have to wait with me.” He wonders why she won’t meet his eyes. “I can catch a cab after they bring me my prescriptions.”
“It’s fine.” She exhales, rubs the back of her neck before she looks at him. “I don’t mind.”
He should thank her. He knows that, but something stops him, clots the words in the back of his throat. She’d been so raw, so demanding out on that pitch, her body deceptive. She should not have been able to exert that much force. She is thin, muscular, true, but slender and her over him, breasts just inches from his mouth, words whipping out like a promise, like a threat, had Vaughn’s head spinning so much that the pain of his misplaced joint was momentarily forgotten.
“How did you do it?” He stares at her profile and the delicate features of her nose, her cheekbones silhouetted against the fluorescent light.
“What?” She finally looks at him, her left cheek up, giving her eyes a confused, curious expression.
“My shoulder. How did you do it? You said you’d done it before, but you made it look like nothing.” Vaughn absently touches the tender joint. “I barely felt anything.”
Mollie shrugs, passes off his compliments by looping the ends of her hair around her pinky. “I had to learn.” No further explanation; just like always, she is vague.
Vaughn knows the cryptic nature comes from the secrets she likely had to keep for her father. He knows that the non-answers and tight-lipped way in which she generally speaks is all conditioned. He appreciates that, sees much of the same in himself. He wants to know. Part of him feels, he has to know.
“How many times have you done it?”
When her shoulders lower and her breath releases quick like she’s finally decided to exorcise some of the past, Vaughn leans back, stretches his good arm behind her on the plastic chair.
“I couldn’t say.” Mollie chews her lip, squints her eyes as though trying to tick off a number in her head. “At least ten times?”
This revelation has Vaughn’s eyes rounding. “At least ten times?” She nods. “Jesus.” Viv told him about the MC. She told him that Mollie had been taken from her father after his arrest. He couldn’t imagine what she’d seen in those short thirteen years, but if, during that time, she’d popped in dislocated shoulders at least ten times, then he wondered what else she had to learn. “Is that the only thing you learned how to treat?”
He can’t read her expression and he thinks, perhaps, the non-disclosing will return. The closed off way in which she curls her arms around her waist and scoots away from him makes him think that’s exactly her intention, but when Vaughn brushes back a loose strand of hair from her forehead, tucks it behind her ear, that on-guard set of her body loosens, relaxes.
“It wasn’t the only thing I treated, just the simplest.”
“There was something worse than dislocated shoulders?”
A nod again and she waves her hand like the idea is nothing. “Outlaw bikers.” Her voice is low and her eyes dart around the lobby. “There were plenty of stab wounds, a few busted lips that needed stitches—that took some practice and the theory was easier than the practical, I promise.” She sinks down in her seat, eyes away from him, staring at nothing. “Gunshots are the hardest, though.”
“My God, Mollie, how old were you?”
She is cool, unaffected by his shock, as though the implications of his questions were nothing new; as though she’d heard them many times before. “I didn’t grow up in a picket fence kind of house, Semper Fi.” Her voice is flat, even, like she’s practiced this speech, but then she looks at him, eyes haunted. “My childhood wasn’t normal, probably nothing like yours.” Mollie watches the chocolate-faced kid run around the row of plastic seats. “A lot of folks don’t understand the world we live in and I’m sure there are hundreds, maybe thousands of kids who are more like me than you.”
“What makes you say that?”
Again she looks at him, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. “We live in a violent world; kids grow up in that violent world. Kids have become desensitized to that violence. There are plenty of kids with no parents at all, who don’t flinch at gunshots ringing out in the dead of night; kids who go to more funerals than they do playgrounds.” She shrugs again, as though that reality should be obvious. “The first thirteen years of my life were like that. It was normal for me.” When he doesn’t speak, doesn’t do much else but stare at her, astounded, Mollie seems to sense his gawking and moves her head slow, gaze jumping up to his. “What?”
“Mollie Malone, you are a bad ass woman.”
He likes that the smile has returned, finally, and though he knows he shouldn’t, Vaughn inches closer, moves his hand onto her shoulder, sliding his thumb across that soft, soft skin.
They sit close, the side of his chest just inches from her, the smell of her hair filtering into his nose and he likes it. He likes her. He shouldn’t; he knows this is a very, very bad idea, but he can’t seem to help himself.
She is a girl, all smooth skin, priorities fluxed into selfish thoughts like most her age, but she is loyal, he’s seen that in her, in her friends. Her age makes him think that she is inexperienced, that her years do not equal much pain, much loss, but the reality of it is that she has been in her own battles, just like him. Mollie’s scars don’t cover her body like his; they have not left visible evidence of the loss she has known, but they are there just the same; hidden beneath a laugh that is deep, real. He knows he shouldn’t feel certain things where Mollie is concerned, but right now, sitting next to her, her head inching toward his shoulder, her scent doing things to his body, to his heart that he should ignore, Vaughn quickly understands that what he shouldn’t do, shouldn’t feel, is pointless to what he must.
“Mollie,” he says, ready to forget for a moment that she is just a job. Ready to convince her that he doesn’t see a girl anymore when looks at her. She meets his gaze, big dark eyes that widen, that blink twice the closer he leans in. It is not an ideal setting—sterile peroxide making the air bitter, a loud kid with something questionable on his face, but as Mollie returns his stare and her eyes darken, lids lower, Vaughn blocks all sensation but the moisture on her lips and the small breath she releases when he kisses her. It is slight, barely passable as a kiss at all, but Vaughn still craves it, wants it to linger, to expand until he doesn’t feel anything but Mollie.
She releases another exhale, this one moving up his cheek and as he reaches for her face to deepen the kiss, she pulls back, expression surprised, eyes a bit stunned. Then, those eyes shift, move toward the opening emergency room door, to the friend with the bloodied forehead and the old man that fusses over her and Mollie suddenly pulls away.
“Autumn?” Mollie jumps from her chair and darts toward a redhead he assumes is yet another of the tight-knit circle that Viv told him means so much to her. Vaughn remembers this woman. She won the Dash; she fearlessly beat back a former boyfriend intent on sabotaging her victory. The old man, he assumes, is the redhead’s father.
“Oh, hey, sweetie,” the redhead, this Autumn begins, taking the handkerchief the old man pushes against the gash on her forehead when he turns toward the nurse’s station.
“What happened?”
“I’m okay.” She turns, watches her father speak to a frazzled looking nurse. “Joe, you got everything? Do they need my card?” Autumn returns her attention to Mollie when her father takes the wallet she offers him. “Sweetie, I’m scared for you.” Autumn reaches for Mollie to steady her shaking hands. “We stopped by your place. I made you a cherry pie,” she waves her hand down the front of her light green tank top and Vaughn notices small sprinkles of blood on the collar. “I wanted to surprise you since I know you were going back there tonight. Joe was waiting in the parking lot and I ran up to get the key from Mrs. Varela to leave the pie in your kitchen.” Vaughn watches the redhead’s expression, the way her eyes blink, how she begins to sway. Mollie’s grip on her friend tightens. “Anyway, some asshole was there trying to break in.”
“What?” Vaughn moves in closer. When he does, the old man steps to his daughter’s side.
“Who are you then?” The accent is thick, Irish, and though he’s likely pushing sixty, Vaughn quickly gets that this isn’t some cantankerous push over. He’s seen enough rough necks and tough bastards to know a man who has done a lot of fighting, a lot of surviving in his life.
Mollie answers for him. “Joe, this is Vaughn. He’s a—” she glances at Vaughn and seems to redirect her line of thinking. “From the Dash, remember? He’s my, um, friend.”
A quick nod, and again Joe returns to the desk. Autumn shakes her head, dismissing her father’s rudeness. “Of course I don’t know if it was the same guy, but I think I shocked him. It was like he didn’t think anyone would be around.” She dabs a fresh drip of blood as it slides down her temples. “Anyway, he got antsy, pushed me out of his way and I fell. Hit my head on that ugly marble table by the mailboxes.”
“Sweetie.” Mollie grabs hold of Autumn’s hand.
“I’ll survive, really. Just need to have myself checked out.” She winces when she touches her forehead. “Maybe some stitches.” The nurse at the desk calls Autumn’s name and she and Joe are hustled toward the back. “Oh,” Autumn stops to turn back to Mollie, “I texted Declan. Can you let him know we’re back here if you see him?”
“Of course,” Mollie says, then, a little louder, “I’m sorry, honey. Really I—”
Autumn stops before the door and the nurse holding it open, trying to argue with the woman that she doesn’t need a wheelchair. “Mollie, none of this…” another sway, a small stagger and Autumn sits, holds the nurse’s hand when she asks Autumn if she is okay. She gives her nod, quick and then works a forced smile on her face. “None of this is on you, Mollie.” Autumn motions Mollie forward, takes her hand. “Don’t you dare think that any of us blame you for anything. We love you.”
Vaughn watches her gaze follow Autumn as she disappears in the back, watches how those chocolate eyes take on a distinct, glassy shine and he grabs her hand, gives it a squeeze.
“I’m fine,” she says before he can offer her any comfort.
“This isn’t good, Mollie.”
When she looks at him, there is no shock, no surprise contorting her features. “I know that.” She leans against the wall next to the water fountain, head tilted up, eyes toward the ceiling. “These things aren’t coincidental.”
“Someone is targeting you.” She nods, the understanding clear in her expression and Vaughn decides he has to tell her the truth. Too many people are getting caught up in this attack on the witness’ family. Viv won’t like it, but he has to come clean. “Listen, Mollie, there’s something you should know.” She stands away from the wall, breath held, but before he can confess anything, the doors to the front entrance slams open, bounces against the wall and Declan Fraser thunders in.
“Autumn McShane,” he asks the triage nurse, voice panicked. “She’s my girlfriend. She was brought in. She’s hurt.” When the nurse doesn’t move fast enough for his liking, Fraser stuffs his hands in his hair, eyes searching as though he’d like to scream. But then his gaze moves up, meets Mollie’s and he steps toward them.
“Just tell me,” he says, taking her hand. “Is it bad?”
“No, sweetie, no. But she’s woozy. She interrupted another break in.”
Slowly, Declan moves his hands out of Mollie’s grip, rests them on his hips. “Did anyone get a good look at him?” When Mollie doesn’t answer quick enough, Declan’s worry peaks and he grips Mollie’s arm.
“I don’t know.” The Irishman turns away, hand on the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Declan.” She tries touching him, Vaughn thinks she means to calm him, but Fraser doesn’t respond, barely flinches.
“We have to figure this out, but first I need to see her,” the last he directs toward the triage nurse who waves him off as she speaks into the telephone receiver.
“I know. This is my fault,” she says.
When Mollie’s voice barely moves above a whisper, Declan turns toward her and Vaughn recognizes his expression. He is overcome by fear, by the unknown. Vaughn had seen that look a hundred times in combat. “Or your fecking father’s,” he says, his tone biting, sharp.
Mollie steps back, wounded, won’t meet the Irishman’s eyes and Vaughn intercedes, can’t take how her chin quivers, how she’s curled into herself.
“That’s enough.” Vaughn pulls Mollie by her arm and settles her behind him. “I know you’re upset but that’s no reason to take it out on her.”
There is a tense moment and again those warring emotions flit across Fraser’s face. Vaughn squares his shoulders, blocking Mollie from Declan’s sight telling him with a slight squint that he needs to walk away, but before anyone’s tempers can be ignited, Autumn’s father steps through the doors, catching the quiet awkwardness in the lobby.
“Deco?” he says, calling the Irishman toward him.
“Joe, how is she? Is she awake? Was she badly hurt? Where is she?” His questions release like a barrage from a machine gun. He begins to walk past the old man, but Joe holds him back.
“Easy now, son, calm yourself. Autumn is fine.” At this, Declan looks into the old man’s eyes, seeming to try to see if he’s telling him the truth. “Just a bitty gash, son. She’s right as rain.”
Mollie tries going after the men as they head toward the door, she even calls Declan’s name, but he only shoots his hand in the air, dismissing her without so much as a backward glance.
Declan fusses over Autumn as Mollie peeks her head into the room, sees the way Autumn slaps her boyfriend’s hand back, she can only smile, relieved, that the redheaded is undamaged.
“I said I’m fine,” she tells Declan as he tries pulling a blanket over her legs.
“McShane, you have chills. It’s cold in here.” He grunts when she pulls off the wool blanket, but the frustration disappears when he sits next to her, kissing her bandaged forehead. “Is it ‘sometime’ yet?” Mollie smiles. Declan’s been asking that same question for months now. A proposal that Autumn keeps putting off.
“Not yet.” Her face lights up when he leans in to kiss her proper.
It’s then that Mollie decides to interrupt. Knuckles on the side of the wall twice and both Autumn and Declan shoot their gazes to her. For his part, Declan plasters a sheepish smile onto his face and meets Mollie as she enters the room.
“I’m an arshole.” He holds onto her elbow when she stands next to Autumn’s bed. “This wasn’t your fault. What I mean is that—” he stops speaking, biting the inside of his cheek. His expression is sincere, honest and Mollie knows he’s sorry.
“Deco, I get it,” she starts, but then Vaughn slips in behind her and both men stare at each other. Mollie catches Autumn’s hand as she reaches for her and they watch Declan and Vaughn size each other up.
Any tension she thought might be coming, disappears when Declan extends a hand to Vaughn. “Sorry, mate.” Declan rubs the back of his head, and he relaxes when Vaughn nods, taking his hand. “I was a bit barmy there for a bit not knowing how she was.”
“Not a problem, man. I get it.”
“So, what did the doctor say?” Mollie sits next to Autumn who is bouncing a bit on the hard bed. She knows her friend’s nervous ticks. This is Autumn impatient.
“Just what I suspect. Everything’s fine.” The redhead takes the water Declan offers her, but doesn’t drink. “We’re just waiting on the release papers but Joe ran off to make sure the doctor ‘checked over the barmy X-rays proper-like.’” Mollie smiles at Autumn’s imitation of her father’s brogue.
“He’s a bit nervous,” Declan says, leaning against the metal counter next to the window. “You should have seen him when I busted my collarbone at seventeen. Thought he’d drive the doctors mental.”
Mollie laughs along with Autumn at the image and smiles wider at the confounded frown that has taken over Vaughn’s mouth. He must be confused by Autumn and Declan’s family dynamic, and so she shakes her head, telling him silently that she’d fill in the details later.
“Listen, Autumn, that guy—” Vaughn’s voice is level, but Mollie can hear the underlined concern. He wants information, she understands that, but she knows he is being cautious, as though he doesn’t want to seem like a nuisance.
“I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“We’ve got it handled, mate.” Declan moves away from the counter to stand next to Autumn, eyes centered on Vaughn and though his apology seemed sincere, Mollie knows it’s just Declan’s nature to be mistrustful of strangers.
“I know it’s not my place to pry.” Vaughn steps more fully into the room, adjusting the sling around his shoulder. “I just happen to think that these incidences are related.”
Declan nods. “Agreed. That’s why I’m handling it.”
Vaughn flashes a glance at Mollie, then back to Declan. “Can I help? My family, my sister, has resources.”
“Here in Cavanagh?” The Irishman steps forward, but his tone isn’t harsh. Mollie can tell he is just trying to figure out Vaughn’s angle.
“Not as many as we do back home.”
“Ah, well, the perks of being a popular player in Cavanagh means that some very influential folk like to offer favors.” He sits down next to Autumn and rests his hand on her back. “Investigators are involved and the alumni have agreed that the safety of the students is important enough to warrant a bit of security.”
Vaughn’s jaws works slowly, moving as though he is grinding his teeth and Mollie isn’t sure if he’s thinking or just trying to work out how to best respond. Instead of saying anything, he simply nods, a silent agreement not to interfere. “Well,” he says, adjusting his feet, “I do have training, experience if I’m needed.”
“Thanks, mate.” Mollie notices the look Autumn and Declan exchange, then the slow shrug the redhead gives her boyfriend as though they’re trying to decide to broach a touchy subject. Finally, after Autumn warns him with a glare, Declan looks at Mollie. “Listen, love, I don’t want to point fingers.”
“Then don’t,” Vaughn says and Mollie is equal parts appreciative and annoyed that he’s speaking for her.
Declan disregards Vaughn’s suggestion. “We know that none of this is your fault.” Again, he looks at Autumn, seeking permission or hedging her reaction. “I just think that things have gone a bit stupid and I was wondering—”
“Yes, he was wondering,” Autumn offers, another glare flashed to her boyfriend.
Declan takes to rubbing his neck, but then he stands, crosses his arms as though he wants to put space between him and Autumn should she decide he needs slapping.
“As I say, I’m not blaming you a’tall, love. But has your da said anything to you?”
Mollie had prepared for this. Or at least, she knew to be ready when the question came. She didn’t often talk about her father to her friends, not about his life now. They’d ask questions, especially in the beginning when their friendships were new, when they were astounded, noisy young girls fascinated and frightened by the idea that they knew someone whose father was in a real prison. Now, they asked after his well-being or how her yearly trips to Jackson had gone. They didn’t ask if her father was still participating in criminal activity and for that, Mollie was glad. But if these attacks continued to escalate, she knew she’d either have to warn her friends by giving them details, or stay clear of them for their own safety.
“I tried calling, several times,” Mollie tells Declan and she notices how Autumn’s eyebrows lift in surprise, how her friend instantly covers that shock by squeezing her hand. “He’s been in solitary for a couple of weeks.” She answers Autumn’s unasked question with a quick shake of her head. “I don’t know why. The guards aren’t telling me anything.” Again, Autumn squeezes her hand and Mollie appreciates the gesture, appreciates more that there is no pity in her friend’s expression. “He should be out either tomorrow or Monday. When he is, I’ll speak to him. But I’m worried too. Something I don’t know about is going on here and it’s killing me that you guys have gotten caught in the middle of whatever this is. If anything happens to any of you…”
Autumn won’t let her finish that thought. She pulls Mollie into a hug, soothing, calming. “We’ll be fine, honey.” The redhead pulls back, gives her a smile that Mollie knows isn’t forced. “It’s going to be fine.”
Declan seems satisfied with that, nodding to Mollie and exchanging a glance with Vaughn that is polite, if not friendly. “In the meantime, I don’t think it would be wise for you to go back to your apartment. Not until the locks are changed again.”
“No.” Mollie wouldn’t waver on this point. She’d spent weeks waiting for the Super to handle the damage left by the burglary. She’s slept next to Layla, listening to her low snore, to the little whines Honey made as he slept between them. She wanted her own bed, her own space so she could relax, so she could sort out all the drama that had occurred in her own head without any interruptions.
“Mollie…” Autumn’s voice holds a warning, but Mollie knows she is not angry; she knows that her friend’s concern is only for her safety.
She cuts the redhead off with one nod. “I know what you’re going to say and I appreciate the concern. I do.” She stands, feeling like she needs to look at all of them to be heard. “My dad didn’t raise a coward and I’m not going to let some punk run me out of my home.” When Declan opens his mouth to protest, she waves him off. “There’s a 40 cal under my pillow and I know how to use it. I’ve got a bat under the cushions in my sofa and cans of mace in every drawer of my apartment. When I say I know how to take care of myself, that isn’t me making claims I can’t back up. I’m a biker’s kid. I didn’t spend my childhood selling Girl Scout cookies and playing with Barbies.”
“That may be, Mollie, but they got to you once before.” Mollie whips her head to Vaughn at his words, tamping down the instinct to lash out at him.
“I was caught off guard. There were two of them and I wasn’t prepared.” She lifts her chin, determined. “I am now.”
“Fine.” Declan’s frown tells Mollie that he isn’t pleased with her stubbornness. “But would you at least let us take you home? Maybe pick you up in the morning?” He walks in front of her and when he speaks, his voice is soft, cautious. “I’d feel a bit better if someone was with you.”
“I can stay,” Vaughn says and despite their brief interlude in the lobby, Mollie isn’t sure she wants to be alone with him. Not under the present circumstance.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Why are you being stubborn?” Vaughn asks.
Seeming to sense the looming fight, Declan cuts Vaughn off with a wave of his hand. “It’s fine. We’ll take care of her, mate. Don’t worry.” He looks back at Mollie. “The alumni’s security will be on campus in the morning. You try to get hold of your da and McShane and I will come round when you need to go somewhere. That alright with you?” Mollie doesn’t immediately answer, thinking that her friends are already in enough danger just by being with her. One look at Autumn, though, squashes any thoughts she might have about leaving town and putting space between them. “Fine. But I don’t want you disrupting your lives because of me.” Declan’s smile is wide and mirrors the one on Autumn’s face. They are impossibly smug when they get their way.
Whistling down the hall echoes and Joe enters the room, his mood decidedly improved. “Mollie, my love, how are you?” He moves around Vaughn to kiss her cheek.
“Can we go now?” Autumn asks her dad and he begins detailing the instructions he received from the doctors.
Mollie barely notices when Vaughn excuses himself from the room, but she catches the expression on Declan’s face and the way the Irishman stares at Vaughn as he lingers in the hall and pulls out his phone. His gaze meets hers and he stands at her side, his voice low, concerned.
“Be careful of that one, love.” He looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at Vaughn’s back before he returns his attention to Mollie. “Something tells me he’s keeping things to himself. I don’t like it.”