SEVENTEEN
When Layla’s nervous, she babbles. Well, Mollie thinks, she is always babbling about something, usually how much she hates Donovan, but today the babbles are reaching epic levels. It may well have to do with the green tint in her hair.
“So I told Daddy if he didn’t kick him off the squad I was moving out and he would never see me or Honey again.”
Next to Layla, Sayo’s giggle is a welcome, melodic sound that Mollie is happy to hear. “And what did he say?” Mollie can’t make out what her best friend says—she suspects it was something vaguely similar to ‘grouchy old bastard’ but when Sayo asks her to speak up, Layla exhales, finishing that off with a groan.
“He said he’d be happy to be rid of the dog, that asshole, but that Donovan stays and then, um, he offered to help me pack. It’s not funny,” she tells Sayo, slapping their friend on her leg.
Mollie’s eye is swollen again. This time, it’s the left and the purple and greenish tint, matches the nearly healed right eye. She is tired of hospitals, but Sayo and Layla’s presence here makes the too quiet, harsh chemical cleanness more tolerable.
Her best friend comes to her bed, helps her reach the plastic cup of water. Even the cold liquid on her throat burns. That bitch had choked her, returned the throat punch Mollie gave her and she had barely noticed. “Thanks,” she tells Layla when she replaces the cup on the table next to the bed. Mollie tugs on Layla’s ponytail and then lets her hair fall. “Do I even want to know?”
The way Layla shakes her head, the way her bright blue eyes shine with menace has Mollie worried. “Dye. In my shampoo bottle and conditioner. My stylist said it would have been fine if I hadn’t just gotten out of the pool.” Layla grips the rail on the bed and looks past Mollie, eyes blurring. “I’m going to make his life so freaking miserable.”
“Too late, love.” The girls turn toward the door when Declan and Autumn enter. The couple looks comfortable next to each other, but Autumn’s frown is dipping deep and is only forgotten when both she and her boyfriend catch Layla’s new hair color. A faint line wrinkles across Declan’s forehead when he looks at Layla and Autumn’s lips are pursed, as though she’s trying not to laugh.
“What the bleeding hell…” Layla cuts off Declan’s question with a wave of her hand.
“Do not even ask, Irish.”
When Declan steps forward, easing his finger toward that mint green hair, Autumn leaves him, comes to the bed to offer Mollie a kiss on her nose, the only space of skin not bruised or cut. Mollie sees the wet glisten in the redhead’s eyes, the shake of her chin that Autumn tries to hide with her fingers. She never could stomach her friends’ tears and so Mollie takes Autumn’s hand, linking their fingers together. “I’m fine, sweetie. Really.”
Autumn doesn’t believe her, that much Mollie can tell. One ginger eyebrow uplifts, but before she can ask the question that Mollie is sure spins in Autumn’s mind, Declan approaches, fitting his hand on Autumn’s waist.
There are small red lines in Declan’s green eyes and the Irishman looks tired, worried and then, just as suddenly, angry, working his jaw and not bothering to hide the way he holds his hands in tight fists. That expression tells Mollie everything. He wants to punch someone, he wants someone to blame, to take out his anger and though Mollie appreciates the thought, she’s tired of her friends getting mixed in with the drama in her life.
“You don’t have to.” Mollie pats Declan’s fits, shakes his wrist so he will unclench his hand.
“What’s that then?”
“She’s been arrested.” She waves to her face. “At least, last I heard from Viv.”
Autumn looks around the room. “Where’s Vaughn?”
This is when she deflates, unfurls her calm just a bit before she looks away, suddenly extremely interested in the two broken nails on her left hand. She doesn’t want to explain, doesn’t want any of her friends to know what a disappointment Vaughn turned out to be. His disappearance had surprised her and she thought his excuse was valid when Viv told her he’d been arrested for resisting the officer who tried to keep him out of the ambulance. Even Viv couldn’t convince the Cavanagh PD to let her brother go, not when he’d punched the poor cop several times. But that hadn’t been the worst of it. For someone who’d seemed so desperate to stay with her, Vaughn had stayed away. Even after Viv posted bail. Even though Mollie had spent two days in this hospital. He still hadn’t turned up.
Sayo’s voice comes from the window where she sits on the sill and Mollie hears the bitterness in her voice; it lowers her tone, makes each word come out clipped and harsh. “He was arrested. Right after they took her off in the ambulance. He hit a cop, a few times from what his sister said. She posted bail, but she said he won’t return her phone calls. The night nurse told me he stopped by to check on Mollie. Brought her those.” Sayo’s long, pink hair swings when she moves her chin toward the bedside table to the three magnolia flowers resting in a half empty plastic cup.
“But you haven’t talked to him?” Autumn is confused, eyes minimizing, narrowing, when Mollie only manages a half-hearted shrug.
“Nope.” She reaches for the flowers and Autumn hands them over. Vaughn took this memory from her. It had been one of the few that did not include police and bikers and mothers who treated her like she was property, not blood. That day on her family’s farm, at the graveyard keeping her history safely protected amid the large, fragrant trees, had been the spot she returned to time and again; when her mother’s cruelty had her screaming against her pillow, when the weight of her father’s absence became too heavy, so thick that she found breathing a chore. She often returned to that graveyard, smelling the lush scent of those brilliant, white flowers, feeling her father’s large arms spinning her around and around as she danced barefoot in the grass.
Vaughn took that from her and somehow, that was as bad as his disappearing act. Now when she stares at the magnolias, she only sees his retreating form, she hears his apology that rings like an alarm, fear and guilt clouded behind his words. Mollie doesn’t stop the tears when they start to form, she doesn’t care that Declan’s jaws have begun to work again, that his fists are white-knuckle tight; Mollie doesn’t care that when the tremors in her hands spill the water onto her lap, her friends converge, surrounding her like a barricade.
They let her tears move down her battered face and don’t wipe it dry. Layla comes behind her, pulls her hair off her shoulders and her arm stays there. Sayo and Autumn are at her feet, each with a hand on her legs, each waiting for her to become completely unhinged. And she does, just then, as the water slides off the side of the green plastic cup and then the sadness is surpassed, erased by the keen desire to slap Vaughn, to punish him for stealing her memory, for teasing her with something she knew could never really be hers.
But he is not here for her to assault. He has disappeared. So Mollie does the only thing she can, the only thing she thinks may help her exorcise some of her heartache: she throws the flowers across the room with enough force that the cup hits the framed artwork above the recliner and knocks it to the floor.
She doesn’t hear Declan stepping into the hall. Mollie barely notices anything but how her bruises ache with each painful sob; she only knows that her girls, her family, is here, arms tight around her, words low, soothing, kisses dotted over her skin. And just then, with the smells of her friends’ perfume, with the soft, sweet embraces that somehow ease her pain, Mollie thinks that this may be enough. Sisters. The family she constructed despite the ashes of her childhood. They are a circle of unconditional love, accepting her in the face of who she was, who she will be tomorrow. And for those few moments, for more, she hopes, they complete her, make her believe that she will survive this.
“There. You look almost human.” Layla winks at Mollie and tosses the damp rag in her hand onto the table.
“No puffy eyes?”
“Well…”
“I mean, no puffy teary eyes?”
“Nope. You’re good.” Her best friend brings the discarded rag into the bathroom while Sayo finishes braiding her hair and Autumn works on her wrecked fingernails. She lets them pamper her. It’s what they’ve always done when drama surfaces. Usually, Mollie isn’t the victim, but she has to admit that she is beginning to feel more like herself; certainly more than she had just a couple of hours ago.
“Autumn, where is your other half? I’m freaking starving.” Hands on her hips, Mollie smiles as Layla rubs her stomach. Declan had nearly bolted away from the hospital when Autumn asked him to pick up burgers from Brady’s. Typical, Mollie thinks, wondering what it is about men and crying women that leave them as helpless as a blind, legless kitten.
Autumn doesn’t look up from the serious business of filing Mollie’s nails. “I don’t know, Layla. It’s not my day to babysit him.”
“Well, can’t you text him?” With a dramatic flop, Layla falls onto the recliner.
“I’ve never seen any girl put food away like you do.” Autumn gives the blonde-green-haired girl a sideways look. “If I didn’t know about your aversion to all things icky, I’d swear you’re binging.”
“Shut up. And don’t hate me for my high metabolism.”
Mollie is about to deflect the brewing argument, she shoots a warning at her best friend, but then two quick taps sound on the door and Viv enters.
The D.A.’s smile is wide and, unbelievably she looks rested. She dons her black designer suit again and if Mollie isn’t much mistaken, she thinks the distinct scent of gardenias pours from her hair when she bends down to squeeze Mollie’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“No, Viv, it’s fine.” Mollie shoos away her pampering friends and lets Viv take Autumn’s spot on the bed.
“You look better.” Viv moves the stray hairs behind Mollie’s ear and the girl returns her smile, ignoring the compliment.
“How’s everything? Emily? Jimmy?” She wants to say Vaughn? but holds back, knowing that if Viv knows anything about where he’s gone, she’d tell her.
“Good. Everything is going well. Both are in custody and I’ve been informed that the bails will be set to astronomical levels. Also, Vasquez’s assets have been frozen so I don’t think we’ll have to worry about them for some time. But listen,” she says, her smile inching into a stretch, “I have a surprise for you.” The D.A. stands, darts to the door and shoots Mollie a wink over her shoulder. “A visitor.”
It’s not Vaughn, she tells herself. Viv wouldn’t be this excited that her brother got his head out of his ass.
“Oh thank God,” Layla says, grabbing the bags of greasy burgers out of Declan’s hands when he walks through. There is a soft thump behind him as the door shuts and Viv pushes the Irishman out of the way.
“What the feck did I do?” he asks Autumn, handing her a burger.
“Look, here he is.” Viv drags Mojo behind her and the tight lump that had been hibernating in Mollie’s chest for ten years, fractures, shoots away into nothingness the closer her father walks toward her.
“Daddy?”
His arms are tight, so tight around her as he hugs her. He doesn’t feel as gaunt and as wasted-away as he had just a few weeks ago at the prison. Mollie didn’t know what kind of treatment Viv had arranged for her father, but she wouldn’t ask. She didn’t care. He was here. He was free and her Daddy was hugging her. Over his shoulder she sees three guards, feds from the look of them, likely handlers with Witness Protection, but even their dull, crisp black suits and shiny, tight shoes do little to chip away at her joy.
Behind her father’s shoulder, Mollie sees Sayo dragging Layla by the arm, mouth full of burger and her friends wave at her, silently excusing themselves for Mollie to have this moment with her father.
Mojo pulls back and grabs her chin, his easy smile disappearing when he moves her face from side to side. “Oh, baby…”
Mollie takes his wrist, stopping his examination. “Daddy, I’m okay. I promise you. Just some scratches and bruises.” When he remains unconvinced, she shrugs. “You should see that bitch. I took her down.” And the little lie has her father chuckling, but the sound is light, feeble and Mollie worries when Mojo’s eyes go glassy, then she gets a little afraid when the frown transforms into a glare which he directs at Viv.
With one look from Mojo, Viv’s excitement deflates, she even steps back and Mollie pulls on her father’s arm, bringing his eyes back to her face. He glares at Viv after he moves Mollie’s face by her chin, examining the extent of her injuries.
“Don’t you start in on her. Viv did her job and you’re helping to stop a lot of shitty people from being on the streets.” She hesitates, knowing her next six words could easily make this grizzled convict teary. “I’m so proud of you, Daddy.”
And it does; her father’s stern features soften, the glare disappearing through Mollie’s sentence. “Baby, I’m so sorry you got mixed up in this.”
“Daddy, it’s done. Really. And I come from some pretty strong stock. Well. The Malone side, anyway.” Mojo kisses her, right on the temple and finally, Mollie hears what she wants—that hard laugh, the honest, genuine relief and joy that tips between his heavy breath. It’s a great sound, beautiful even, and Mollie knows she’d never get tired of hearing it.
Mollie doesn’t want to ruin the moment. She doesn’t want to shatter the mood without the reality of what will happen next. But she wants to prepare, to store up her memories like a kid collecting seashells. “How long do you have, Daddy?”
“I can stay the night, but then I’ve got to go tomorrow morning.”
“For good?’
“For a little while, but no, not for good.” Mojo holds her hand and keeps their fingers laced. “I’ll stick around until after the trial, baby.” And Mollie likes how relaxed her father is, how the doubt of his future isn’t weighing on his mind right now. How he seems genuinely happy, content to be at her bedside. “Hey,” he says, sitting up. “Where’s that jarhead?”
Mollie’s wince is quick, knee jerk and she knows her father catches it quick, but he doesn’t drill her, doesn’t reserve his concern for anyone but Viv. “What is it?”
The D.A. drops her purse to the floor and grabs the chair against the back wall. Viv sits down, her back is straight, arms crossed—a nervous little wag of her foot has Mollie trying to guess if it’s the excuse she’s about to make for her brother or the way Mojo’s expectant frown has her inching back a bit.
“I haven’t heard from him, Mojo.”
The biker sits up, mimicking Viv’s crossed arms, eyebrow cocked. “What do you mean?”
“It was the blood, I think.” Viv looks at Mollie, head shifting as she watches her. “Did he tell you about how our father died?” Mollie nods and Viv’s forehead wrinkles, as though she is surprised. “Then you’re the first without full disclosure to know. He didn’t even tell the guys in his unit.” She looks at Mojo as though she’s debating something. “Vaughn’s secrets aren’t mine to share, but he’s seen some things that haunt him.”
“What’s this got to do with him disappearing?” Mojo asks Viv.
The D.A. sighs, then brings her hand to the back of her neck, rubbing it twice. There is something in her eyes that Mollie recognizes. It’s pain. It’s loss, it’s longing.“Caroline,” she begins, scooting in her chair to get comfortable. “She was his wife. She killed our father and then killed herself. Vaughn watched the whole thing on his laptop in the desert and he’s never let go of that. I don’t think he can.” Viv stands and Mollie is grateful for the smile on her face. For the way she squeezes Mollie’s hand and pats her father’s shoulder. “You two should have some time together.”
They watch Viv leave and then finally Mollie is alone with her father. No guards with suspicious glares. No coded languages. Just Mollie and her Daddy and the realization that their time together would be brief; that Mollie’s heartache is real and present.
“Baby,” he starts, leaning toward her, grip firm on her hand.
“No, Daddy, it’s fine. I’m okay, really.”
He doesn’t buy it, doesn’t give her the slightest indication that her forced smile is remotely believable. He points to himself. “King of Bullshit, baby. You can’t con me.”
And then Mollie lets her father hold her, lets those too-thin arms circle her shoulders, bring her swollen face next to his chest and Mollie cries. For the first time in ten years, likely longer than that, Mollie releases a body wrenching sob that wets the cotton of his shirt. It had been an exhausting, debilitating few months and Mollie was so tired, so worn and spent by all she had endured. The pain isn’t overwhelming; it isn’t all-consuming despite the fact that it was her father that soothed her and not Vaughn. This was enough too, for now; just her and her father in this quiet room.
“I love him, Daddy.”
Mojo sighs, moves back to sit down on the mattress next to her. “I know that look, baby. I’ve seen it in the mirror one too many times.”
“He says he’s broken.”
Her father nods, as though the disclosure doesn’t surprise him. “We’re all broken a little bit, sugar. That’s what life does to us all.”
Mollie swipes at her face, annoyed by the pain and the burn she feels under her eyelids. “How do you stop it?”
“You don’t, honey. You just learn to stomach it.” Mojo reaches toward the bedside table and pulls a Kleenex from its box. “Your jarhead has to figure that out. I don’t think he has yet.” He pats Mollie’s face dry. “When he does, he’ll come back around and then he won’t be so broken anymore.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because, baby, it’s familiar.” At her frown, he clarifies. “I never learned to live with that pain, I just let it fester. I wore it like a chain around my neck for years and it had me doing things I shouldn’t have. It cost me your mama. It cost me Katie and it made them both so damn angry.”
Mollie smiles. “It’s not your fault they’re a couple of selfish bitches.”
Her father returns her grin. “Maybe not, but if I’d learned to live with all that I’d seen, all that blood and violence, then maybe I wouldn’t have buried it so deep. Maybe then I could have made them happy.”
“But you never made me unhappy, Daddy. You were always good to me.”
“I like hearing that, baby, I do, but you were all I had left in the world. You were my second chance.”
Second chances, she thinks, recalling Vaughn to the forefront of her mind; his scent, his touch. How can anyone be so battered, by loss and remain sane? How could he feel all of that and still love her, hold her the way he had? “You have to give him time, I think, honey.” Her father says. “You have to let him try to forgive himself.”