SEVEN
Mollie hates her mother’s home. She isn’t stupid, she isn’t bitter. She knows that the home is grand, that her mother’s many failed marriages have been financially beneficial for her. There was the second husband, an eighty-year-old heart surgeon with no children and a large bank account who died just five years after they married. Numbers three and four both had a lot of cash as well—a judge and a psychologist—each of whom left her for younger versions of herself.
The home is the last on the left along a two mile lane in the gated community of Whispering Meadows. There is a security guard who always looks down his nose at Mollie when she gives him her name; something she always has to do despite the fact that she’d lived there since she was thirteen.
It is red brick, nearly five thousand square feet, and is surrounded by a cast iron gate with ivy neatly weaving between each bar. Aesthetically, Mollie knows it is beautiful. There are lush evergreens hugging around the ground-level front porch and flanking the paver walkway. Large Bradford Pear trees, full with delicate white flowers, sit at the front corners of the lot and wide, cedar columns secure the slate roof near the front door.
Mollie should love it here. She should feel safe, secure, but as they enter—while Lisa, the maid that her mother doesn’t seem able to do without, holds the door open for her and Vaughn—Mollie gets the same feeling she’s had since she was thirteen and her mother pulled her through the massive oak door nearly kicking and screaming: she was a stranger, a nuisance that her mother had to deal with. That feeling hasn’t changed in the three years that Mollie has been living on her own.
“Nice place.” Vaughn’s low voice whispers in her ear and Mollie represses a shiver. He isn’t speaking softly because he doesn’t want to be heard. She knows it’s the house, the elegant, stuffy decorations that make each room feel like a museum. Her mother has built a shrine to the opulent; a ridiculous mimic of an English estate with rich Persian rugs covering the marble floors and ostentatious, antique wood carved Victorian sofas that look too expensive to sit on.
“If you say so.” Mollie leads Vaughn through the front room, the “sitting room” as her mother calls it, and into the den where Lisa waves a hand toward Mollie’s mother.
Today, her mother’s hair is settled into a tight bun at the back of her head. The strands are blonde, professionally colored and styled, but Mollie notices that the texture has grown brittle again, that it is no longer shiny or soft. She is reading a newspaper, looking through a pair of black, oval-shaped glasses that rest precariously close to the end of her nose.
When Mollie and Vaughn enter the room, only her mother’s eyes move up, to stare over the frames at them.
They stand next to her sitting in her plush, red chair, and she waits a full minute, presumably to finish her article, before she exhales and neatly folds the newspaper on her lap.
“Mollie.” The tone is forced as though uttering her daughter’s name is thick, filthy on her tongue.
“Mother, this is Vaughn Winchester.” She nods to Vaughn who instantly extends his hand.
She takes it, her fingers limp in his massive palm, before she quickly withdraws. “Elizabeth Chamberlain,” she says, as though Vaughn should recognize the importance behind the name. Mollie wants to tell Vaughn she’s only been ‘Elizabeth’ since she left her father and she knows that Mojo would roll his eyes at her mother’s insistence that no one refer to her as ‘Lizzie’ anymore. Pompous bitch. “And your visit today pertains to what, may I ask?” This she says to Mollie, as though a greeting to Vaughn is beneath her.
“Can we sit?” Mollie points to the small, uncomfortable sofa next to the glass table that separates the furniture. Her mother frowns and Mollie amends. “May we sit?” At her mother’s nod, the pair settles down and Mollie can’t help but straighten her back and fold her hands in her lap. It’s training that immediately returns any time she’s in her mother’s presence.
“May I offer you some tea?” she asks Vaughn, but again, the tone is clipped and her frown challenges him to agree.
“Thank you, no.”
“Very well.” Her mother adjusts her skirt, smoothing down the fine, blue fabric over her knees before she looks back at the couple. Then, quite suddenly, with little fanfare or warning, she asks Mollie, “Have you gotten yourself pregnant?”
“What?” Next to her, Vaughn chokes back a cough. “No, Mother, I’m not pregnant. Vaughn and I aren’t even—”
“What should I expect, Mollie? I don’t see you for six months and you come to my home unannounced with this… this man whom I have never seen before in my life. Why else would you be here if not to give me devastating news or to ask a favor?”
There is a pause; a few seconds where Mollie and Elizabeth stare at each other, where the room grows frigid and the challenge between the two women is tangible, thick. Then, Mollie remembers who she is, remembers how she broke free from her mother’s demands, from the ridiculous etiquette and rules that stifled her as a child. Screw her, she thinks and uncrosses her legs, lets her body slouch against the arm of the sofa.
“For starters,” she says, enjoying how her mother cringes at her words and the unsophisticated slump her body has taken on, “coming here was not my idea. I don’t want to be here and I know damn well you don’t want me here.”
“Mind your language.”
She ignores her mother, waving her hand and next to her, Mollie can feel the straight set of Vaughn’s shoulders and the small jerk of his foot as he bounces it against her mother’s Persian rug. “Anyway, something has come up.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrow arcs, but she doesn’t look intrigued or even mildly curious. Instead, she exhales and takes to examining the large diamonds on her fingers as though she is bored already of the brief conversation. “I have found things often do where you are concerned.”
Another quick stare between the two of them and then Mollie smiles, knowing her next words will have her mother uncomfortable, hopefully angry. “Daddy is involved in something.” Her mother clicks her tongue and Mollie cannot help the twitch of her lips and the smile that breaks across her face. “He thinks I may be in danger.”
“And?”
“That doesn’t bother you? Me being in danger? It doesn’t bother you in the least that my apartment was broken into or that someone set a fire at Layla’s office? Or that Autumn was hurt when she caught someone trying to pick my lock?”
Elizabeth sighs, sits up straighter. “I am unsurprised. You do live in a rather shifty area of town.”
“Mother, you don’t have to be a snob.”
Seeming to sense the impending explosion of words, Vaughn clears his throat, interrupting whatever Elizabeth’s response would be. “Mrs. Chamberlain, our worry isn’t just for Mollie’s protection. Mr. Malone is also concerned for you and your daughter’s safety as well.”
“I can assure you that we cannot be attacked in our neighborhood. I pay quite a lot of money to ensure that there are no threats made to my home.”
Vaughn tries again, this time sitting a bit further off the sofa. “Exactly why we are here. Mr. Malone would like for Mollie and me to stay with you until this situation is resolved.”
“Disgusting man,” Elizabeth mutters as though hearing her father’s name is worse than Mollie’s mild cursing. “What has he done now? And why should I be inconvenienced because of his criminal activity?”
“Who’s criminal activity?” The group turns toward the den entrance when Mollie’s sister, Katie walks in, her eyes instantly falling on Vaughn. She moves her thick blonde curls off her shoulder and her hips work with a saunter as she approaches the sofa, not bothering once to look at Mollie. “Hello.” Her greeting to Vaughn comes out like a purr.
“Katelyn, don’t be obvious.” Elizabeth’s reprimand is ignored as Katie sits next to Vaughn.
“What’s going on? Why is she here?” Katie nods towards Mollie, but speaks to her mother.
“It appears that your sister is in some bit of trouble.”
“Are you pregnant?” She leans over Vaughn to finally look at her sister.
Mollie rubs her forehead, patience thinning as her sister’s bright blue eyes darken at her. This is always the way they work: her mother being a bitch, Katie expecting nothing but the worst from Mollie. There was no way this would work. Her father should have known that.
“I am not pregnant. Jesus.” Mollie glares at her sister when she whispers “not yet” under her breath. “I told you, this is a bad idea.” But Vaughn doesn’t seem convinced. Poor guy, Mollie thinks. He has no clue. She knows he hasn’t seen the worst of them yet, but that was quickly mounting. When Mollie spots her sister’s hand inching toward Vaughn’s knee, she slaps her delicate fingers away from him. “You’re acting like a slut. Stop it.” Her sister is about to argue, she opens her mouth, but Mollie silences her with one word. “Dad.” Instantly, her sister retreats, leaves the sofa to stand next to their mother.
“Is he dead?”
Mollie doesn’t know why it bothers her how flippant Katie is. She shouldn’t be surprised. Katie has always acted as though their father died a decade before. “No, he’s not dead. He’s involved in something that might put us all in danger.”
“What do you mean by danger, exactly?”
Mollie exchanges a quick glance with Vaughn, unsure what they should be told. He seems to pick up on her hesitance, giving her hand a quick squeeze.
“As we told your mother, Mollie’s apartment was broken into and there were some unusual incidences with her friends. Mr. Malone is concerned that his business may be impacting your security here.”
“And what’s this got to do with you?” Katie’s quick infatuation with Vaughn seems to have diminished. No matter how attractive her sister finds the Marine, if she thinks he’s somehow involved with their father, his attractiveness would immediately vanish from her mind.
“I am watching over Mollie.”
“Are you sleeping with her?”
“Katelyn, that’s enough.” Elizabeth’s voice is stern.
“It’s an honest question.” Katie moves away from Elizabeth’s chair to stand in front of Vaughn with her arms crossed. “If we’re all in danger and you’re sleeping with Mollie, then maybe you won’t care what happens to us. It makes the situation worse. I don’t want to be threatened and not have anyone here to protect me.” As if in an afterthought, Katie glances at her mother. “Or my mom.”
“I am here to protect Mollie, but that would extend to everyone if we stay.”
“And what makes you qualified?” Mollie knows her mother’s question has little to do with any impending threat. She’s fishing, trying to ferret out information about Vaughn.
“I was an uncommissioned officer in the Marines.”
“Was?”
Back straight, shoulders firm like a sword, Mollie notices that the Marine has returned, foot no longer bouncing and his face inexpressive, professional. “My last tour ended a year ago and I was honorably discharged.”
“Did you kill someone you weren’t supposed to?”
Her sister’s boldness should not shock Mollie, but she can’t quell the small gasp she releases at Katie’s questions. “That’s none of your business.”
“If he got kicked out or had some accident, I’d like to know.” Katie again flips her hair and sets her chin up. “I don’t want some mentally unstable soldier having a flashback here in the middle of the night.”
At this, Vaughn stands and Mollie watches her sister’s smug expression falter. “I’m not now, nor have I ever been a soldier. I’m a Marine.” He takes a step toward Katie and the blonde retreats. “I returned after my father was killed in the line of duty,” he stares at Elizabeth, answering the question before she can ask it. “He was a Sergeant with the Tennessee State Troopers and I asked for a discharge. I have six years of active duty and was unit commander for two. I own a business in Maryville and my sister is an attorney. “He looks back at Katie. “I do not have any conflict related issues, certainly no psychological issues and I am more than capable of watching over Mollie and the pair of you.”
“Be that as it may, whatever your qualifications, having you in our home is not appropriate.” Elizabeth stands, smoothing down her skirt before she faces Vaughn. “I will not have him dictating how we live our lives.” She always does that, Mollie thinks, knowing that it was somehow impossible for her mother to utter her father’s name. “If there is something that he’s involved in, that is his responsibility. I can assure you that I am perfectly capable of protecting my home and my daughter.”
“Mom, but what if—” Katie doesn’t finish her question, is silenced with the quick glare Elizabeth gives her.
“Mollie has always held this irresponsible devotion to her father. It’s likely that devotion that will get her killed. There is nothing I can do about that.”
For a moment, Mollie thinks Vaughn wants to hit her mother. He holds his fist tight, and his arm shakes, but if that was his intention, he refrains, takes a step back as her mother stares at him.
“You have two, you know.” Vaughn’s voice seems sinister, as though a threat held in his tone.
“Pardon?”
“Daughters. You have two.”
Mollie can sense the tension radiating off Vaughn and that part of her who had to brush back her mother and Katie’s insults for years in this home, is thrilled someone is final sticking up for her. But she knows Vaughn’s imposing presence and hinted-at threats are not helpful. When she stands, touches his arm, he shakes his head, warning her with one gesture not to interrupt him.
But she smiles at Vaughn, gives his hand a squeeze and some of his irritation leaves; his shoulders relax, but he doesn’t stop frowning, especially when Mollie tells him, “Hey. It’s fine.” He looks at her like he might argue, that someone should knock her mother and sister off their self-constructed pedestals. “This is how it’s always been.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“I think it’s time you leave.” Elizabeth’s tone is light, but Mollie recognizes the rude inflection that brims with a threat. “The both of you.”
“No problem,” Mollie says, pulling on Vaughn’s arm.
“Wait. Mom, what about us being protected?” Katie tries to block them, comes to stand in front of Vaughn as he leads Mollie out of the room.
“We’ll be fine, sweetheart. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Mollie doesn’t look behind her, tries to ignore her sister’s loud whine, how Katie bombards their mother with questions. She can’t get out of this place quickly enough. When they finally reach Vaughn’s Jeep and stare at each other over the hood, Mollie tilts her head to the right, curious at how his gaze returns to the house and then down at his keys.
“What?” She leans against the hood of the Jeep as Vaughn’s attention again returns to the house.
“I was just thinking that we’ll have to find you somewhere else to stay for a while.” He opens the door and they both slip in side. Vaughn puts the keys in the ignition, but doesn’t start the engine.
“What is it?”
His hands move away from his keys and toward her fingers resting against the seat. “You went from a biker’s compound to a warden’s.”
Mollie smiles, realizing she’d never thought of things that way. But Vaughn is right. Her childhood, her life, hadn’t been normal. She doubts it ever would be. Across the driveway Mollie sees Katie standing at the window, expression hard, frowning as she glares at Mollie sitting next to Vaughn in his Jeep.
“And a Sergeant that never let me have yard time.” Her nod in Katie’s direction has Vaughn’s gaze moving toward the house.
“How is it possible you turned out the way you did?”
“How did I turn out?”
He shrugs, smiles though Mollie thinks he doesn’t want her to see it. “Sweet. Fierce.” He looks back at her and is no longer smiling. “Strong.”
She lets the look pass, not willing to get caught up in him, in the way just being near him makes her feel. She’s just a job to him and he’d held that big detail from her for months. “I was lucky enough to have some very good friends that helped me break out of prison every once in a while.”
Vaughn shakes his head, taking a hold of Mollie’s hand as though it is unintentional, subconscious. “I know you’re worried about them.” The squeeze on her hand intensifies. “We won’t let anyone get hurt.” She wants to believe him, hopes that he is able to keep his word. Vaughn cranks the engine, gaze returning toward the house. “Like I said, Mollie.” He looks back at her, head still shaking as though he is amazed. “You are a bad ass woman.”
“I had to be.”
The bed is larger than the one at her apartment. The sheets are soft, at least 1000 thread count and Mollie snuggles in deeper, enjoying the brief touch of opulence the down comforter and billowy pillows provide.
The hotel is one of the finest in Cavanagh, in an area Mollie doesn’t often visit. The tourist square is four miles from the university, right near the interstate and features a line of hotels, restaurants and a mall that she and her friends spent most of their prepubescent summers frequenting.
Their room is large; contains a den, kitchenette, massive bathroom with a spa tub and a separate bedroom. She did not disagree with Vaughn when he offered the bed to her. She had yet to relinquish all of her anger at him, but had softened somewhat when he defended her in front of her mother. Only her friends had ever done that and Mollie liked how easily he came to her aid, which she suspected had little to do with any job requirements he may have had.
Still, she is slightly annoyed with him, though she does hold some semblance of annoyance with herself. Vaughn is a beautiful man. He is strong, independent, loyal and despite him withholding the true nature of his interest in her, she cannot completely erase the attraction she feels toward him.
Earlier tonight, after her shower, she walked into the living room to find Vaughn sitting on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees. He was shirtless and taking quick sips at a water bottle while “The Walking Dead” played on the television. She allowed herself to watch him, enjoying the sharp planes of his bare back, the deep ridges of muscle that bent and flexed when he drank his water. His skin was smooth, save for the three raised scars on his shoulder, deep and old, like something had gashed at him viciously. It was the first time she got to see all of his tattoos. There was a large, red dragon on his back with tails and wings stretched out toward his neck and onto his shoulders. On his bicep was a koi, gorgeously detailed with bright orange and green ink. It was beautiful artwork on a nearly perfect canvas.
“Carl, stop whining,” he told the boy on the television and Mollie thought she heard him call the kid “Wyatt Twerp,” but then he seemed to sense her behind him and looked over his shoulder to stare at her before he grabbed a t-shirt.
“You done with the bathroom?” he’d asked and she grunted an affirmative reply. “Good. I’m gonna grab a shower before you go to sleep.” He stood then, stretching out his arms and Mollie had to blink three times to clear the image from her mind. For a second she wondered what it would feel like to have those arms wrapped around her waist, to run her hands over those tattoos, that wonderful back, but then Vaughn cleared his throat and she realized he’d caught her staring.
“Night,” she’d said, escaping into the bedroom, cursing herself and the obvious pleasure Vaughn’s smirk gave her.
She had only been under her covers for a few seconds when he leaned against the door frame, polishing off his water. “I’ve got the door locked.” She turned over, giving him her back and quickly pulled up the comforter when it slipped off her thigh. She gave him a thumbs up, not trusting herself to look at him again, not certain if what she was feeling could be tamped down by her annoyance at him and herself.
“If you need anything, just knock on the door.” His voice came closer and Mollie tensed when she realized he stood at the foot of the bed.
“Okay,” she hurried to say, hoping he wouldn’t linger.
“You need any—”
“Nope. I’m good.”
She heard him come closer, his socked-feet dragging against the carpet and then the bed dipped when he leaned over her and she felt a familiar coolness of metal against her arm.
“You know how to use this, right?” She did. How many times had her father taught her about the safety on a Colt .45? How many times had she shot one? When he didn’t leave, didn’t seem satisfied with her quick nod, Mollie grabbed the gun and rolled over.
In a quick, fluid motion, she pushed the slide release, slid the magazine out and eyed the chamber to see if it was loaded. Then, she slipped the magazine back in, heard the click and grabbed the top slide, pulling it back with her free hand to rack a bullet into the chamber.
“Cocked and loaded,” she told Vaughn, enjoying the way his eyes were on her face and not at the gun in her hand as she thumbed the safety off.
“Good.” He pulled his top lip behind his teeth and nodded. Mollie could tell he wasn’t there to discuss the gun, to see if she wanted anything from him before he slipped into a shower. “Good,” he said again, standing up. That quick thrust of electricity she always felt when he touched her, skimmed across her arm when he grazed it and this time, Vaughn did not hide his reaction. He felt it too, she knew he did. His eyes lowered and his lip again disappeared behind his teeth. The look he’d given her that day on the pitch came back, this time with the quiet heat of his gaze eating up her features, staring for a few weighted seconds at her mouth before he stood, backing away from her. “Well, if you need me…” he trailed off, walking backward before Mollie turned on her side, slipped the safety back on and stuffed the gun under her pillow.
That had been at least two hours ago and Mollie could still smell the scent of Vaughn’s shampoo, of his masculine soap, funnel from the attached bathroom into the bedroom. The television had gone silent an hour before and the rooms were too quiet, too eerily still.
Sleep would not come. She lay on that wonderfully comfortable bed wishing she were back at her apartment, deciding clearly she must be insane if this decadent mattress and these luxurious linens could not offer the same sense of calm that her lumpy bed did. Her sheets were cheap, of the Wal-Mart variety, and her pillows were flat from time and use. She should not want to be at her apartment where a faceless intruder could be waiting to slip into the dark and teach her father a lesson by slitting her throat.
But as she turned over yet again, Mollie felt the quick hint of melancholy; the desire to be on her uneven mattress or next to her best friend’s snoring furball of a dog just to grab a few quick winks. This room was too comfortable, too still and she thought about calling Layla despite the late hour just to hear a friendly voice. Earlier, she’d explained to her friend that Vaughn was taking her away for the weekend to Maryville and she’d been unable to stomach how easily the lie had left her mouth. It was guilt worse than the Kenya Washington debacle and Mollie wasn’t sure if she could maintain the illusion that she and Vaughn were a couple. He’d insisted that she did, but when Layla started digging, asking more and more questions about how’d she’d gone from fixing his shoulder at the tournament to a weekend trip so quickly, Mollie had been forced to be flippant, to end their conversation. Now she felt terrible; she is restless, tired, and doesn’t think things can get much worse.
And then, she hears Vaughn’s loud shout.
She slips her hand under the pillow searching for the gun, but finds only the cool sheets. Panicking, she leaves the bed, cracking open the door to peek out into the living room. From the low light of the muted television, she can see the .45 on the corner of the coffee table, but there is no creepy intruder fighting Vaughn for control of it. Instead, shirtless once more and wearing only a thin pair of gray boxers, he lays there thrashing on the sofa. His hands slap away an invisible apparition and his voice, when he yells, is deep and labored, as though he had been screaming for hours and not just a few minutes.
“Stop it,” he shouts again striking at nothing, completely unconscious, lost in whatever nightmare he battles. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”
Feeling helpless, Mollie can only watch him, scared that waking him will make things worse. No, stupid, she thinks. That’s a sleepwalker. So she dashes toward the sofa and takes hold of Vaughn’s flaying wrists, struggling against those massive arms as he continues to assault his dream.
“Vaughn! Stop it. Hey, wake up!” Mollie is no good at this and she knows it. It isn’t in her nature to console, to be gentle. She has zero experience doing it. She climbs on top of him, her long legs on either side of his narrow hips. But before she can question how she could calm him, Vaughn’s eyes fly open and he releases an aggressive, desperate growl, ready for attack.
In one smooth motion, he flips their bodies, twisting his hands so her grip on him alters and he holds both of her wrists over her head as he lay on top of her.
“Vaughn?” she asks, scared when his expression takes on anger, perhaps rage, and the flare of his nostrils tells her he could effortlessly kill her with an easy flick of his fingers. “Vaughn, are you awake?”
And then he blinks, chest slowing between his quick pants, lashes moving like a hummingbird’s wings as he looks down at her. “What? What’s wrong?”
“You were screaming. Having a nightmare.” The tight hold on her hands loosens and some of Mollie’s fear flees. He only stares as though he can’t process how he’d slipped from whatever terror had consumed him, to staring down at Mollie’s frightened face. When he doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to calm, Mollie pulls her hand free from his grasp and touches his face.
Her fingers smooth down Vaughn’s high cheek, and he closes his eyes, a soft moan vibrating in his throat. And then, he crashes on top of her, his mouth coming to meet hers as though her lips had called them.
She thinks of resisting, of pushing him off of her; she is still annoyed, still hurt by his non-disclosures. But when his soft lips move against hers, when he slips his tongue in her mouth, not asking, not suggesting, but taking, all thoughts of resistance flee Mollie’s mind. It has been too long since anyone has touched her and the smell and taste of Vaughn’s body, of the peppermint flavor of his breath from his toothpaste, feels too good to her, is too intoxicating.
Mollie has wanted Vaughn since that first day at the Dash. She recalls feeling possessive, sure that somehow this strawberry blonde stranger was meant solely for her. And now, finally, she is getting what she wants; what reason tells her really didn’t belong to her.
He moves his hips, a brief gesture that has Mollie sliding her hands down his back, loving the feel of his skin against her fingers. It is what she’d wanted, just hours before and she does not think about what she is doing, about how this would change whatever was happening between them. There is only Vaughn’s skin under her hands; only his tongue wrestling against hers and the solid outline of his erection pushing into her, against the precariously thin fabric of his boxers.
Vaughn’s lips leave her mouth, trail a wet path down her neck, dipping against the curve of her breast, his tongue licking her nipple through her loose t-shirt. “God. Oh God.” Mollie doesn’t care that she sounds desperate, that the way Vaughn moves over her has her abandoning any semblance of modesty. She only wants more—his teeth grazing harder, his hips brushing faster as she spreads her knees further apart.
When she slips her fingers underneath his boxers, to the hard curve of his ass, feeling the firm dips of his lower back and the smooth, flawless skin, Vaughn’s strong arms strains and his attentions on her nipple increase.
“Do it, baby, touch me.” His voice sounds distant, as though he isn’t sure if he should whisper or demand. “Caroline, I’m sorry.” It is a murmur, something spoken so low that Mollie can barely make sense of what he says. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
She freezes, removing her hands from his boxers, angling her body so that her nipple was out of his reach. “What did you call me?” He doesn’t move, barely manages to do more than keep his breathing even. Vaughn rests his forehead on her chest and Mollie feels the fine sheen of sweat that slicks across it. “Vaughn?” Her voice is stronger, the name coming out louder.
The shaking in his arms stops and he lifts up, staring for a long moment at Mollie, and she sees the confusion in his eyes, lines under his lower lids and the ridges that furrows Vaughn’s forehead.
“Mollie?” It is a question, a request for declaration and she takes that expression, the confusion for what it is. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t put all that passion, all that desperation into his kiss, his touch, for her benefit. Whoever this Caroline was, she is the woman Vaughn wants, the one he is apologizing to. “God. Oh, God.” He doesn’t speak the name for the same reason Mollie had just moments ago. It isn’t released in passion, in a pointless prayer for the sensation of pleasure. From Vaughn, it is humiliation, embarrassment. Shame.
He jumps off the sofa, taking three steps away as though her laying back, body spread and eager for him, is some sort of insult. “Shit. I’m… Shit, I’m sorry.”
“You said that.” Mollie sits up, pulls her t-shirt over her exposed stomach before she draws the hem down. He won’t look at her, acts as if the thought of meeting her eyes will somehow make his mistake real. “You just weren’t saying it to me.”
That forces his gaze to her and Mollie can’t tell if it was shame again clotting in his eyes or anger. He inhales, chest moving and his chin set straight. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” Humiliation began to alter, shift into annoyance. “Who is Caroline?” she asks because her curiosity bore too much in her mind.
She doesn’t think he will answer her. Just the quick utterance of the name had Vaughn’s shame morphing into something that resembled anger; the frown, the hard narrow of his eyelids, it all flashes across his face. But then he closes his eyes, mutters a low curse under his breath before he sits on the sofa, head back as he looks up at the ceiling.
“Vaughn?”
His head moves in her direction, but he doesn’t manage to look directly at her. “She’s… my wife.”
“I thought you were divorced.” God, Mollie thinks, feeling the quick flash of anger bubbling in her stomach.
“I’m not married,” Vaughn shakes his head, this time meeting her eyes. “Not for a while.”
“But you still dream about her? You… you thought.” She exhales, unconsciously slipping her hair behind her ear. “You thought I was her, that you were kissing her.”
“I’m sorry. Fuck, Mollie, I am.” And he does at least seem remorseful. He keeps fanning his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes as though the tighter he squints, the sooner the memory would dissolve. “Night terrors,” he says. “It’s what the doc at the VA told me.”
“PTSD?” She is curious, filling the space of quiet with questions she thinks would help him talk. She’d forgotten, just for those few moments with Vaughn on top of her, touching her, that he has seen carnage, has spent years in the thick of it.
“No. Not exactly.” He rubs his palms down his face. “Just night terrors. They gave me pills, but I can’t take them. I’m not myself if I take them.”
Mollie moves on the sofa, pulling her knees up before she slides toward him slowly, as though she was approaching a sleeping dragon and not a traumatized Marine. When she touches his back, Vaughn stiffens but he doesn’t pull away from her. “Can I help?” She hopes there was nothing seductive, suspect in her tone. She wants to try gentleness. For the first time in her life, she doesn’t want to be rough with a man.
“No.” His answer comes quick, too quick and defensive, but Vaughn lets Mollie pull him toward her, lets her run her fingers against the nape of his neck. He rests his cheek on her shoulder and she continues to comfort him, moving her fingernails on his scalp until slight gooseflesh dots over his skin. She places a chaste, quick kiss on the top of his head and Vaughn looks up, his hand cupping her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” she says, meaning it. “I understand.”
Her smile is genuine, sincere, and it seems to have some effect on Vaughn. The fingers on her face drift up until his thumb smooths across her cheek. He leans forward and Mollie can feel his settling breath on her mouth. The peppermint scent returns and she forgets about gentleness. Just for a second, she forgets that there was a woman named Caroline that Vaughn loved. Just then, with that bare expression widening his eyes, Mollie knows that he is looking at her, only her, and she wants it to continue. She wants his mouth again, wants him touching her. She leans forward, hoping that his hooded eyes mean permission, but just as her nose touches his cheek, Vaughn moves away, pushes off of the sofa.
“No. This can’t happen again.”
“What?”
Again, he focuses on every space that doesn’t include her face—the carpet, the .45 on the coffee table, the polish on her toenails. “Maybe… I think maybe we should find someone else to watch you.”
Deflated, Mollie squeezes her hands into a fist. “You don’t want to guard me. Why? Because you want to kiss me?”
That gets his attention, brings his head snapping up. “I can’t kiss you, Mollie. I just can’t. I can’t keep a clear head if I’m touching you.”
He is deflecting, she knows that. He is holding secrets, more nondisclosures close to his chest. Declan had been right. Vaughn has things he won’t share, things that no one would be trusted with, least of all Mollie.
There are warring thoughts, scattered emotions flitting through her mind. She is angry at his dismissal; yet another rejection that Vaughn has given her and she is so completely turned on she doubts the hard throb between her legs will subside on its own.
“Don’t worry about it,” she tells him, deciding that rudeness, anger, would ensure him that any hint of what he feels for her would be eradicated. “You don’t have to get someone else. I won’t ever let you touch me again.”