Finding Serenity

by Eden Butler

  “Not really. It happened so fast and they both were wearing hoods.” The sharp ache in her cheek throbs and Mollie touches the tender skin there. “The one that swung at me was a white guy from what I could tell. Tall, probably around six feet. Stocky, but not fat or built.” She sits down on her recliner, slumping. “The other one got out of here too fast for me to notice much else but his arms full of my shit.” She looks at Layla and Autumn. “Damn it. What the hell am I gonna do now?” Right then, when she looks at her friends and the small dips of worry pulling down their mouths, Mollie thinks she won’t be able to hold back her tears. God, what would Daddy say about this? she thinks. Well, he’d be angling to find those punks and kick their asses, but first, he’d tell me to suck it up. To get even, not mad. He’d tell me there isn’t time for tears. Especially not in front of a bunch of cops.

  Autumn nods Declan away and he guides the cop from them, likely grilling the man about what their next move would be. But Mollie isn’t naïve. She knows they won’t look too hard. Burglaries aren’t uncommon in Cavanagh. College town, lots of kids, it’s not unheard of and for the most part, the local cops rarely solve these cases, unless, of course, something from the University has been taken. A single girl with a bunch of “stereo equipment” won’t matter to them. She isn’t like Layla or Autumn. Her folks are nobodies and her name pulls zero weight.

  “You’ll stay with me tonight.” Layla’s voice goes soft, a bit demanding but Mollie knows the sincerity isn’t forced. Her best friend is genuinely concerned. When she starts to protest, Layla shakes her head. “No, don’t argue. You’ll stay with me and we’ll go in the morning to file your report. Walter said—” one small glare cut to Layla at the mention of her boyfriend’s name and the blonde goes mute. Mollie doesn’t like him. Layla knows this. “Anyway, we’ll figure this out.”

  “How?” Mollie knows there is a whine attached to the question, but thoughts of her having no livelihood, no means to support herself has left her at a loss. The lingering burn in her eyes quickly disappears and she is struck by a consuming sensation of anger. “I have two gigs scheduled for this weekend. Fifteen hundred a piece. That’s rent and bill money for two months.”

  “You don’t have anything saved up? What about your insurance?” Leave it to Autumn to sound like a grown up. But Mollie doesn’t snap at her friend, doesn’t pull back from her when the redhead kneels next to her and takes her hand.

  “I do, but that’s not going to last forever and the insurance claim will take at least a month.”

  Layla comes to sit on the arm of the recliner and moves the hair out of Mollie’s eyes. “What about your mom?”

  She can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of her throat. God, her mother will be freaking giddy when she hears about this. She’s forever telling Mollie about the dangers of living on her own. Not to mention the disapproving frown she always gives her when anyone mentions her DJing. “There is no way I’m asking her for shit. It’s not worth the lecture.”

  Layla opens her mouth again, likely trying to suggest something else that Mollie finds ridiculous, but Autumn cuts her off with a wave of her hand. “We’ll get it straightened out, honey. Don’t worry. Not tonight anyway.”

  Mollie bought her first mixing board at nineteen. She’d worked at Dillinger’s Mortuary for a solid year, assisting Mr. Dillinger in funeral prep because he paid her a lot of money since he couldn’t find anyone willing to work over night. Mollie hated that job, but it allowed her to save her cash quickly. When she bought that first board and landed a few gigs, she’d made enough to quit the funeral home and DJ whenever she wanted. She loved the loud thump of the music mixing with her heartbeat, the rhythmic movement of her body swaying with the crowd, with the pulse of each track. It was freeing. It was real and the sound of laughter, of cheers was worth that year of putting make-up on dead bodies and repressing bile at the sight of crash victims.

  Now, it was over. All gone. She knew it wasn’t a forever occupation, she was in college for a reason, but she wasn’t quite ready to leave it behind. These assholes came into her home tonight and rocked her world. They’d stripped away the joy she’d secured for herself, that hard fought struggle of doing something that actually left a smile on her face. It was done. Thieves came into her home and stole her freedom, took away her comfort, her solitude in this place.

  “I’ll call Marco,” his face immediately coming to mind when she thought about the other DJs and how’d they react to this robbery. “He’s been looking for some gigs and I know he’ll hear about anyone trying to sell equipment.”

  “Cavanagh is tiny, Molls. If someone’s trying to sell your stuff then you’ll hear about it,” Autumn says.

  “Who’d be stupid enough to sell it here?” It’s not what she would do. Hell, that was common sense. Her dad had taught her the finer points of selling things you weren’t supposed to have. “They’d probably try Knoxville or even Chattanooga.”

  “Come on.” Layla helps her out of her chair. “Pack a bag and let’s get you home.”

  Home. Mollie glances around her disaster of an apartment. This was her home, her first brush of independence, the first place she felt truly free from her mother’s domineering commands and expectations. Now it felt awkward and suspect. The thieves took more than her livelihood; they had taken her peace of mind.

  Marco Martinez is a shifty character. That’s what Mollie thought the first time she met him anyway. He is too lanky, the gums of his mouth too wide, his teeth too narrow. But three years ago when Mollie got jumped outside of the club she was gigging at in East Knoxville, Marco came to her rescue. Well, she thinks as she sits next to Marco in his beat up El Camino, rescue is being overly generous. He slammed his face against the robber’s fist over and over until the punk got bored and left. That night, Mollie took Marco to the ER and paid for the ten stitches he needed across his cheek. They’d been friends ever since.

  When he called yesterday afternoon to tell her he’d heard about a Cavanagh U drop out who’d bought her mixer and light board from a guy out of the trunk of his ‘67 Shelby, she could have kissed him. Instead, they made plans to stake out the kid in Sevierville at some fancy banquet.

  “What time is it?” she asks Marco.

  For the fourth time he looks at his cell, but doesn’t make a face or complain about her impatience. “Nine-fifteen.” When he looks at her, Mollie sees the faint scar under his cheek shine against the console light. “It’s gonna be a while, chica. Be cool.”

  “You’re funny. ‘Be cool’ he says. This asshole probably got my stuff for less than half of what I paid for it. I’m not capable of cool right now.”

  She looks out at the parking lot of this uptight-looking place and frowns. The building seems too white, the columns too high as though it belongs on some sprawling plantation estate and not on the outskirts of tourist central. There are sleek, black luxury cars lining up to drop couples decked out in finery; they all look affluent, all dressed in clothes that likely haven’t seen a rack. Without realizing she’s doing it, Mollie tugs on her plaid skirt. It is too tight, second hand, and doesn’t cover the small bruise above her knee. Her combat boots are worn on the tips and her white Ramones t-shirt is threadbare, barely covers her belly button.

  In every row of parked cars is a state trooper cruiser. Converging around the entrance are men and women dressed in trooper garb, fine blue formal suits with gold lapels and badges that gleam against the moonlight. Great, Mollie thinks. Fabulous. This idiot buys my stolen property and I get surrounded by troopers.

  When Mollie hears the sharp click of a lighter and then smells the sticky sweet whiff of a blunt, her gaze jerks to Marco.

  He answers her glare with a confused squint. “What? You want some? I didn’t think you were into this.”

  “We’re surrounded by cops, idiot. You wanna catch a bid for possession? Put it out.”

  Marco listens to her and deposits his blunt and lighter in the ashtray, but the scent lingers and i
nstantly Mollie is reminded of the night her father was arrested. She hasn’t smoked much since then, just the occasional experimental hits with Layla and some of her musician friends, but that was twice, perhaps three times, in the past ten years. Just the smell of weed brought her back to her father’s home and the chaos of her first hit of the herb. The night the State of Mississippi took her father away from her for at least twenty years. She misses him and there isn’t a thing she can do about that. Not unless she wants to quickly incur her mother’s wrath.

  “I can’t sit here.” She pushes open the car door before Marco can stop her. The rusted hinges protest against her heavy slam and she walks toward the building, purposefully avoiding the front entrance for the side where caterers and waiters weave in and out of vans like black and white bees.

  “Hold up, chica. You can’t just barge in there and demand your shit back.” Marco catches up with her, tugging on her arm to stop her before she moves around the wait staff and into the kitchen of the opulent building. “This kid probably didn’t even realize he was buying stolen equipment. From what I hear he’s barely twenty and dumb as shit.”

  Mollie pulls away from Marco, closing her arms across her chest. “I can’t just sit and wait. I want my stuff. Besides, he’s been playing for two hours straight. He’s going to take a break sooner or later.”

  Marco still smells of the blunt and his breath is warm against her neck as they sneak past the wait staff, the men in suits and ties that direct them and into the corner of the banquet hall. Her friend’s constant refrain is “be cool,” and “don’t catch anyone’s eye,” but Mollie is too focused on the banner above the stage in the center of an elegant ballroom. TENNESSEE STATE TROOPER’S HONORS BANQUET. She feels out of place, a chipped tooth on a flawless, straight smile. Marco’s hand circles her elbow, pulls her back when the music stops and the Governor steps onto the stage and taps the microphone twice with his fingertip.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome…”

  The crowds’ attention is on the Governor and though she eyes him, trying to figure out why the man’s sandy brown hair doesn’t match the gray above his ears, a movement to stage right catches Mollie’s attention.

  The lanky DJ is tiny, barely 5’7, and the suit he wears looks a size too big for him, like he lifted it from his dad’s closet. She sees the kid’s head bent against her earphones, spinning tracks that Mollie had named “Elevator Music,” and her unease quickly whips into anger. Mollie tries again to walk into the room, but Marco moves her back, whispers something about “cops” and “a scene” and “not a fucking good idea” in her ear before she stills.

  The Governor continues to speak, something about heroism and the brave men and women who guard Tennessee streets and then she hears a name that forces her gaze back onto the stage.

  “The late Rick Winchester gave his life for the protection of our people…”

  Mollie wonders if he is related. She doesn’t think it’s possible. Winchester, after all, isn’t that unusual a name, but when the Governor, carrying a large plaque in his right hand, motions into the crowd, and the spotlight above moves between the standing, clapping crowd, the air in her lungs completely escapes.

  Vaughn. Right here. On the stage, standing next to a gorgeous blonde.

  He is perfection in his Marine dress blues, all starched and proud, his back straight like a sword, his chest broad and thick. Mollie had seen a few of his tattoos, several along his forearm the day they went to the final rugby match before regionals. She remembers seeing the ends of a dragon tail, the brief glance of a fin, but not much more than that. Tonight none of that is visible. He doesn’t look like the sweet, placating man who brushed her off three nights ago. Tonight he looks like the perfect Marine—all straight lines and order. Mollie thinks he is breathtaking. She thought that the day she invaded his club, interrupting the class he was teaching, ogling his massive arms and the beautiful ink that covered his bicep and the quick drop of her stomach returns, heart hammering in her chest just at a quick glance of him.

  Almost as gorgeous as Vaughn is the elegant woman shaking the Governor’s hand. She is blonde, like him, but there are faint, barely there lines at the corners of her eyes. The bob she sports is without even the slightest muss, not one strand out of place and the red gown she wears clings to her, accentuates her ample breasts and tiny waist.

  Who am I kidding? Mollie thinks. Vaughn is in a class far higher than hers. She’s biker baby where he is distinguished hero. They’d only clash. Of course he thought she was a little girl. Compared to the woman at his side, she is a kid.

  She waits a moment too long, taken in by the woman’s confident voice, blocking out whatever eloquent thing she says to focus on Vaughn’s forced smile and the way his eyes stay grounded to the woman. She thinks Vaughn moves his head in her direction, but then there are claps again, more standing from the crowd and she tugs on Marco’s arm, leading him out of the room.

  “Come on, let’s wait outside.”

  The air outside has grown warmer, but Mollie can’t help another tug on her shirt or crossing her arms so that they hide her visible midriff. She doesn’t like feeling like this, all awkward and nervous. She doesn’t like the out of place, you-don’t-belong sensation just being here evokes in her. It reminds her too much of being a biker’s kid in Jackson; of being called “trash” and “whore” at an age when she didn’t fully understand what those words meant.

  “What’s up with you?” Marco flips his long, black bangs out of his eyes.

  “Nothing. I just don’t like being around so many cops.”

  “Oh.” Marco knows she won’t elaborate; he knows about her dad, they’ve talked about their less than stellar childhoods many times over the years.

  Vaughn’s presence has unnerved Mollie, makes her second guess the logic in confronting the kid who has her equipment. She hates that she’s thinking of chickening out, hates more that she’s allowed some guy to make her question herself at all. Even if he is the most gorgeous thing she’s ever seen, she doesn’t like feeling like she’s out of place; that she’s somehow beneath him.

  Her thoughts are so distracted by her doubts, at first she doesn’t notice the plume of cigarette smoke lifting in the air behind one of the catering vans. But then she hears a soft cough, not deep enough to be a man, not high enough to be a woman, and she drags Marco behind her to investigate.

  The wannabe DJ looks no more than twelve, with narrow hips and a chest so slight that Mollie wonders how he was even able to move his equipment. My equipment, she corrects herself.

  Spotting them, the kid straightens up, moves his hand behind his back as though he’s afraid he’ll get caught smoking. But then the frown on his face shifts, his lips stretch and he nods at Marco. “What’s up, man?” He takes a drag of his smoke and moves his chin toward Mollie. “This your girl?” he asks Marco.

  “I’m Mollie Malone.” By the high lift of the kid’s eyebrows she can tell he’s heard of her. She tries to remain cool, to let her temper simmer so that she doesn’t make this kid nervous, defensive. “I’ve been hearing a few things about you.”

  “You… you have?” He sounds awed.

  “Oh yeah,” she says, taking a step forward.

  He abandons his cigarette and moves his palms down the front of his thighs. “I haven’t been spinning that long, but I’m good, I think. What did you hear?”

  Marco is at her side; a skinny, pathetic imitation of back up. “Oh, you know, how good you are.” It’s a lie, but Mollie is cool, convincing. Until Marco mentioned the kid, she hadn’t heard a word about him. “How you’ve been hitting these high dollar gigs to save up for some stellar equipment. I get that. Been there, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  It’s hard for her to forget that time, to forget the absolute obsession to get into the game, be a part of something that freeing, that jovial. But it doesn’t excuse what he’s done or reason away him buying stolen goods. She can tell that the kid is nervous
. She’s not an idiot; her name, at least among the club circles, carries a fair bit of weight. She’s earned that respect. But this kid doesn’t seem to wonder why she’s here. Another step in his direction and his shoulders straighten, his confidence increasing.

  She has to refrain from smacking the cocky grin off his face. “When I was coming up, I did anything to earn some cash. Birthday parties for twelve year olds; bar mitzvahs, weddings, hell I even did a bridal shower once where all those stupid chicks wanted me to play was the Backstreet Boys. They all sucked, but you know, I did it, because I was hungry. You see what I’m saying?”

  His frown returns and Mollie thinks he’s starting to get confused, perhaps worried. “I… I guess.”

  She forgets her earlier discomfort, forgets that just seeing Vaughn in his elegant dress garb made her confidence slip away from her. “What’s your name, kid?” She likes how the boy’s eyes immediately shoot to Marco as if one glance at her friend will alleviate his confusion.

  “Bret… Bret Richards.” The kid pulls against his collar.

  “Well, Bret, I guess the question is, just how hungry are you?”

  Marco squares his slight shoulders and although Mollie knows he is not a threat to anyone, she can tell Bret is uneasy, like he knows she’s gearing up for a confrontation. “What… what do you mean?”

  “I just think that if you’ll stoop so low as playing a gig for freakin’ cops, then maybe you’d stoop lower.” Two steps and Bret is against the van looking very much like he’s trying to figure out the best way to escape Mollie’s scrutiny. This only makes a quick smile slide across her face. “Like, say, so low that you’ll buy equipment out of the back of some asshole’s Shelby.”

  Bret’s eyes round, he starts to speak, but then a shadow moves behind them; a large, imposing shadow that swallows up the dim light surrounding them and whoever stands behind her forces utter terror to stretch across the kid’s face. “This kid stole from you, Mollie?” Vaughn’s voice is low, calm, but sinister.