Finding Serenity

by Eden Butler

  “Did he give you a number to call if you found a buyer?” Mollie hurries to ask, hoping that she could get some viable information from this guy.

  Mannie barely glances at her before he answers. “Look, it’s like I told that other dude, I didn’t pay attention. Not really. He drove a black Shelby and mumbled a list of what he had. Said the stuff belonged to his cousin and then gave me a number to call if anyone was interested.” The cash register dings when he opens it and lifts the cash tray, digging underneath.

  “What ‘other dude’?” She watches the man rummage through credit card receipts before he hands Declan a slip of paper.

  Another shrug and Declan leaned across the counter. “Answer her.”

  Mannie’s neck is filthy, as though he hasn’t had a good wash in weeks and mustard spots stain his too tight Batman t-shirt. “Big blonde bastard, came in here in fatigues.”

  Son of a bitch. She shares a glance with Declan, jerks her head once for him not to ask questions before she heads to the door. Vaughn. Had to be him and she doesn’t know why a sudden urge to kick him in the face has replaced the other baser ideas she’s had about Vaughn since that day at the Dash.

  He called Dad a squid, she thinks to herself. And me a kid. And now he was butting into her small investigation. His nerve was quickly flushing out any connection she thought she might have had with him.

  Mollie knows she’s stomping out of the pawn shop. She knows that not offering Mannie a “thank you” or even a curt nod of gratitude goes against her mother’s “be a nice girl” southern daughter rearing. She doesn’t really care.

  Declan opens the door to his silver Mustang and Mollie slips inside, eager to pull out her phone and text the nosy Marine.

  “That Vaughn bloke is the blonde, do you think?”

  “Yep.” Her thumbs quickly move across the keys of her phone.

  Declan weaves between the Friday lunch hour traffic as his fingers tap against the steering wheel. The air in the mustang is thick, hot with the scent of leather, and Mollie is grateful when Declan lowers the windows to relieve the stifling heat in the cab. “Hmm. Why do you reckon it’s him?”

  Mollie finishes her text, barely refraining from calling Vaughn a “caveman asshole” before she answers Declan. “I ran into him the other night in Sevierville.” She knows Declan stares at her, as if expecting a bit more clarification, but Mollie doesn’t bother to glance up until she’s sure the text has gone through. Her screen goes dark before she exchanges a glance with Declan. “When Marco and I went to question that kid about my stuff.” Spotting Declan’s frown, she knows a lecture is flirting on the tip of his tongue. “And before you start again with the ‘you should have let me go with you’ shit, I wasn’t in any danger.”

  “That Marco bloke couldn’t have helped.” Declan speeds through the heavy traffic. “McShane said he’s a…”

  “Yes, Dad, I know what Autumn says about Marco, but he insisted on going and I didn’t want to bother you until I had some information to share.”

  “Bollocks. You aren’t a bother, none of you are.” He laughs a bit to himself. “‘Cept maybe Layla, but that just because she is giving Donovan fits.”

  “How’s that your problem?”

  “Because that arsehole gives me fits when Layla gives him fits.” He pauses, relaxing against the seat with his arm resting on the steering wheel. “And I’m not too keen on fits. Especially when theirs could be settled with a quick round of ‘hey how are ya?’”

  The visual isn’t pleasant, but Mollie laughs anyway. Her best friend and Donovan have been driving everyone crazy with all the pranking and arguing they’ve gotten up to over the past few months. “God, I know. I’m tempted to lock them in a room together and tell them to sort that shit out.”

  Declan’s smile is wide, near menacing. “That might do alright.”

  Before Mollie can make any concrete plans with Declan that involve Layla and Donovan tied together in a forced game of “White Flag,” her phone chirps with a text alert and all humor vanishes from her face.

  Don’t know why you’re upset. Vaughn’s reply reads. Just thought I’d find out what I could for you since I live closer.

  “That him?” Declan asks, but Mollie only offers him a quick nod in reply.

  Thanks, Semper Fi, but I don’t need your help.

  “Must be impossible for him not to play the hero.”

  “Army blokes are like that.”

  “He’s a Marine. Big difference.” Mollie waits for a reply from Vaughn and looks up at Declan as they continue down the highway. The mountains inch closer the further toward Cavanagh they drive and the cool breeze in the car from the downed windows relaxes her.

  “It was the same back home. Lads I’d known my whole life went off to training and came back unrecognizable. Fair play on them, God bless them for what they do, but they come back different and don’t seem able to let go of the hero bit after their time is up.”

  “My dad always said the military breaks a man down so they can build them back up the way they want them. I guess it’s the same process all over the world.” She doesn’t tell Declan everything her father said about the military, and certainly not his conspiracy-theory, doomsday prepper mentality that had her stockpiling canned goods and planting gardens from the time she was able to pull weeds.

  “I reckon that’s true,” Declan offers, but then his own phone rings and his voice raises a few octaves and words like “love” and other ridiculous endearments Mollie tries to ignore lift out of Declan’s mouth and she knows he’s talking to Autumn.

  She thinks about being silly, making smooching sounds to annoy Declan, but then her phone chirps with another alert and Mollie has to force herself not to frown at Vaughn’s reply.

  Vaughn: You still pissed I called your dad a squid? I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.

  Mollie: You really shouldn’t have. He’d kick your ass for that. I should by proxy.

  Vaughn: You going to proxy ass kick me?

  Mollie: Thought about it. A lot. Especially when I found out you’re putting your nose in my business.

  Vaughn: Trying to help, you know.

  Mollie: Got plenty of help YOU KNOW?

  Vaughn: Ouch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re telling me to keep away from you. Don’t really want that, do you?

  Vaughn Winchester is the single most confusing man Mollie has ever met in her life. The mixed signals he sends her has her head spinning and she isn’t sure how to respond to that last little dig for information. If he thinks she’s a kid—and his behavior at his studio certainly made Mollie think that’s exactly what he thought—then why is he flirting? Why is he so concerned about getting information from Mannie?

  “Absolute fuckery,” she says to her phone.

  “What’s that?” Declan asks, as he hangs up.

  “Nothing.”

  She stares at her cell, at Vaughn’s last cryptic message as the car continues down the quiet highway. She doesn’t answer the text. She doesn’t speak much at all as Declan makes small attempts at conversation or sings off key to whatever comes on the radio. Instead, as two hours pass, then another half hour, Mollie thinks about how to best avoid Vaughn’s attention. It’s something her instinct tells her not to do, but that baser inclination niggles in her mind; the one that tells her Vaughn is only curious about the burglary. He is, after all, a soldier, a hero. That surely is his only motivation.

  Finally, Declan pulls into Cavanagh and Mollie decides to ignore Vaughn’s inquiry about her wanting him to stay clear of her.

  “Hey, drop me off at Financial Aid. Layla’s going to bring me by my apartment when she gets off of work.”

  Declan nods and they enter the campus proper before Mollie works up the nerve to respond to Vaughn.

  Mollie: What did you find out from Mannie?

  The campus is quiet. They are between semesters and on each bristle of wind, there is the anticipation of the end of summer and the prepar
ation for fall. Teams still practice. Families still take picnics in the courtyard and professors meander through the campus like shoppers loitering in the mall parking lot on Thanksgiving night. And it is the quiet, the stillness, that Mollie enjoys most; like the university is a private place for her and her friends to keep to themselves. The burglary and Vaughn insinuating himself into her life threaten that privacy and Mollie doesn’t like how uneasy both make her feel, how fractured her calm is quickly becoming.

  Vaughn: I’ll tell you when we have coffee.

  “Is here good? You don’t want me to walk you in?” Declan parks next to the building where Layla’s father has forced her to work over the summer.

  “Nah. I can manage the fifty feet to the entrance, Deco.” Mollie gets out of the car and leans against the door, smiling at Declan as he darts his eyes between the sidewalk and building. “Hey,” she says, bringing his attention back to her. “You worry too much. I’ll be fine.” Mollie squats down, resting against the open car door. “It’s not your job to look after us, you know. Autumn is the only one you have to concern yourself with.”

  Declan’s smile is easy, brief, as though Mollie’s declaration is ridiculous. “You lot are Autumn’s family, love. I take care of my family.”

  Mollie wants to hug Declan, just then, but she knows that would only make him uncomfortable. Yes, she’s jealous of Autumn, but not because she wants Declan. She just wants someone to love her friends the way he does. “Thanks, Deco, for everything. Especially for taking me up to Chattanooga.”

  He shrugs, waves off her gratitude before putting his car in gear. “Think nothing of it.”

  As Mollie walks toward the building, she knows Declan watches; his overprotective chaperone act is one she doesn’t mind. It’s not like Vaughn trying to project a father role over her. She knows Declan’s concern is genuine, but she doesn’t look over her shoulder as he watches her walk up the sidewalk. Instead, her attention returns to her phone and the annoying Marine’s insistence that she should see him.

  Mollie: We’re not having coffee.

  Vaughn: No? You asked me out for coffee.

  Mollie: When?

  Vaughn: After the match.

  Mollie: That was months ago and you blew me off.

  Vaughn: I didn’t blow anything.

  That has Mollie stopping just outside the building doors. Laughter warms her stomach and she looks up when Layla throws a wad of paper at the glass to get her attention. Her best friend holds out both of her palms as if to say “give me ten minutes” and Mollie nods before she sits outside the building on a brick planter holding an assortment of daises and evergreens.

  Vaughn: That didn’t come out like I meant it.

  Mollie: Whatever dude. Totally none of my business what you do behind closed doors.

  Vaughn: You’re hilarious.

  Mollie: What did you find out?

  Vaughn: Tell you later. When do you want to meet?

  She doesn’t understand his insistence. Mollie will admit her attraction to Vaughn; there was still that bubble of electricity she felt the moment she saw him at the Dash and it had returned that night in Sevierville when she touched his hand. But she doesn’t understand the signals he gives off. One minute he acts like she was some punk kid. The next, he flirts like he can’t help himself.

  “Men are stupid,” she says to herself, eyes downcast at her cell.

  “I mean, duh, I’ve been saying this since we were thirteen.”

  Mollie’s head snaps up at Layla’s approach and instantly her shoulders sag. Her best friend seems to be in the planning stage of yet another prank attack on Donovan. “What the hell, Layla?” She nods toward the enormous bag of silver glitter in her hand and the long Slim Jim under her arm. Mollie instantly understands that the glitter will end up in Donovan’s car and the Slim Jim will make jimmying the locks a breeze.

  “Mollie, he stole my baby. You remember that? He thought it was funny.” Layla pushes Mollie over to sit next to her on the planter. “He thinks I forgot all about that, but no one messes with my Honey.”

  “God, you treat that dog like he’s your soul mate or something.”

  Layla nods, frowns at Mollie with her eyebrows pushed together as though this is the most obvious thing Mollie could have said. “This is what I’m saying.”

  “That’s not a good thing, dumbass. You can’t diddle a dog.”

  The sunlight glints on Layla’s perfect manicure as she waves her hand, dismissing Mollie’s assessment. “Anyway, I have plans for that jackass. You don’t mess with my baby.”

  “Is this why you wanted me to come here? So I can help you break into Donovan’s car?”

  “Well, no, but, you know—” Layla nudges Mollie with her elbow and lapses into her “But I’m Your Very Best Friend” eye batting. “You have skills I don’t.”

  “I am not breaking into his car, Layla.”

  “Mollie. He stole my baby. A week! I didn’t know where Honey was for a solid week!”

  “That was over two months ago.”

  “I know that. I wanted that jackass to relax. This,” she hoists up the heavy bag of glitter onto her knee, “will quickly remind him not to screw with me.”

  Mollie shakes her head, moves her attention back to her cell and away from her best friend’s attempts at a pout. “No, that will only provoke him to retaliate.”

  “Molls, please? I can’t jimmy the lock. You can.”

  “It’s against the law.”

  “So?”

  Mollie stretches her legs and takes a breath. Layla doesn’t often see reason and it’s Mollie’s job to make sure her more spontaneous plans are thought over before they are initiated. Sometimes, logic works. Sometimes, not so much. “Sweetie, your father is the coach of the rugby team and your boyfriend is a campus cop.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “And, Walter would have a fit if he finds out his girlfriend broke into someone’s car just to vandalize it. And your dad—”

  “My dad and Walter don’t have to find out, Molls. You’re good at this shit. It’s genetic or something.” When Mollie glares at her best friend, the blonde hurries to explain herself. “I just mean that you’re good at functioning under the radar. Besides,” she continues, “I am letting you stay with me while your place is fixed.”

  “Guilt? You’re pulling a guilt trip on me?” Mollie stands, eager to end the conversation, but before she can take more than three steps, Layla interrupts with a particularly low blow.

  “Kenya,” she says, making Mollie stop in mid-step.

  “That’s rude, Layla.”

  “I liked him so much,” She releases an exaggerated sigh. “I doodled his name all over my Trapper Keeper.”

  “You’ve never used a Trapper Keeper in your life and Layla, we were freshman. You didn’t tell me you liked him.”

  She ignores Mollie and moves her long hair off her shoulder. “I baked him brownies, Mollie. Me. Baking.” The bag of glitter falls to the ground in a silent thump when Layla relaxes her hands against the brick planter. When she speaks, her voice has taken on a somber tone that Mollie suspects is forced. “I go to his dorm to bring him the brownies and who do I find there but my very best friend.”

  “Layla—”

  “In nothing but Kenya’s Bob Marley t-shirt.”

  Layla is queen of manipulation. Logically, Mollie knows this, but the guilt of stealing your best friend’s crush doesn’t die easily. Even after four years. The beauty of the summer day on an isolated Cavanagh campus is utterly destroyed by the heavy guilt Mollie suddenly feels. The loud chirp of the sparrows singing in the oak trees falls mute. The sweet hum of the lake in the distance seems to still as Mollie takes in Layla’s challenging, lifted eyebrow and pursed lips. Even the loud roar of a black car speeding by can’t distract her from her best friend’s frown. “Fine.” She drags Layla off the planter by her elbow. “I’ll do it, but this is the last time you get to play the Kenya card.”

  Layla’s fabricat
ed glower immediately disappears and her lips are pulled tight with the enormous smile she sports. “Awesome. Thank you so much, Molls.”

  Mollie shakes her head, and leads Layla toward the parking garage near the rugby pitch, trying her best not to laugh at her best friend’s automatic excitement.

  “You know, I did you a favor hooking up with Kenya.”

  “Hardly. He was so beautiful, you bitch.”

  “Yeah, well Mr. Beautiful gave me crabs.”

  Silence would not keep, would not let him find rest. There were screeches of memory that invaded every crevice of space. In the silence, where he was meant to breathe, rest, where the horrors of yesterday should be extinguished with time, Vaughn only found nightmares.

  For him, the war is over. There are no more bombs splintering the eerie quiet in the desert. For him, there is no more desert, but even in his sister’s palatial home where comfort abounds and security means more than the reach of his gun, Vaughn still labors every night. But it isn’t bullets and bombs that break the quiet of sleep. It isn’t the scorching heat or the combatants that threatens his life with every patrol in a third world village. It is the dream; the memory that comes back to him, exaggerated by the haunting images, many that he does not understand, some that he can never erase from his vision.

  It is always the same.

  Arms reaching, searching, begging to be held. And then, he takes her hard, the way she likes it. Their bodies slicked, sweat pooling down his back with each thrust.

  “Here, right here, baby.” Her voice is soft, heavy from the screams she makes when his hips work faster. Vaughn follows her hands, licking a path between her breasts while he arches, reaches deeper. She rewards him with a squeeze against his dick.