Finding Serenity

by Eden Butler

  Spotting his girlfriend and Donovan arguing a few feet away, Walter moves his chin in their direction, curious. “What’s that about?”

  “Pranks,” Mollie says. “You have some information?”

  Walter takes a moment before he tears his gaze away from the arguing couple and focuses on Mollie. He directs both her and Declan to a cruiser set back from the crowd. “This is officially off the record.”

  “You are breaking the rules, Walter?” That seems completely out of character from what Mollie knows of him.

  “I think the importance of this matter warrants it.” Mollie hates the way he speaks, as though he’s a bobby for Scotland Yard and not a campus cop in Tennessee.

  “What do you mean?” Declan asks.

  “This,” Walter says, looking over his shoulder to hold out a plastic evidence bag. Inside is the incendiary—an empty vodka bottle broken at the top and a black label curled at the edge. Tied to the neck is the charred carcass of some kind of rodent.

  “What the hell is that?” Mollie asks.

  “A rat, Mollie.”

  The implication is immediate and instantly Mollie feels as though someone has punched her in the stomach and a sinking, boulder-sized weight funnels through her chest.

  “What do you think this could mean?” Walter asks nudging the bag in her direction.

  “I have no idea.” She doesn’t like the hint of accusation that flits behind his words.

  “Something you want to tell me?” Walter is not threatening. He is lanky, tall and he has too much of a baby face to seem imposing. But that silver badge on his chest somehow has him acting like his pull on campus means something in the slightest. “Maybe something your father is involved in is touching a little close to home.”

  “My father is in prison in Mississippi, Walter. There’s no way—”

  “Your father is a convicted felon and the president of a motorcycle gang that deals meth. He’s also looking at a long sentence. It seems to me that with your burglary and now this,” again his motions with the evidence bag, “might mean dear ole dad is trying to work a deal. When you mess with the criminal element and then think about stabbing them in the back, they don’t let you do it so easily.”

  “That has nothing to do with her, mate.” Declan comes to stand just in front of Mollie.

  “Oh I think it might. If her dad has pissed off the wrong people, then they might be trying to scare him off of whatever he’s got planned.”

  She can’t look at Walter and the accusatory, smug glare on his face. Instead, Mollie scans the crowd again, not really focusing on anything. Her mind plays back a loop of Jackson, of the men that used to frequent the Compound. There were bikers, naturally, but there were also men in cheap suits, some approaching the house in dark cars late at night. There were whispered conversations and brown paper bags filled with cash on the top shelf on her father’s closet.

  Mollie isn’t naïve. She knew who her father was, she knew the life he’d chosen wasn’t picket fences and church on Sunday morning. She was also smart enough to understand the Ministry of Malice didn’t grow weed in the Compound garden and meth wasn’t cooked in the shed on the back of her father’s property. It all came from somewhere. It had to. Could her dad be working a deal? Was this happening to her because of yet more choices he made?

  “Well?” Walter’s frown has only grown deeper. This is her fault, that expression tells her. She is trash. She isn’t worthy of Layla’s friendship. It’s all there in the cold, hard look he gives her. And just then, the feeling comes back; just for a second Mollie is ten years old, standing outside of the teacher’s lounge, overhearing Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Franklin discussing her “disgusting father” and the “whores who are raising Mollie.”

  “I’ll call him, try to find out what’s going on.” Mollie hates how weak her voice sounds.

  “You do that. In the meantime, it would be wise to stay away from Layla.”

  “What?” That sinking feeling in Mollie’s chest has now travelled to the pit of her stomach.

  “In fact,” Walter says, staring up at Declan, “if you had any sense at all, Fraser, you’d keep Autumn away from that one, too.”

  “You’re out of line, mate.”

  “I don’t think so. And you wouldn’t think that if something happened to your girlfriend.”

  “This isn’t Mollie’s fault.” Declan takes a step, forcing Walter back.

  “Perhaps not, but it’s probably her convict father’s fault.”

  Declan has never met Mollie’s father. He only knows what Autumn has told him about Mollie’s family, but he doesn’t seem to care that all the details are missing. It seems to Mollie, all Declan cares about is that Walter is being a prick, is insulting his friend and he won’t stand for that. Protector mode engages and Declan pushes Walter back, his large fists shaking at his side. “Watch your fecking mouth, Lambert.”

  For all the ire Walter spews at Mollie, he doesn’t seem interested in tussling with Declan. He steps back, hands up in surrender as Declan inches forward. “Just stay away from Layla.” His voice is loud, his command echoing over the noise of the bustling streets.

  “Excuse you?” Layla approaches with a dusting, glitter-leaking Donovan on her heels.

  “Darling, it’s for your own good.”

  Layla cringes. Mollie knows she hates it when Walter calls her that. “My own good? Don’t you tell me what’s for my own good.”

  “Her father…”

  “I know more about Mollie and her father than you could possibly understand.” Walter steps back, cowered by Layla’s anger. “And let’s get this straight, if it came down to my friendship with Mollie and this thing with us, then there’s no freaking choice.” She stands next to Mollie. “She’s my sister and there is no way in hell I’m gonna let you or some punk robber or some idiot with a Molotov cocktail scare me away from her.” She steps forward, clearly pissed. “You got that?”

  Then, Mollie can’t tell whose voice is loudest. Maybe it’s Layla raging against Walter and his constant refrain of “your own good.” Maybe it’s Declan, once again playing Champion to the girls his Autumn loves most in the world. Maybe it’s Donovan screaming at Walter about minding his own business or his annoyed rebuke of the glitter showering around him with every twist and shake of his animated hands.

  Mollie doesn’t know. Her heart aches, pinches with the weight that this may be all her fault or, at least, her fault for being the daughter of a criminal. When her cell chirps with a text alert and she notices five missed calls, all from Vaughn, Mollie’s stomach only coils tighter.

  Vaughn: ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE.

  Yet another man trying to assert some sort of influence. Another man who confounds her; yet another man who wants her to fall in line. Seconds later, another text flashes across her screen, this one with less venom.

  Vaughn: Are you okay? Please answer me. You were on the news. Were you hurt?

  The men in her life all want something from her. Walter, the one that looks down on her, that thinks she will somehow corrupt Layla. Declan, the one who thinks he can save them all. Vaughn; the one who wants to be her hero, and her father, the man who creates chaos. Her father: the man that folds half-truths and destruction like thin origami paper. Or did he? He always protected her, always made she sure she had clothes and food and then money for herself when he was sent away. But that protection isn’t the same as safety. Not with him locked up. Not with the life he led possibly threatening the hard fought-for peace she’d found in Cavanagh. Now, as she stands away from the arguing voices and the dwindling drama of the day, Mollie is more scared than ever that her serenity is slipping between her fingers.

  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 wo
uld 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 repor
ted 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?”