by Cari Quinn
She hadn’t even seemed properly ashamed to be caught drunk and watching almost-porn. At seventeen, if his parents had caught him in such a state he would’ve blushed down to the soles of his feet. Not Molly. She’d just offered him a bottle and announced he’d arrived in time for “the good part.”
Her reaction to his demand he pour out the rest of the alcohol—what hadn’t already reached her bloodstream anyway—and change the channel had been met with an array of angry statements, ranging from “you’re not my father” and “why don’t you go fuck my sister again?”
If he’d had to deal with Molly before Jazz’s pregnancy, he might’ve viewed the whole thing a bit differently. Less than a day spent in Molly’s company and he was seriously doubting his ability to be a father. He had to hope his kid wouldn’t be the devil spawn Molly seemed to be more often than not, but he wasn’t at all certain. Perhaps it was just part of the deal. Maybe parenthood meant wading into the hellfire without a flame-resistant suit.
Before yesterday he’d been fairly confident he could handle what came his way. Now? God, he so wasn’t ready.
Eventually he’d won the war of cleaning up the alcohol and turning off the TV, but Jazz’s sister’s mood hadn’t approved after her toys had been taken away. She’d alternately sulked and pouted and screeched, nearly driving him out of the room several times. Not that she’d been willing to let him leave. She seemed prime to fight, and because he wasn’t at all sure of what she’d do while unattended—she claimed to be in a band, so trashing the suite wasn’t out of the question—he’d stuck it out and tried to calm her down. And shut her up.
So much for that.
Now the night had bled into day and his plan to spend part of the morning spooning—and forking—with Jazz had gone up in smoke. Molly was still on a tear, and he couldn’t think for all the ranting.
He wanted a drink. A toke. Hell, a line. He fought not to acknowledge those desires, tried to pretend they didn’t even exist. But Molly seemed to bring them out in him. The scent of pot clinging to her clothes hadn’t helped on that score either.
The last thing a recovering addict needed was to be confronted by alcohol and weed. Not that he’d ever be able to appeal to Molly that way. She’d probably just wave her lit joint in his face and laugh.
He’d finally had enough. Molly seemed to want to burn off her aggression by picking fights with him, and he wasn’t going to help her. This was his motherfucking wedding day. If she kept it up, he’d tell her flat-out—no, he wasn’t paying her a dime, and she could find her own way back to San Jose, because her sister was way better off without someone so toxic in her life.
“I’m not even sure you’re her sister. You could be a liar. You certainly don’t share any of Jazz’s good traits, and my lawyer hasn’t gotten back to me yet to tell me if that birth certificate is the real deal. So you want to leave? Go.” He pointed to the door. “I won’t stop you.”
Sympathy niggled at the base of his spine when she burst into frustrated tears and curled up in the corner of the couch, once more doing that Jazz thing of tucking her legs into her chest. In truth, that was the only proof he needed that they were sisters. They both had tempers, and they both had huge blue eyes that could brim with laughter or well with tears at the drop of a drumstick. They both giggled like twelve-year olds, joy seeming to shake them from the inside out. He supposed it made sense that their misery could be just as complete.
“You don’t believe me? I gave you my birth certificate and you sent it off to some l-lawyer?”
“Why should I believe you? You admitted you intended to try to con my fiancée.”
“I did not admit that. You just assumed.”
“Was I wrong?”
She swiped at the tears dripping off her chin, tinged blue from the crap she’d caked around her eyes. “You don’t understand what it’s been like for me. Jazz got out. She got away from that bitch.”
“Got out? ‘That bitch’, as you called her, put Jazz into foster care at twelve. She chose to keep you. She didn’t want Jazz anymore. So you can quit the woe-is-me bullshit, because—”
“You have no idea what I’ve been through,” she whispered, her eyes dark and desolate. “So don’t pretend you know anything about me or my situation. The difference between me and my sister is that no one is coming to save me. I have to save myself.”
Her words and the emotion behind them pulled at his gut in spite of his attempts to harden himself against them. Against her. She was a swindler, the kind that lured people in with their expert manipulation skills and then spit them back out before they were any the wiser. He didn’t need that shit. Jazz sure as hell didn’t. She was pregnant and the last thing she should have in her life was additional stress.
But Molly was her sister, he’d stake his life on it. And her sobs made him fist his hands at his sides before he chanced sitting down beside her on the fussy antique loveseat. “You don’t have to be alone any longer.”
She only cried harder, resting her face on the arms she crossed over her knees. Bangle bracelets and an assortment of cuffs covered both wrists, right up to her forearms. She jingled when she walked, like an oversized fairy. One thing she didn’t have in common with her sister was petiteness, that was for sure.
He reached out to touch her hair, fully expecting her to turn her head and bite. Instead she crawled across the cushion and curled into his arms, crying like a lost little girl.
“It’s okay,” he said, awkwardly patting her back. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“N-no, it’s not. It won’t ever be. I don’t have a place to live. I don’t even have a b-boyfriend anymore.”
“Your boyfriend wasn’t doing you any favors. You’re too young for one anyway. Worry about getting yourself straight first.”
“I’m not too young.” She lifted her head and looked up at him out of unfocused eyes. “You have no idea what I’m into.”
“No, and I don’t want to.” He started to nudge her back. She was staring at him a little too fixedly, her expression that of someone missing about three-fourths of her faculties thanks to alcohol. Perhaps more. “I’m going to check on Jazz. I can’t believe she hasn’t come out yet—”
“No. Wait.” Molly licked her lips and sidled closer, sliding her hand up his chest. “Let’s keep talking.”
“I don’t think so. I think we’ve talked enough.” He grabbed her wrist, barely avoiding a collision as she launched an attack with her mouth. If he hadn’t turned his head at the last second, she would’ve kissed him. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Kissing you.” She pressed against him. “You know you want me to.”
“No, I damn well don’t.” Shaking his head, he shoved her all the way back and rose. “Look, I know you’re drunk, but what you just did—not cool. In any sort of way. Surely even people like you have some kind of honor code. Screwing around with your sister’s guy has to be breaking it.”
Her eyes flashed. “People like me? What’s that supposed to mean? You calling me a whore too, like Junior did?”
“No,” he said quickly. “I would never.”
“I don’t need a fucking code.” She sat back and crossed her arms in disgust. “Damn boy scout. I didn’t realize you were completely pussy-whipped. You’ve been to rehab. You know how it is. Not everyone’s perfect like cute, adorable little Jazz.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “She’s so not perfect. You have her pegged so wrong.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Believe me, she has flaws, and she’d be the first to admit them. Just like I do. She’d admit mine too, and you wouldn’t even have to ask.” His laughter subsided into a smile as he shook his head. “But she’s perfect for me, and I’d like to hope the opposite is true too. So even if I didn’t think you were hiding a forked tongue, I wouldn’t be interested. And we both know you’re not interested in me either. You just don’t want to face—”
“What am I not facing?” she de
manded.
“That your sister actually wants a chance to love you,” he said quietly. “That maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t want anything from you but you.”
She turned her face away from him, effectively ending the conversation. Her soft sobs told him well enough that he’d finally reached her, deep down under all the scabbed-over layers of mistrust and rage. Whether she’d truly take his words to heart was anyone’s guess.
He headed toward to the closed connecting door to the bedroom. Right now, she wasn’t his priority. Jazz should’ve been up and moving around by now. She slept like the dead, which was why he hadn’t worried too much about her overhearing their argument. He’d tried to keep Molly’s voice down, but it had been almost impossible. And every damn time he’d attempted to walk away, she’d sucked him back into the conversation.
Not again.
Pushing open the door, he peeked inside and found the bed unoccupied and unmade. She must be in the bathroom. He knocked on it and when he received no response, nudged it open. Though it was obvious she’d been in there recently from the toiletries on the sink, the room was empty.
He frowned and pivoted to study the room. The doors to the balcony were closed. Where the hell was she? He glanced around, looking for her purse and her cell phone. Last night she’d set them on the dresser, but they weren’t there now.
“Fuck,” he muttered, striding to the room’s other exit. Why did a frigging bedroom need an exit? Normal hotel rooms didn’t have more than one.
So she’d have a way to get away from you.
Ignoring the voice in his head, he yanked open the door and glanced up and down the hallway. He hadn’t really expected to see her hanging out by the elevator, and he wasn’t disappointed.
“Molly,” he roared, stepping back into the room and slamming the door.
Naturally she didn’t answer.
Why the hell was he bothering with her? She wouldn’t care if her sister was gone. She’d probably do a freaking jig.
He rushed through the room, checking every possible surface for a note. Nothing. He dug out his phone and searched for a missed voicemail or text, but the only texts were from Lila, reminding him of the many things he owed her for her going above and beyond today. Yet again she mentioned the book. What book, she still didn’t specify, and at the moment, he was too out of his mind to care.
Goddammit, what had she heard? That was the only explanation for her disappearing act. She would never just walk out without leaving a note behind. So Molly’s shrill voice must’ve carried more than he’d thought. He’d been under the impression that these walls had at least minimal soundproofing, but that had probably been false advertising. Yet another way to justify stripping his wallet.
He locked his hands behind his neck and kicked the dresser with his bare foot. The pain screamed through his toes and up into his ankle and he barely even noticed. All he could think about was how much pain Jazz must be in to have willingly walked out the door and left him.
It’s only temporary. No matter what she heard, you didn’t come this far to lose her now.
No universe could be that cruel.
He dropped to his haunches and bowed his head. She’d never left him, not even when he’d admitted to her he was addicted to coke. Not even when he’d been beat all to shit after a run-in with the dealers he’d owed money to. She had always, always been by his side. Now on the most important day of their lives, he’d driven her away.
“Where is she?” Molly asked softly from the doorway.
“I don’t know.” His voice came out thick and remained that way no matter how many times he cleared his throat. “She didn’t leave a note. She just left.”
“She heard us.”
“Good guess.” He rose and turned around to stare blearily at the pastel watercolor of the Golden Gate Bridge on the wall. God, he hadn’t even gotten a chance to enjoy the suite with her. They hadn’t gone sightseeing to the bridge and wandered over to Fisherman’s Wharf as they always did when they were in town.
Rather than show her the romance he’d promised himself he would lavish her with, he’d ordered a bunch of sex toys and they’d ended up sequestered in the suite. Then he’d left her sleeping in bed to argue with her sister about the ridiculous scheme he’d enacted to try to make this day as special as possible for Jazz. Paying off Molly. Really? That was his idea of a smart move?
No wonder she’d walked out on him.
“Do you think…” Molly trailed off and stared down at her bare orange toenails. Only now did he notice her choice of pajamas—a silky cami and short set that would probably verge on indecent if she bent the wrong way. He simply hadn’t looked at her that closely. No one other than Jazz ever stole his attention. “Do you think she heard me come on to you?”
The thought made his muscles lock. “If she did, you’re going to explain exactly what happened. You’re going to tell her how you threw yourself at me after every other way of manipulating me failed to get your desired result. That result being me handing over the cash before you realized you actually give a shit about someone other than yourself.”
She cupped her elbows and said nothing. A very wise choice on her behalf, because he wasn’t at all sure of his reaction if she kept talking.
He’d already heard enough from her for a lifetime.
“You’re going to help me find her,” he said as the haze of fury in her direction finally began to clear. What good would it do to get pissed? He needed to talk to Jazz. That was his only focus.
She nodded, surprising the hell out of him. “Where do you think she might’ve gone?”
“I have no fucking clue.” He stalked to the dresser and picked up the car keys. “She doesn’t have transportation and I don’t know how much cash she had on her. She’s going to be hungry—” His voice broke and he braced his fist on the wood until he was sure he could speak. “She always eats early now.”
“She’s okay with the baby, right? I mean, she doesn’t take any medication or whatever.”
“She’s as healthy as a horse. So’s Dylan.”
“Dylan?” Molly whispered. “That’s his name?”
“Not sure yet. I mentioned it. She’s mulling it over.” He let go of the keys digging into his palm. “Dylan Edward Duffy.”
“Hmm. Do you know those initials spell DED?”
He narrowed his eyes at her and decided not to respond to her question. Murder was still against the law, last he checked. “I need to go find your sister.”
“You don’t know where to look. Why not just call her, ask her to come back?”
“Oh, gee whiz, why didn’t I think of that? Maybe because if she left without leaving word she’s probably pissed and hurt and who knows what else and won’t respond just to a text.”
“Let’s see. Gimme your phone.”
She sighed and headed into the next room, returning with her cell in its bright pink, blinged-out case. Her thumbs danced over the keys as she texted something that would probably harm more than help.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Slow your roll. Give her a minute.” Her phone dinged and she smiled triumphantly before she checked it. “See?” She glanced down and frowned. “Oh. Well. That’s not good.”
“What?” He rushed to her side. “What is it?”
She held up her cell, allowing him to see the three words written there: Go. To. Hell.
“You should try,” she suggested while he paced to the window and back.
About sixteen times.
“Oh yeah? And what good would that do? She’s obviously got a head of mad going toward both of us.” Mad he could deal with, but the hurt that must be behind it made his gut knot up like a pile of ropes. “At least she’s okay. She’s fine,” he said under his breath, reassuring himself more than her. She probably didn’t even need reassurance, since she saw Jazz as a meal ticket and not much else.
Only because she wouldn’t let herself. Yet. He still had faith she’d change her mind
, but he was rapidly reaching the point that he didn’t give a shit.
“Wow, you really do love her.”
“Would I marry her otherwise?”
Molly shrugged and picked at her nails. “My mama got married a couple times, and none of them were for love. That’s kind of old-fashioned.”
“Old-fashioned? Jesus Christ.” He came to a halt and tipped back his head to study the recessed lights in the ceiling. “Look, I need to get out of here, track her down—”
His cell went off on the dresser and Molly grabbed it before he could. He growled while she read the text and responded, thumbs moving in a blur. Then she tossed it aside. “That was the band,” she said dismissively. “No rooms are available. They’re headed up here,” she added, sauntering into the next room with him trailing her like cheap perfume.
“The band? What band? My band?”
“Affirmative.” She went to the suitcase open on the floor next to the loveseat and pulled out two tops, turning to him. “What do you think? Yellow or blue?”
“I think you’re asking for it—” He broke off as the room phone rang. Swearing, he made a grab for it. “Yeah?”
“I have Lila Shawcross, Simon Kagan, Nick Crandall and Deacon and Harper McCoy demanding access to the penthouse suite. They claim they have been permitted access. Is this so?”
“We aren’t demanding anything,” Lila said in the background. “We’re much too civilized for that.”
“You are,” Nick said, speaking close to the phone. “Yo, dude, let us up.”
Gray nearly smiled. “Yeah, allow them up, please. Thanks.” He was about to hang up when he heard an obvious tussle on the other end of the line. “Is this okay?” Lila asked, clearly out of breath. “Will it ruin the surprise? We could probably go to another hotel.”
“Hell no, we can’t. Simon needs a shower. Now.”
Gray shook his head at Nick snarking in the background. Nothing new there. “No, the surprise is pretty much in the toilet at this point.”
