Cavanagh - Serenity Series, Vol I (Seeking Serenity)

by Eden Butler

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 instantly 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. B
een 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.

  She doesn’t want to turn around. If she turns around, then she’ll have to look him in the eyes. She’ll have to see the worried, ‘this girl is a stalker’ look that is almost certainly on Vaughn’s face. Mollie takes a breath, hoping the brief pause will do something to ease the hammering rhythm of her heart, but at the inhalation, she picks up a whiff of Vaughn’s cologne—the twin aromas of musky aftershave and the distinct male scent that every man carries on his skin.

  Her mouth instantly waters.

  Still, her Daddy didn’t raise a coward and so Mollie lifts her chin and looks over her shoulder, trying hard not to let Vaughn see how much she likes him in his formal uniform. But, damn, is it hard not to react.

  Up close Vaughn looks like some heavily photoshopped version of a Marines recruitment ad. He is so tall, so broad that Marco and Bret look like preschoolers next to him.

  Mollie maintains her cool, but only just. She feels Vaughn’s eyes glare over her face, stopping a moment to examine the dark bruise on her cheek. But he is a skilled veteran of composure, that much she can tell. Mollie won’t allow him to divide her focus and so she only offers him a nod and then pulls her attention back to the cowering DJ. “Look, I get it. You want to be the shit around here, maybe make a little cash. Nothing wrong with that. But you see, that asshole you bought your stuff from? Yeah, he robbed me the other night. Took all my shit.”

  “I… I didn’t know.”

  “Now you do. So the question becomes, what are you going to do? I want my shit back.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Bullshit.” Marco grabs Bret by the collar.

  When Vaughn steps to the side, backing up Marco like some burly sentry, the kid’s eyes round, shifts between the three of them. “I swear, man, all I have is the headphones and some of the CDs. Well, and the five hundred these people paid me for this gig. I broke the equipment bringing it into my apartment.”

  Mollie can’t focus, can’t shake the feel of Vaughn’s eyes on her, of his towering stature looming too near. She just wants her stuff. She wants this night over with. Marco releases Bret when Mollie slaps his hand away because he looks like he’s about to wet himself. “Who‘s boards are you using tonight?”

  “My brother’s.”

  Then the kid gets desperate. He bypasses Marco, seems to forget that the hulking Marine is standing just feet from them and grabs Mollie’s arm. Instantly, Vaughn steps forward, throws him back against the van.

  “Don’t touch her,” he tells the kid and Mollie tries her damndest not to grin like an idiot.

  “Look, I know who you are,” Bret says to Mollie. “I love your beats, Malone and I’m sorry as hell that you got ganked, but I don’t have your boards. Not anymore. I… I can give you the cash I made tonight.” He immediately digs into his pockets, twenties and tens falling down by his feet.

  There is a heavy gleam in Bret’s eyes and as he lowers to pick up his fallen bills, she notices how his fingers shake so that he drops his money several times. I’m a hateful bitch, she thinks to herself, releasing some of her anger. The kid is hungry, eager. She remembers that feeling, remembers how it consumed her until she had what she wanted. This kid is clueless and Mollie is struck suddenly by overwhelming guilt.

  Bret pushes the scatter of cash toward her, shaking his wrist for her to take it, but she waves him off, more interested in information than money.

  “You know the guy you bought my stuff from?”

  “No. Mannie, who runs the pawn shop on Third in Chattanooga, called me. He knew I was looking for some boards. Said this dude came in looking to sell. I got there when the guy was unloading his trunk so the stuff didn’t even make it into the pawn shop.”

  “This Mannie guy might have a name for you.” Vaughn doesn’t look at her, doesn’t do anything but continue to glare at Bret. Mollie returns his statement with a nod of her head, trying to fight back the curiosity of Vaughn’s sudden interest in her dilemma.

  “I’ll check it out,” she offers, determined to keep her attention on the kid and not the domineering Marine who is now searching her face and burning a glance over her skin.

  Bret seems to have relaxed. With Vaughn not hovering over him, the kid’s body isn’t as rigid, his spine not quite as straight and he is just about to say something, Mollie thinks it is likely another apology, but he’s interrupted when a middle-aged man in a black suit approaches. One snap of his fingers and jerk of the head and Bret hustles away from the van. “Look, I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t know.”

  She shrugs and they all watch Bret run back into the banquet hall.

  “I can check it out tomorrow.” Marco walks next to Mollie toward the parking lot. Vaughn is steps behind them, listening, and Mollie wonders where his sudden interest has come from.

  She doesn’t want Marco any more involved in this mess than he is. Besides, she’s already seen his inability to put up a fight. She likes him. He’s a friend and she doesn’t want to see him hurt on her behalf once again. “Nah. I’ll get Declan to go with me.”

  Mollie hears him exhale and smiles at the obvious relief on his face. “Good idea. You need muscle to ask your questions.”

  “Why don’t you let the cops handle it?” Vaughn says, stopping the pair from their retreat to Marco’s car. She faces him and tries to ignore how the electric lights behind him cast a soft halo over his face.

  Marco laughs, shares a smile with Mollie. Ignoring Vaughn’s question, she turns again toward the parking lot. Just walk away, she tells herself, sure that Vaughn’s mild curiosity is more about the mystery of uncovering her burglar than with any interest he might have in her.

  “Let’s head out. I’m tired and s
till have to get the mess handled at my place.” Marco nods, but there is a tension working through the warm air. They make an odd trio—Mollie with her inappropriately bare stomach, Marco with his ragged boots and baggy jeans and Vaughn in his finest Marine blues. But as the Marine in question steps closer, right next to her, Mollie shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable once again. Marco meets her glance, catches the jerk of her head and the unspoken command resonates with his narrowed eyes. “Give me a sec, okay?” she tells Marco and ignores his hesitant pause. She cocks an eyebrow up as if to say “scram little dude” and her friend shrugs once before he takes off toward his El Camino.

  “Something funny about getting the cops to help?” Vaughn takes a small step toward Mollie. When she doesn’t immediately respond, he stands in front of her, blocking her attention away from Marco.

  That quick connection she felt at the Dash returns, but it’s only for a second and by how Vaughn keeps space between them, Mollie guesses the sensation is one-sided. “It’s a long story. And, it’s not your problem.” She can’t help but stretch her neck, stare into his eyes. Mollie doesn’t like the way Vaughn frowns at her, as though he thinks she’s some reckless kid that needs a good dressing down. When he doesn’t lose the stern glower, Mollie shakes her head, lets out a long sigh. “My friend’s boyfriend is a big son of a bitch and he’s got my back.” She starts to walk away and he follows. She thinks they must look ridiculous together, him in his finery, her looking like a reject from Forever 21.

  “If you got robbed then maybe your place isn’t the safest place right now.”

  She smiles. “Not concerned for me, are you, Semper Fi?”

  He doesn’t miss a beat, completely ignores her mild flirting. “You live alone, don’t you?” Vaughn points to her cheek and an odd, almost angry scowl hardens his features.

  More of the little girl bullshit, she thinks and the idea of his over-protective Daddy Act only pisses Mollie off. For some reason she isn’t intimidated by Vaughn; not his size, not the worried, grim set of his mouth. Her natural reaction at being looked down on, at him dismissing her completely, is to cradle that dimming anger that settled into her gut the moment she was knocked out by a punk robber. “And?”