by Eden Butler
He can’t read her expression and he thinks, perhaps, the non-disclosing will return. The closed off way in which she curls her arms around her waist and scoots away from him makes him think that’s exactly her intention, but when Vaughn brushes back a loose strand of hair from her forehead, tucks it behind her ear, that on-guard set of her body loosens, relaxes.
“It wasn’t the only thing I treated, just the simplest.”
“There was something worse than dislocated shoulders?”
A nod again and she waves her hand like the idea is nothing. “Outlaw bikers.” Her voice is low and her eyes dart around the lobby. “There were plenty of stab wounds, a few busted lips that needed stitches—that took some practice and the theory was easier than the practical, I promise.” She sinks down in her seat, eyes away from him, staring at nothing. “Gunshots are the hardest, though.”
“My God, Mollie, how old were you?”
She is cool, unaffected by his shock, as though the implications of his questions were nothing new; as though she’d heard them many times before. “I didn’t grow up in a picket fence kind of house, Semper Fi.” Her voice is flat, even, like she’s practiced this speech, but then she looks at him, eyes haunted. “My childhood wasn’t normal, probably nothing like yours.” Mollie watches the chocolate-faced kid run around the row of plastic seats. “A lot of folks don’t understand the world we live in and I’m sure there are hundreds, maybe thousands of kids who are more like me than you.”
“What makes you say that?”
Again she looks at him, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. “We live in a violent world; kids grow up in that violent world. Kids have become desensitized to that violence. There are plenty of kids with no parents at all, who don’t flinch at gunshots ringing out in the dead of night; kids who go to more funerals than they do playgrounds.” She shrugs again, as though that reality should be obvious. “The first thirteen years of my life were like that. It was normal for me.” When he doesn’t speak, doesn’t do much else but stare at her, astounded, Mollie seems to sense his gawking and moves her head slow, gaze jumping up to his. “What?”
“Mollie Malone, you are a bad ass woman.”
He likes that the smile has returned, finally, and though he knows he shouldn’t, Vaughn inches closer, moves his hand onto her shoulder, sliding his thumb across that soft, soft skin.
They sit close, the side of his chest just inches from her, the smell of her hair filtering into his nose and he likes it. He likes her. He shouldn’t; he knows this is a very, very bad idea, but he can’t seem to help himself.
She is a girl, all smooth skin, priorities fluxed into selfish thoughts like most her age, but she is loyal, he’s seen that in her, in her friends. Her age makes him think that she is inexperienced, that her years do not equal much pain, much loss, but the reality of it is that she has been in her own battles, just like him. Mollie’s scars don’t cover her body like his; they have not left visible evidence of the loss she has known, but they are there just the same; hidden beneath a laugh that is deep, real. He knows he shouldn’t feel certain things where Mollie is concerned, but right now, sitting next to her, her head inching toward his shoulder, her scent doing things to his body, to his heart that he should ignore, Vaughn quickly understands that what he shouldn’t do, shouldn’t feel, is pointless to what he must.
“Mollie,” he says, ready to forget for a moment that she is just a job. Ready to convince her that he doesn’t see a girl anymore when looks at her. She meets his gaze, big dark eyes that widen, that blink twice the closer he leans in. It is not an ideal setting—sterile peroxide making the air bitter, a loud kid with something questionable on his face, but as Mollie returns his stare and her eyes darken, lids lower, Vaughn blocks all sensation but the moisture on her lips and the small breath she releases when he kisses her. It is slight, barely passable as a kiss at all, but Vaughn still craves it, wants it to linger, to expand until he doesn’t feel anything but Mollie.
She releases another exhale, this one moving up his cheek and as he reaches for her face to deepen the kiss, she pulls back, expression surprised, eyes a bit stunned. Then, those eyes shift, move toward the opening emergency room door, to the friend with the bloodied forehead and the old man that fusses over her and Mollie suddenly pulls away.
“Autumn?” Mollie jumps from her chair and darts toward a redhead he assumes is yet another of the tight-knit circle that Viv told him means so much to her. Vaughn remembers this woman. She won the Dash; she fearlessly beat back a former boyfriend intent on sabotaging her victory. The old man, he assumes, is the redhead’s father.
“Oh, hey, sweetie,” the redhead, this Autumn begins, taking the handkerchief the old man pushes against the gash on her forehead when he turns toward the nurse’s station.
“What happened?”
“I’m okay.” She turns, watches her father speak to a frazzled looking nurse. “Joe, you got everything? Do they need my card?” Autumn returns her attention to Mollie when her father takes the wallet she offers him. “Sweetie, I’m scared for you.” Autumn reaches for Mollie to steady her shaking hands. “We stopped by your place. I made you a cherry pie,” she waves her hand down the front of her light green tank top and Vaughn notices small sprinkles of blood on the collar. “I wanted to surprise you since I know you were going back there tonight. Joe was waiting in the parking lot and I ran up to get the key from Mrs. Varela to leave the pie in your kitchen.” Vaughn watches the redhead’s expression, the way her eyes blink, how she begins to sway. Mollie’s grip on her friend tightens. “Anyway, some asshole was there trying to break in.”
“What?” Vaughn moves in closer. When he does, the old man steps to his daughter’s side.
“Who are you then?” The accent is thick, Irish, and though he’s likely pushing sixty, Vaughn quickly gets that this isn’t some cantankerous push over. He’s seen enough rough necks and tough bastards to know a man who has done a lot of fighting, a lot of surviving in his life.
Mollie answers for him. “Joe, this is Vaughn. He’s a—” she glances at Vaughn and seems to redirect her line of thinking. “From the Dash, remember? He’s my, um, friend.”
A quick nod, and again Joe returns to the desk. Autumn shakes her head, dismissing her father’s rudeness. “Of course I don’t know if it was the same guy, but I think I shocked him. It was like he didn’t think anyone would be around.” She dabs a fresh drip of blood as it slides down her temples. “Anyway, he got antsy, pushed me out of his way and I fell. Hit my head on that ugly marble table by the mailboxes.”
“Sweetie.” Mollie grabs hold of Autumn’s hand.
“I’ll survive, really. Just need to have myself checked out.” She winces when she touches her forehead. “Maybe some stitches.” The nurse at the desk calls Autumn’s name and she and Joe are hustled toward the back. “Oh,” Autumn stops to turn back to Mollie, “I texted Declan. Can you let him know we’re back here if you see him?”
“Of course,” Mollie says, then, a little louder, “I’m sorry, honey. Really I—”
Autumn stops before the door and the nurse holding it open, trying to argue with the woman that she doesn’t need a wheelchair. “Mollie, none of this…” another sway, a small stagger and Autumn sits, holds the nurse’s hand when she asks Autumn if she is okay. She gives her nod, quick and then works a forced smile on her face. “None of this is on you, Mollie.” Autumn motions Mollie forward, takes her hand. “Don’t you dare think that any of us blame you for anything. We love you.”
Vaughn watches her gaze follow Autumn as she disappears in the back, watches how those chocolate eyes take on a distinct, glassy shine and he grabs her hand, gives it a squeeze.
“I’m fine,” she says before he can offer her any comfort.
“This isn’t good, Mollie.”
When she looks at him, there is no shock, no surprise contorting her features. “I know that.” She leans against the wall next to the water fountain, head tilted up, eyes toward
the ceiling. “These things aren’t coincidental.”
“Someone is targeting you.” She nods, the understanding clear in her expression and Vaughn decides he has to tell her the truth. Too many people are getting caught up in this attack on the witness’ family. Viv won’t like it, but he has to come clean. “Listen, Mollie, there’s something you should know.” She stands away from the wall, breath held, but before he can confess anything, the doors to the front entrance slams open, bounces against the wall and Declan Fraser thunders in.
“Autumn McShane,” he asks the triage nurse, voice panicked. “She’s my girlfriend. She was brought in. She’s hurt.” When the nurse doesn’t move fast enough for his liking, Fraser stuffs his hands in his hair, eyes searching as though he’d like to scream. But then his gaze moves up, meets Mollie’s and he steps toward them.
“Just tell me,” he says, taking her hand. “Is it bad?”
“No, sweetie, no. But she’s woozy. She interrupted another break in.”
Slowly, Declan moves his hands out of Mollie’s grip, rests them on his hips. “Did anyone get a good look at him?” When Mollie doesn’t answer quick enough, Declan’s worry peaks and he grips Mollie’s arm.
“I don’t know.” The Irishman turns away, hand on the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Declan.” She tries touching him, Vaughn thinks she means to calm him, but Fraser doesn’t respond, barely flinches.
“We have to figure this out, but first I need to see her,” the last he directs toward the triage nurse who waves him off as she speaks into the telephone receiver.
“I know. This is my fault,” she says.
When Mollie’s voice barely moves above a whisper, Declan turns toward her and Vaughn recognizes his expression. He is overcome by fear, by the unknown. Vaughn had seen that look a hundred times in combat. “Or your fecking father’s,” he says, his tone biting, sharp.
Mollie steps back, wounded, won’t meet the Irishman’s eyes and Vaughn intercedes, can’t take how her chin quivers, how she’s curled into herself.
“That’s enough.” Vaughn pulls Mollie by her arm and settles her behind him. “I know you’re upset but that’s no reason to take it out on her.”
There is a tense moment and again those warring emotions flit across Fraser’s face. Vaughn squares his shoulders, blocking Mollie from Declan’s sight telling him with a slight squint that he needs to walk away, but before anyone’s tempers can be ignited, Autumn’s father steps through the doors, catching the quiet awkwardness in the lobby.
“Deco?” he says, calling the Irishman toward him.
“Joe, how is she? Is she awake? Was she badly hurt? Where is she?” His questions release like a barrage from a machine gun. He begins to walk past the old man, but Joe holds him back.
“Easy now, son, calm yourself. Autumn is fine.” At this, Declan looks into the old man’s eyes, seeming to try to see if he’s telling him the truth. “Just a bitty gash, son. She’s right as rain.”
Mollie tries going after the men as they head toward the door, she even calls Declan’s name, but he only shoots his hand in the air, dismissing her without so much as a backward glance.
Declan fusses over Autumn as Mollie peeks her head into the room, sees the way Autumn slaps her boyfriend’s hand back, she can only smile, relieved, that the redheaded is undamaged.
“I said I’m fine,” she tells Declan as he tries pulling a blanket over her legs.
“McShane, you have chills. It’s cold in here.” He grunts when she pulls off the wool blanket, but the frustration disappears when he sits next to her, kissing her bandaged forehead. “Is it ‘sometime’ yet?” Mollie smiles. Declan’s been asking that same question for months now. A proposal that Autumn keeps putting off.
“Not yet.” Her face lights up when he leans in to kiss her proper.
It’s then that Mollie decides to interrupt. Knuckles on the side of the wall twice and both Autumn and Declan shoot their gazes to her. For his part, Declan plasters a sheepish smile onto his face and meets Mollie as she enters the room.
“I’m an arshole.” He holds onto her elbow when she stands next to Autumn’s bed. “This wasn’t your fault. What I mean is that—” he stops speaking, biting the inside of his cheek. His expression is sincere, honest and Mollie knows he’s sorry.
“Deco, I get it,” she starts, but then Vaughn slips in behind her and both men stare at each other. Mollie catches Autumn’s hand as she reaches for her and they watch Declan and Vaughn size each other up.
Any tension she thought might be coming, disappears when Declan extends a hand to Vaughn. “Sorry, mate.” Declan rubs the back of his head, and he relaxes when Vaughn nods, taking his hand. “I was a bit barmy there for a bit not knowing how she was.”
“Not a problem, man. I get it.”
“So, what did the doctor say?” Mollie sits next to Autumn who is bouncing a bit on the hard bed. She knows her friend’s nervous ticks. This is Autumn impatient.
“Just what I suspect. Everything’s fine.” The redhead takes the water Declan offers her, but doesn’t drink. “We’re just waiting on the release papers but Joe ran off to make sure the doctor ‘checked over the barmy X-rays proper-like.’” Mollie smiles at Autumn’s imitation of her father’s brogue.
“He’s a bit nervous,” Declan says, leaning against the metal counter next to the window. “You should have seen him when I busted my collarbone at seventeen. Thought he’d drive the doctors mental.”
Mollie laughs along with Autumn at the image and smiles wider at the confounded frown that has taken over Vaughn’s mouth. He must be confused by Autumn and Declan’s family dynamic, and so she shakes her head, telling him silently that she’d fill in the details later.
“Listen, Autumn, that guy—” Vaughn’s voice is level, but Mollie can hear the underlined concern. He wants information, she understands that, but she knows he is being cautious, as though he doesn’t want to seem like a nuisance.
“I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“We’ve got it handled, mate.” Declan moves away from the counter to stand next to Autumn, eyes centered on Vaughn and though his apology seemed sincere, Mollie knows it’s just Declan’s nature to be mistrustful of strangers.
“I know it’s not my place to pry.” Vaughn steps more fully into the room, adjusting the sling around his shoulder. “I just happen to think that these incidences are related.”
Declan nods. “Agreed. That’s why I’m handling it.”
Vaughn flashes a glance at Mollie, then back to Declan. “Can I help? My family, my sister, has resources.”
“Here in Cavanagh?” The Irishman steps forward, but his tone isn’t harsh. Mollie can tell he is just trying to figure out Vaughn’s angle.
“Not as many as we do back home.”
“Ah, well, the perks of being a popular player in Cavanagh means that some very influential folk like to offer favors.” He sits down next to Autumn and rests his hand on her back. “Investigators are involved and the alumni have agreed that the safety of the students is important enough to warrant a bit of security.”
Vaughn’s jaws works slowly, moving as though he is grinding his teeth and Mollie isn’t sure if he’s thinking or just trying to work out how to best respond. Instead of saying anything, he simply nods, a silent agreement not to interfere. “Well,” he says, adjusting his feet, “I do have training, experience if I’m needed.”
“Thanks, mate.” Mollie notices the look Autumn and Declan exchange, then the slow shrug the redhead gives her boyfriend as though they’re trying to decide to broach a touchy subject. Finally, after Autumn warns him with a glare, Declan looks at Mollie. “Listen, love, I don’t want to point fingers.”
“Then don’t,” Vaughn says and Mollie is equal parts appreciative and annoyed that he’s speaking for her.
Declan disregards Vaughn’s suggestion. “We know that none of this is your fault.” Again, he looks at Autumn, seeking permission or hedging her reaction. “I just
think that things have gone a bit stupid and I was wondering—”
“Yes, he was wondering,” Autumn offers, another glare flashed to her boyfriend.
Declan takes to rubbing his neck, but then he stands, crosses his arms as though he wants to put space between him and Autumn should she decide he needs slapping.
“As I say, I’m not blaming you a’tall, love. But has your da said anything to you?”
Mollie had prepared for this. Or at least, she knew to be ready when the question came. She didn’t often talk about her father to her friends, not about his life now. They’d ask questions, especially in the beginning when their friendships were new, when they were astounded, noisy young girls fascinated and frightened by the idea that they knew someone whose father was in a real prison. Now, they asked after his well-being or how her yearly trips to Jackson had gone. They didn’t ask if her father was still participating in criminal activity and for that, Mollie was glad. But if these attacks continued to escalate, she knew she’d either have to warn her friends by giving them details, or stay clear of them for their own safety.
“I tried calling, several times,” Mollie tells Declan and she notices how Autumn’s eyebrows lift in surprise, how her friend instantly covers that shock by squeezing her hand. “He’s been in solitary for a couple of weeks.” She answers Autumn’s unasked question with a quick shake of her head. “I don’t know why. The guards aren’t telling me anything.” Again, Autumn squeezes her hand and Mollie appreciates the gesture, appreciates more that there is no pity in her friend’s expression. “He should be out either tomorrow or Monday. When he is, I’ll speak to him. But I’m worried too. Something I don’t know about is going on here and it’s killing me that you guys have gotten caught in the middle of whatever this is. If anything happens to any of you…”
Autumn won’t let her finish that thought. She pulls Mollie into a hug, soothing, calming. “We’ll be fine, honey.” The redhead pulls back, gives her a smile that Mollie knows isn’t forced. “It’s going to be fine.”
