Finding Serenity

by Eden Butler

  And then, she hears Vaughn’s loud shout.

  She slips her hand under the pillow searching for the gun, but finds only the cool sheets. Panicking, she leaves the bed, cracking open the door to peek out into the living room. From the low light of the muted television, she can see the .45 on the corner of the coffee table, but there is no creepy intruder fighting Vaughn for control of it. Instead, shirtless once more and wearing only a thin pair of gray boxers, he lays there thrashing on the sofa. His hands slap away an invisible apparition and his voice, when he yells, is deep and labored, as though he had been screaming for hours and not just a few minutes.

  “Stop it,” he shouts again striking at nothing, completely unconscious, lost in whatever nightmare he battles. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

  Feeling helpless, Mollie can only watch him, scared that waking him will make things worse. No, stupid, she thinks. That’s a sleepwalker. So she dashes toward the sofa and takes hold of Vaughn’s flaying wrists, struggling against those massive arms as he continues to assault his dream.

  “Vaughn! Stop it. Hey, wake up!” Mollie is no good at this and she knows it. It isn’t in her nature to console, to be gentle. She has zero experience doing it. She climbs on top of him, her long legs on either side of his narrow hips. But before she can question how she could calm him, Vaughn’s eyes fly open and he releases an aggressive, desperate growl, ready for attack.

  In one smooth motion, he flips their bodies, twisting his hands so her grip on him alters and he holds both of her wrists over her head as he lay on top of her.

  “Vaughn?” she asks, scared when his expression takes on anger, perhaps rage, and the flare of his nostrils tells her he could effortlessly kill her with an easy flick of his fingers. “Vaughn, are you awake?”

  And then he blinks, chest slowing between his quick pants, lashes moving like a hummingbird’s wings as he looks down at her. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “You were screaming. Having a nightmare.” The tight hold on her hands loosens and some of Mollie’s fear flees. He only stares as though he can’t process how he’d slipped from whatever terror had consumed him, to staring down at Mollie’s frightened face. When he doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to calm, Mollie pulls her hand free from his grasp and touches his face.

  Her fingers smooth down Vaughn’s high cheek, and he closes his eyes, a soft moan vibrating in his throat. And then, he crashes on top of her, his mouth coming to meet hers as though her lips had called them.

  She thinks of resisting, of pushing him off of her; she is still annoyed, still hurt by his non-disclosures. But when his soft lips move against hers, when he slips his tongue in her mouth, not asking, not suggesting, but taking, all thoughts of resistance flee Mollie’s mind. It has been too long since anyone has touched her and the smell and taste of Vaughn’s body, of the peppermint flavor of his breath from his toothpaste, feels too good to her, is too intoxicating.

  Mollie has wanted Vaughn since that first day at the Dash. She recalls feeling possessive, sure that somehow this strawberry blonde stranger was meant solely for her. And now, finally, she is getting what she wants; what reason tells her really didn’t belong to her.

  He moves his hips, a brief gesture that has Mollie sliding her hands down his back, loving the feel of his skin against her fingers. It is what she’d wanted, just hours before and she does not think about what she is doing, about how this would change whatever was happening between them. There is only Vaughn’s skin under her hands; only his tongue wrestling against hers and the solid outline of his erection pushing into her, against the precariously thin fabric of his boxers.

  Vaughn’s lips leave her mouth, trail a wet path down her neck, dipping against the curve of her breast, his tongue licking her nipple through her loose t-shirt. “God. Oh God.” Mollie doesn’t care that she sounds desperate, that the way Vaughn moves over her has her abandoning any semblance of modesty. She only wants more—his teeth grazing harder, his hips brushing faster as she spreads her knees further apart.

  When she slips her fingers underneath his boxers, to the hard curve of his ass, feeling the firm dips of his lower back and the smooth, flawless skin, Vaughn’s strong arms strains and his attentions on her nipple increase.

  “Do it, baby, touch me.” His voice sounds distant, as though he isn’t sure if he should whisper or demand. “Caroline, I’m sorry.” It is a murmur, something spoken so low that Mollie can barely make sense of what he says. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

  She freezes, removing her hands from his boxers, angling her body so that her nipple was out of his reach. “What did you call me?” He doesn’t move, barely manages to do more than keep his breathing even. Vaughn rests his forehead on her chest and Mollie feels the fine sheen of sweat that slicks across it. “Vaughn?” Her voice is stronger, the name coming out louder.

  The shaking in his arms stops and he lifts up, staring for a long moment at Mollie, and she sees the confusion in his eyes, lines under his lower lids and the ridges that furrows Vaughn’s forehead.

  “Mollie?” It is a question, a request for declaration and she takes that expression, the confusion for what it is. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t put all that passion, all that desperation into his kiss, his touch, for her benefit. Whoever this Caroline was, she is the woman Vaughn wants, the one he is apologizing to. “God. Oh, God.” He doesn’t speak the name for the same reason Mollie had just moments ago. It isn’t released in passion, in a pointless prayer for the sensation of pleasure. From Vaughn, it is humiliation, embarrassment. Shame.

  He jumps off the sofa, taking three steps away as though her laying back, body spread and eager for him, is some sort of insult. “Shit. I’m… Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “You said that.” Mollie sits up, pulls her t-shirt over her exposed stomach before she draws the hem down. He won’t look at her, acts as if the thought of meeting her eyes will somehow make his mistake real. “You just weren’t saying it to me.”

  That forces his gaze to her and Mollie can’t tell if it was shame again clotting in his eyes or anger. He inhales, chest moving and his chin set straight. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” Humiliation began to alter, shift into annoyance. “Who is Caroline?” she asks because her curiosity bore too much in her mind.

  She doesn’t think he will answer her. Just the quick utterance of the name had Vaughn’s shame morphing into something that resembled anger; the frown, the hard narrow of his eyelids, it all flashes across his face. But then he closes his eyes, mutters a low curse under his breath before he sits on the sofa, head back as he looks up at the ceiling.

  “Vaughn?”

  His head moves in her direction, but he doesn’t manage to look directly at her. “She’s… my wife.”

  “I thought you were divorced.” God, Mollie thinks, feeling the quick flash of anger bubbling in her stomach.

  “I’m not married,” Vaughn shakes his head, this time meeting her eyes. “Not for a while.”

  “But you still dream about her? You… you thought.” She exhales, unconsciously slipping her hair behind her ear. “You thought I was her, that you were kissing her.”

  “I’m sorry. Fuck, Mollie, I am.” And he does at least seem remorseful. He keeps fanning his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes as though the tighter he squints, the sooner the memory would dissolve. “Night terrors,” he says. “It’s what the doc at the VA told me.”

  “PTSD?” She is curious, filling the space of quiet with questions she thinks would help him talk. She’d forgotten, just for those few moments with Vaughn on top of her, touching her, that he has seen carnage, has spent years in the thick of it.

  “No. Not exactly.” He rubs his palms down his face. “Just night terrors. They gave me pills, but I can’t take them. I’m not myself if I take them.”

  Mollie moves on the sofa, pulling her knees up before she slides toward him slowly, as though she was approaching a slee
ping dragon and not a traumatized Marine. When she touches his back, Vaughn stiffens but he doesn’t pull away from her. “Can I help?” She hopes there was nothing seductive, suspect in her tone. She wants to try gentleness. For the first time in her life, she doesn’t want to be rough with a man.

  “No.” His answer comes quick, too quick and defensive, but Vaughn lets Mollie pull him toward her, lets her run her fingers against the nape of his neck. He rests his cheek on her shoulder and she continues to comfort him, moving her fingernails on his scalp until slight gooseflesh dots over his skin. She places a chaste, quick kiss on the top of his head and Vaughn looks up, his hand cupping her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s fine,” she says, meaning it. “I understand.”

  Her smile is genuine, sincere, and it seems to have some effect on Vaughn. The fingers on her face drift up until his thumb smooths across her cheek. He leans forward and Mollie can feel his settling breath on her mouth. The peppermint scent returns and she forgets about gentleness. Just for a second, she forgets that there was a woman named Caroline that Vaughn loved. Just then, with that bare expression widening his eyes, Mollie knows that he is looking at her, only her, and she wants it to continue. She wants his mouth again, wants him touching her. She leans forward, hoping that his hooded eyes mean permission, but just as her nose touches his cheek, Vaughn moves away, pushes off of the sofa.

  “No. This can’t happen again.”

  “What?”

  Again, he focuses on every space that doesn’t include her face—the carpet, the .45 on the coffee table, the polish on her toenails. “Maybe… I think maybe we should find someone else to watch you.”

  Deflated, Mollie squeezes her hands into a fist. “You don’t want to guard me. Why? Because you want to kiss me?”

  That gets his attention, brings his head snapping up. “I can’t kiss you, Mollie. I just can’t. I can’t keep a clear head if I’m touching you.”

  He is deflecting, she knows that. He is holding secrets, more nondisclosures close to his chest. Declan had been right. Vaughn has things he won’t share, things that no one would be trusted with, least of all Mollie.

  There are warring thoughts, scattered emotions flitting through her mind. She is angry at his dismissal; yet another rejection that Vaughn has given her and she is so completely turned on she doubts the hard throb between her legs will subside on its own.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she tells him, deciding that rudeness, anger, would ensure him that any hint of what he feels for her would be eradicated. “You don’t have to get someone else. I won’t ever let you touch me again.”

  Mollie Malone is like a drug. An annoying, addictive, impossible-to-ignore drug. Right now, Vaughn thinks that particular drug is being a brat. And by God is she damn good at doing that.

  He tips his beer to his lips, watches her as her friends surround them. She barely manages to give him a second glance all night and it is starting to piss Vaughn off. He isn’t offended, but he knows if they are to be a convincing couple, then she needs to stop ignoring him.

  The table is intimate, set back in the corner of this small pub on the university campus. His gut told him they should not be here, that he should not have let her convince him that attending this pre-semester dinner was in any way a good idea. But she was stubborn, glaring at him, whining about missing her friends and so he relented, would give her this chance to spend time with them. Besides, he reasoned, seeing Vaughn and Mollie together would only convince her friends, that suspicious Irishman, that they were a couple.

  But she would not let him hold her hand—a necessary part of the cover—or even place his hand on the small of her back as he opened the door for her. He understood. He got why she is angry. Another sip of the cold lager helps to push back the memory of her under him, of the sleepy, nearly unconscious rutting against her he’d done two nights before. He feels his face heat, but ignores it, looks toward the door, eyes keen and narrow as he watches the other patrons in the bar. No one appears out of place. No one, in fact, is on their own. Kids from the university are scattered around the small pub, mixing with after-hours office workers and a few guys dressed in maintenance uniforms. To his left, Mollie’s best friend, Layla, he thinks her name is, laughs high and piercing, pulling his attention back to the table.

  They seem like a nice group; though Vaughn can’t help feeling somewhat out of place. For all intents and purposes, he doesn’t fit in. All of Mollie’s friends are younger than him, except Declan, who is closer to his age. The girls are in college and they discuss the upcoming semester, the classes they will take—Mollie and Layla—and the ones they will teach—Autumn and Sayo. To his left, Declan and his friend Donovan discuss their chances at regionals and all of them act like Vaughn is a chaperone and not part of their small circle.

  “Mollie said you own a Crossfit studio.” Donovan, the blonde who keeps exchanging glares with Layla, leans across the crowded table to get Vaughn’s attention.

  “I do. In Maryville.” He adjusts his arms and rests his elbows on the table. “It’s only been open a few months, hell, almost six now that I think about it.”

  Donovan’s nod is quick and Vaughn instantly understands that the guy is making conversation, probably not really interested in his business. “My cousin made it to the finals in the Crossfit Games last summer.” He shrugs as though that accomplishment was no big deal. Vaughn knows better.

  “That’s hard to do.”

  “Well, Jon has always been a big bastard, just not very quick.” Donovan dips a tortilla chip into the salsa in front of him and speaks with his mouth full. “It’s why he could never play rugby. No speed.”

  “You weren’t bad, at the tournament,” Declan says. He hasn’t spoken much to Vaughn tonight; kept his replies and conversation to the one or two word variety. Vaughn has also noticed how Declan watches him and Mollie, how they move around each other, what they say.

  “You mean before I got all those damn penalties?”

  He wouldn’t goad Declan. Mollie swore his interest in her was regulated to some weird sense of obligation and from what Vaughn had noticed tonight—how the Irishman looked at his redheaded girlfriend, how when she spoke, he listened carefully, intently—he figured Mollie was right. This guy didn’t want Mollie, but that didn’t mean that Vaughn would relax around him. He was far too observant; not a good trait in someone who you are trying to keep out of the loop.

  “Yeah, well, we all have to start somewhere.” Declan’s smile is slight, barely there. “A bit of work and you’d be a fair player. You’ve size enough.”

  Vaughn tips his beer to the Irishman but doesn’t comment. Declan’s taken to watching him again, noticing his reactions, especially when Mollie leaves the table and moves toward the bathroom. Vaughn shifts a glance over his shoulder noticing that Declan is again watching him and then he leaves the table.

  Vaughn catches up to Mollie before she disappears down the hall. “Hey.” She pauses, her back to him when he touches her elbow.

  “I’m just going to pee, Semper Fi. I don’t need help with that.”

  He knows her anger is justified, but he can’t have her running off without him. It’s bad enough that she convinced him to take her some place so public where anyone could attack.

  “I figured that, but Mollie, you can’t be on your own.” She challenges him with a glare and he hopes that the silence, the curt responses she’s given him the past two days, will soon end. He hates her irritation, hates that he’s the cause of it. “Besides,” he says, shifting his gaze to the table they just left and finding five pairs of eyes watching them closely. “I thought women went to the bathroom together.”

  “We aren’t like most women.”

  “If you say so.” He slips back, rests against the wall and his hands disappear into his pockets. “Go do your business. I’ll wait for you.”

  Mollie punches the bathroom door with a fist and begins to step through, but hesitates, whirlin
g on him so that he stands up straight, immediately defensive.

  “I can’t do this for very long.”

  “Do what?” He isn’t sure if she means the silence and clipped tone or the way they move around each other ignoring the connection between them. The one they refuse to discuss.

  “You following me around.” She steps closer, but then jerks back when Layla shouts “kiss him already” from across the pub. The little dig doesn’t seem to bother Mollie, but then he’s noticed not much does. Except maybe him. “I can’t live like this.”

  “Listen, I know it’s hard. I know you’re uncomfortable around me and this whole situation sucks.”

  “I’m not—” That she says so low Vaughn isn’t sure he heard her correctly.

  “You’re not what?”

  Just now, she seems not annoyed, not even hurt, but immensely tired and Vaughn’s chest squeezes tight. “I’m not uncomfortable around you. Not really.”

  When she stands against the wall next to him, Vaughn notices how the AC vent above them moves her hair off her face; how it whispers against her neck. “Then will you stop being so pissed at me?” He faces her, resting with his shoulder on the wall. “I know I fucked up. I know I kissed you and touched you—”

  “I touched you back.” Mollie watches her hands, not giving Vaughn the chance to measure her expression. “But it wasn’t me you wanted.” Her head comes up and the tightness in his chest only worsens when he sees that she is hurt, that she is allowing him to see the vulnerability she doesn’t show anyone. “Maybe you were right. Maybe you shouldn’t be the one watching me.” She straightens, steps back as though she’s just realized she’d dropped her ever-present guard. “I can call my dad. Have him send someone else in.”