Finding Serenity (2 page)

She pinched the burning paper between her delicate fingers and mimicked her father’s deep inhale, held the smoke in her lungs before a burning cough choked her. The adults around her laughed, tickled by the site of “Lil Mimi” partaking in such grown up activity.

“Bet you won’t do that again anytime soon, huh, baby?” Her father took the blunt out of Mollie’s shaking fingers.

His laugh was deep, heady but before the ring of it died down in her ears, the sound of the door being ripped off its hinges leveled all humor from the room.

And then, there was chaos.

Before she had completely exhaled, the crowd of drunks scattered at the invasion of DEA agents storming through their small, brick home. She heard the screams of half-naked women, of her father’s Rottweilers growling, the splinter of wood and the shattering of glass.

“Hide, baby. Now,” her father said and Mollie didn’t hesitate. It was a familiar routine; systematic and instinctive. He taught her to flee from cops, to never trust them, to certainly never speak to them. Ministry club business was private and even the slightest twitch of her eye or the smallest shrug of her shoulders could spill secrets she was not supposed to know. It could take him away from her.

Mollie was small. Her bones were petite and thin and so it was easy for her to bypass the activity, to slink unnoticed between the large, swinging hands, the thundering feet as they shoved her father’s nose down on the floor, as they twisted his wrists behind his back. She managed through the pandemonium, out of the house and into the woodshed, hiding beneath the inky darkness of the night. And there, listening to the barking dogs, the boisterous rebuke from her father and his club brothers, Mollie waited.

The shed was set back from their home, against a corner of the five acre lot surrounded by heavy woods. The Compound, her father called it. It was meant to be a safe haven from wandering eyes, from the agencies and laws that sought to catch them in the act; from other clubs angry about territory, about cash.

Cloistered in the small, metal building with its ceiling dipping in the center and the stacks of logs and rows of axes, Mollie curled beneath a gray tarp, praying that she would be ignored, that her father would fetch her with the morning light. He always had before. She counted the rows of logs, watched the small insects tunnel over them, in them and, she waited. She waited until her eyes grew heavy, until the weed and exhaustion dented her fear and she fell asleep.

It was the quiet that woke her, not her father’s gentle nudge or the sensation of him carrying her back into the house. The echoes of the dogs barking, growling, faded. She knew hours had passed when her eyes flew open and she sat up straight, alert, aware of the silence. She had been forgotten, displaced from the chaos.

Mollie stepped over glass, debris, saw that her home had been destroyed in the authority’s eagerness to uncover some great crime, some proof that her father was a bad,
bad
man. Windows were cracked, furniture overturned and the dogs had been locked outside, four large animals bumping together in a single kennel. She heard them whine, the scuff of their feet brushing against the black cage and went to them, left the back door open. It was likely, she figured, that the authorities didn’t care. It didn’t matter to them that she was thirteen and had been left alone to fend for herself.

She wiggled her fingers through the cage, letting Zeus, her father’s largest and most fearsome Rottweiler, sniff and lick her knuckles. She thought that she should keep them there. She didn’t want to round them up, chasing them around the yard if the cops made a reappearance and so Mollie fetched the animals some water and a full helping of food and watched them scarf everything down, ignoring her own stomach as it rumbled.

As night crept closer and the mosquitoes popped and fried against the humming blue light of the bug zapper, Mollie abandoned her fear of anyone returning and led the dogs into the house. They slept with her that night. And the next. She tried to keep busy, to ignore that growing worry of being alone, of her father not returning as the hours passed. Zeus refused to move out of her father’s recliner when she swept up the glass. She tidied her room, made peanut butter and chocolate syrup sandwiches, played with the dogs, chased them through the house when they dug into the freshly filled trash bags and then, night came again.

Laying in her bed with dogs at her knees and across her legs, snoring louder than her father ever had, Mollie let her mind wonder, let that worry bubble, grow until she felt the pinpricks of tears warming her cheeks. Surely, someone should have come by now. Spider, at least. He was her father’s Vice President; he would take over when her father was away. He should have come already. But Mollie didn’t see Spider or one of his old ladies in the days that passed. She didn’t see anyone but the fat, lazy dogs eating their weight in whatever she’d thrown out of the fridge.

Then, on the third day, Mollie woke to the sound of Zeus and his brothers howling their warning as a car pulled up the long, gravel driveway. She wrangled the dogs, moved them into their kennel and peeked through the front room blinds, hoping the shadows of the dim morning light would hide her away, at least give her enough time to sneak back to the shed.

She saw the woman’s legs first—long, tanned and then the elegant gray suit she wore. Mollie closed her eyes, wishing the visitor was a cop, that the pinched frown on the woman’s face was instead the concerned smile of a state trooper.

“Shit.”

She had not seen her mother in four years. She had never been invited to Tennessee for holidays, but as Mollie watched her mother walk up the front porch and then enter the house without knocking—a linen handkerchief in her hand covering the doorknob—she realized that the woman had aged. Years of heavy drinking and chain smoking lined her face. Her blonde hair had faded and was brittle like hay.

“Hi, baby.” Mollie thought the word was forced, that it was wrong somehow for her mother to call her “baby.”

“What do you want?” She could tell by the determined set of her mother’s shoulders that there would be a battle. Mollie was her father’s child, there was no denying it; she had his chin, his eyes, his odd, piercing laugh. But she was also her mother’s daughter. They had the same urge to debate, to be right at all costs.

That day, the battle lines were drawn, mother against daughter and Mollie knew she would get no leeway and certainly no happy reunion.

“I’ve come to take you home.” Her mother moved into the room, eyes fanning over Mollie’s half attempted clean up. There was trash on the kitchen floor that the dogs had ripped into the night before. Mollie had told herself she’d clean it in the morning, but her mother’s abrupt appearance deferred her. The kitchen was clean, but the paint was old, the same pale yellow her mother had painted it years before. Mollie could see it all in her mother’s eyes—nothing had changed since she had left. When the woman’s gaze locked onto the dogs growling through the opened backdoor, she walked toward it, slamming it shut as she glared at the Rottweilers. “Get your things. We’re going home.” She didn’t bother looking at Mollie when she delivered her order.

“I am home.” Mollie didn’t care that her mother’s face was exaggerated, the lines deepened when she frowned.

“This is no place for a thirteen year-old girl, Mollie. Your father has gotten himself into some serious trouble. And unless you want to end up in the system, then I’m your only choice.”

Mollie knew it would have been pointless to argue. Her father had been gone a while, longer than she expected and even the women who straggled about, hoping to be made an official “Old Lady” weren’t there to watch her. And they were
always
there.

She tried to ignore her mother’s pinched look of disgust. Her eyes scanned the yard through the window, to the loose bits of car engines and motorcycle parts that were scattered amid broken fencing and rusted swings. She knew what her mother thought; it’s what everyone thought—kids at school, social workers who attempted to pull Mollie from the only home she’d ever known: that they were trash. Mollie lived in squalor, they all thought. She was surrounded by a criminal element and needed rescuing.

But they didn’t know what family was. They didn’t know that Mollie was safer at the Compound than she would have been anywhere else in the world. They didn’t know what it was to have fifteen burly men watch over you like you were their own. They didn’t know that her father always made sure she’d completed her homework, that her teeth were cavity free, that when he hugged her, she could feel how much he loved her, how he would have killed to protect her without a moment’s hesitation.

They didn’t know that family was more than blood and history, but trust, companionship and being there every day.

“Let’s go,” her mother said, her voice stern, demanding.

Mollie let her anger calm, let it collect and pool into her heart. It would have been pointless to fight the woman on this. It would most likely mean more trouble than Mollie could handle without backup.

“I’m only staying until Daddy is out.” She didn’t like her mother’s small sneer or how her smile echoed concession.

“Sure, baby, sure.”

Mollie followed the woman away from the whining dogs, from the cluster of rubbish and trash that circled her home.

Cavanagh, Tennessee

Ten Years Later…

Layla will not shut up.

Mollie nods to herself knowing her best friend cannot see her through the phone, but the gesture is an old habit, familiar like the jarring voice that keeps yammering in her ear. The silver Galaxy cell phone is cold against her cheek and Mollie berates herself for not bringing earbuds on her pointless little road trip. Feeling careless for using her phone while driving, she hits the speaker button and sets the phone in her cup holder. Her best friend is still talking— “did he hug you when you got there?” and “how close did he stand to you?” slip out before Mollie can offer a single reply. She stops Layla when her friend starts a new mass of queries; these having something to do with how many times Vaughn Winchester frowned.

“Layla, he didn’t really say much.”

“He had to say
something
,” Layla insists. “You drove half an hour to bring him his hoodie.”

The quick squeal of Mollie’s breaks matches her best friend’s whine when she throws her car into park. She lets her breath come slow, easy, as Layla continues to fire off a dozen more questions, none of which Mollie is able to answer. When Layla starts in again, this time asking something about Vaughn’s facial expressions, Mollie interrupts her.

“He said thanks, but I could tell he was uncomfortable with me being there.”

Vaughn had, in fact, been polite, if not a bit distant to Mollie.
That certainly hadn’t been the case last fall when she first laid eyes on him at the starting line of the annual Dirty Dash endurance race. One glimpse at him, his presence trumpeted in with the boom of his deep voice, and Mollie had a solitary, instant thought:
Mine.

He had a domineering physique, a stature that overpowered; thick, corded arms and a wide chest, penetrating cobalt eyes and strawberry blonde hair that made Mollie instantly eager to discover if it was as soft as it looked. His face was a miracle, a ridiculous paradigm of All-American Man—strong, angular jaw that was sharp like a razor’s edge and high, defined cheekbones. He kept scruff on his face and when she saw him today, that scruff had grown fuller, thicker and only made him look all the more handsome. At the Dash, he came in like a superhero, pumping the runners into a frenzy before the race and then rescuing Mollie when she fell and broke her finger. He even gave her his USMC hoodie when the cold bit into her bones and the pain in her throbbing finger left her shaking.

That day, Mollie thought she felt something electric snaking between them. It was a connection she was sure she wasn’t inventing; something she wanted to explore further. He’d never been to a rugby match and being a good Cavanagh girl, Mollie invited him to the match before regionals. She’d admit that her motives were ulterior. She couldn’t have cared less about the match, but wanted to see him again, hoped it would lead to him asking her out. He’d loved the game, seemed to enjoy her company, even exchanged numbers, but when she subtly mentioned them catching a coffee the next weekend, Vaughn begged off, saying he’d be out of town for at least two months. After that, she’d done something she’d never admit to Layla or any of her other friends. She found him on Facebook and took to pathetically stalking his account; not friending him, not pursuing, but still keeping tabs on him and that made her feel like an immature idiot.

Just a few days ago, during her morning check of his account, Mollie saw that he had returned to Maryville. A quick “So good to be home” update on his status, and she let slip to Layla that he was back. That had been mistake One. Her best friend meant well, but she was relentless and bossy, and the twin insistences of Layla’s encouragement and her own impatience that Vaughn had not called her, found Mollie jumping in her car with his hoodie on the passenger seat.