Finding Serenity (17 page)

“What is it?”

His hands move away from his keys and toward her fingers resting against the seat. “You went from a biker’s compound to a warden’s.”

Mollie smiles, realizing she’d never thought of things that way. But Vaughn is right. Her childhood, her life, hadn’t been normal. She doubts it ever would be. Across the driveway Mollie sees Katie standing at the window, expression hard, frowning as she glares at Mollie sitting next to Vaughn in his Jeep.

“And a Sergeant that never let me have yard time.” Her nod in Katie’s direction has Vaughn’s gaze moving toward the house.

“How is it possible you turned out the way you did?”

“How did I turn out?”

He shrugs, smiles though Mollie thinks he doesn’t want her to see it. “Sweet. Fierce.” He looks back at her and is no longer smiling. “Strong.”

She lets the look pass, not willing to get caught up in him, in the way just being near him makes her feel. She’s just a job to him and he’d held that big detail from her for months. “I was lucky enough to have some very good friends that helped me break out of prison every once in a while.”

Vaughn shakes his head, taking a hold of Mollie’s hand as though it is unintentional, subconscious. “I know you’re worried about them.” The squeeze on her hand intensifies. “We won’t let anyone get hurt.” She wants to believe him, hopes that he is able to keep his word. Vaughn cranks the engine, gaze returning toward the house. “Like I said, Mollie.” He looks back at her, head still shaking as though he is amazed. “You are a bad ass woman.”

“I had to be.”

The bed is larger than the one at her apartment. The sheets are soft, at least 1000 thread count and Mollie snuggles in deeper, enjoying the brief touch of opulence the down comforter and billowy pillows provide.

The hotel is one of the finest in Cavanagh, in an area Mollie doesn’t often visit. The tourist square is four miles from the university, right near the interstate and features a line of hotels, restaurants and a mall that she and her friends spent most of their prepubescent summers frequenting.

Their room is large; contains a den, kitchenette, massive bathroom with a spa tub and a separate bedroom. She did not disagree with Vaughn when he offered the bed to her. She had yet to relinquish all of her anger at him, but had softened somewhat when he defended her in front of her mother. Only her friends had ever done that and Mollie liked how easily he came to her aid, which she suspected had little to do with any job requirements he may have had.

Still, she is slightly annoyed with him, though she does hold some semblance of annoyance with herself. Vaughn is a beautiful man. He is strong, independent, loyal and despite him withholding the true nature of his interest in her, she cannot completely erase the attraction she feels toward him.

Earlier tonight, after her shower, she walked into the living room to find Vaughn sitting on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees. He was shirtless and taking quick sips at a water bottle while “The Walking Dead” played on the television. She allowed herself to watch him, enjoying the sharp planes of his bare back, the deep ridges of muscle that bent and flexed when he drank his water. His skin was smooth, save for the three raised scars on his shoulder, deep and old, like something had gashed at him viciously. It was the first time she got to see all of his tattoos. There was a large, red dragon on his back with tails and wings stretched out toward his neck and onto his shoulders. On his bicep was a koi, gorgeously detailed with bright orange and green ink. It was beautiful artwork on a nearly perfect canvas.

“Carl, stop whining,” he told the boy on the television and Mollie thought she heard him call the kid “Wyatt Twerp,” but then he seemed to sense her behind him and looked over his shoulder to stare at her before he grabbed a t-shirt.

“You done with the bathroom?” he’d asked and she grunted an affirmative reply. “Good. I’m gonna grab a shower before you go to sleep.” He stood then, stretching out his arms and Mollie had to blink three times to clear the image from her mind. For a second she wondered what it would feel like to have those arms wrapped around her waist, to run her hands over those tattoos, that wonderful back, but then Vaughn cleared his throat and she realized he’d caught her staring.

“Night,” she’d said, escaping into the bedroom, cursing herself and the obvious pleasure Vaughn’s smirk gave her.

She had only been under her covers for a few seconds when he leaned against the door frame, polishing off his water. “I’ve got the door locked.” She turned over, giving him her back and quickly pulled up the comforter when it slipped off her thigh. She gave him a thumbs up, not trusting herself to look at him again, not certain if what she was feeling could be tamped down by her annoyance at him and herself.

“If you need anything, just knock on the door.” His voice came closer and Mollie tensed when she realized he stood at the foot of the bed.

“Okay,” she hurried to say, hoping he wouldn’t linger.

“You need any—”

“Nope. I’m good.”

She heard him come closer, his socked-feet dragging against the carpet and then the bed dipped when he leaned over her and she felt a familiar coolness of metal against her arm.

“You know how to use this, right?” She did. How many times had her father taught her about the safety on a Colt .45? How many times had she shot one? When he didn’t leave, didn’t seem satisfied with her quick nod, Mollie grabbed the gun and rolled over.

In a quick, fluid motion, she pushed the slide release, slid the magazine out and eyed the chamber to see if it was loaded. Then, she slipped the magazine back in, heard the click and grabbed the top slide, pulling it back with her free hand to rack a bullet into the chamber.

“Cocked and loaded,” she told Vaughn, enjoying the way his eyes were on her face and not at the gun in her hand as she thumbed the safety off.

“Good.” He pulled his top lip behind his teeth and nodded. Mollie could tell he wasn’t there to discuss the gun, to see if she wanted anything from him before he slipped into a shower. “Good,” he said again, standing up. That quick thrust of electricity she always felt when he touched her, skimmed across her arm when he grazed it and this time, Vaughn did not hide his reaction. He felt it too, she knew he did. His eyes lowered and his lip again disappeared behind his teeth. The look he’d given her that day on the pitch came back, this time with the quiet heat of his gaze eating up her features, staring for a few weighted seconds at her mouth before he stood, backing away from her. “Well, if you need me…” he trailed off, walking backward before Mollie turned on her side, slipped the safety back on and stuffed the gun under her pillow.

That had been at least two hours ago and Mollie could still smell the scent of Vaughn’s shampoo, of his masculine soap, funnel from the attached bathroom into the bedroom. The television had gone silent an hour before and the rooms were too quiet, too eerily still.

Sleep would not come. She lay on that wonderfully comfortable bed wishing she were back at her apartment, deciding clearly she must be insane if this decadent mattress and these luxurious linens could not offer the same sense of calm that her lumpy bed did. Her sheets were cheap, of the Wal-Mart variety, and her pillows were flat from time and use. She should not want to be at her apartment where a faceless intruder could be waiting to slip into the dark and teach her father a lesson by slitting her throat.

But as she turned over yet again, Mollie felt the quick hint of melancholy; the desire to be on her uneven mattress or next to her best friend’s snoring furball of a dog just to grab a few quick winks. This room was too comfortable, too still and she thought about calling Layla despite the late hour just to hear a friendly voice. Earlier, she’d explained to her friend that Vaughn was taking her away for the weekend to Maryville and she’d been unable to stomach how easily the lie had left her mouth. It was guilt worse than the Kenya Washington debacle and Mollie wasn’t sure if she could maintain the illusion that she and Vaughn were a couple. He’d insisted that she did, but when Layla started digging, asking more and more questions about how’d she’d gone from fixing his shoulder at the tournament to a weekend trip so quickly, Mollie had been forced to be flippant, to end their conversation. Now she felt terrible; she is restless, tired, and doesn’t think things can get much worse.

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.