Where’s Molly

Nine Years Ago
2013

“Jesus, you’re so fucking sexy. When did Brent hire you? If I had known, I’d have visited my cousin sooner and already have you naked in my bed.”

He’s definitely an incel. I can’t imagine a remark like that working on a single woman when he’s missing his two front teeth and his pale skin is pinkened and covered in scabs from drug use.

I lean heavily on the counter separating us, staring at him like he’s a fly that’s expecting me to be impressed with its crooked wings when it has shit smeared across its upper lip.

“Please tell me, how many women have you successfully gotten in your bed with that pickup line?”

He grins, accentuating the blond peach fuzz peppered above his mouth. I bet he thinks it makes him look more like a man.

“I got one in there right now. But I’ll gladly kick her out just for you.”

Disgusting.

I hate this fucking job. I hate my boss. And evidently, I hate his family, too.

I’ve been working in this god-awful mechanic shop for a month and have been sexually harassed more times than I can count. I’m at my wit’s end, but I need the money.

“No, thanks,” I quip. “I’ll let Brent know you’re here to see him.”

His smile falls, replaced with a dark expression. I give him my back before something foul falls out of his mouth—worse than what already has.

The small shop is nestled in a run-down town deep in the mountains of Montana. Luckily, I haven’t seen my face plastered anywhere here, and the media has moved on to another world event that only affirms this planet has gone to hell.

Now that I no longer have Layla, I wonder why I even bother walking amongst the living. But I refuse to have fought so hard for my life just to throw it away. I can only call it pure stubbornness at this point.

“Brent, your cousin is here,” I call into his office, standing firmly outside the door. Every time I go in, he asks me to shut it behind me, and it always ends in a highly uncomfortable situation. Most times, he hits on me. Other times, he finds a reason to berate me, then tops it off with a lovely threat.

He knows I’m running from something since I admitted it’s too dangerous for me to have a driver’s license, and he loves to use that as collateral.

“Which one?”

“He didn’t say,” I respond woodenly.

He sighs, the sound laced with irritation.

“Then how do I know he’s my cousin?” he snaps. “You know damn well I got the police up my ass. And the first one goin’ under the bus is you, little girl.”

And there’s the threat.

“I’ll go ask,” I mumble.

He mutters an insult beneath his breath while I trudge back toward the creep. He’s fiddling with the car scents, taking one off the rack, sniffing it, and deliberately returning it to the wrong row, all the while wearing a smart-ass smirk on his ugly face. I clench my teeth, anger flaring. Brent’s yelled at me several times for not having the scents arranged correctly when customers do exactly that.

“What’s your name?” I ask, attempting to keep my expression neutral. Last thing I want him to know is that his endeavor to piss me off is working.

His answering grin is evil, and I hate the way that makes me want to retreat in on myself. I’ve seen that very face far too often. And what comes after.

“You need my social security card, too? Just get my fucking cousin.”

It takes effort to refrain from spitting on him the way he just spit on me. Keeping the saliva in his mouth with that gap must be impossible.

“He wants your name first,” I insist.

“I ain’t doing shit— Brent! Brent, get the fuck out here!” he yells loudly.

Fuck.

My heart speeds as I hear my boss’s door slam shut behind him, followed by his angry footfalls. Panic unleashes, and I’m assaulted by the memories of Rocco charging at me with the same heavy steps.

Brent stomps up to the cash register, fire in his brown eyes. Sweat gathers along my hairline while I fight to stay in the present. Except, I don’t know that reality is much better.

“The fuck you yellin’ for?” he snaps, glaring at the man for a beat, before turning it onto me. This time, I do shrink away.

My boss is a big man. And he’s mean.

Distantly, I hear the chime of another customer entering the shop, though none of us acknowledge them.

“This little bitch refused to get you after I asked nicely. She’s fucking disrespectful!”

Being called a bitch is certainly nothing new and certainly doesn’t hurt my feelings, but him risking my job is absolutely uncalled for.

My mouth falls open, a protest building on my tongue. However, it instantly dissipates when Brent’s accusing stare swings onto me.

“That true?”

“I-I was just trying to get his name like you asked,” I defend myself weakly.

“Bullshit. She was fucking grilling me, man!”

“Shut up, Bud,” Brent barks, though he keeps his fiery gaze on mine.

The familiarity between the two is apparent. Guess that means he is Brent’s cousin, which only makes my situation worse.

“Go into my office and wait for me,” he orders darkly.

The intention in his eyes is unmistakable. If I do as he says, I’ll be walking out with one less piece of myself intact.

I nod, the movement jerky, as I turn toward his office. There’s also an exit this way, and if I want to save myself, then it’s imperative I take it.

Another job bites the dust, and I still have little money to show for it.

Devastation mingles with my growing anxiety. I’ll have to find another town and beg for an illegal job, yet again. And the likelihood of finding a boss who’s a decent human being is low. I haven’t had one thus far and have gone through four jobs now.

I’m exhausted. So fucking exhausted.

“The dumb bitch can’t even arrange these right,” his cousin—Bud—snaps. “The strawberry is mixed with the…”

I don’t hear the rest of what he says, and I don’t need to. He only cemented the necessity to get the fuck out of here.

I speed-walk directly toward the exit and charge out of there without a backward glance. Sunlight pierces my eyes, though I hardly register the sharp pain. I have tunnel vision, and the only thing on my mind is getting as far away from Engines & Oil as possible.

By the time I reach the bus stop, I’ve no idea how much time has passed. I don’t remember a single second of it, nor the entire ride to the women’s shelter I’ve been staying at.

With clouded thoughts, I eventually make it to the shelter. There aren’t many women boarded here, thankfully, but I am required to have group therapy sessions with them to stay.

It’s incredibly uncomfortable. At least they’re like me here, traumatized, and just want to be left alone. And it helps I get my own little apartment, though I am required to pay a small fee to keep it. The shelter’s meant to give survivors a form of independence away from their abusers, and it’s considerably cheaper than renting regular apartments around the area.

I reach my door and nearly shove through it to get inside, convinced Brent followed me and is right behind me. Though I didn’t see a single soul, it still feels like someone was right on my tail the entire way home.

Only when the door is shut and locked do I throw myself against it and release a heavy exhale.

I’m incapable of feeling relieved when I’m in near-constant danger, but at least I’m not alone in that office with Brent, possibly on the brink of being assaulted again.

That… that’s honestly all I could ask for at this very moment. That, and to not have been followed home by one of those creeps.

Another exhale, and then a sob is bursting free. I slap a hand over my mouth, yet it’s a hopeless attempt to contain the outcry.

Soon, I’m overcome with them, and I’m no longer capable of standing. I slide down the door, my shoulders shaking and chest heaving as wail after wail rebounds against my palm.

Tears stream down my cheeks in rivers, and for the longest while, there’s no thought behind my agony.

I’m not even sure why I’m crying anymore. Because of what could’ve happened? Or because I have to start over once again? Maybe it’s because no matter how hard I try to get my feet firmly beneath me, they always get kicked out.

I just… I can’t take this anymore.

I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to exist. And I wish with every ounce of my soul that I was never born. That I had never been brought into a world so cold, violent, and full of heartache.

And the worst part is that even though I feel dead inside, I’m painfully aware of how alive I am. I dread every night when I fall asleep because I know I have to wake up again and do this life for another day.

I just don’t want to be here. That’s all I want.

The sobs wane, but the tears are constant. Snot leaks down my nose no matter how hard I sniff, and eventually, my butt begins to ache from sitting on the unforgiving tile for so long.

Forcing my eyes open, I glance around at my abysmal home. The small cube of stained white tile around the front door transitions into a thin brown carpet. The walls are freshly painted white, though it doesn’t bring much light into the dark room.

Unlike the house I grew up in, it doesn’t reek of cigarette smoke, body fluids, and grime. It’s just old. And it’s the nicest home I’ve ever had. But it’s still not mine.

Which is why I kept it bare, save for the standard furniture that came with it. No decorations. No personality. No… life.

Sighing, I wipe away the tears and force myself to stand. Group therapy isn’t until later, but they usually set out a tray of sweets beforehand. At this moment, a chocolate brownie is the only thing I have to look forward to.

I blink away the residual wetness in my eyes, then peek through the eyehole to ensure no creepy ex-bosses or cousins are outside. Once I’m confident the coast is clear, I unlock the door and swing it open. Something black and sturdy clinks to the ground, and my heart instantly drops.

A journalist found me. Or a stranger that’s planning on reporting me to the police. Different scenarios shuttle through my brain at lightning speed. Where they saw me. If they’re waiting somewhere for me.

How long do I have to escape? Or is it too late?

It feels as if I’m having a heart attack as I shakily bend over and grab the card. It’s metal, which surprises me first. Then, I flip it over to find the word Legion in bold, gold-foiled letters. Below is a phone number and nothing else.

No real name. No job title. Nothing.

But they look really fucking important.

Heart in my throat, I glance around suspiciously, still seeing no one, but not trusting that in the slightest. Other apartments surround the shelter, and the street is directly to my right. There are many places for them to hide.

Quickly, I retreat into my apartment and slam the door shut, relocking it again. Then, I distractedly make my way to my bed and slump down on the edge of it.

What the fuck is Legion? And what could they possibly want with me?

For a good five minutes, I argue with myself. To call them or run like my life depends on it and hope to God this Legion never finds me again. It doesn’t look like a business card for a journalist or government official. And part of me is aware that if either one of those people found me, they’d be knocking on that door, not leaving me some obscure, ominous card.

Plus, it’s incredibly fancy. It screams money.

I’m fairly confident a cop or news reporter doesn’t make this much cash. Not enough to justify wasting it on a card, anyway.

I growl, growing irritated with myself. Without further thought, I slide my prepaid flip phone out of my back pocket, dial the number, and press call before I can talk myself out of it.

Curiosity won, and like a cat, it may get me killed.

The ringing stops, replaced by a sinfully delicious voice. Deep and raspy, yet toneless.

“I was hoping you’d call.”

My lips part, so incredibly unprepared that I’m at a loss for words.

Oddly, he waits. Doesn’t even question if I’m still on the line.

After a few moments, I get my shit together long enough to eke out, “Who is this?”

“Legion,” he answers simply.

“And what do you want? How did you find me?” My tone grows increasingly aggressive with each word, the gears in my brain switching from shock to suspicion.

“I saw you at the mechanic and witnessed what transpired between you and your boss. You looked like someone who needed help, so I followed you home. Of course, I didn’t want to make you feel more unsafe than I already have, so I let you decide to make contact.”

I blink, unable to formulate a single coherent thought.

“Would you like my help?” he asks evenly.

“I— What does that entail?”

“A new life where you would be safe, comfortable, and provided for.”

Again, I blink, my mouth now hanging open. Then, my lip curls.

“You’re a freak, aren’t you? Expecting me to fuck you in return or something? You think I’ll willingly walk into another prison, you sick fuck? Go to hell.”

I hang up the phone before he can respond, my hands trembling violently. I feel sick to my stomach, and all those old memories resurface.

Doting on men and offering them pleasure at the expense of my own sanity. I was ‘taken care of and provided for’. I had a roof over my head and food in my stomach at Francesca’s house, too.

But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t dying a slow death. That I wasn’t being tortured alive and driven fucking insane.

I would rather be independent and struggle than have a monster provide for me. At least when I’m alone, the only demons I’m fighting are my own.

The phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts. I jump, the phone tumbling to the ground and flying under the bed.

Cursing to myself, I get on my knees and fish it out, only to see Unknown flashing across the screen.

I’m tempted to smash the phone beneath my foot just so he can never reach me again. But something in my gut tells me to answer it, even if it’s to curse him out again.

Just before the last ring, I flip it open and answer it.

“Listen, asshole, I don’t want you call—”

“I assure you, I want nothing from you.” His deep, calm voice chases away the rest of my threat.

“W-what? Why would you do this? No sane person would offer something like that with no strings attached.”

“I only want you to go to a specific location and meet one of my trusted men. He’s safe, and he’ll set you up with a brand-new life. I’ll drop a car off for you with the keys inside, the location on the GPS, and plenty of cash for you to do with as you please. It’s your choice to go, and no one will force you. No sex. No requirements outside of that. I promise you.”

This is a joke. A prank. It has to be.

The sigh from the other end of the phone is almost discernible.

“I recognized you, Molly. And I can see from a mile away that you’re not in a good place. I won’t tell a single soul about your identity or location. I just want to help you get somewhere safe, that’s all.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. FUCK.

My heart can’t take this abuse. It’s only a matter of seconds before it gives out on me completely.

“Why?” I snap, my flight mode beginning to kick in. Someone did recognize me. And that could be catastrophic.

“It’s what I do,” he responds.

Not good enough of an answer.

“What’s the catch?”

“You tell no one where you’re going or about what my friend will do for you. Nothing else. Just your silence.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We will disappear without a trace before anyone could find us, and never be at your disposal again.”

“At my disposal?” I repeat dumbly.

“You will come to learn that I am a valuable friend, should you ever need me again.”

He speaks with a poise and confidence unlike anything I’ve heard before. It’s almost as intimidating as it is comforting. An odd combination, and one that I feel is deadly.

I would be incredibly stupid to entertain this. Meeting with a complete stranger who is making an offer that seems far too good to be true. Especially when I’ve been recognized. This could be a trap. A ploy to use me for something nefarious.

No—worse. He could be connected to Francesca and try to bring me back to that house.

“Who do you work for?”

“I’m my own boss.”

“Did anyone hire you?”

“No, Molly. I do the hiring.”

Why do I believe him? No one in their right mind would consider something like this.

But my mind hasn’t been right for over five years now. And at this point, what do I have to lose?

My life?

What life?

“You will have a new identity, a home, a job, a whole new life. There are very few people who deserve this more than you.”

It’s like he can sense I’m on the edge of a cliff and just needed one final push.

“Okay,” I rush out, almost as if my mouth is racing the rational part of my brain. “But the second I feel something is off, I’m running.”

Another whisper of a sigh. This one sounded relieved.

“Of course. I’ll text you further directions. You won’t regret this, Molly.”

The line goes dead, and slowly, I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at the screen blankly.

My mind isn’t racing. I’m only plagued with a single thought.

What the fuck am I getting myself into?