Chapter Thirty-Four
Molly
Study. Focus. Build myself.
Move on.
It doesn’t mean a damn thing that Evan Wilder lied through his teeth when he said he loved me.
That he cooked me a steak dinner while I was using his shower.
That he helped me study accounting until I actually felt comfortable with it.
None of that matters. Because at the core of it all, I’m still me.
Still Molly ‘Molotov’ Rogers and I’m moving on from that lying, heart-breaking, handsome asshole.
Fuck him.
He can’t hurt me.
That pain in my chest? The wetness in the corner of my eyes… and on my cheeks… and, fuck, dampening the front of my shirt?
It’s nothing.
He’s nothing.
I show up at the coffee shop with my backpack, my textbooks, and that lie I keep feeding myself burning in my gut like a biblical case of heartburn.
I’m not hurting.
The cafe smells like espresso and cinnamon and buttery pastry; it’s quiet enough to think, bright enough to pretend I’m fine, that I don’t have to see the lies and danger and heartbreak lurking in every shadow.
I claim a corner table by the window, shrug out of my jacket, give a glance to everyone around warning them to keep their distance and their opinions to themselves, and lay everything out with the precision that usually calms me: laptop, notebook, highlighters, index cards, and my phone.
There’s a text message to Rabid that sits saved in my phone, unsent, held back because of heartbreak and the pain of knowing that once I throw this message out into the cellular ether, the pain that I went through becomes even more real — We need to talk. Evan isn’t who he says he is.
It’s not just the suffering swirling inside my chest that I’m afraid of; it’s knowing that I may have put the people I care about in danger. That the people who have loved and trusted me for years, people that I asked to trust me and let Evan in, are in danger because they trusted me.
I shake my head, release a slow sigh, and open my accounting book.
The first page I see might as well be a fist.
A little notecard falls out. On it, in Evan’s chicken scratch scrawl, are the words “You got this, Molls.”
And as I take that notecard in hand, read it, feel the wetness overflows the corners of my eyes before I rip it in half while visions of Evan smiling as he wrote this and snuck it in my book swirl in my wet-hazy vision, as thoughts of Evan’s mouth, his voice, his smile, his touch, the way he made me feel like someone who mattered overwhelm me, a sound comes out of me I've never heard myself make before.
Then the anger comes in right behind it, sharp as broken glass.
I let him in.
He arranged a secret study date. He brought my textbook. He bought color-coded index cards. He sat across from me for hours and never once made me feel stupid. And I thought — I actually thought — that was just who he was.
That son of a bitch. That asshole who sold me a story — kind, caring, responsible, normal Evan — when the reality is he isn’t even Evan, he’s some fucking asshole who goes by the road name Gator and reports to some creep named Midnight who wants to kill everyone I care about.
This is what I get for letting someone in. For trusting someone. For loving someone.
I should have known.
I slam the book shut.
The sound snaps through the quiet cafe, a hard slap that turns one or two heads. I just sit there, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth, slowly, trying to calm myself, trying to convince my body I’m not back in my bedroom, staring at his phone, feeling my world split in half.
I pick up a pen. Set it down. Pick it up again.
I can’t do this.
Not right now.
Not when the act of studying feels like poking a wound.
I shove the book back into my bag so fast I nearly tear the zipper, grab my coffee before it can spill, and stand.
My chair scrapes the floor. Too loud. More people stare.
I don’t care — I meet their eyes and return their staring with a look that I hope teaches them to never stare at crying, heartbroken strangers again.
I need noise. Motion. Something that isn’t this quiet space where my brain can run wild.
I need work.
The Noble Fir will give me a task and a rhythm and a reason to keep my hands busy and my heart and brain pacified just enough that I don’t feel like I’m literally ripping in half. It will let me be Molly behind the bar — the version of me that can survive anything if she just keeps moving.
So I go.
By the time I push through the doors to The Noble Fir, the place is already alive — music humming, voices rising, the air thick with beer and wood and leather.
The familiar chaos settles in my chest and over my heart like a psychotic weighted blanket, and my body relaxes a fraction.
Not because I’m okay, but because at least I know how to function here.
I hang my bag behind the bar, pour myself a shot of whiskey, down it, and then line up the clean glasses like they’re soldiers.
If I keep moving, I don’t have to think. Don’t have to feel.
Riley’s already setting up tables. She looks up, spots my face, and her smile flickers. “Hey, is everything alright? You’re here early.”
“I’m fine,” I say, cutting in too fast. Instead of looking at her, I keep my eyes down and reach for the tap handles. Maybe if she can’t see my eyes, she can’t see the lie.
Tank is at the end of the bar, looming like a wall with a beard and a history of childhood trauma. Mayhem is mid-story to Reaper, hands flying like he’s conducting an orchestra of chaos. Everything is abnormally normal.
Except me.
“Whiskey. Neat,” Tank grunts. “And a black coffee.”
“On it.” My voice comes out steady. My hands aren’t.
The bottle clinks against the glass. Too hard. I pour anyway, willing my fingers not to shake. I slide it across the counter, and Tank’s eyes narrow — barely a movement, but he sees everything.
“You sick?” he says, like it’s an accusation. It’s not possible for him to express genuine emotion, concern, or care; everything happens in shades of disgruntlement. And right now, he’s at a Florence Nightingale level.
“No.” I wipe the bar in a straight line. Then another. “Just tired.”
“That so?”
“What else would it be? And what do you even care?”
“I didn’t say I cared, Molly. Only asked a damn question.”
“And I gave you a damn answer. Now, can you let me work in peace?”
“Only if you promise to let me do the same. Didn’t ask for no damn life story from you. Or an attitude. If you stab someone, go for Mayhem. He’d enjoy it.”
I should laugh. I manage a thin exhale that sounds like a wheeze from a dying chihuahua.
Then the front door opens again, and the bell chimes, and my body goes rigid like a dog hearing a squirrel on the roof.
Claire enters. She moves through the room like she owns it — because she does, in her own way. Not patched, but nobody mistakes her for background. She takes one look at me and angles straight for the bar.
I put on my face. The bartender face. The nothing touches me face.
“Hey,” she says, casual.
“Hey.” I reach for a glass that doesn’t need polishing and start polishing it anyway.
Claire’s gaze tracks my hands. “You’re gonna rub a hole through that.”
“Busy getting ready for a busy day.”
“It’s a Tuesday and we haven’t even opened yet.”
“People drink on Tuesday mornings.”
Claire leans her forearms on the bar, close enough that I can smell her perfume — clean, expensive, dangerous. “Molly, you need to talk to me.”
My throat tightens. I keep polishing. “Talk to you about what?”
“You don’t seem well. What’s wrong?” she says, and her tone is gentle, which somehow makes it worse.
“I’m fine.”
Claire doesn’t move. And I don’t move, either, even though I desperately want to — her eyes keep me pinned in place. “No, you’re not.”
The glass slips in my hands. It doesn’t fall, because I catch it. Barely. It shakes in my grip, and when I set it down on the counter, it lands so wobbly it nearly falls over.
“Molly,” she says quietly, “talk to me.”
Something inside me fractures.
Not a loud break. A slow one. Like ice splitting under pressure.
I suck in a breath and it comes out wrong — shaky. I blink fast, furious at the sting behind my eyes that won’t go away no matter how much I fight it. It just intensifies until all I see is a hazy shade of sorrow.
“Don’t,” I whisper, because if she keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to fall apart right here in front of everyone. And I can’t do that. Not in front of people who know me. Not when I swore I’d never put myself in this position. I know better. At least I should’ve.
So why the fuck did I do this to myself?
Why did I let myself fall in love?
She reaches out and places her hand on my arm. It’s gentle, and still, I feel like I’ve been struck. “Tell me what’s going on.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
I try again, and this time the words come in a rush I can’t control. “I found out something… terrible. Personal. And I can’t… I can’t talk about it. Not here. Not… I… Claire, it hurts…”
My voice breaks on the last word. Hot tears spill over, humiliating and unstoppable. I turn away fast, pretending to reach for a bottle, but my hands stay empty and my pain just burns a river down my cheeks.
Claire rounds the bar in one smooth movement and grabs my shoulder — not hard, just enough to anchor me. “Hey. Come here. Molly, it’s OK.”
“I’m fine,” I lie through my teeth, swiping at my face like that’ll erase it.
“You’re not.” Claire guides me toward the back corner by the sink, out of the main line of sight. “Go home.”
The word lands like a punch.
I flinch. Home. My apartment. Evan’s door across the hall. Him. His lies. His phone lighting up with that message that is branded into my brain.
“I can’t,” I say, too quickly. “I can’t go home.”
Claire studies me. “Why?”
Because it feels contaminated.
Because if I go there, I’ll see him everywhere, and I’ll either scream or break or do something I can’t take back.
“I just —” I swallow hard. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Claire’s grip tightens on my shoulder. She’s not rough, but she’s not letting me slide. “Then you sit in my office and you breathe for ten minutes. Or you go to the clubhouse kitchen and eat something. But you’re not pouring drinks while you look like you’re about to collapse.”
“I’m working,” I say. Stubborn. Desperate. Wanting to believe myself. Wanting to believe that this sensation of having my heart in a bench vise is just a passing feeling. “I’m fine.”
Claire’s eyes sharpen. “Molly, do you really think I’m going to buy that?”
I wipe my cheeks again, forcing air into my lungs. Forcing the mask back on. “Please, Claire. Just let me work.”
For a long second, she holds my gaze.
Then she nods once, tight, controlled — and with enough compassion in her eyes that seeing it makes me want to cry all over again knowing that once she finds out what I’ve done, I’ll probably never see a look like that from her again. “Okay. But I’m keeping an eye on you.”
“I don’t need you to keep an eye on me.”
“This is not a discussion, Molly,” she says. Then steps away as if she didn’t just see me crack.
I turn back to the bar.
The room has kept moving without me. It always does. Chatter. Laughter. The clinking of glasses. Riley ferrying orders. People shouting orders, shouting things obscene, things hilarious, things insane — Mayhem, mostly — while the bar’s stereo system fills the gaps with music.
I pour beers. I make whiskey sours. I smile at customers like my heart isn’t bleeding out behind my ribs.
But every time the front door opens, my pulse spikes.
And behind every order, every laugh, every stupid normal second, one thought keeps circling like a vulture: if Evan really is working for an enemy MC, then the Devils are in danger.
And soon enough, I’ll have to face that truth or watch everyone I love die.