Twenty-Eight
FANG
“What about this one?” I hold a soft blue knitted sweater out toward Molly.
She crumples her nose. “I don’t like cats.”
Turning it toward myself, I study the overly cute embroidered design on the front and nod.
“I can see your point.” Why girls’ clothing has to be a sensory overload of bright colors and sickly-sweet imagery, I don’t know.
Some girls like diggers, and bikes, and climbing trees. Where’s the stuff for them?
I look about the store, then grab Molly by the hand. “Come on.”
She skips along beside me, wet sneakers making a squelching noise on the vinyl floor of the store while she tries to keep up with my long strides.
I cut a path through the toy section and notice a woman I’d seen earlier browsing girls’ pajamas following us, rummaging through her purse before pulling out her phone.
A swift check over my shoulder confirms what I thought: she lifts the fucking thing to record me.
“Baby, go take a look at those plushies.” I direct Molly toward overflowing bins filled with velvety animals. “Pick one out. Any one. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” She darts out of sight of the woman’s phone.
I backtrack until I’m two feet from the lady. “What?”
Her lips twitch, eyes darting between me and the aisle behind. “Where are you taking her?” Fear limns her words.
“Might grab some lunch after this. Why?”
Her mouth moves, yet she appears to stumble over what to say next. “I’ve got you on video.”
“I can see that.”
“I’ll call for security.”
“Please,” I drawl, mustering as much sarcasm as I can. “Do it.”
I know what she assumes. What she thinks she does by recording me. And as noble as the cause is, she’s so fucking wrong it’s disappointing.
“People who steal children don’t look like me,” I tell her as she adjusts the phone to keep it trained on my face, gaze darting feverishly around for a staff member.
“They look like you. Him.” I point to an onlooker, clean-cut and wearing nondescript khaki shorts and a T-shirt.
“They look like grandmas and grandpas. Sometimes they’re teenagers.
” I lean in. “Other kids, promised a stack of cash if they do a little favor.” I snort, edging back while I assess her, head to toe.
“If you want to help, then start thinking like a criminal, not some brainwashed Karen who gets her fork wet watching Dateline.”
She splutters, searching for a comeback, when Molly darts back into the main aisle. “Found one, Daddy.”
“Perfect, baby.” I turn toward my daughter. “Let’s go find you those clothes now.”
I don’t hold it against the woman; she thought she did the right thing. I hold it against the sheltered world they live in, so directed by media and corrupt politicians that they can’t see the ugly truth residing right beneath their noses.
It’s never who you expect. It’s who you know. Why does that feel so pertinent to Freckles?
“How about this one?” I pull a plaid shirt off a rack—blue, white, and gray.
Molly’s face lights up. “Just like you wear.”
“Yeah. Just like me.”
She snatches it from my hands, hugging it to her chest with the oversized rabbit she picked, and dashes across to the section with the T-shirts. “Can I have this one?” She gestures to a bright red one with a picture of a muscle car.
“Sure.”
“And this?” A sweater with a forest-style logo on the breast.
“Why not?”
I trail my daughter as she ducks through racks taller than her and picks out yellows, oranges, and a pair of stonewash jeans to try on.
“Are you sure you don’t want any dresses?”
She shrugs. “Maybe one.”
So we trek back to the land of vomited rainbows and add a summery day dress—embroidered flowers on the hem and puffy wide straps—to the pile.
The cashier looks at me with slight confusion as she scans the haul and then smiles at Molly. “Are these for your brother?”
“No, ma’am.”
She hesitates a split-second before resuming her work. “They’re all for you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“You do know that these are boys’ jeans, honey?” Her gaze flickers to me.
“I know.” Even more misconception—that because I’m a rough-looking asshole I don’t know how to shop for my daughter. “We’ll grab a couple of bags, thanks.”
The cashier nods and finishes the transaction. Her gaze moves to Molly again when she hands the bunny over. “I think it’s wonderful,” she tells my daughter. “Why should the boys get all the neat stuff, right?”
Molly grins. “Right.”
I leave a tip for the woman and steer Molly toward the exit.
The woman with the phone leaves the store ahead of us, glancing to her side to track us in her periphery. Her soft-soled feet can’t move quick enough once she makes it past the security guard.
“What you say we get you some shoes now, huh?”
Molly nods enthusiastically, and so begins the middle of my day, touring stores I’ve never been to until now, fulfilling my kid’s every need. I tally the bags when we’re finished, a shred of guilt festering low in my gut.
“You do realize we won’t do this all the time, yeah?”
Molly nods, petting the rabbit’s soft ears. “I know.”
“I’ll always get you what you need, but it ain’t always going to be a ton like this.”
“That’s okay.” She tucks the bunny beneath her arm, then hooks her left hand around my fingers, tangled in the bag handles. “Can we get another stuffie next time? I want to give this one to Anna.”
“Anna?” I frown. “That one of your school friends?”
She giggles. “No, silly. It’s my friend at the clubhouse.”
My next step falters. I recover before my daughter notices. I’ll be damned. “That the girl you watched cartoons with?”
“Yeah. She doesn’t have any toys of her own. Not anymore.”
“They’re probably all at her home, huh?” I say, gently probing for more information.
“Her house burned down.”
“Oh, that’s not good.” Is that why she got picked up? Were her family homeless?
“She said her daddy blamed her mommy. But she said it was her fault.”
This kid… I swear. “Why?”
“She knocked the heater over, and it burned her blanket.”
Damn. “Did she say where she lives now?”
Molly shakes her head, squinting a little as we step out into the glaring daylight. “She said she doesn’t know how to get home. Only her sister knew how.”
“And where’s her sister?”
“Dead.” My daughter skips up to the passenger side of the club truck without so much as flinching at what she just said.
Chaos was right—it would do The Kid a favor to have someone her own age around. Maybe her silence isn’t trauma related so much as it’s a child who doesn’t trust adults anymore? I get Molly settled in her seat with her haul of goods and then shoot a quick text to Chaos.
The Kid’s name is Anna. Don’t know where she came from, but she has a dead older sister and her family home burned down.
I manage to get settled behind the wheel before his reply comes through.
How’d you find that out?
Molly.
I study my daughter as she talks to the rabbit, balancing it on her knees and facing it like an old friend. She bops it on the nose and instructs in a stern voice that it must take care of Anna.
There’s nothing morally right about what I need to do, but I justify what I say next as necessary for the welfare of The Kid.
“Molly. Do you think you could talk to Anna again and see if she can tell you her sister’s name?
” Kids that age are lucky if they know their parents’ names, but we can start somewhere with the sister’s details. “Maybe what her house was like?”
“I guess,” she says, unsure. “Why?”
“Might help her find her way home.”
“Like Dora.”
“What?” I start the truck, frowning.
“Dora the Explorer,” Molly says as though it’s obvious. “They’re clues, like Dora has.”
“Exactly.” Clues. The same as what Freckles has given me so far: little bites at the whole picture.
I reverse out of the park and set us off toward the clubhouse, elbow on the door while I ruminate the fucking situation to the backdrop of Molly’s make-believe conversation with the rabbit.
Jenna wholeheartedly believed she could take down a fucking established one-percent club.
Not only that, but her father upheld the bullshit, keeping her in harm’s way for his benefit, even after she was thrown into the trade.
What else is in it for him? A debt to Smoke is a solid reason to want to do questionable things to make money, but it doesn’t explain why a grown-ass man would endanger his flesh-and-blood to do it.
I glance to Molly, feelings cemented.
It doesn’t matter who or what I get myself involved with; I would never put her at risk to solve the problem. Ever. I’d sell my fucking organs on the black market before I put her in the middle of a goddamn operation that uses and exploits women.
What else is her father after? A personal score between him and Smoke?
Probably. But it can’t just be about a dubious loan.
She said he left shortly after Smoke became President.
Was he jealous, as the VP, that he wasn’t nominated to step up?
Quit out of spite? Seems the most obvious answer, but it still doesn’t seem enough to put club vendettas over your goddamn family.
I keep one eye on the road while I tap out a message to Circus.
What’s she doing?
I asked the big guy to keep tabs on Freckles after I decided today might be my best and last opportunity to sort things out for Molly.
Had a shower. Ate toast on the porch. Slept again. Now she’s in Chaos’s office looking at the books.
The fuck? Maybe I never actually told her the room is off limits, but she’s no greenie to this world; she should know.
Get her out before he sees.
He’s in there too. Relax.
Relax. Sure. When the fucker just told me she’s in the President’s office without fucking saying she was supervised.
Might have been helpful if you fucking said that to begin with.
I get a middle finger emoji back from the giant.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” Molly says, startling me back to the present moment.
“Do what?”
“Use your phone when you drive.”
“Says who?” My tone comes out a little more curt than intended.
She frowns. “Being rude isn’t nice either.”
Fuck. “Sorry, baby. Got a lot on my mind.” Why I feel the need to explain that to a six-year-old, who’d know, but maybe it comes down to respect—the thing my father doesn’t have for me.
“Here.” I hand her the phone. “Put it in your door pocket until we get back to the clubhouse. Then you know I won’t do it again. ”
She does as instructed, positioning the rabbit to keep watch over the device.
“Thank you,” I offer.
She stares up at me, her small size highlighted by how badly the seatbelt fits across her body. “What for?”
“Making me a better person.”
Her lips curl up on one side, and I see myself for the briefest moment. “It’s okay, Daddy. You’re already a good person.”
I swallow away the sudden tightness in my throat, lifting my hand to rest in front of my mouth. If only she knew the truth. Guess I just got to make the most of it until she’s old enough to know better.
Old enough to question why.