Where's Molly(31)

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.