I bounce my leg anxiously, the urge to cry becoming harder to contain. “Fuck, it still sucks that I couldn't provide for her,” I choke out, my voice broken with tears.
“But you did provide,” he insists, catching ahold of my wandering gaze. “That option was stolen from you, baby. It's not because you weren't capable, but because you were in danger just as much as her. You were young. And I know it's not your home she's sleeping in. However, you did provide her with the life she deserves. You gave her that.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, a few tears wiggling free anyway.
“I'm selfish and want her to remember me like I do her. But I know that I'll never be able to be in her life. Not with my lifestyle. I want her to stay far away from this shit. But I missed her so much when I was in Alaska. I was a fucking zombie, no matter how hard I tried to live.”
My lungs are still tight, yet I force myself to keep going, even though it feels like each word is made of fiberglass.
“So, four years ago, I broke down and moved back. The previous owner had passed, and the farm had been up for sale for a while. I had a decent job in Alaska and used all my savings to buy it. I feel better being in the same state as Layla, even if I can't be in her life.”
I end my explanation with a sigh, feeling exhausted suddenly. Emotionally and physically. I hadn't planned on telling him that much, though admittedly, it felt good. But now, I just want to sleep.
“Do you still watch her?” Cage asks boldly. My eyes drop to my lap, where I fidget with my fingers. A flush crawls up my throat, embarrassment taking root.
“Yes,” I admit, forcing volume into my voice. Maybe it's wrong or creepy, but she's my sister and I care too much not to check up on her. And while it's a tad embarrassing, I also don't feel guilty about it, either.
He chuckles. “I'd do the same if the roles were reversed.”
I smile tiredly, on the verge of resting my head on the pillow and passing out, even if he doesn't leave. Letting him stay one night doesn't have to be a big deal.
Once more, he squeezes my hand, drawing my attention back down to him.
“You saved her life, Molly. Remember that. Always remember that.”
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.