She reads my face for a long moment, slow and careful, and I can practically hear her sorting through all the possible scripts she expects from a man in her bed. “If this is you trying to do a feelings conversation, I swear to god, Evan, I’m going to jumpout the window,” she says, and her voice is so perfectly dry it could sand wood.
“Not a feelings talk.” I let my eyes skim her face — her wild hair and the sharp, skeptical angle of her cheekbone. “Promise.”
“Good.” She relaxes by half a degree. “What is it?”
“Work’s been slow,” I admit, and I say it like a confession because that’s how people do it when they want you to believe them. I let it hang there, let it settle over us and become something we both have to breathe.
She tilts her head, skeptical. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who sits around.”
“I don’t,” and this time it’s a little too sharp, so I dial it back. “But I’ve had some gaps lately. Fewer calls. Some of the jobs are further out than I’d like. And…” I pause, just long enough to let it look raw. “I have my sister to look out for.”
At the mention of June, I can actually feel the temperature in the room drop a degree. Molly’s poker face is better than mine, but I know how to read the twitch in her left eyebrow, the way her lips go from neutral to a straight line. She says nothing. She just thinks, and you can see it. That’s the thing about Molly—she processes out loud, even when she doesn’t use words.
Finally, she speaks. “Is she okay?”
There’s an edge to it, but not cold; more like she’s testing the air for poison.
I let my gaze drop. I let the weight fall into my voice without naming the real reason for it.
“June needs me. She’s not in a good place right now.”
Molly’s expression shifts — just a flicker, but I see it: the softness, the hook. She likes caretakers. She likes strength that’s aimed at protecting someone smaller. It makes my stomach churn.
I keep going.
“June’s in trouble?”
I could tell her the truth, but I don’t. I make the lie softer. “She got tangled up with someone a while back. It went south. She’s trying to get her feet under her again.” That’s all true, in its way, just not the parts that matter.
Molly’s thumb finds her lip, and she chews it, thinking. “What does she need?”
Support. Money. Protection. A new identity. A place to be safe that’s not under the boot of the Sons.
“She needs a fresh start. She needs someone to believe in her for once. She needs me… but I’m having a hard time of it right now.”
Molly makes this noise, a little huff, as if she’s fighting herself. “So, what are you telling me, Evan?”
She’s not giving me an inch, not letting me steer. It’s why I like her, why I keep coming back even though I know it’s a bad idea. “I need work,” I say, plain. “Anything. Doesn’t matter what it is.”
Molly’s gaze sharpens, looking for the catch, the angle. She wants to believe me — but only so far as it doesn’t cost her anything. I respect that. She’s practical like that. “You want me to give you a job? I work at a bar, that’s it.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m asking. I just… if you hear of anything. A job that pays cash, no questions asked. A roof repair, a fence, whatever. I can handle the rest.”
She looks at me for a long second, the way you look at a dog brought in off the street: half expecting it to bite, half wanting to save it anyway. She sighs, and it’s almost a laugh, except it isn’t.
“You’re making it really hard to keep you at arm’s length, you know that?” she says.
I grin, and it actually hurts, because I know exactly what I’m doing. “That’s my specialty.”
Molly snorts, then drags herself upright, the sheet trailing after her, armoring her body. She stands at the side of the bed,eyes on me, weighing the options like she’s calculating the odds of me leaving fingerprints on her soul.
I don’t move. I just watch her.
She paces, just a quick lap around the end of the bed, as if the movement could burn off the frustration.
“You know what happens if I ask around?” she says finally, voice sharp as cut glass. “People will want to know why. They’ll want to know who I’m putting my name on.” She stops, turns on her heel, fixes me with a stare that could light a cigarette at ten paces. “And I don’t do that, Evan. I don’t put my name on anyone. Not since —” She stops herself, jaw going tight.
“You don’t have to put your name anywhere,” I say gently. “Just… if something comes your way, let me know. That’s all.”
