“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 wouldneverput 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?”
