Being stared at in the street was nothing new for Molly Parker.
When you're the daughter of the town drunk; a no-good louse who would sell his own mother for a pint…well, you became accustomed to people watching your every move. You became accustomed to people speaking in hushed tones as you passed by them.
Squaring her shoulders, Molly continued forward bravely – although her pace picked up slightly. 'Stop being a silly goose, Molly,' she admonished herself. 'This is nothing out of the ordinary for you.' All the same, she glanced back to see that the three men who had started following her outside the general store were still behind her.
They were at a respectable distance, to be sure, but certainly still following. The flesh on the back of her neck began to crawl uncomfortably, and Molly had the sudden notion that this wasn't the usual brand of 'stare at the drunkard's daughter.' Something about these men, and how quiet they were being, felt incredibly off.
Her sense of unease only grew when she turned down the dirt road that led to her home. She knew all her neighbors, and these men certainly weren't a part of her neighborhood. Yet, they persisted in their pursuit.
Her mind began racing, and she started to consider her options. She could confront them, which would likely end in disaster. She could continue on her way home and see if they tried to gain access. She could go to a neighbor's and ask them to continue walking her home, and perhaps check the house for anything amiss when they arrived. However, by the time they set out, the men would more than likely be gone and she'd once again be subjected to gossip and scrutiny – not that it was anything new to her, but she did prefer not to call attention to herself.
Home was her best option. She hurried along, hoping that there would be more distance between her and the men – but when she mustered up the courage to glance back, they were closer than before.
A terrible gnawing sensation started in the pit of her stomach. She suspected that these men were meant for her, although she couldn't even begin to fathom why. She'd heard of random acts of violence occurring in surrounding areas, but surely that wouldn't happen to her?
She rounded the corner and caught sight of her home, a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding whistling past her lips. Only a few more moments, and she thought she would be safe.
Dean Ambrose watched the young girl pick up her pace yet again, and a small smile touched his mouth.
She knew that they were following her.
Thankfully, they had intended to be noticed this evening.
His…'employer' didn't take kindly to men ducking their financial responsibilities, and Thomas Parker was one of the worst offenders. If they scared his little lamb, perhaps he'd realize the gravity of the situation and pay up.
Personally, Ambrose could care less what the man did. In fact, he hoped that Parker continued ducking Mr. Barrett. Perhaps then his next errand wouldn't simply be about intimidation. Perhaps it would be a bit more enjoyably violent.
There had been a distinct lack of violence since he had arrived in London, and it was starting to wear on him. He'd left the states rather abruptly a year ago following his involvement in a bit of an unpleasant situation. He had managed to work his way into the bareknuckle fighting rings he'd sought out, but even that wasn't enough to satiate his appetite for pain – both giving and receiving.
At the thought of this less than desirable state of affairs, he felt his fists clenching beside his thighs and forcefully made the conscious effort to relax them. He mustn't get lost in his anger. He mustn't get carried away.
Not yet.
Wade Barrett sighed heavily, rubbing his hand against his forehead while the numbers in the book swam in front of his eyes.
He wished, for the millionth time, that he'd never gotten into the business of bookmaking.
It had seemed to be a logical enough progression. He was getting older, and his years of fighting had taken a nasty toll on his body. It seemed as if he awoke each morning with a new ache somewhere, and he was just barely in his thirties – far too young to have such complaints.
Unlike the men he often fought, who often declared that they would die inside of the ring, Barrett had elected to use his head. He turned his not-inconsiderable brain power to the notion of how he could live a more comfortable life without getting pummeled all the time.
After much consideration, he realized that he shouldn't be running from his bareknuckle past in order to make a new life – he should, instead, embrace it. After all, he was still ingrained enough into the rings that he could give carefully calculated odds. More often than not, these odds went handily in his favor. His reputation was such that he would be able to frighten his clients into paying him as necessary.
At least, that was what he had thought at the time he'd opened his books.
He tried, and failed, to keep his thoughts from turning to Tom Parker, the stupid old drunk who had been the bane of his existence these last few months. If all went according to plan this evening, that would be one thorn in his side he'd be rid of by the time the new day dawned.
He found himself glancing at the clock on the wall and wondering if he had made the right choice in sending Ambrose. The man was cold and would not be swayed by emotional appeals, but he could also be ruthless if something triggered his temper.
Wade would never admit this aloud, but on those occasions where Ambrose became violent…he feared him. The man was quite obviously a bit unhinged, and his propensity for and enjoyment of violence made him deadly. Not simply dangerous, but deadly.
Thankfully, he'd had the foresight to send along two of his best, McIntyre and O'Shaunessy. They would be able, most likely, to keep Ambrose in check and return with some form of payment, hopefully with minimal collateral damage done. But as he sat contemplating these things, Wade had a sinking feeling in his stomach that this would not be the way the story ended. Not with Ambrose involved; things were never that simple when he was around.
He found himself wearily massaging his temples. Remove one thorn, and another sprung into its place immediately. He tried to dismiss these thoughts; they would be a worry for another day in the not-terribly-distant future.
He simply hoped that everything ran along smoothly this evening and allowed him to put it off for just a bit longer.
Ambrose slowly continued on the path leading up to the gate of the Parker household before casually leaning on it and staring up. He watched a curtain flicker and couldn't suppress a smile.
The little lamb realized there was a wolf nearby.
Unable to resist, he quickly searched the annals of his memory and came up with the girl's name.
"Molly," he called in a sing-song voice. "Pretty little Molly, why are you hiding?"
Upstairs, Molly Parker pressed herself against the wall beside the window, mentally cursing. She simply had to see if they were still there a mere twenty seconds after she'd walked in the door. Stupid.
She glanced towards the stairs, hoping that the man's voice had awoken her father, but she heard no stirring. He'd been dead drunk, passed out on the sofa, when she'd arrived.
How helpful. Not that she'd expected anything different.
"Come on out and speak with me, Molly love," the man outside continued. She thought she could hear amusement in his flat voice, which was peppered with an accent she couldn't quite place. "I'm not going to harm you."
She didn't believe that statement for a moment.
The man gave an exaggerated sigh. "All right, Molly. If you won't come out, I'll just need to come in."
Ambrose hopped the gate with ease, unable to keep the smile from blooming on his face. His night had just become filled with infinite possibility, and the prospect excited him.
"No, Ambrose," the Scot said. "You know what we're here for, and it's not this. Get back out here."
He paused in his stroll towards the front door, the smile dropping from his lips and unfathomable anger welling up in his chest. He closed his eyes, twitching his head in a short 'no' motion before regaining his composure and turning back towards the two oafs that had accompanied him.
"We're here to intimidate. How can we do that from outside?" He asked, attempting to keep his voice controlled.
"We don't even know if he's in there," the Irishman said. "Drew's right. Come back this side of the gate."
He stood a moment, considering, before turning back and darting up to the window. To his absolute, unabashed joy, he could see Parker through the drapes, laid out on the sofa.
"He's in there," he announced gleefully. "Shall I ring the bell?"
The two other men shared an uncomfortable look. They knew that they had come here with the purpose of extracting money from Tom Parker – without violence – and that they should continue. However, the way Ambrose had begun acting made them fear that they wouldn't leave this place peacefully.
They were torn between their duty and their sense of morality when Ambrose tired of waiting and made the decision for them, pulling the cord to ring the bell.
Molly held her breath, unable to believe that they had such gall. She'd heard their conversation and while she understood little of it, she understood enough to know that her sod of a father had managed to make a mess of things yet again.
She heard him stirring now, grumbling at all the noise.
For one of the few times in her young life, she became angry enough at him to let him take his lumps. She remained upstairs while they rang the bell again, and then began pounding on the door.
"What?" Her father finally barked, accompanied by loud crashes that meant he was attempting to find his feet. "What do you want?"
"Let us in, Parker."
She heard the door being unlatched and opened, and footsteps immediately rushing in. She heard the hard thud of flesh on flesh, and her father cry out. Although she knew he deserved whatever was coming his way, she couldn't help but wince at the sound.
"We're here for Mr. Barrett's money," one of the men explained quietly. He sounded Irish. "You know you can't duck him forever, Tom."
"Got no money," her father replied, sounding sullen around his slurred words. "Take whatever you can find. I don't care."
Ambrose, who had been hoping to hear that, smiled as he flexed his fingers open and closed. He'd hit the man harder than he'd intended, but it felt good.
The other men glanced at him uneasily, but he didn't care. He immediately made his way up the stairs, looking for little miss Molly. His blood was up, and he found that he was angered by her lack of obedience. He had told her to let him in, and she simply hadn't done it. It wasn't a course of action she'd soon repeat once he…explained…to her the seriousness of her insubordination.
After he bounded up the stairs, he slowed and searched the area critically. Three doors led off of the hallway, and only one of them was shut. He grinned.
Making his way to the door, he very lightly ran his fingernails over the wood. "Molly," he called through the door, attempting to fill his voice with kindness. "One last chance, love. Come out here…or I'll have to come in."
He grinned wickedly when nary a peep came from the room beyond the door.