James buckled against her, instantly becoming dead weight. John jerked his daughter forward and hugged her tightly.
"Are you hurt?" he asked in that calm way of his.
"I'm fine," Molly turned to see Danny nudging James' body with his foot, a gun in his hand. "What the f*ck are you doing here?" Molly's voice was an octave higher than it should have been. Danny looked up, his face uncharacteristically serious.
"Barney invited me for your birthday. I was running late when I saw this asshole taking you from the garage into the house," Trench's demolition man said simply. Through the open door, Molly saw her team trying to squeeze through.
She could hear her grandparents screaming, wanting to know if she was alright.
"I don't feel so hot, Dad," Molly confessed, her knees trembling. Danny swept forward, catching her arms.
"I'll take care of her. You get this body out of here," Danny said firmly. John nodded and left her in the Scot's hands.
"Come on, Molly, let's go sit on those raised flower gardens of yours," Danny led her away, one arm around her waist keeping her from collapsing.
Molly watched with guarded eyes as Barney and Tool wrapped James' body in a blue tarp and flung him into the back of Tool's truck. Gunnar had drug out her garden hose and was spraying the blood off the walk.
"Ye hurt, lass?" Danny's soft voice broke through her thoughts. Molly just shook her head and swallowed the bile in her throat.
"I need to shower," she said hoarsely when she was sure she could keep everything in her stomach down. She could feel the blood drying hot and sticky on the back of her neck, matting in her hair.
"Yeah, alright. Come on," he helped her rise. Gunnar nodded at them as they walked up the wet steps.
Fortunately, Danny fielded any questions her grandparents tried to throw at her as she headed up the steps to her bathroom.
Molly stripped her blood soaked blouse and skirt off. It's a shame really, that skirt was pretty, she though sadly before wadding them up to put in the trash. The lingerie Lacey had given her followed her clothes.
Molly stepped under the hot spray of the water and watched it turn pink as it washed away the blood that remained on her skin.
A heated argument was raging when she plodded downstairs, dressed in her soft flannel pajama pants and a Loverboy t shirt.
"-got her killed!" her grandma raged.
"You think I don't know that?!" John snapped back.
"And you put your new wife and son in danger, all of this is because you couldn't keep it in your pants!" Mary snarled. "If you had just left my Lillie alone-"
"Oh, because that's what this is all about! I was never good enough for Lillie, that is the root of all evil!" John snarled. A warm, calloused hand found Molly's. She looked up into Billy's concerned blue eyes.
"You ok?" he asked quietly, so as not to interrupt the shouts. Molly just shook her head. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into his side. "Can I do anything?" Billy murmured into her hair.
"Let's get out of here," Molly said quietly.
Billy didn't take his hand from her waist as they went down the hall. Molly grabbed her M-56 surplus jacket from the coat tree.
"I came on my motorcycle-" Billy started.
"It's fine," Molly shook her head. She just had to leave. She didn't want to go back inside and retrieve her keys from the kitchen counter. Then she would be pulled into the argument.
Billy gave her a weighted look as she brushed by him. She must have been shaken if she was disregarding any fear she had for his 'two wheeled death trap.'
"Are you sure, Molls-"
"Where are you going?" Tool came around the side of the house, shaking water off his hands. He had probably been putting the hose away and washing the blood off his hands.
"Escaping World War Three in there. Run while you can, Tool," Molly said grimly. Tool frowned.
"What should I tell them when they ask where you are?" the older man wondered.
"Tell them I needed to think," Molly took the helmet Billy offered her.
Molly had never ridden on a motorcycle before. Truthfully, it scared the bejesus out of her. It had taken her many years and scraped knees before she learned how to ride a bicycle. Adding several hundred pounds and an engine didn't improve her opinion of the things.
Billy went slow at first, down the back roads that surrounded her home. She was pressed right up against him, her arms tight around his middle, her face in his shoulder as the wind whipped at her pajama pants and zipped jacket.
"Loosen up a little, Molly!" Billy shouted over the running motor and wind. Molly felt the vibrations in the seat under her get stronger as Billy sped up.
Molly found herself lifting her face to the wind, feeling something oddly pure and free about zipping down the road in the dusky light of the barely visible sun.
It was about twenty minutes before Billy stopped at a crossroad and turned the engine off. He twisted his head to look at her.
"You wanna go back to your place?"
Molly hesitated a bit, flexing her cold fingers. "Hey, you know, I've got a couch at home, I mean, you'll probably be stiff as a board if you sleep on it, but it's quiet," Billy said slowly. Molly didn't waver under his gaze.
"Don't read too much into it, Kid," she warned him seriously. He grinned before turning the bike back on.
"Hold on," he called.
Billy's apartment was the same as it had been the last time Molly had been there, when she escorted his drunken ass home from Old Point so many months ago. That had been the night he had gotten into a drunken debate about Ernest Hemingway with Toll Road.
The walls were painted a light, tan color, almost the color of a band aid. He had a suede, chocolate colored couch against one wall, with an end table and lamp at one end, and a large, flat screen mounted on the other wall.
A dog with soft, tawny fur came down the hallway, tail wagging excitedly.
"Hey, Roza," Billy bent over the dog and ruffled her ears affectionately. "You want something to drink?" Billy asked, kicking off his boots and straightening. Molly shrugged out of her jacket.
"As long as it's got alcohol in it," she said darkly.
"All I've got is beer," Billy said simply.
"That'll do," she said.
"Go ahead and siddown," Billy invited as he ducked into the kitchen. Roza trotted after him. Molly crossed the living room and dropped onto the couch, sinking back into the cushions.
She closed her eyes and felt the blood spatter on the back of her neck. Billy came back in time to see her lurch forward, her eyes wide.
He silently handed her the beer and sat next to her.
"Happy f*cking birthday to me," she raised her bottle sarcastically.
"You wanna talk about it?" Billy wondered quietly. Molly turned herself around so she was facing him, leaning back against the arm of the couch and crossing her legs Indian style.
"I know it sounds stupid, but James was a good guy, I mean, I thought he cared- oh, my God, I sound like a f*cking chick flick," Molly leaned her head back, closing her eyes. Billy carefully squeezed her hand. She didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry it didn't work out, Molly," Billy told her honestly. He could have imagined it, but he swore she squeezed his hand back.
They watched some stupid, mind numbing television for a while before Billy brought out a few blankets and a pillow and helped her make up a bed on the couch. He didn't comment on her trembling hands.
Molly felt like a child when she crawled under the covers and Billy pulled the blankets up and over her. He brushed her hair back carefully, his eyes unreadable.
"Goodnight," he said softly. She blinked owlishly and brushed her hand over his scruffy face.
"Goodnight," she said back. He straightened and turned off the light before plodding down the hall to his bedroom.
Later on that night, after a few hours of laying silently in the dark, Billy heard her quiet sobs.
He didn't go out to her. That would have only made it worse. All she needed to do was get it out. He wasn't going to hurt her pride while she did it.