Caged (Mastered, #4)(28)

Molly scrawled her name and palmed the key fob.

After parking in front of her room, she unloaded her suitcases. The space was better than she’d expected. An apartment-scaled couch and chair were positioned in front of a flat-screen TV. The compact kitchenette had new countertops, appliances, and cabinetry. A modern bathroom and a bedroom with a king-sized bed rounded out the place.

She secured the chain on the door and breathed a sigh of relief. She desperately needed a nap after driving all night and then spending the last twenty-four hours in the hospital. Her cell phone was dead, so she plugged it in before she face-planted on the puffy bed.

Molly woke up completely disoriented. She squinted at the alarm clock. Crap. Had she really slept six hours? She needed a shower and food.

She checked her phone. The first message was from Amery. The second from Presley. The third from her friends Fee and Katie, who both worked at Black Arts. The fourth message was from Chaz. All basically the same, her friends expressing their condolences.

But calls five, six, seven, eight, and nine were from Deacon. He’d left the first message nine hours after she’d left Denver. “It’s early. Where are you? Call me.”

She moved to message six. “You always have your damn phone on you. Call me. Not kidding, babe.”

Charming. Phone manners weren’t his forte.

Call seven from last night: “I’m at your apartment. You’re not. Call me.”

Call eight, two hours later. “Not cool, not hearing from you at all in twenty-four goddamn hours . . . Jesus, Molly. Call me.”

The last message had been left at nine o’clock this morning. A pause, followed by a sigh. “Sucks about your grandma. But, babe, you don’t have to go it alone. You need me, I’m there. Period. You know that.” A muffled noise, then, “Fuck it.”

She hadn’t purposely kept him in the dark. She’d just been so focused on the inevitable that she’d shut down. And Deacon was wrong. She did have to go it alone. She was used to it.

Her stomach rumbled. She shouldered her purse, slipped on her flip-flops, and set out on foot since most places were within walking distance.

Few streetlamps lit Main Street. The buildings weren’t connected, making it easy for someone to lurk in the shadows and grab an unsuspecting, defenseless person.

Stop. You’re not defenseless. Besides, this is Nebraska. The worst thing that’ll happen to you is you’ll run into someone you know and they’ll bore you with talk of pesticides and projected corn yields.

When Molly reached the Silver Dollar Tavern, she pushed open the heavy door and walked in, hating the immediate silence that her entrance caused, a stranger among the locals. She chose a seat at the bar and smiled at the bartender, who looked familiar.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“A rum and Diet Coke. And a menu, please.”

“Sure thing.”

The menu consisted of bar food. By the time he’d brought her drink back, she’d decided. “I’ll have a hamburger.”

“Fries with that?”

“No.”

He ripped the top sheet off the green ticket pad and walked to the pass-through window to the kitchen. “Order.”

Molly had barely taken a drink when a guy plopped down at the barstool next to hers.

“My buddy over there thinks he knows you.”

Lame pickup line. “What’s your buddy’s name?”

“Alan Rossdale.”

She pretended she was trying to place him. “I think he graduated a couple years ahead of me.”

The guy scrutinized her. “You’re from around here?”

“Yes. What’s your name?” she asked, even though she knew it.

“Marcus Olney.”

“Ah. The football player. You were in Alan’s class.”

He grinned. “How we survived high school is a miracle. So, pretty lady, what’s your name?”


“Molly Calloway.” And she waited for the jaw to drop.

There it was.

“But you’re . . . Well, shit. You don’t look nothin’ like you used to.”

“We all change.” Some of us for the worse. Marcus, the good-looking, well-built quarterback had morphed into a pudgy average Joe with thinning hair.

“Why are you back here?”

“For my grandma’s funeral.”

“Right. I’d heard about that. Sorry.”

She’d fantasized about this scenario when Marcus was the senior-class stud and she a lowly freshman—him taking notice of her. But now he didn’t interest her at all. She didn’t want conversation. She wanted to drink alone and wallow.

“How long you staying?”

“Depends.”

Marcus rambled about this person or that person, not noticing Molly hadn’t chimed in at all. His rude behavior, half facing her/half facing the room, rankled.

When the bartender strolled by, she asked for a glass of water since she’d drained her drink.

Thankfully, her hamburger arrived, and Marcus mumbled about letting her eat and left.

She’d finished half her burger when the barstool creaked again.

“Hey, cuz. I heard you were trolling in here.”

Brandi. She’d definitely end up with indigestion now. “Word gets around town almost as fast as you.”