“Molly, please, I didn’t want any of that.” Tears began to bubble in his eyes.
“Yeah,” she seethed. “Well, from where I stood, your cock seemed to be responding quite well.”
“Jesus Christ,” Connor shouted as he ran his hands over his face. “I didn’t want any of it. She did her usual shit. Molly, you’ve got to believe me. I love you and only you.”
Molly stood in silence for a few moments, trying to absorb what he was saying, but it was pointless. The image of Marissa holding Molly’s man’s genitals in her hands would never leave her mind. A disgusting representation of what was wrong with their world. Their dark, seedy, sordid little world and she didn’t want to be a part of it.
“I don’t care.”
“Molly, don’t do this. Not after everything.” He touched her arm again, this time trying to take hold of her. Molly pulled her arm, pushing at him at the same time.
“I wish you had jumped.”
Connor’s hand slipped from her arm.
Molly stared at him hard, regretting what she’d just said, but she wanted to hurt him. Make him feel used and worthless, just as she was aching. She wanted to repay him the same inner anguish she was going through, and if that meant pushing the dagger in deeper, then so be it.
Not saying another word, Molly hailed a cab, got inside and went to the one place she knew she’d feel safe.
* * * *
The glass of wine cried to be drank. Teasing her, chanting to her, enticing her with its sweet, intoxicating aroma.
Molly sat there, staring into her glass, her tears dripping as her hands shook. She hated herself more at that moment than she ever had. In all the things to have happened, the moment had arrived when she could no longer resist.
Lifting the glass with both hands, she trembled as she opened her mouth and tasted the first sip of the claret. Not another moment was wasted as she downed the entire contents. Signaling for the bartender to refill.
“Keep them coming,” she said, not once making eye contact. She hated herself. She hated what she had allowed Connor to do. She despised having let him in, but promised herself that it would never happen again.
Time became nonexistent. Not when she was drinking herself into an episode she’d sworn she’d never allow to happen again. She had now entered a mental obsession, which meant that she couldn’t leave it alone. The taste was too much to resist. The sense of numbness, the place that meant nothing could touch her, nothing could get in—the vortex of doom where she spiraled into the terrible dark loneliness and terror of all her pain.
Through a haze, she barely heard the bartender as he helped her to her feet.
“Wha—” she incoherently mumbled.
“I think you’ve had enough, miss,” he said as he closed the door behind her, leaving her on the street.
Nothing made sense to her. Her feet wouldn’t do what she wanted them to. Struggling to walk, she fell against the cold wall, trying her best to figure out where she was.
“Cab,” she slurred as her blurred vision stunted her efforts to hail a cab. Stumbling, she raised her arm, but with all her exertion, it was pointless. Her arms didn’t respond either. Her body was pissing her off more than all the pain.
All she wanted to do was go home.
The noise was odd, a ringing sound that pulsed through her head. She didn’t know it. She didn’t have time to comprehend what was happening. But she felt the warmth rush through her, as if she were flying. A heat radiated through her, numbed the ache in her heart. This was new, something she’d never experienced before, and she didn’t want to leave it. She was at peace.
Finally.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Connor poured another shot of whiskey into his glass before he paced back and forth in his parents’ lounge. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t been able to sit still. His head was a mess.
“Connor, you need to relax. Try to get some sleep,” his father said as he watched his son tear himself apart.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he roared. “That bitch destroyed everything.”
Connor’s hands shook as he held the glass. Through labored breaths, he gulped down the brown liquor. But the more he drank, the more enraged he became. Connor threw the crystal glass against the wall. It smashed into smithereens, sparkling like tiny diamonds over the wooden floor.
“She won’t answer my calls,” he shouted.
Falling onto the couch, Connor finally caved, sobbing. His father looked on with pity. Gone was the steel glare of the man who more often than not treated his son with contempt. Now standing by his son’s side was a man watching his child break.
John rested a hand on Connor’s back and sighed. “Give her time.”
Wiping his eyes, Connor felt the bile in the back of his throat curdle. He couldn’t hold it any longer. Retching, he ran toward the door but didn’t make it to the bathroom in time. The vomit was uncontrollable. A sickness he hadn’t experienced in a long time. And as he knelt on the floor, his mother stepped into view. Dressed as if she had somewhere to be, she grunted, before picking up her purse and heading for the front door.
“She’s a cold bitch,” he muttered.
Mark walked down the hallway from the kitchen, carrying a tray, and stopped when he saw his friend on his knees. He set the tray on a sideboard then walked up to Connor, tucking a hand under his arm as he helped him to his feet.
“You need to sleep this off, and that’s an order,” Mark said as he helped his drunken friend to his old room. “What good are you to anyone in this state?”
“But, Molly… She hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you. She’s just angry.”
Through his drunken stupor, Connor tried his best to make sense, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. His head banged, his heart was heavy and an ache in his soul told him that there could be no future—not if Molly wasn’t in it.
Mark closed the drapes, threw a blanket over him, and as Connor slipped off into his drunken sleep, the last words to echo in his head were Molly’s. “I wish you’d jumped.”
* * * *
It was late evening by the time Connor awoke. His head spun as intense confusion swarmed his brain. Connor was lying on his side and his eyes fluttered open then closed again a few times before he finally focused on the wardrobe. Anything to stop the spinning.
His mouth was dry. A disgusting taste of stale alcohol turned his stomach as his eyes ached from trying to focus. Reaching out to the side dresser, he turned the clock to face him. It was just after eight p.m. and the thought of Molly began to consume his mind.
Sitting up on the bed, he held his head in his hands as the memories of the night before filtered through. Horrible things that pushed him closer to the edge the more Marissa’s face flashed before his eyes. He hated her, despised her to the point where he would gladly have run her over given the chance. How could she be so evil? Why would someone be so intent on destroying another’s happiness? So many things flew through him, so many questions that he was sure, if he continued thinking, his head would explode.
He stood and almost lost his balance but fought through the grogginess, making his way to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, he let the steam build before stepping in. Needing the heat to ease the throbbing headache and the water to wash away the sin.
“God, I’m so stupid,” he muttered as he stood under the burning heat.
No matter what he did or said, it didn’t erase the fact that he had allowed himself to fall under Marissa’s calculating spell. She had wormed her way into his head in mere seconds. He hadn’t wanted her—he hated her—but how could he deny his arousal? Molly had seen it. She’d witnessed it, and now she hated him. How could he ever live with that? The look on her sweet face when she’d realized what was going on. Then the worst thought of all, what if Molly hadn’t come in? What would he have allowed to happen?
His stomach turned, the knife twisting deep in his heart. He was his own worst enemy and there was no salvation for someone like him. How could there be? He was a nasty monster. A motherfucker who deserved nothing but the misery that had now found its way into his life.
“Connor, you okay?” Mark shouted in from the door.
Connor turned his head, the water dripping down his face. The ache pulsing in his temples. “Yeah. Give me five.”
“I’ll be downstairs.”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He knew Mark wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Not unless Cassie went into labor, which wasn’t likely, not yet.
It was odd being back in his old room. Not once in the last eight years had he spent a night in the house, yet his mother made sure he had clean clothes, if ever an occasion arose that meant he’d have to stay the night.
Putting on a clean pair of pants and shirt, he looked at himself, hating everything that stared back at him. Swallowing two Tylenol, he ran a hand over his face before mustering the courage to face the small gathering downstairs.
As he entered the large lounge, he was met with looks of pity, and in among the many faces that stared at him, he saw someone he hadn’t expected to see any time soon.
“Connor, can you sit down?” his father asked, directing him to a chair near the large bay window.
“What’s going on?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Jenna?”
Jenna looked over at Connor, her own face ashen, sleep deprivation evident from the bags under her eyes. “It’s Molly.”
Connor’s chest suddenly felt tight, as if he couldn’t catch a breath. Connor’s hands trembled, as his head spun. Sweating, he didn’t know whether to stand or stay seated, and the sense of complete dread sucked away at his reality.
“Molly was in an accident, Connor,” Jenna said.
The words—those God-awful words—they echoed in his head as he looked at Jenna’s solemn face.
Oh God, she’s dead,
he thought to himself as the room seemed to grow smaller, the air tighter, the need to run overbearing him.
“Connor, do you hear her?” his father asked, his voice sounding slow and distorted.
Connor looked up. His father stared down at him, his mouth moving. But Connor heard nothing. The only thing that rang in his ears was his own pounding heartbeat, then like a smack in the face, reality hit him hard.
“What?” His throat burned as he fought through it. “Where is she? Is she dead?”
The words. Those words. God, no…
She can’t be dead,
he thought as he looked at his father and Jenna.
“She’s in ICU at St. Francis’s, but she’s in a bad way.” Jenna looked at Connor, her lips trembling, fighting hard not to break down.
“I don’t understand.” His mind raced. “I have to go to her,” Connor said as he stood, the adrenaline beginning to pump through him.
“Is that necessary?” his mother said as she took a drag on a cigarette, blowing out the smoke.
“Fuck you,” he roared and pointed at her. Connor walked from the room, grabbed his keys and didn’t waste a moment longer. Even Mark calling after him wasn’t going to stop him. He had to see her, make sure she was all right.
“Connor,” Mark shouted as he ran down the driveway. “At least let me drive.”
Throwing the keys to Mark, Connor got in and sat in silence for the entire journey to the hospital.
Complete fear consumed him. Not knowing what to expect. Not knowing if he would be able to handle it. Mixed feelings—guilt, anger, frustration—a combination of things that would easily push him over the edge.
Mark rested a hand on Connor’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, saying, “I’m with you, bro, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”
The walk to the public safety office took forever. Connor was on edge as the attending officer made a call up to ICU, getting permission for them to make the visit.
“Are you immediate family?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m her partner,” Connor said as his voice trembled.
The officer continued talking until finally he assigned them visiting badges and gave them directions up to the ward.
“Connor,” Mark said. “Are you prepared for what you’re about to see?”
“Why? What did Jenna say?”
“Molly was hit by a car. She hasn’t regained consciousness.”
Those words alone sent a series of sickening pulses running through his veins. Connor’s heart broke as though it were falling down into an empty pit of darkness and the only salvation was Molly. His beautiful, sweet Molly. He just wanted to rewind the past twenty-four hours. Turn back the clock, not go to the gala. His sixth sense had warned him. That unease he’d had, that had been his subconscious telling him something bad was going to happen. But he had ignored it.
The door to the ward buzzed open and they were met by a nurse.
“Hi, guys, just sign in here and sanitize your hands over there,” the nurse instructed.
Once they had completed their tasks, the nurse led them down the long corridor. The beeping sound of monitors, breathing apparatus and various machines made the whole situation seem surreal. That was until Regina came into view.
Eyes swollen and red, she held her handkerchief to her mouth as her hand trembled. “What did you do? You promised me you’d look after her.”
“I don’t know what happened… I don’t know. I’m so sorry… I tried to stop her leaving, but she wouldn’t listen to me.” Connor choked on his words.
“Then you have a lot of praying to do because that girl in there is fighting for her life.”
Connor’s heart shattered into tiny pieces. His insides ached as he made his way to the door. The beeping of the monitor made what he was seeing seem almost dreamlike. But the sight of Molly attached to so many machines scared him in a way he had never thought possible.
A nurse was taking OBs, writing in her file. Looking at Connor, she gave him a gentle smile.
“How bad is she?” Connor asked.
“The doctor will be along shortly.”
Nodding, Connor stepped over beside the bed and began absorbing everything he was seeing. Molly’s beautiful face was swollen. A ventilator was breathing for her—the sound alone was something he’d never forget. Touching her soft hand, he rubbed her knuckles. The cuts were superficial, but the bruising was already beginning to discolor her skin.