Page 37 of Protecting What Is Mine

As I’m looking for a parking spot I notice the big, half-rusted, cherry red Lincoln that recently occupied so much of our driveway. “Okay girl, this is happening. Just remember to breathe.”

I park as far from the Lincoln as possible, while trying to stay somewhat close to the entrance—you know, in case I need to escape to my car, or whatever.

Am I overthinking this?

I check my phone, nine-fifteen, better send Hank a text now. That way, if I go missing or something the last ping from my phone to a cell tower will point someone in the right direction.

Me: Hey. All’s good where I am. How about you?

Not exactly a lie—though admittedly it’s a little misleading. I know he would not be comfortable with what I’m doing. I figure if I make it out alive, it’s a story better told in the past tense.

My phone buzzes with Hank’s reply.

Hank: Things would be better if you were here with me. Miss you

Sounds of live music spill into the street when I pull open the heavy wooden door. I step inside the bar and stop, raising onto my tippy toes to get a bead on Clint, before he sees me. That’s the plan anyway, until the door sweeps closed and bumps me on the backside, causing me to squeal as it pushes me farther into the bar. I find Clint sitting alone at a booth along the far wall. Unfortunately, if his wicked smile is any indicator, he spots me, too, as I make my way across the room.

A waitress, still busy writing her order as she leaves a table, almost collides with me before looking up at the last possible second. “Sorry Mollie. My head isn’t screwed on right tonight,” she says as she flips her blonde hair over her shoulder and continues toward the bar.

“You’re fine, uh…sweetie.” That is by no means a good cover as I try (and fail) to recall her name. I continue to Clint, still running through possible names for the woman whose face I recall but whose name I clearly do not. I plop down across from him when I reach the booth. “Alright,” I sigh. “I’m here.”

I’m pulling out every trick I know to look and sound brave, but I’m afraid if I don’t get the shaking in my leg under control soon, it’ll all be for nothing.

Clint’s eyes remain focused on me as he picks up his glass and sips at the last of the amber liquid inside. “Thanks for coming out tonight.”

“Yeah, well considering you threatened to show up at my home again if I didn’t, I don’t really see that I had much of a choice.”

Clint rolls his eyes in that way that drives Sam and me crazy. “Threatened?” He raises a brow. “I don’t remember you being a drama queen.”

“A lot can change in the amount of time you’ve been gone.”

Wait, did that come off like I accept being called a drama queen? Crap.

“So?” I tap my fingers against the table.

“So, what are you drinking?” Clint asks, raising his all but empty glass and clinking the chunks of ice at the waitress passing by.

She stops in front of our table. “Irish whiskey, right?” The way she eyes my cousin makes me wonder if he’s already shown her his true colors. Feeling dirty just sitting next to the guy, I fight the urge to apologize for whatever he must have done.

Clint nods. “And whatever she’s having.”

My eyes never break from Clint’s as I answer. “I’m fine with water.”

“Okay…back in a minute with your whiskey.” The waitress taps the table and saunters off.

“I’m not here for a family reunion,” I smirk. “You said we needed to talk, so talk!”

Clint sets down his glass and leans against the booth. “I guess you’re right—a lot can change. For instance, when did you become such a spitfire?”

My back stiffens. “Don’t really know for sure. Probably about the time I started having to worry whether or not I was safe in my own home.”

“Straight to the point then, I guess.” Clint leans in. “Like I said before Mol, the only thing you need to be worried about is your involvement with the Wildes.”

“And why is that, exactly? Why are you so…so…so damn concerned with who I date? Is this some weird belated sense of family protection?” Leg shake or not, wherever this bravery is coming from, I’m not about to stop it when I’m on a roll. “Because I don’t remember you getting involved when Kevin Michaels bragged to the entire school about taking my virginity after prom. Or caring one bit about me during the weeks I spent locked in my room, completely depressed because he wouldn’t speak to me after. So, please Clint, tell me, why now? Why care now, when I’ve finally found someone who is genuinely good to me?”

Clint looks me over. Carefully, like he’s sizing me up. For what, I have no clue. “Are the cops still investigating how the brother got shot?”

“What? Yeah, I guess. Don’t change the subject.”

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