Page 9 of The Wild Card
It was a rare move for our grumpy older brother, who, before Winnie, we joked would die a hermit. One who would live in a Batcave-like setup so he could spy on the family, since he can’t seem to stop older-brothering all of us.
Nothing came of James and Molly other than some mild wedding flirtations. But James effectively kept Pat and me from getting to know Molly. Because another thing Tank taught us was to never go after your brother’s girl.
When I saw her again at Thanksgiving, I was dating Liza, so Molly and I had minimal interactions. But wedidtalk. I made her laugh once, even. I remember thinking she had a really nice laugh.
I was a groomsman in her brother’s wedding, for crying out loud.
But right now, Molly doesn’t even remember my face.
Which is too bad, because now there are no brothers to fight off and no insecure girlfriends in the picture. Molly pickedmeout of a crowd, chosemefor some unknown purpose, and has her hand clasped aroundmyarm, dragging me toward—I don’t even know where.
I’d be thrilled if not for the fact that I’m so easy to forget.
I clear my throat. “Do you mind me asking where we’re going? Or why you need to borrow me?”
Molly laughs. Not the pretty one I remember. This one sounds forced. Maybe a bit manic. “It’s a funny story, actually.”
I wait for the funny story. But she doesn’t elaborate.
We’re almost to the edge of the festival grounds, where cars are parked in a field marked out by cones and rope. Wolf Waters, owner of Backwoods Bar, has been directing cars to parking spaces with the kind of flares airport employees use to usher in planes. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him collecting tips too.
Most notably, he’s wearing chaps over a Speedo featuring the Texas Flag.
Wolf gives Molly an appreciative glance and winks at me. I give him the kind of look that hopefully tells the flirtatious bar owner to steer clear. Especially while not wearing actual pants.
Not that I have any claim over Molly. Still. The possessive caveman part of me is needing this flex.
Molly halts suddenly, pulling me to a stop as well. She runs her fingers through her hair then glances up at me. I shift thepurple unicorn to one hip, making sure my face is clearly visible. Giving her all the time in the world to recognize me.
Come on, Molly. Think hard. Remember this handsome face. Laugh and say how silly you feel for not recognizing me at first. Blame the beard.
In any other circumstance, I’d be more than happy to have Molly’s hand on my arm and the smell of her shampoo or perfume—a spicy vanilla that calls to mind whisky mixed with buttercream frosting—filling my nose.
I would love this—ifshe knew who I was.Ifshe picked me out of the crowd forme.
Which begs the question: does she go around picking up random guys from festivals all the time?
Whydidshe pick me?
“Hang on,” she says, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Let me think.”
“You said it’s a funny story. It’s a funny storyhow?” I grit out. She looks surprised, clearly forgetting the thread of our conversation from moments ago.
“Oh, right.” Her blue eyes drift away from me. “Notfunny, actually. Kind of serious. And … complicated.”
I wait, concern starting to bubble up in my gut. “Define complicated. And serious.”
“Do you have a car?” Molly bites her lip then looks up at me.
It’s the kind of expression that makes me want to do whatever it is she’s about to ask. She looks vulnerable. The classic damsel-in-distress look that me and my built-in caveman have always been suckers for.
Even if I’m still hurt and, yeah—more than mildly irritated about being forgotten.
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” I ask, and she nods. That’s easy enough.
So is using the Uber app.
“I would really appreciate a ride … for starters,” she says.
