Page 42 of Where's Molly

He knows I'm running from something since I admitted it's too dangerous for me to have a driver's license, and he loves to use that as collateral.

“Which one?”

“He didn't say,” Irespond woodenly.

He sighs, the sound laced with irritation.

“Then how do I know he's my cousin?” he snaps. “You know damn well I got the police up my ass. And the first one goin' under the bus isyou,little girl.”

And there's the threat.

“I'll go ask,” I mumble.

He mutters an insult beneath his breath while I trudge back toward the creep. He's fiddling with the car scents, taking one off the rack, sniffing it, and deliberately returning it to the wrong row, all the while wearing a smart-ass smirk on his ugly face. I clench my teeth, anger flaring. Brent’s yelled at me several times for not having the scents arranged correctly when customers do exactly that.

“What's your name?” I ask, attempting to keep my expression neutral. Last thing I want him to know is that his endeavor to piss me off is working.

His answering grin is evil, and I hate the way that makes me want to retreat in on myself. I've seen that very face far too often. And what comes after.

“You need my social security card, too? Just get my fucking cousin.”

It takes effort to refrain from spitting on him the way he just spit on me. Keeping the saliva in his mouth with that gap must be impossible.

“He wants your name first,” I insist.

“I ain't doing shit— Brent! Brent, get the fuck out here!” he yells loudly.

Fuck.

My heart speeds as I hear my boss's door slam shut behind him, followed by his angry footfalls. Panic unleashes, and I'm assaulted by the memories of Rocco charging at me with the same heavy steps.

Brent stomps up to the cash register, fire in his brown eyes. Sweat gathers along my hairline while I fight to stay in the present. Except, I don't know that reality is much better.

“The fuck you yellin’ for?” he snaps, glaring at the man for a beat, before turning it onto me. This time, I do shrink away.

My boss is a big man. And he'smean.

Distantly, I hear the chime of another customer entering the shop, though none of us acknowledge them.

“This little bitch refused to get you after I asked nicely. She's fucking disrespectful!”

Being called a bitch is certainly nothing new and certainly doesn’t hurt my feelings, but him risking my job is absolutely uncalled for.

My mouth falls open, a protest building on my tongue. However, it instantly dissipates when Brent's accusing stare swings onto me.

“That true?”

“I-I was just trying to get his name like you asked,” I defend myself weakly.

“Bullshit. She was fucking grilling me, man!”

“Shut up, Bud,” Brent barks, though he keeps his fiery gaze on mine.

The familiarity between the two is apparent. Guess that means he is Brent's cousin, which only makes my situation worse.

“Go into my office and wait for me,” he orders darkly.

The intention in his eyes is unmistakable. If I do as he says, I'll be walking out with one less piece of myself intact.

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