Cat and Mouse 4: Where's Molly by H. D. Carlton

Author:H. D. Carlton [Carlton, H. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B0CQ6G5HS9
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2024-02-15T14:00:00+00:00

Molly

Nine Years Ago

2013

“Jesus, you're so fucking sexy. When did Brent hire you? If I had known, I'd have visited my cousin sooner and already have you naked in my bed.”

He's definitely an incel. I can't imagine a remark like that working on a single woman when he's missing his two front teeth and his pale skin is pinkened and covered in scabs from drug use.

I lean heavily on the counter separating us, staring at him like he's a fly that's expecting me to be impressed with its crooked wings when it has shit smeared across its upper lip.

“Please tell me, how many women have you successfully gotten in your bed with that pickup line?”

He grins, accentuating the blond peach fuzz peppered above his mouth. I bet he thinks it makes him look more like a man.

“I got one in there right now. But I'll gladly kick her out just for you.”

Disgusting.

I hate this fucking job. I hate my boss. And evidently, I hate his family, too.

I’ve been working in this god-awful mechanic shop for a month and have been sexually harassed more times than I can count. I’m at my wit’s end, but I need the money.

“No, thanks,” I quip. “I'll let Brent know you're here to see him.”

His smile falls, replaced with a dark expression. I give him my back before something foul falls out of his mouth—worse than what already has.

The small shop is nestled in a run-down town deep in the mountains of Montana. Luckily, I haven't seen my face plastered anywhere here, and the media has moved on to another world event that only affirms this planet has gone to hell.

Now that I no longer have Layla, I wonder why I even bother walking amongst the living. But I refuse to have fought so hard for my life just to throw it away. I can only call it pure stubbornness at this point.

“Brent, your cousin is here,” I call into his office, standing firmly outside the door. Every time I go in, he asks me to shut it behind me, and it always ends in a highly uncomfortable situation. Most times, he hits on me. Other times, he finds a reason to berate me, then tops it off with a lovely threat.

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,” I respond 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 is you, 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.

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