Finding Serenity Read Online Free Page B

frown she always gives her when anyone mentions her DJing. “There is no way I’m asking her for shit. It’s not worth the lecture.”
    Layla opens her mouth again, likely trying to suggest something else that Mollie finds ridiculous, but Autumn cuts her off with a wave of her hand. “We’ll get it straightened out, honey. Don’t worry. Not tonight anyway.”
    Mollie bought her first mixing board at nineteen. She’d worked at Dillinger’s Mortuary for a solid year, assisting Mr. Dillinger in funeral prep because he paid her a lot of money since he couldn’t find anyone willing to work over night. Mollie hated that job, but it allowed her to save her cash quickly. When she bought that first board and landed a few gigs, she’d made enough to quit the funeral home and DJ whenever she wanted. She loved the loud thump of the music mixing with her heartbeat, the rhythmic movement of her body swaying with the crowd, with the pulse of each track. It was freeing. It was real and the sound of laughter, of cheers was worth that year of putting make-up on dead bodies and repressing bile at the sight of crash victims.
    Now, it was over. All gone. She knew it wasn’t a forever occupation, she was in college for a reason, but she wasn’t quite ready to leave it behind. These assholes came into her home tonight and rocked her world. They’d stripped away the joy she’d secured for herself, that hard fought struggle of doing something that actually left a smile on her face. It was done. Thieves came into her home and stole her freedom, took away her comfort, her solitude in this place.
    “I’ll call Marco,” his face immediately coming to mind when she thought about the other DJs and how’d they react to this robbery. “He’s been looking for some gigs and I know he’ll hear about anyone trying to sell equipment.”
    “Cavanagh is tiny, Molls. If someone’s trying to sell your stuff then you’ll hear about it,” Autumn says.
    “Who’d be stupid enough to sell it here?” It’s not what she would do. Hell, that was common sense. Her dad had taught her the finer points of selling things you weren’t supposed to have. “They’d probably try Knoxville or even Chattanooga.”
    “Come on.” Layla helps her out of her chair. “Pack a bag and let’s get you home.”
    Home. Mollie glances around her disaster of an apartment. This was her home, her first brush of independence, the first place she felt truly free from her mother’s domineering commands and expectations. Now it felt awkward and suspect. The thieves took more than her livelihood; they had taken her peace of mind.

 
     
    Marco Martinez is a shifty character. That’s what Mollie thought the first time she met him anyway. He is too lanky, the gums of his mouth too wide, his teeth too narrow. But three years ago when Mollie got jumped outside of the club she was gigging at in East Knoxville, Marco came to her rescue. Well, she thinks as she sits next to Marco in his beat up El Camino, rescue is being overly generous. He slammed his face against the robber’s fist over and over until the punk got bored and left. That night, Mollie took Marco to the ER and paid for the ten stitches he needed across his cheek. They’d been friends ever since.
    When he called yesterday afternoon to tell her he’d heard about a Cavanagh U drop out who’d bought her mixer and light board from a guy out of the trunk of his ‘67 Shelby, she could have kissed him. Instead, they made plans to stake out the kid in Sevierville at some fancy banquet.
    “What time is it?” she asks Marco.
    For the fourth time he looks at his cell, but doesn’t make a face or complain about her impatience. “Nine-fifteen.” When he looks at her, Mollie sees the faint scar under his cheek shine against the console light. “It’s gonna be a while, chica. Be cool.”
    “You’re funny. ‘Be cool’ he says. This asshole probably got my stuff for less than half of what I paid for it. I’m not