zydrate
Sweet Zydrate
- Joined
- Mar 10, 2010
- Posts
- 25,202
The Emerald Tavern — Boston, 3:00 AM
Molly sat on the curb, the damp chill of the concrete seeping straight through her jeans. Around her, the strobe of red and blue emergency lights sliced through the heavy Boston drizzle. Firefighters rolled up heavy canvas hoses, their boots splashing in the dark runoff water that pooled around her sneakers.
A paramedic hovered over her, his voice a low murmur as he rattled off a list of her minor injuries to a pair of cops holding clipboards. Molly tuned them out. She pressed a cold compress to her throbbing temple and stared at the blackened, soot-stained brick of The Emerald.
Luckily, the fire hadn't done as much damage as it could have.
She took a slow, shaky breath, forcing her heart rate down. She was physically hurt, yes, but nothing that wouldn't heal. She was lucky. At least, that's what the paramedics kept saying.
But Molly didn't feel lucky. This wasn’t the first time they had targeted her, and deep down, she knew it wouldn't be the last. Tonight, they had taken it too far. They wanted her to break. They wanted her to pack up, sign the papers, and run.
As much as her aching body wanted to give up, she couldn't. This bar was her livelihood. It had been passed down through three generations of her family before it landed in her hands, and she wasn't about to let a bunch of bullies burn ninety years of history to the ground.
Molly stared at the soot on her hands, but her mind was still trapped inside the bar twenty minutes ago.
She had been alone, blasting the jukebox to keep herself awake while she wiped down the taps and counted the till. A normal, quiet Tuesday night. She hadn't even heard the front door open over the music.
Before she could even scream, they were behind the bar.
She could still feel the phantom grip on her jacket, the rough shove that sent her crashing into the liquor shelf, shattering bottles of Irish whiskey around her. The memory of the lead guy's voice buzzed louder in her ears than the sirens around her. “Here’s what happens when little girls like you don’t pay up.”
Then came the match. Then came the fire.
"Ma'am?"
The detective's voice broke through her thoughts, snapping her back to the cold curb. He tapped his pen against a small notepad, his eyes scanning the bruises already darkening on her skin. "I'm going to ask you again. Did you see who did this? Do you know who they were?"
Molly looked up at him. She could still feel the phantom heat of the fire, still hear the heavy, accented threat whispered in her ear behind the bar. If she told this cop the truth—if she said Russian mob—she would unleash a war she wasn't ready for.
The police wouldn't protect her 24/7. The second they drove away; those men would come back to finish the job.
Besides, in this part of Boston, you didn't talk to the cops. You handled things yourself.
She swallowed the metallic taste of blood in her mouth and looked the detective straight in the eye.
"No," Molly lied, her voice steadier than she felt. "It happened too fast. I didn't see their faces."
The detective stared at her, his expression hard. He didn't believe her for a second, but he flipped his notepad shut anyway. "Right. Well, if you 'remember' anything, give us a call."
The detective walked away, his boots crunching on the wet glass littering the pavement.
Molly let out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around the damp fabric of her jacket. She had closed the door on the law. Now, she was entirely on her own.
She stood up slowly, her gaze darting around as if she were looking for those who had done this. She was rattled but tried not to show it. That's when she saw him. She knew he'd show up sooner or later. Word traveled fast around here. She turned to stare at the bar entrance, which wasn't damaged, just the inside of the bar itself, when she felt him standing behind her.
Molly sat on the curb, the damp chill of the concrete seeping straight through her jeans. Around her, the strobe of red and blue emergency lights sliced through the heavy Boston drizzle. Firefighters rolled up heavy canvas hoses, their boots splashing in the dark runoff water that pooled around her sneakers.
A paramedic hovered over her, his voice a low murmur as he rattled off a list of her minor injuries to a pair of cops holding clipboards. Molly tuned them out. She pressed a cold compress to her throbbing temple and stared at the blackened, soot-stained brick of The Emerald.
Luckily, the fire hadn't done as much damage as it could have.
She took a slow, shaky breath, forcing her heart rate down. She was physically hurt, yes, but nothing that wouldn't heal. She was lucky. At least, that's what the paramedics kept saying.
But Molly didn't feel lucky. This wasn’t the first time they had targeted her, and deep down, she knew it wouldn't be the last. Tonight, they had taken it too far. They wanted her to break. They wanted her to pack up, sign the papers, and run.
As much as her aching body wanted to give up, she couldn't. This bar was her livelihood. It had been passed down through three generations of her family before it landed in her hands, and she wasn't about to let a bunch of bullies burn ninety years of history to the ground.
Molly stared at the soot on her hands, but her mind was still trapped inside the bar twenty minutes ago.
She had been alone, blasting the jukebox to keep herself awake while she wiped down the taps and counted the till. A normal, quiet Tuesday night. She hadn't even heard the front door open over the music.
Before she could even scream, they were behind the bar.
She could still feel the phantom grip on her jacket, the rough shove that sent her crashing into the liquor shelf, shattering bottles of Irish whiskey around her. The memory of the lead guy's voice buzzed louder in her ears than the sirens around her. “Here’s what happens when little girls like you don’t pay up.”
Then came the match. Then came the fire.
"Ma'am?"
The detective's voice broke through her thoughts, snapping her back to the cold curb. He tapped his pen against a small notepad, his eyes scanning the bruises already darkening on her skin. "I'm going to ask you again. Did you see who did this? Do you know who they were?"
Molly looked up at him. She could still feel the phantom heat of the fire, still hear the heavy, accented threat whispered in her ear behind the bar. If she told this cop the truth—if she said Russian mob—she would unleash a war she wasn't ready for.
The police wouldn't protect her 24/7. The second they drove away; those men would come back to finish the job.
Besides, in this part of Boston, you didn't talk to the cops. You handled things yourself.
She swallowed the metallic taste of blood in her mouth and looked the detective straight in the eye.
"No," Molly lied, her voice steadier than she felt. "It happened too fast. I didn't see their faces."
The detective stared at her, his expression hard. He didn't believe her for a second, but he flipped his notepad shut anyway. "Right. Well, if you 'remember' anything, give us a call."
The detective walked away, his boots crunching on the wet glass littering the pavement.
Molly let out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around the damp fabric of her jacket. She had closed the door on the law. Now, she was entirely on her own.
She stood up slowly, her gaze darting around as if she were looking for those who had done this. She was rattled but tried not to show it. That's when she saw him. She knew he'd show up sooner or later. Word traveled fast around here. She turned to stare at the bar entrance, which wasn't damaged, just the inside of the bar itself, when she felt him standing behind her.
