She nods on the screen, but she is crying again.
“I walked towards you, and you said—”
“‘I’m yours,’” she blurts through a sob.
“And then I said—”
“‘You’re mine.’” She starts crying hard. The tears are streaming down her face and she’s covering her mouth, trying her best to stifle her sadness.
“I meant it,” I say.
“Me too,” she says back.
“You don’t need him.”
“I know. But it would’ve been nice to have the one thing most kids are guaranteed at birth.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know. But we’re even luckier than those kids. Because we’ve got each other.”
She cries again and I let her. I just say, “Shhhh, Molly. Shhh, we’re fine. We’re fine,” over and over again.
After a few minutes she calms down and then she closes her eyes and rests her head back. “Do you still want to have dinner with me tonight?”
“It’s the only part of my day that matters.”
She opens her eyes and starts her car. “I’m going home.”
“I’m going to pick you up in an hour. Don’t dress fancy. No costumes tonight.”
“I don’t want to be a detective anymore, Lincoln. I don’t want to solve puzzles anymore.”
“You don’t have to be anything but mine, gun girl.”
“Will you stay on the phone with me as I drive?”
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me forever, remember? Equal and opposite in every way.”
“That’s the way we like it, right?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Molly. I’d rather die than take away the power you have over me. We only exist as a pair.”
We’re mostly silent as she drives home. Sheila splits my screen in half and shows me her progress on the tracking app and when Molly pulls into her driveway, I feel total relief wash over me. “Go inside and look around. I need to know you’re home safe before I can hang up.”
“OK.” She sniffs, shutting her car off. I lose the video feed after that, but I can hear her walking up to her house and the jingling of keys as she unlocks her door.
“What the—” she gasps.
I just smile.
“What did you do, bike boy?”
Her laugh makes my heart swell. “Not enough, Molly. Not nearly enough.”
“How many bags?” she asks.
Paper rustles. I picture her living room the way I left it a few hours ago. Thirty pink bags with glittery tissue paper sticking out of them, lined up on any empty spot I could find. “Only thirty. I owe you three hundred and thirty-five more. One for each night we go to bed for a year.”
She starts laughing. “Oh, my God! What the—”
“I told you, gun girl, if you were mine, I’d dress you up in pretty lingerie every night. You’re mine, Molly. And every night, when you lay your head on the pillow next to me, you will remember that.”
“I could never forget, Lincoln.”
“No,” I say. “Because I won’t let you.”
“I love you.”
“I started loving you the moment you lit up my life, Molly. Now open up all the presents and I’ll see you in an hour.”
We hang up after that and I’m just about to go back inside when Thomas pulls up in a limo. He doesn’t even wait for the driver to open his door, just gets out himself, glances over at me, points to M-Street Bar, and then disappears inside.
One hour. I meant it. And if Thomas has other plans, he can fuck off.
I’m thinking about getting out of the supervillain business.
You Were the Light
You Were the Light
Chapter Forty-Three - Molly
I open each package and take out the presents Lincoln left me, draping them over anything I can find. My living room looks like a boudoir exploded. There is every kind of lingerie in every kind of color. There’s sexy, there’s sweet, there’s long socks and t-shirts, and shorts, and thongs. He’s got every sort of silky fabric represented here, and it seems like a dream come true when I picture myself putting on these beautiful pieces.
I know I need to tear myself away and freshen up for our date, but before I do that, I just want to choose one ensemble to wear for him tonight. I look them all over, picking up the little details of each outfit. Which one would Lincoln like the most?
I finally settle on a black leather bustier, black leather hot pants, fishnet stockings, and black garters.
It’s ridiculous, I know. But he’s Bike Boy and I’m Gun Girl, and together we say badass motherfuckers. Silver-studded black leather skimpies are what badass motherfucking guys buy their badass motherfucking chicks to wear to bed.
I lay it all out on the bed and my heart beats faster at the idea of dressing in this for him. Maybe he’ll watch me? Maybe he’ll watch me take it off too?