"Mim..." It was Old Barlow's voice that rattled Molly from her self examination. Mim he called her. Molly Ilene Mulligan was her full name. He'd called her that for most of her life; only in private now that she were an adult. When she was a kid and running about the park, everyone had called her Mim. That ended with the death of her parents however. Now old Barlow were the only one left that remembered. Try as she might to keep the ache from her face as she sat beside him, she knew it touched her eyes, there was no poker-face strong enough to barricade against the onslaught of emotions that raged a war inside her.

She took his hand, offering a calm smile as she drew a breath, trying to form words that simply didn't want to hatch. There was regret in old Barlow's face, thought for what she couldn't hazzard a guess, could have been any number of things. Sure was plenty to choose from. Barlow knew, he knew her secret even before she did, though, Molly was still against the whole notion and was in the process of cutting any stings that had unwittingly rooted themselves against her better judgement.

"I want ye ta make me a promise Mim..." He started to speak, his breath rasping slow and heavy. She leaned to listen, offering a soft nod. " I want you to stay with caravan for a year, just until things get settled... just a year. Promise me."

Molly couldn't say no. She couldn't make a promise and break it either. "I will...." making herself smile even though it was the last thing she felt like doing in that moment. She sat with him for the rest of the night, holding his hand, talking when it was needed, saying silent when he slept and when the quiet called for it, Molly sat at the end of his bed and played her guitar.

The thought of being in the same camp as Mark didn't exactly settle her into a comforting state of being. Even less was the notion of Gwen. Mark was blind, and here she had thought she had taught him well enough to spot a game when it were being played. She'd always thought he'd be safe against such nefarious women. Once more she found herself between the devil and the deep blue sea, unable to say a damned thing. All she could do was sit back and watch, right.?

Wrong. Was time for Molly Mulligan to set about her business. She would keep her promise. Molly had never broken her word yet, nor was she about to be chased off over some beguiling little slag.

She was breaking her word. Something she had never done before, but sometimes those things just couldn't be helped. She sat for a moment behind the wheel of the old truck before turning the ignition; at first it seemed the truck my protest and not start. It did however, emitting a loud back-fire and a cloud of smoke like a small nuclear explosion had just gone off. A moment of spitting and sputtering, and the truck purred like a lion.

Shifting into gear Molly backed up the whole RV and pulled out. Not a word to anyone, not a phone call, not a text message. Nothing. Molly was simply gone.

Molly wasn't staying at camp right now, she's parked a few miles away, her truck outside a dive bar named the Corner Pocket. At first she thought it might have been one of those gay-biker bars. Oh, there were plenty of bikers, and make no mistakes and call any of them gay either. Not if you wanted to walk again. Just turned out they had a really gay name. I mean, the Corner-Pocket? Perhaps it was just Molly, but that always sounded like the name of a gay bar to her.

Anyhow, things had not gone to smoothly back at came. Unless we count doing the back-stroke up shyte-creek as smooth sailing. No, I think not. Never-the-less, there was Molly looking like something that had crawled out of Tim Burton's closet. Stevie-Knicks and Cindy Lauper; meet your love child.

She was hunched over, getting ready to sink a yellow ball in the side left pocket. It was an easy shot, just a little English on the ball and it would also lay-up behind another yellow, blocking the shot for the next person. Not that she was playing anyone. Not many played English pool with just the red and yellow balls. So more often than now, Molly played with herself.

Tracey had been scarce the past few days after their 'reunion.' Went through a box of rubbers breaking the suspension on her camper and in the morning he was gone like a fart in the wind. He did leave a note saying he'd be around but he had some 'business' to attend to which more than likely meant he had a few cons to cash in on or some sort of trouble to rouse. It had to be obvious the man certainly wasn't any less wild than when she knew him in their youth.

Of course hanging around the camp was probably a poor idea anyway given the reception and first impressions made that night. Not that Tracey wouldn't have lumped the snotty asshole again but he may have at least tried to be more diplomatic about it... or made sure the fellow never thought to smile again. Either way laying low seemed a good idea and so he rolled up to the biker bar just a ways away to scope out the place, see if there was anything worth two pisses other than a bunch of leather twinks bagging each other.

What he hadn't expected to see was that familiar truck, or that familiar ass playing English pool in the corner... and a helluva less gay ass antics than he figured given a name like 'Corner Pocket.' Sidling up silently behind the woman he'd peer over her shoulder at the shot she lined up, a little grin playing upon him as he opted to wait a moment before making himself known. Draw back of stick and just as she was stroking it forward would the man get himself a handful of ass with a squeeze.

Off to the side of the pool table sat a pint mug of what must have been a Snake-bite, knowing Molly, and given that there was a slight bluish tint to the bottom, it were a dead give away. Molly were the only one about that liked her snake-bite with a shot of 'black'; meaning black currant, more specifically, Ribena.

Corded locks hung, some black, some reddish-brown and there were a few that seemed somewhere between periwinkle blue, and English violet purple; which did come in a wide array of shades. So, there really was some colour to the back of her head. Never-the-less, Molly was lined up and getting ready to take the shot..... Now, Tracey should have known better at this point. Never, ever walk up behind an Irish woman with a pool-stick and grab her ass. Not unless you are wearing a cup.

Tracey got himself a handful of ass all-right, what he also got was the wide, rubber end of the pool-stick, which in this case, was a solid Moss Agate stone. Very hard, not so forgiving as rubber perhaps. Whell, the tail-end of that cue-stick was rammed directly backwards; depending on there it landed depending on how short of tall the person was behind her. Gut, or nuts. Those were pretty much the only two choices. "Oh da fucken..." she turned at once to see who'd had the gall to grab her ass. Cause she knew for sure ONE person it wasn't, and that was the only person that should have been grabbing her ass. "Oh, fer fecks sake..."

Oh Tracey was a brawler, weren't never two minds about that. Ever since she had first met him was he picking fights, perfecting the art of giving better than he got by getting himself a heap and a half more than anyone else. He could take a hit like a champ, could have been a pro boxer if he had the discipline or care for such work... which he didn't. Didn't have a care for any work really which was probably why the man was a pretty boy drifter with but a backpack to his name.

Catching the wrist that tried to send butt end of a pool cue to his fine, fine nethers he'd stop that assault dead in its tracks figuring something like that was bound to happen. That or a swing but in such close quarters the jab was much more likely... and Tracey always figured Molly the sort to have a bit of penis envy after all and so was like to try and poke things with hard, wooden objects as oft as she could.

The man chuckled at her annoyance, a cocksure grin on him as he reached to snag her drink for a swig. "Ya still drinking this shit?" Wry tone as he set the glass down, a look over shoulder now to see his handy work with her game. "An' I think your look'n for 'Why hello Trace, what's shakin?'"

The thing with Tracey was, no matter how things were, there was always the same look about him. Even going back down through the years; Trace still carried himself much in the same way. That cocksure swagger, like he already knew he was swinging the biggest ....waddle in the yard. You know, like a rooster; or cock. Yes, that was Tracey. Some things never did change and so, the down side of this is that he reminded her of Stevie. Which no matter how she sliced that pie, there was no happy ending. For Christ's sake, she cut Stevie's name out of her own chest; well burned it out mostly.

Anyhow, so we get the idea, if not from the look on her face, then perhaps by the following words that came out of her mouth. There was a love-hate sorta thing between them, only Molly had not been informed as to what side of the street she was supposed to be playing on. That was the other thing about Molly, you never knew what she was going to do, or how she was going to react to any given situation.

"What the feck ya grinnin' at...? An who da feck ye think ye is comin' up and grabbin' me arse..? Ya lost ya fecken mind ye has." she went on the mutter something else under her breath, her ill sounding words given in comment to her drink, which, quiet frankly seemed that she might have been more upset about him insulting her choice of drink, than the actual grabbing of her ass.

The man smirked, his grin almost a sneer for the world that he so looked down on. Even at fourteen when they'd first met did he have that disdain for everything. Maybe it was because he was a wild child even then, a gypsy of the streets just cruising along making a living. Maybe it was just the way he was, the biggest prick letting it dictate how he would see the world: as a pussy for the fecking. Either way the man didn't change and it was most likely for the worst given his way of just pushing peoples buttons.

Snagging another cue as he wandered around he'd quickly take that shot that she'd been working to block, the distraction ruining the 'easy' block leaving it all an easy shot. Did he look proud of himself for it? Hell yeah, why wouldn't he! That was what Tracey called 'using your smarts' after all. Sauntering about he'd start to line up the next shot. "I don't know, seems be your lettin' the medusa curls go a little wilder as of late, looking to turn a fella to stone are you? Ya can try it on me fer greeting you in the fine bonnie way of our people but I think it'd break your heart to have a statue o' me... least one clothed and without a hardon."

Saucy wink as he made that next shot walling the cue ball like an asshole. "So why the fuck you hanging around a shithole like this?" Was there any fucks to give at the glares he got for that comment? Was this not Tracey McAvery?

"Waiting fer an asshole like ye..." Molly snapped back to his latter comment. Though, she said it with a wee smile, her lips drew back to show what were reasonably straight teeth; which, did go a long way to being thought of as pretty in the gypsy community. There that a slow flutter of lashes across the hue of olive-green eyes as she wrapped the curl of four digits about the end of one cord of hair. "Yeah whell, I got tired o'me hair being pulled out.." Either by fighting or fecking, with Molly it were about the same, sometimes even at the same time.

Now, had she actually been lurking about this dive in hopes of running into the likes of him? Hard to say, Molly were a damn good poker player. Not a single tell on her face; or, was that in itself, the tell..? That is something Molly would have done. Twisted little thing that she was. Then again, Molly was not the one really playing the game, was she.

Stevie had been pulling a long con on Molly to get into the Barlow camp, and... to get information out of her. What 16 year old isn't willing to whisper secrets into the ears of the best looking man in three towns over. Molly wasn't a dog, but she certainly wasn't a beauty queen at 16. Yep, wasn't a whole lot of anything Molly wouldn't have done for Stevie in the beginning. However, Stevie had never been the brains of the whole operation to begin with: that was Tracey, whom had already set himself up as a close and trusted friend to Molly. As far as Molly knew, Tracey never knew Stevie. But, how every, very wrong she was.

The little shyte thought of every contingency; even in the off chance Stevie got shot. He'd figured there stood a good chance seeing as how Stevie was always waving his gun about,(chance was he'd shoot himself) but Tracey had never bet on Molly being the one to shoot Stevie.

"So, I take it ya nout heard nothin' bout no threats then, nout even coming from...McAvery camp..?" she washed over everything else, doing her best to keep focus in things they needed to be on, and not where her thoughts kept taking her.

A coy grin at her words as he laid that pool cue across his shoulder like a baseball bat. As far as Molly knew Tracey could be read like a book. Mind a fucked up book for the illiterate but a book nonetheless, and that sign was his 'looking to start trouble' sign. At very least it was a 'looking to work out physical aggressions' signs which may well have lead to some of that very fighting and fecking that Molly participated in. Tracey gave her plenty to hate but at the same time he was always there in oh so many capacities for oh so many years. It was a balancing act, couldn't seem to cozy or comfortable or who the feck would actually trust you not to be a snake?

And the best cons always had other members whether they knew they were pawns or not. Stevie had been a good one: good looking, a halfway kind soul, and dumb as the ground he trod on. The guy even had dreams of being a tough like ol' Tracey which only helped him in so many ways, made it so much easier to manipulate him. The man always knew Stevie would eat a bullet, knew it was his fate the day he gave him that gun to boost his ego. He hadn't figured it would have been little ol' Molly to be holding the smoking barrel at the end but you had to be quick on your feet when playing the game and Tracey as able to spin it all his way again.

Spin it and let it stew for some years, let everything cement on who the savior was that night and let the memories of the details fade. "Wait an' you will recieve eh? Think there were a passage about that in the crossy book." Waggle of brows as he sauntered over toward the bar, light blues scanning over the selection of liquors to be had. "Nah, I ain't heard shit other than a bunch of whispered bull about my comin', think the dirts been kicked up, making some folks grow a mite leary." A grin back to the woman. "Might be a good in... I can crack some skulls, find the lay of things. Catch whiff of what fuck would dare lay a hand on my bitch haired brew queen." A wink back before he motioned to a bottle of Jameson. "Hey, limp dick, fetch that fer me will ya?" A sneer for the barkeep that shot dagger gaze at the punk.

"Yeah, whell...." Molly looked off across the room when the door opened, for an instant there was a tell, perhaps a small twitch at the corner of her lips when it wasn't whom she wanted to see. Oh, everyone knew about the affair between Molly and Mark, that had taken off like a forest fire in the hot, dry months of August in the middle of a three year drought.

Also there was the rumor going around that Molly had walked out and left camp, however, she had been spotted far North into the Northern foothills. Was a common run as far as gypsy related issues. So, Molly headed up that way and back could have been for any number of reasons,....and not having walked out on Mark; that is, if the rumor-mill was correct that the two of them had shacked up.

A fact of which Tracey was already privy too because the sneaky little shyte-bag had gone and read her pissing diary. All those personal thoughts and feelings, the would if insight into Molly and the horror or is all. Imagine reading about Elvira's wet dreams? No, wait, that might not been a good analogy. Suffice to say; it was a rather interesting read. Was Tracey on those pages. Uhuh... a few times. Mark was, damn near on every page since she was 27. Granted, she wrote about once a month.

Something had changed in Molly since the first night he'd gotten back. Molly were playing it close to the vest, real close in-fact. There were not sly remarks, no smoldering looks, no coy smiles or tilts of her head towards the bar for a private conversation. "Whell, it nout look like...." she turned her head away from the door and seemed to forget what the hell she had been about to say. Side-tick of lips, eyes toggled upwards and to the right as se tried to remember. "Whell... damnit, no ya done made me ferget wha'I'was bout ta'say... I mean, ya'nout gots nothin' fer me..?" and if that wasn't a question with a loaded answer ifin there ever was one.

Now all Tracey had to do was sew the seeds of doubt and put word about that Mark had been seen with Gwen in the last few days. Doubt was such an easy thing to get to take room when someone has already been played in the worst of ways. Tracey knew all those secret issues Molly had with trusting someone. All except him, and as of that moment... Mark. That however, was soon about to change.

The man tapped the cue stick along strong shoulders, almost bored seeming as he watched the man grab the pointed to bottle and set it with glass upon the bartop. They looked like they were want to say something but one look at Tracey was enough to stay the wag of their tongue. Some folks you just knew were dangerous by the look of them, the way they carried themselves and Tracey McAvery most certainly held that air to him. Tapping on the bartop now with the butt of the cue stick menacingly he'd snag the bottle and glass. "Put it on the tab o' Levi Clark yeah? Learned man as that a good pal of mine, we split a bottle 'tween us him and I like best of pals." A click of tongue and cheeky wink with that half truth before he turned about back to Molly.

He saw her attention snap to the door as he set that stick down so as to pour himself a belt of the whiskey. He took a sip savoring the burn as he looked the wiry haired woman over. "No, I don't got shit fer ye from the McAvery camp. Jus' a bunch of chickeny gossip shit. Who's feckin who and that sort, yeah?" Another sip of the whiskey as he offered her the bottle. "Like some fine piece of tail I heard was parading about like the pocket whore with onea the boys at your little pow wow that night. Ya know, the one where I cracked that limp dicked glass knobin upside his pretty little head? The one that fancied himself the leader... wha' were his name.. Mark..? Well, heard she was a fiiiine piece of it, brown hair like the a does ass and blue eyes, the sort you just wanna see..." He shook his head, bottom lip sucked in as he thrust his a few times in demonstration before a wink. "Must be making that boy one hell of a sailor." And a crack of laughter because what was the best way to seed doubt naturally than to make it sound like nothing but shop talk. Another sip of his whiskey. "Yer expecting someone other than me?"

Tracey threw back the last of his drink as he watched the woman crumble before him. He'd known her for years, learned the subtle ways the tension rolled beneath that apathetic veneer. Many a folk would never have thought Molly Mulligan to be some maiden beneath all that piss and vinegar... and maybe she weren't. But she was a woman, and Tracey knew that.. and knew where to poke to get at such tender parts, where to bleed her. It wasn't like he had anything against her per say, he actually did care for her in his particularly way. Just so happened that way involved manipulating her for his own agenda...

Pouring himself another belt the man was about to take a sip when those words fell from the wiry haired woman's lips. Lightest of blues watched her as she took her shot, their gazes meeting briefly when she looked to him. There was a single cough as he turned away seemingly embarrassed. ?You? Pregnant? What, been opening yerself to some prick without a rubber? Must really like the fucker to let 'em dip there wicks so willy nilly free in ya!? He sounded amused, obviously not believing the words as another finger of that whiskey was drained.

Turning back to look at her his expression would sober some. ?What... you serious?? Was that disbelief in his voice? It sure as hell better be for how well he delivered it. ?Do you know who the fecker is that knocked you up? Sure you pissed on the stick right??

Molly stood there with one hand on the edge of the table as she looked at Tracey with narrowing eyes. It was the same sort of look a teacher gave to the student that thought he was being funny when he really was just being an ass-hole of a class clown. Tracey and Molly were the same age, not that you'd know it from the way he acted at times. He'd been her fists many, many times, though it were sometimes unknown to Molly that it had been Tracey that had started the fight in the first place. Somehow, the man had always been able to spin things around and it always came off as if he were some kind of hero protecting Molly and her interests. Man really could have been a spin-doctor. Tracey was one of the few people that could look Molly in the face and tell a bold face lie and get away with it. Then again, he could also pass a lie detector test when asked if his name was Charlie Chaplain.

"Do I look like I'm fecken kiddin'. She crossed over towards him, putting a hand against his chest as she spoke in hushed tones. "Ay... it nout like that, this be somethen' I be looken' ta make a go at with'im..." This wasn't the Molly Tracey knew, but then again, perhaps Tracey knew better than anyone else, that it really was the true Molly behind all those rules and wards to keep people from getting too close. Molly being pregnant by Mark changed things a little. It would mean that she was looking to settle and get out of the game. Molly were the kind of woman what would fight to the death beside her man, that much Tracey already knew, and if not, she'd be the one to put a bullet through his head if he fecked up.

The fact that she got defensive about it gave away far, far more to Tracey that Molly would have intended. One, that she had been sleeping with Mark and not using protection, two.. that Molly was sober. So, this hinted at her keeping the child, and three... that she was defending it. Holy shyte... Molly were in love. Which might explain why she had snapped at him for grabbing her ass the way he had, and always did when he saw her. "No joke, now ya see why I need ta get this shyte sorted... ey..?"

Lightest of blues watched the woman as she moved, observed that expression that told him all. Tracey knew she was serious about it all: the kid, Mark, starting a life. It all seemed surreal when he'd read that in her little diary but to hear it as plain as day now just cemented it. An unexpected parameter to be sure, but it was something he could work with... had to really if he aimed to keep things going as he planned. Adjusting his expression to fit a look of concern and disbelief pushed upon him as that hand met his chest. ?Holy shyte Molly your fecken serious...? A wry look as he took down the rest of that liquor in one go as if needing the stiff drink to help cope.

?'Him'? You know the pap fer the kid? Do 'I' know this bloke? I ain't gonna let some second rate piss ant have ye if they ain't on the up and up you know. I ain't gone and clobbered all these little shits along the way just so some potential weasel faced arse can hurt you or yer kin.? He shook his head as he poured another, the glass offered over before seeming to remember his manners and he took the belt himself. ?Shyte... you, a man. Yeah... we do need to get this shit sorted and sorted quick.? A serious nod, his expression almost brotherly. That's who he was, the brother, the hero that protected her even from the shadows that he cast himself.

She still had her hand against his chest, patting him a few times. Sure, Molly and Tracey had shacked up a few times. Hell, there had been a point when Molly had thought about giving it a go with Tracey, only he never seemed inclined much towards the notion. She never told him the kid had been his, and not Stevie's, which was something she only suspected after the baby had been born, cause it damn sure didn't look like Stevie. She'd had no way of reaching Tracey and after the child was given up for adoption, there never seemed a reason to speak on it.

There was never a moment when she spoke of being pregnant that she suspected that he'd think it was his, simply because that line had not been crossed, not since they were teenagers. She was certain, that if she fished about on his person she would find several condoms stashed about, enough to blow up if one were short a few balloons for a birthday party. Which was something they had done for his 21 first. 21 helium filled condom balloons. What a night that had been.

Still, as she was faced with the prospects of becoming a mother, and this time with a child she was able to keep, and... she hoped, with a man that wanted it, and wanted her; which still seemed to be up for some debate as she was waiting to hear from Mark on what he wanted to do. Thinking about how she felt, and how Mark felt about the whole issue gave her pause to question how Tracey might feel if he knew the truth. His question about who the father was caused Molly to cough a little. "Ay, ya met him... Mark.." she took a lean beside him, shooting him with a warning look before moving into an easy jest. "Aww... listen ta ya, talk like tha' an' ye be gettin' me thinken' ya be wantin' ta step up and be th' daddy ifin he nout one fer da job.." and elbow to his side. In another time she'd have entertained the idea, long, long ago before he vanished. Which, begged the question... where the hell DID the man disappear too in the time between? She'd never known and never been able to find out. Tracey kept himself well and truly off the grid.

"So, ye got any kids..?" rounding to the question, there were something, some little tell in the way she asked that question.

Their teenage years had been a strange time, that was for sure. But even then Tracey knew what it was all about... or so he figured he did. At very least the boy was playing dangerous games with dangerous folks and grinned as much as any of the sharks at the table. And during that time he explored all avenues of youth, extensively, and a number of them with Molly if only because she was a wild child like him, a gypsy at heart. That's what he'd figured at least until the day that he left, until so many things fell into place. He hadn't known shit, and so he needed to perfect his game and give this con job some time to mellow before he worked it again.

Did he know anything about the woman's first child? Did he care? He had walked out of all that drama before the shit could really hit the fan and frankly to him it was a done and closed case. He came back of course, was there to console the broken teenage girl and be the hero once more with more of his little lies when all was said and done but the child had never came up as a concern to him. At least not in a context that wasn't used to frame Tracey as somehow benevolent. But in the end that was the past and this is the present. Carpi Diem and all that bullshit after all.

Listening to Molly the Irishman could have fist pumped as she spoke so earnestly with him about what was going on. Her trust in him really did make this easy. Catching her hand in calloused grasp he watched the woman as he held her close not allowing her to escape. ?Mark... the mouthy bastard? That Mark? No... then that can't be right...? He shook his head as his words dropped off, that hand held given a squeeze to match the crease of brow as he seemed to think on this. ?What...?? A lost look cast to the woman as she'd continued on despite his 'realization.'

?Me? Kids? Ya gotta be daft you are. Only bastard McAvery you're gonna see is this one right here before you. Ain't been a day past eighteen I ain't gloved up and carried the troopers out with me at the end. Come on, who wouldn't want all this around all the time!?? A half hearted cheeky grin as he still seemed bothered by something.

This might have been a good conversation for a more private place. The smoke, the heavy smell of dirt, sweet, liquor and testosterone was enough to choke a horse. This however, was an unplanned confessional, Molly had been plagued with the knowing of it now for some time. Tracey had a right to know even if he didn't care.. She'd never been really certain as to the paternity of the girl, that was until she set all her feelers out and got her hands on a picture. The girl was the spitting image of Tracey when he were 14. Molly had a picture of them all from back in the day and once she had held the image-to-image she had never been more sure.

"Ay....." she moved her arm, pointing towards the bottle." Might wanna pour yerself another shot there Trace..." At this point alarm bells should have been going off in his head. Molly reached into her pocket and fetched her phone. She was silent a moment as she scrolled through the images until she came to the one of Amber. She looked up from the phone to look at him, then back to the image, then again to him. Not even Tracey was able to put on a good enough poker-face to cover when at going through his mind. Before he had enough time to gather his whits about him, she turned the phone showing him a girl his face. There was no mistaking those eyes, or those lips. The only thing she seemed to have captured from Molly was the same of her face and perhaps a few notes if red in her hair. "Yeah... whell...ifin ya recall, we was sixteen, night Stevie got drunk and beat da hell outta me... there were a little doubt, nout enough till I saw this ...and tha' there is nout a child of Stevie's." Olive-greens watched him close of only because she wasn't really sure if he would get pissed off and take a swing at her. Which, was why she was holding the cue-stick with her other hand, and why she'd not taken this conversation to a more private place. What man didn't like learning he had a teenage daughter over shots of whiskey in a smoke-filled bar.

Tracey eyed the woman that seemed less interested in what might be going on with Markey Mark and more with some daft yammer about brats. What was she playing at? When Molly told him he should drink more that certainly did do to set off alarms as he watched her move. Taking her advice he poured himself another, a sip taken casually until she turned that phone to him. Eyes the color of the sky, a sharp face, and a peachy ass grin with a mop of frizzy read on top. It was like a bad joke, one of those photoshop deals or stupid social media apps for sappy shits of how would a kid look between two folks. But this wasn't one of those apps, and as he knew Molly well he knew this most certainly wasn't some joke. She was far to close to him with a bottle in his hand for it to be a joke, ask Levi on that.

His eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise as he looked over the picture, lips parting in shock before a sneer crossed. The man was about to loose it, he was about to smack Molly down for such a farce, such an insult. To fuck up so badly when he was so young, to screw things so hard because he figured to get a little dick time with a girl just to make her think him the hero to a particularly shitty night. He was furious, at her, at him, at Stevie, at so many things.

Looking to her, to those olive eyes he could see the concern, the apprehension held on her. Good! She damn well better be apprehensive because he was about to... NO! Tracey's teeth ground as he reeled in that anger, that hurt, that shame that washed about his features. He needed to salvage this.. he could use this. This was good... he could make it good. He just had to think. Think! How to turn this around, how to make this work for him. Another look to Molly, another look to the phone and something dawned on him. Oh.... oh this could work. If this weren't a stroke of genius than nothing was!

Shakily that glass rose as he finally took his white knuckled drink, the bottle and glass set aside calmly before he'd do something completely out of character for the hero he portrayed himself to be as well. Reaching up he'd cup her checks within his hands gentle. ?Are ye... no... yer not. Yer not fucking with me are you... your's and mine, I...? He fell silent once more as he turned his gaze away, jaw grinding in rage once more. ?I need to look inta something then.. look inta it close with Mark. I mean... I hope its nothin' cause you...? He shook his head as if he just couldn't bring himself to make that admittance. ?But no matter the outcome Molly, I swear I won't abandon ye on this child... not... not again.? And damn all if he didn't squeeze a tear out as he kept his gaze averted, his hands still cradling the woman's cheeks lovingly even if there were still desires to lower that grasp.

Molly had thought herself prepared for just about any reaction Tracey might have taken to, albeit all of those deal with varying degrees of abuse from the verbal to the physical and everything in between. What she had not taken into account was....this, whatever it was. Molly were standing there like a deer caught in headlights. There was a moment when she thought she was going to have to slap him across the face, cause he must not have understood her, and then his words. Molly dropped her phone she were so stunned.

Tracey were holding her face and making some kind of confession all his own that sent Molly for a total loop. For a moment there she had thought it was about to kiss her, to which there would have been a knee jerk reaction; literally. Only he didn't kiss her and went on to ramble something about Mark, which got Molly frowning.

The whole moment was surreal and it was hard for Molly's brain to concede to the idea that Tracey was acting so...concerned? Not that he had never played that card before. He had been rather protective of Molly in the past, though it had always simply been for show, part of the whole game he were playing. Slowly his words, his meaning started to seep through the shock that had etched a blank look on her features. But by that time it was too late and Tracey was pulling away and heading for the door.

"Wait.... wha'cha mean... Tracey....!" she yelled, she tried to move, she really did, but the shock of what, or how things had just played out rattled her brain like there was no tomorrow. What the hell did he mean by needing to look into Mark? She couldn't imagine why anyone would need to look into Mark and the whole idea only seemed to resolve itself that Tracey had some twisted idea that.... wait.... his last words that he'd not abandon her with this baby. If she were never more tempted to take a few shots of that whiskey. Holy fecken shyte, what the hell had just happened? Poor Molly didn't even have time to digest the even before her phone, which had just managed to escape being stepped on buzzed and flashed from were it lay at her feet. Thankfully, the screen had not cracked.

"Shyte..." it was a message from Mark saying he were ready to talk. All thoughts and lingering questions about Tracey flew out the window like a fly on a hot summers day. Molly took off, forgetting her cue-stick in the made dash she made for the door. Moments later the sound of truck tires spitting gravel as the old trucked growled, spitting and back-firing as she floored it, speeding off towards camp.