Objective: (Bloodlines Book 2)

by Larsen, K.

  Objective

  By K. Larsen

  Edited, Produced, and Published by Writer’s Edge Publishing 2014

  All rights reserved.

  © 2014 by K. Larsen.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Other Books by K. Larsen

  30 Days

  Committed

  Saving Caroline

  Dating Delaney

  Tug of War

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  This book. Wow. So many important people to mention. Firstly, R.L. Griffin, Tara Sharland and Emma Adams, you all are my ROCK STARS. Seriously, the words of encouragement, the hard work put into being my Beta Bugs, the feedback - all of it helped immensely in fine-tuning this book to what it is. For dealing with me harassing you all on Voxer, email and Facebook! So, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I hope Objective makes you proud!

  To Marisa at I’ll Be Reading book blog for pimping me so hard, creating awesome temporary tattoos and a Bloodlines Logo (and for loving Sawyer so hard!)!!

  I found this book to be really challenging to write. It’s longer than the others, deeper, grittier. More twists and turns! It’s a bit darker, the emotional stakes are higher. How does one come back from a soul searing love? From the need for revenge that runs so deep it changes who you are?

  To- Beg me for Beta blog, Book Boyfriend Reviews, Book Junky Girls, Blissful Book Blog, A Book Whores Obsession, Three Chicks and Their Books, Ana’s Attic, This Bish Luvs Books, Loverly’s Book Blog, SMI Book Club, Martini Times, Magic Within The Pages, Dirty Hoe’s Book Blog, Nerd Girl, A Pair of Okies, Feisty Girls Book Blog, Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews, The Book Nuts, Keepin’ It Real Book Blog, Book FRI-ends, I Love Bookie Nookie Reviews, Dirty Girls Book Club…and truly, the list goes on!

  My family, wow. Such support! Isabella, even as a 3rd grader, for pushing me and telling me, ‘I can read or something quiet, so you can get more done, Mom.’ Or for her being concerned about my posture while writing- so she got me the coolest lap desk ever for Christmas. To my husband for not giving a crap that I spent the day unshowered, in jammies and in bed working at this. He brought me coffee and meals and didn’t complain or speak while doing it! To even Dexter, the dog, who is smart enough to seek me out during my writing and paw me until I realize that he needs to go outside!

  I hope this instalment of the Bloodlines series brings you many emotions while reading! Sawyer’s story ‘Resistance’ is in the works and hopefully due out later in 2014! You won’t want to miss it!

  If you were expecting a HEA, I’m very sorry that it may feel…less than…but I promise you that if you stick with the books, you’ll be pleased with the resolution to everyone’s stories!

  “Stagnation is death. If you don’t change, you die. It’s that simple.”- Leonard Sweet

  PROLOGUE

  “Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.” –Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  I watch as she crosses the floor in her three-inch heels effortlessly carrying a tray of drinks to the VIP lounge. Her tan smooth legs appear to go on for days in the tiny shorts she has on. The tube top clings to her torso and accentuates her perfect C–cup and narrow waist, of which I remember every curve and inch. I watch her intently. She’s the same and yet so completely different. My girl would never be caught dead in that get up. My girl wouldn’t be here at all.

  I suck in a deep breath to calm my nerves and sink further into the wall as I watch her. At the exposed rim of skin at her waist you can see the base of a tree trunk, I think, the branches and magnolia blossoms scattered across her back, shoulder and down her right arm. My girl would never have a tattoo, although the significance of it is touching. The changes are enough to make me wonder if it’s truly her, but like the very first time I laid eyes on her, my body reacts to her proximity. I’m sure this time I’ve found her. It’s been fourteen months, six days and twelve hours since I’ve seen her. It’s taken me thirteen months to hunt her down. Since she left me on the floor of a dingy apartment. Since she betrayed me in the worst way possible.

  I watch as she swats some asshole’s hand away from her rear with a fake coy smile plastered on her face. My hands clench into fists at the inappropriate contact. My girl would never tolerate a stranger’s roaming hands. She deftly removes drinks from the tray, setting them down in front of their owners, smiles an emotionless smile and stalks away. She’s stunning. Her golden skin glistens in the club lighting, making me wish I could touch it. I miss her smell. I miss the feel of her skin. Her eyes though - they look dead, sad and lifeless. The brilliance that used to shine from them is gone. Her eyes were always so open, honest and refreshing. It was one of my favorite things about her, her ability to communicate with her stunning golden eyes. Her black locks are twisted up into a pile on the top of her head and the air conditioning in the club blows a few loose strands around her face seductively. Her eyes are rimmed with black ink and her thick lashes look as if they brush her cheeks even from here. I can’t tear my eyes from her, but then again I never could. If I’m honest, I never wanted to.

  I’m holding myself so rigidly that I can feel myself trembling. I want to run up to her. I want to confront her. I want to hate her, but I don’t. I can’t. Right now I want answers, but I want to hold her and taste her even more. I can’t, though. If she sees me there’s no telling how she’ll react. I can’t afford to have her run again. I don’t have another year to waste tracking her down. People want answers and I’m the one they chose for the job. I was so revenge-hungry when they proposed the idea that I agreed immediately without hesitation. Seeing her here, now, I should have known better. I am not the man for this particular job. My rage and anger will never trump the attraction and pull I feel for her. As if nothing has happened, she still possesses me wholly. She moves like water through the thick crowd until she reaches the bar to refill her tray. Her movements seem so effortless and well-rehearsed that I wonder how long she’s been here.

  I push off the wall and fight the throbbing crowd towards the exit. I need to get my head on straight. I stop at the bouncer. “Hey. Who’s the chick with black hair and big back tatt?” I ask. He eyes me warily momentarily. He’s huge, black and formidable looking but he doesn’t bother me. Most bouncers are soft. Most men who look like him haven’t done the things I’ve had to do.

  “Magnolia,” he grunts. Interesting, I would have thought she’d move away from familiar names if she had the choice, but I won’t lie, the name she’s chosen makes my heart swell in my chest. I push the feeling down until I can’t feel it anymore. I don’t need the distraction.

  “Magnolia, huh. Well, can you get this t
o her?” I ask, and hand him a hundred dollar bill. His eyes widen slightly before he regains his face of ambivalence.

  “Sure. Who’s it from?” he questions, tipping his chin up at me and taking the bill. I think for a moment, wondering if I should send her a message that only she will understand but decide against it. It’s too soon.

  “Just a tip for a job well done,” I grunt at him, and turn to make my way to the rental car.

  As I fold into the car and start it, I rub my chest where there seems to be a permanent dull ache. I don’t know if it’s the injury or my shattered heart, but it always aches. I mentally kick myself for my weakness regarding her. I’ll never get this job done if I let my feelings mess with my head. She’s a cold-hearted bitch, but she’s my cold-hearted bitch, and really, she was never a bitch at all. I pull away from the curb and let out a breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding. How the fuck am I going to pull this off?

  “I should really go inside now,” she said into my mouth between kisses.

  “You should, yeah. Go.”

  “In a second. Don’t rush me.” She feigned irritation and kissed me again.

  The memory catches me off guard. I dreamed of her again last night. Her curves in all the right places, ones that feel like home. The small of her back, that sweet spot behind her ears or her full breasts that swooped up into her silky arms. I’d dreamed she’d been in my bed. I can remember so much. The feel of the world...her. Turned on her back, her breasts begging me to taste them. I’d dropped to my knees and crawled over her, pinning her body underneath mine. Her black hair and olive skin pure and untainted. I brushed my dick over her pubic bone, pressing it between us. Her breath sped up while mine slowed down. She wiggled her hips slightly and that’s all the invitation I ever needed. I positioned myself at her opening. Heat radiated off her and there was want in her eyes. I’d never felt so wanted. So needed. A little moan escaped her and I’d pushed into her impossible tightness. I began to thrust deep, hard and fast, relishing in her sighs and moans of pleasure.

  Then I woke up. Hard. It took two cold showers to tame the beast but I’d finally managed to rid my brain of her, for now at least. Now I’m sitting at a bar down in the next town over. This particular joint is a shithole. A dive where scum like me hang out.

  “I’ve had guys jerking off to me since I was fifteen, but you weren’t like that were you?” the floozy slurs, prowling closer to me.

  “The answer is: me and dead owls don't give a hoot,” I drawl.

  “Aww, come on, sugar. What kinda girl you like?” she drivels.

  “A good personality consists of a chick with a hard little body, who will satisfy all sexual demands without being too slutty about things, and who will essentially keep her dumb fucking mouth shut,” I sneer at her. I don’t want her. She knows it. I know it. There’s only one woman I want and only one woman I can’t have, Cypress. It’s slowly eating away at my insides. I can feel myself rotting from the inside out without her near me. Without her to balance me out. The smell of this woman’s perfume rips me from my thoughts. It’s repulsive and overbearing. She smiles a bright white smile at me. She’s wearing too much makeup and her vampy red lipstick disgusts me. “Buy me a drink, stud.” She winks. She’s got balls, I’ll give her that.

  I lay her on her bed and pull back the covers on the opposite side. I undo her jeans and pull them off. She has cream colored lace panties on. I groan. This was not how I imagined undressing her for the first time. I leave her shirt on, because I can't figure out how to get it off without disturbing her, then move her to the side with the covers pulled back. Covering her up I hit the bathroom, fill a glass with water, find two Advil and place both on the table next to her side of the bed. I brush the hair out of her face and kiss her forehead before climbing into bed next to her and holding her. I’ve never felt so whole my entire life.

  The last thing I remember is stumbling out of the bar with the floozy attached to my arm. I wake up on my back spread-eagled on the motel bed. My jeans still on and my button up shirt only half undone. I lift my head gingerly off the bed and immediately regret it. I hear a groan to my left and despite my raging hangover I leap up.

  “Get the fuck out,” I growl at the rumpled mess of a woman lying on the floor. She winces slightly but rolls to her stomach and pushes herself on to her hands and knees.

  “You’re a real asshole, you know that?” she spits, as she stands and slips her shoes back on.

  “Yeah, I know,” I grunt. She huffs and storms past me, slamming the door behind her. I drag a hand down my face before cracking my neck. I feel like shit and I’m sure I look worse. Resigning to the fact that I still have a job to do, I amble towards the bathroom to shower before hunting down some coffee. I hate my life.

  My job is to stalk. To watch. To gather enough intelligence to get what I need done cleanly and swiftly eventually. The job should have been completed by now. I’m getting pushback from home. Execute and get home. It’s not that easy though. Not for me. Certainly it won’t be for her. It will kill her, mentally and then, literally. Currently I’m watching her train through the plate glass window of the gym. Her movements are fluid and powerful. She’s mesmerizing really. If that giant linebacker black dude would just step back and keep his hands off her I’d almost be able to enjoy the show. She doesn't need his guidance. Her moves, stances, punches are perfect. He’s touching her just to cop a feel. Exactly why I didn't want her training at the gym with me. Gym junkies are creeps. I wanted to keep her safe. Away from all the crap. I did for a while, or so I thought. She wasn't so innocent after all. Maybe I was the one who needed protecting. I still believe in Paradise. But now at least I know it's not someplace you can look for, 'cause it's not where you go. It's how you feel for a moment in your life when you're a part of something, and if you find that moment... it lasts forever.

  Sunday mornings were my favorite. No place to be, no classes and just me and Mags. I relished the time with her. There was a tingling deep in my belly. No...lower. I shifted my thighs a bit.

  “Mmmmm,” I mumbled as a wave of pleasure swept over me.

  “You like that?” A breathy voice woke me up. Mags was trailing kisses down my torso. I hardened at the sight.

  “I thought I was dreaming. What time is it?” I asked. I should have been dreaming. She had faith in me. She made me want to be different, better. She always had. No one had ever felt the way that she made me feel. I’m one lucky son of a bitch.

  “Six.” She groaned. “Should I stop?”

  “I think in this case, reality might be better.” I winked. Then my amazing girl got busy giving me the stuff fantasies are made of.

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear”- C.S. Lewis

  Ezra. Ezra is going to kill me. The thought hits me like a Mack truck. I have to get out of here. If I don't get out now the chance won't be appealed. I know with deadly certainty he will kill me. I watch Ezra cradle Cane in disbelief that mirrors my own. I will my feet to move to him, but they won’t comply. I stand frozen with shock. He wasn’t supposed to die. He wasn’t here. I don’t know where he came from. I shake my head slightly and break eye contact with Ezra’s glare. The hiker’s pack by the door has his key clipped to it. The contents of his latest errand for Ezra in it as well. I’m sure cash rests just inside the pack. All errands for Ezra revolve around cash and guns. Cane always drops his pack there when he gets home. He also has only one rule for me: ‘Never touch the backpack.’ The realization pierces my insides. I didn’t hear the door. I didn’t see him. The strangled sound of wheezing, of fighting for air, cuts through my thoughts. I need to move. With bare feet I dart to the door, snatch the backpack and sprint as fast as I can outside. I hear Ezra’s ragged battle cry pierce the silent air from the open window but I don’t stop. I unclip the key from the bag strap, sling on the pack and straddle the Harley Sportster. I yank the helmet roughly over my head. My hands are shaking violen
tly but I manage to crank the key and throttle the engine. It roars to life under me and before I can truly process anything that’s happened I peel away from my apartment, our home, our life. I leave my heart behind and speed down the highway headed southwest.

  I feel like I’ve been riding forever. I almost turn around at one point, even though it’s now the middle of the night and I think I’m in Virginia already. I stop and pick up a pair of cheap ugly flats at a quick-stop store about sixty miles outside of town. It’s not really any better than riding a motorcycle with bare feet but at least people aren't staring at me as much anymore. I don’t want to be noticed. I continue to ride until my hands are numb and my body is exhausted. I ride until the trees and vegetation blur together in myriad colors on either side of me. I don’t think and I don’t let myself feel. I can’t afford to lose it right now. I don't contemplate the last few hours of my life at all. I just ride. My arms are numb like my heart. When I can’t ride a second longer I pull off at a sketchy motel that looks like something out of a horror movie.

  “How many?” the unobservant desk clerk asks as his keyboard clicks and the phone rings.

  “Just me,” I mumble. I shuffle and keep my eyes down.

  “Forty-six fifty for the night, then. The vending machine don’t work and the pool is closed. We call the cops here, so keep it down. No parties,” he says, as if on autopilot. I hand him a wad of cash from the backpack and take my key. I walk the bike to the back of the motel strip where it can’t be seen from the street and walk back around to my room. The door squeaks when I push it open. I flick the light switch on the wall and a single lamp next to the bed illuminates the room. Cheap, dirty, smelly and home for the night. The boxy TV set has a crack in the screen. The white bathroom tiles are tinged yellow from years of abuse and the bedding has two tears that I can see from here; there’s no telling how much nastier it’ll be up close. I shudder and step inside. Locking the door behind me, I toss the pack on the floor next to the bed and lay down on top of the covers. I’m alone. The silence is overwhelming. I’m scared, and I just killed a man. My entire soul recoils at the thought. As soon as my head hits the pillow the tsunami of grief crashes through me. I break down and sob, unable to stop, for hours before finding sleep.