Objective: (Bloodlines Book 2)

by Larsen, K.

  “No, baby girl.”

  “Cane. It’s where you live. Someday you’re going to have to let me see all of you,” I pushed. He huffed and shot me a look. He didn't like being told how to feel or what to do but he closed so much of himself off to the world that I found myself coaxing him often to just let someone, hopefully me, in. He took a left at the next stop sign instead of a right. Two turns later we pulled into a dirt driveway next to a dilapidated house. My heart squeezed with hurt. He came around the truck and opened my door. “Okay. We’re here,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

  “Well, can I see your room while we’re here?” I nudged his shoulder. He glanced to the house and back to me.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Let’s just head out on the bike,” he said, snaking his arms around my waist making me giggle. The sound of a screen door slapping made me look over his shoulder. A man who looked almost exactly like Cane stood on the porch blowing smoke out his nose. He had a scar that ran from his left eye down his cheek. The only real difference between them was the scar and his uncle’s eyes. They were cold and vacant looking. They made me nervous.

  “You gonna be rude, C? Introduce your friend already!” he bellowed from the porch steps as he came to us. Cane’s grip tightened on me and he stiffened. I patted his shoulder gently to let him know I was okay and he reluctantly released me.

  “Hi. I’m Cypress,” I said, holding out my hand.

  “Ezra,” he said while letting his eyes sweep over my body. He reached to take my hand but Cane stepped in between us before we could shake. The tension between them baffled me.

  “We’re taking the bike out. I'll be home late,” Cane clipped. Ezra leaned around Cane’s impressive frame and called out, “Nice to meet you, can't wait to see you again, Cypress!” The sound of my name coming out of his mouth sent a chill through me and my smile faltered. Cane tugged my hand and led me to the side of the house to the bike. He pushed the bike out to the street and I followed closely behind. When we were in the street he went and grabbed a helmet out of the back of the truck and tugged it onto my head.

  “Hey!” I huffed as my neck gave way and my head bobbled.

  “Sorry,” he chuckled while fastening the strap under my chin. Once it was securely on he straddled the bike and patted the tiny space behind him. “Hop on, baby girl. Let’s go blow off some steam.”

  I’m not exactly sure what he was referring to, but part of me didn’t want to know right now and the other part of me just wanted to do whatever would make him happy. I swung a leg over the seat and wrapped myself around him.

  “Baby, you gotta hold on a little gentler. I need to breathe.” He laughed. I felt silly for clinging to him when the bike wasn't even on yet and relaxed my death grip, slightly. He squeezed my hand at his waist for a moment and then started the bike. The engine roared to life, sending a thrill through me. I’d never done anything so reckless.

  We leaned together through all the twists and turns in the roads just like he explained. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. This was the most fun I’d had in, well, maybe forever. The feel of his body under my hands was electrifying. I molded myself to him and relished the feeling. I never wanted this ride to end. We didn't talk, just rode, the wind whipping around us. It was peaceful and exhilarating. I was instantly addicted. The trees whizzed past in a blur of greens. I didn’t care where we went just as long as he was with me and I was with him. The moment felt so right, so perfect. Before I could memorize every sensation passing through me he pulled off the road into the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall.

  “WHAT’S GOING ON?” I yelled through my helmet. Cane turned his body so he could see me and burst out laughing.

  “Baby girl, I can hear you just fine with the helmet on. You don’t have to shout.” He continued to laugh. I frowned and tried to remind myself that these are all things I apparently had to learn. I didn’t like not knowing things. I don’t like feeling dumb. Cane seemed to sense my mood shift. “Hey,” he said lifting my visor, “did you know you hummed the entire time we were riding? It was beautiful.”

  My mortification level rose to a whole new height.

  “I did NOT hum,” I stated firmly. “Why are you trying to embarrass me?”

  “'Say Anything,' Tristan Prettyman,” he countered. Shit. Shit , shit, shit. I looked down and closed my eyes.

  “That song's been stuck in my head for a week now,” I admitted. “I didn't realize I was humming though,” I mumbled as I pulled off the helmet.

  “It was cute, Mags,” he said sincerely.

  “Who's Mags?”

  “You. I told you I’d rename you. Something that fits you. I chose Magnolia.”

  “Why?” I whispered. He couldn’t possibly know how much I loved magnolia blossoms. We’d never discussed plants outside of my name and Aster’s.

  “Well, the magnolia tree embodies beauty, life force and perfection. All the things that make me think of you,” he said, tipping my chin up. My eyes met his. They burned with emotion. He twisted a little more as I wrapped my arms around his neck, careful not to smack him with the helmet.

  “I love it,” I told him. His lips crushed mine. I kissed him back with everything I had, hoping it was enough. I needed it to be enough. I needed him. His lips were like velvet on mine as his kiss changed into something slower, more passionate. His tongue slipped into my mouth and massaged mine. A little groan slipped out of me. He pulled back at the noise, drawing out my bottom lip gently before releasing it. He kept my face cupped between his hands. His eyes glimmered with mischief and I wondered what he was up to.

  “Want to learn to drive?” he asked, grinning. What the hell? He made me want to live like I’ve never wanted to before.

  “Yes,” I said into his mouth before I pulled him into another kiss.

  I wake up gasping for air. My hands are clutching my pillow to my face. My brain keeps chanting Sia lyrics. What have I done to you? Kill and run. Run, run from the dirty guns. A bullet through your heart. The more I dream the more the hard nugget of rage towards Ezra grows deep inside me.

  Cunningham Security’s office is six miles from the center of Beebe in the opposite direction of my place. I got lost twice trying to find it. All the roads are long, flat, and yet turns seem to pop out of nowhere. Once I finally made it I pulled into the parking lot and sat in the car for a few minutes staring off into space. I’m trying to figure out my cover story. I want security. In a trailer. I know I’m going to get the most absurd looks from these people. Who secures a trailer for Christ's sake? I watched the news this morning. It was terrible. Cane Ash was rushed to the hospital in critical condition six weeks ago after being shot in his home. Police are asking for anyone who knows anything to step forward. I’d turned it off after that. I couldn't bear to watch anymore. Hopelessness rushes through me as I snag the keys from the ignition and force myself to head inside.

  “Hi. I have a two o’clock appointment,” I tell the receptionist as I smooth down the front of my fitted lace tank. She nods her head at me, bright blue eyes sparkling. I sit and wait for Mr. Cunningham to come out. After what seems like forever a tall, balding man appears from behind the reception area.

  “Ms. Ash?” he asks and extends his hand to me. I ignore his hand, not wanting to touch anyone, and nod my affirmation. He shrugs and drops his arm. “This way then.” He leads down the hall to a small glassed-in conference room. I sit opposite him at the round table and try to still my knee from bouncing.

  “So, Ms. Ash, how can we help you?” His voice is nasal and grinds on my nerves.

  “I want to make sure my house is secure. I want cameras, too. I need to be able to see what's happening around the house from inside. And guns. I need to be safe from guns,” I ramble nervously.

  “Any particular reason why you feel you need all this security?” he inquires.

  “I’m paranoid and I have cash. Can we leave it at that?” I ask, slightly annoyed. I knew there would be questions but
I had hoped to come across as eccentric or something.

  “We of course can outfit your house with a top-end system for security and we have a partner company that I can refer to you for the, shall we say, fortification of your home. Let’s go through our product line,” he answers. He picks up the remote control to his right and turns on the flat screen mounted on the wall and we begin.

  I leave Cunningham Security at five in the evening with a plan of the system that will be installed next week. He’d called his partner and had him stop by; together, the two companies would be sending men over to get everything done for me in the next five days. Both men were beaming by the time I paid them, in cash, for the work I wanted done. A small sense of peace, or maybe just safety, washed over me. At least I’d have a fighting chance. Or at least I feel the illusion that I have a fighting chance. I pass the liquor store on my way home and desperately want to stop and pick up something, anything really, but I don't. I know that I can be sober for a week. It’s only one week. After pulling in the driveway I change quickly into running gear and pop my earbuds in before firing up Skrillex and going for a run. It worked yesterday. I ran and ran. My body hurt so much it took my mind's focus off of anything else that wanted to pop into it. I’m banking on that same escape today. One foot in front of the other. I let the beat set my pace and go, not letting myself think about the road I’m on.

  Little clouds of dust poof at my feet with each step. The wind whips loose strands of my hair around my face. I keep running. One foot, then the other. I push myself hard. The pain in my muscles keeps me focused. I push aside the pain and sprint through it. I zone out to the sounds blasting in my ears and breathe harder with each step forward. With a mile left to get back home, I can't physically push myself any harder. My legs are jelly and I’m heaving for air. I stop and brace myself, my hands on my knees, and try to catch my breath. His lips. His arms. His smell. The copper flecks in his eyes. The way his voice made me shiver. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and let myself scream as loud as I can. These are the moments when drinking is better than thinking. I sink to the ground. My legs completely giving up on me. I have blisters on the bottoms of my feet that hurt from being rubbed raw in my sneakers but I didn't have any Band-Aids at home so I’d figured it wouldn't be that bad. I was wrong.

  “Need a lift?” I pick my head up and eye the trailer park dude from the other day. His shiny red truck is so high it’s hard to see him from this angle.

  “No. I’m fine,” I say defiantly. He keeps finding me at my worst. What is up with that? I blow a stray piece of hair out of my face and hobble up to a standing position.

  “It’s just a ride. You look sore.” His smooth but raspy voice drifts out the window.

  “I know it’s just a ride. I just don't want one,” I snap.

  “What’s your story?”

  “I don't have one. Stop asking questions!” I huff irritated.

  “Sorry, princess, it’s just you seem beaten down, but I can tell you’re a fighter,” he tells me. The only thing I’ve felt like is a victim. Where does he see a fighter? My grief fades just a little at his observation, replaced with something I can't quite put my finger on.

  “The fighter in me wants you to eff off,” I clip.

  “Whatever the princess wants then,” he cackles, and peels off leaving me in a cloud of dirty dust. It’s gritty on my tongue and I immediately spit the saliva and dirt mixture onto the ground. I limp slowly the mile back to the house. According to my iPod, I ran five miles and walked one. I think the most I’ve ever accomplished in my lifetime is two miles for gym class. No wonder I feel like I’ve been beaten to a pulp. I flop down into the Adirondack chair outside my house and let my body go slack. The sky is slowly getting darker and darker, becoming inky and backlit with stars. It’s amazing how many stars you can see here. It was nothing like this at home. I wander inside and get myself a large glass of ice water and a sweatshirt. I pull the elastic from my hair and find a granola bar for dinner. I take it all outside and return to my seated spot under the night sky. Will I ever feel normal again? All I feel is a dead heart, sorrow and...

  “Pretty, isn't it?” He appears out of nowhere. I squeal and jump, clutching my chest and spilling my water down my front. He sits in the chair next to me and laughs. Laughs!

  “What the fuck!” I spit out while wiping water from myself.

  “Sorry,” he rumbles.

  “Leave!” I bark.

  “No.”

  “Who the hell are you?” I ask exasperated.

  “Bentley,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “Alright, Bentley, get the hell off my property,” I grind out.

  “I like you,” he says, ignoring me.

  “I don't feel the same. Now leave,” I grit, completely irritated.

  “Nope. Now be quiet and look up,” he says, tilting his head up and settling into one of my chairs. I wrinkle my nose at him and stomp into my trailer, slamming the door behind me. Who the hell does this guy think he is anyways?

  “Got any beer in there?” I hear him holler through the open kitchen window. Seriously? I grab a beer from the fridge, storm to the door, shoving it open and chuck the glass bottle at him. The son of a bitch actually catches it. Catches it! I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him.

  “Thanks. Now, come sit. I promise you don't have to talk. Just sit and enjoy the night,” he says calmly, as if this isn't the strangest encounter ever. I retreat into the house and get myself another water. I take a couple of big gulps and shake my head at the craziness of the stranger sitting outside. Why won't he leave? He seems so determined to be involved in my life, but why? I’m lonely again tonight, though. I can feel it like a knot in my side, so I take my water outside and sit in the empty chair next to him. The loneliness I feel day after day has been crushing. Out of the corner of my eye I see him smile but he says nothing and I refuse to acknowledge him. We sit in silence, side by side and enjoy the skyline until he gets up an hour later and leaves. No goodbye, no ceremony, just...walks away into the night leaving me once again trapped in my mind.

  *****

  It’s Wednesday and I am nervous as shit. I can’t seem to make myself step through the entrance to the bar. I want to. I’ve been sober. I’ve made a little place to live in. I kinda even made a friend. Well maybe not, but Bentley is social contact so for now I think that counts. My silence in life is deafening most days. I choose not to say much. I can, I just don't. I’m just about to push the door open when it swings open and is instantly filled with a large black ominous shadow.

  “Well look at you!” he booms enthusiastically. I take a step backwards as he comes towards me.

  “Brock, right?” I ask.

  “Yup, and girl, we had a bet goin' here that you wouldn't be back,” he chuckles at me.

  “So, who won?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “I did of course! I don’t make bets I intend on losing. Now come on...let’s go let Penny know you showed.” He smiles and gestures for me to come in. I draw in the biggest breath I can and follow his lead for the second time.

  Penny throws me a pair of black shorts and a tank top with Mack’s logo on it and instructs me to change in the employee bathroom before we go any further. My sneakers look kinda ridiculous with my outfit but I’m sure my feet will thank me later when my shift is over. I’m anxious as I follow Penny around. I try desperately to memorize the words coming out of her mouth so I don't mess up tonight, but all I can seem to focus on is the fact that there will be a crowd and undoubtedly I will be touched at some point. The thought of it alone sends me spiraling out of control. I stop, placing my hands flat on the bar and count. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe.

  “Magnolia. Keep up,” Penny chides, staring at me strangely. Her face registers something and softens suddenly. She takes four steps back to me and points towards her office while nodding at Brock to do something. I make the walk back down the hallway and into her office and wait.

  “Panic atta
ck?” she questions as soon as we’re both in her office.

  “Uh, what?”

  “Back there at the bar. Do. You. Have. Panic. Attacks?” her words come out staccato for effect.

  “Oh. You noticed. Sorry. I promise it won't happen again,” I offer. She sighs and rakes her gaze over me before pushing her glasses an inch up the bridge of her nose.

  “Tell me what the trigger is. Maybe we can have you do alternative tasks. Work around it,” she prompts.

  “Contact,” I whisper. “I don’t want people touching me. I don’t like contact.” I give up on an exhale. She nods and shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Magnolia, this is a bar and dance club. Men will leer. They might try and touch you as well. It’s your job to look good. Tips are better when you look good and flirt. Brock is here to make sure no one, and I mean no one, does anything to you that you aren’t comfortable with,” she finishes, crossing her arms over her chest. I remain silent. This was a stupid idea, of course I can’t do this job. “Do you understand?” she clips.

  “I think maybe this is a mistake. I’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my hands to them. The pressure feels good. He always did that. I drop my hands to my sides.

  “No, honey, I have a feeling this is exactly what you need. Let’s get back out there and I’ll finish showing you the ropes.”

  Chapter 6

  "Ladies who play with fire must remember that smoke gets in their eyes."— Mae West

  It’s a Thursday night two weeks into my job at the club and my stupid piece of shit land yacht has decided to bail on me on my way home from the club. I’m two miles from the trailer park, sitting in the car that decided to just die on the side of the pitch black road, and cussing like a sailor. I am exhausted from my shift. I don’t sleep enough in general and by the time I get home from my shift and relax it’s almost sunrise anyways. It’s messing with my head and I know I need to find that routine of sorts. Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks but I’m doing everything humanly possible to not let that first tear fall.