Objective: (Bloodlines Book 2) (8 page)

I wake with a jolt. Tears stream down my face. Status quo. I quickly wipe them away and steel myself. I will not let my memories dictate my days. I throw the covers off me and shoot out of bed. I let the scalding hot water of the shower wash away all my memories and calm me. After I’m dressed and have a sufficient amount of caffeine in me, I sit at my living room window and watch the random happenings of the trailer park. The lady across from me is old, wrinkled and ornery. She spends almost an hour out of every day yelling for her cat - a cat that I have yet to see. I think if I were that cat I’d leave home, too. In the trailer to the left of hers lives an older worn-looking couple with more kids than I can count. The mother constantly looks haggard as she commands the kids to do this or that while her husband keeps permanent residence on the small porch stoop, drinking. I suck down the dregs of my mug and push down the feelings of pity and disgust for the people surrounding me. They all look hopeless. Sad. Beaten down. Exactly how I feel. I am no better than they are. I am one of them. The only difference is I have money and choose to live here, and they don't. A little past eleven I call the club and let Penny know that I need a ride to work or the night off. She says a night off isn’t what I need and that she will send Brock for me and a tow truck for the car lingering on the side of the road. Sometimes I really hate Penny.

At three on the dot the loud roar of a bike engine rattles my windows. I peek out the window and see Brock's formidable figure straddling a crotch rocket. Instantly I’m nervous. I can’t get on a bike with him. I can’t touch him. I don’t want to. It’s too intimate to me. My heart starts beating erratically in my chest and I haven’t even opened the door yet. The idle of the bike still rumbles outside when the knock at the door startles me from my fears.

“
Mags? You in there?” Brock calls.

“Uh, yeah, just a sec!” I return clumsily. I grab my purse and make my way to the door. Swinging it open, a very handsome Brock waits at the bottom of my steps smiling up at me, full of confidence.

“So, uh, where’s the car?” I ask, trying to shoot for humor but definitely failing.

“Bike. Thought it’d be more fun. Really get to
know
each other,” he winks, making it seem like we would have some secret romp in the hay instead of a ride to work together. It gives me a total queer attack. I feel my lips twitch and my ribs start shaking. I can't help it. I often laugh at inappropriate times, not because I’m nervous or anything, mainly because I think inappropriate things are funny. I burst out laughing. Brock stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. And maybe I have, but at this juncture I really don't care. He cocks an eyebrow, shakes his head at me and moves towards the bike.

“Brock, it’s cute that you, ah, are interested in...getting to know me, but I can’t ride that bike with you,” I inform him.

“Well, how the hell do you expect to get to work then?” He raises an eyebrow at me and smiles. I haven’t touched the bike behind the trailer since I moved in and I really don't think I want to. Too many memories.

“I don’t really like to be touched,” I blurt.

“Yeah, baby girl, I noticed. Too bad though, you need a ride, I gotta bike, seems like you wanna get to work...you’re gonna get on the back of my bike.”

“That’s rude,” I return, offended.

“Not big on repeatin’ myself. Get on the bike, Mags.” He pats the seat behind him. I shudder. Not because I’m scared of Brock, I’m scared of the contact. I take a step back unconsciously and shake my head no and stare at the ground. Maybe I should just call out. Two hands grab my shoulders and turn me towards the bike. Before I can freak out from the touch, the hands release me and smack my ass, hard, in the direction of the bike. Brock chuckles as I stumble a step forward. His chuckle quickly ends when he sees a tear streak down my face. I know it’s irrational, beyond irrational to be so terrified of riding with him but I can’t seem to get a grip. His face sobers and without touching me he stands as close as possible. “Mags, come on, I’m not going to hurt you,” he says gently. I stare at him, willing myself to be stronger than I feel, to banish the girl Ezra has turned me into.

“I know. I know, Brock, it’s all me. I know that. I...” I fumble for the right words to explain.

“Okay, listen, you get on, if you don’t want to hold on to me, I’ll ride real slow so you don’t fall off.” His eyes twinkle and his lips twitch. I can tell he’s trying. He’s trying so hard to lighten the mood. I don’t really have any other options but to not go to work so I nod my head and wait for him to get seated on the bike. Very carefully I sling my purse strap over across my chest and sneak onto the bike behind Brock. My inner thighs touch his outer thighs but I try to keep my legs spread wide. I slide the helmet on and fasten it. Without touching our torsos together I lean back, keeping my hands on my thighs.

“Hurry,” I squeak. The bike roars to life and, gently, Brock makes his way out of the park.

The ride is a true test of my will to change. To overcome the things I’ve let control me for so long now. I push all my thoughts of shame and being tainted out of my head. I’m a good enough rider to not need to meld myself to him to stay on. It’s the thoughts of betrayal that I can’t seem to get past. He would be so hurt, so upset, so...angry to see me riding on the back of another man’s bike. I don’t want to cause him any more pain. If he can see me, he’s fuming and it’s just one more way I’ve hurt him.

Twenty minutes later we pull into the parking lot at work. The bike idles and before I let myself process any more morbid thoughts, I strip the helmet off and jump off the bike. My legs start to give way but before I lose the ability to stand, I lock my knees and rigidly stand facing Brock. He towers over me and removes his helmet.

“I’m not that bad, am I?” he asks, smirking.

“Nah, not that bad, but I’m glad my car will be here when we’re done tonight,” I chirp, and make my way inside. Brock catches up to me in a few lo
ng strides.

“Hey, I know you’re
ahh...different and all but, would you wanna grab dinner sometime?” he asks, and my breath falters. I can’t imagine being with anyone ever again.

“I don’t date. Don’t take it personally,” I offer.

“Aww come on. I don’t bite...much,” he returns playfully.

“I don't date,” I repeat.

“Why?”

“Because, Brock, I don’t make mistakes, I date them. And I need another mistake like I need a hole in the head, not to mention finding a good guy, a real man worth
fighting for is like coming across a unicorn in your backyard. Legend. Myth. Fairytale. Does. Not. Exist,” I state firmly, but I know differently, I know because I did find it once and then I lost it. Brock's face falls and he shakes his head at me.

“Well shit, girl, aren’t you just the optimist,” he mumbles, while holding the door for me.

My first two weeks at the bar have been good. Work agrees with me, although the hours are hell. I’m tired after every shift and my feet hurt. But the music that blares from the club, combined with me trying to avoid touching people as I deliver drinks and fend off men’s advances, keeps my mind thoroughly occupied. It’s a nice reprieve from the whirlwind of emotions that normally consumes me. And I know the social interaction is good for me. It’s helping. I can feel it. I feel more like a human being, more like a bitter woman with a chip on her shoulder than a helpless sad mess.

By the time my shift is over my car is fixed and parked in the lot out back. It’s dark and painfully quiet outside. I take one step out, letting the door click closed behind me. A light breeze whips my hair around my face as I force myself to keep walking. Keys in hand, I make my way to the car, careful to keep an eye out on my surroundings. The smell of motor oil and cinnamon hits me as I near the big clunker. I freeze as the memory plays out in my head.

“Kissing requires a total of thirty-four facial muscles, and one hundred and twelve postural muscles. The most important muscle involved is the orbicularis
oris muscle, because it is used to pucker the lips,” Cane recited. I giggled and tilted my face to his.

“Sounds like someone’s been on Google.”

“What can I say? You totally make me a pansy,” he laughed.

“I do?!” I squealed.

“Woman, I wasn’t complaining! Now shut up and kiss me.” He grinned.
I pressed into him, and when I felt his mouth move with mine, I wrapped my arms around his neck. When I caught his bottom lip between my teeth and tugged he opened to me. His tongue slipped into my mouth and it kindled a fire inside me. He smelled so delicious, like motor oil and cinnamon. I nibbled his neck, kissing and biting as he ran his hands down my back and up my stomach. I was going to explode from want.

A hand at the small of my back startles me. I jump a foot in the air and scream bloody murder before even bothering to look at who it is. Bentley stands a foot away from me laughing, hard.

“Jesus, Bentley!” I screech. “What the hell are you doing here anyways?!”

“I was passing the lot and saw your car still here. You were just staring off into space. I wanted to make sure everything was alright.” I sigh and shake my head at him.

“I’m fine. When are you going to learn to just leave me alone?” I snit.

“I’m thick-headed and pretty stubborn, so it could be a while, a long while,” he smirks and rubs his palm over his chin stubble.

“Right. Okay, well, I’m going home now,” I stammer, and unlock the driver’s door. He watches as I fold into the seat and slam the door shut. I start the car up, throw her in reverse and peel out of the parking lot, fuming. Why is he always around and why the hell won't he just leave me alone already?

I skip my nightly drink outside in favor of curling up on my couch and texting Aster. She’s surely asleep at this time but I know it will make her smile to wake up and see a message from me.

I miss your ugly mug so bad. <3

I pick up my Kindle and dive into the world of Stella, my new favorite fictional woman, from
By A Thread
. I want to be more like her. I want to be strong and smart and cunning. Moreover, I really just want to be a badass who doesn’t mind cussing and who drinks all the time.

Chapter 7

I wake with my Kindle dead on my chest, still curled up on the couch. As I’m stretching away my aches from sleeping oddly, I get the strangest idea. Post office boxes. I could rent out boxes in different towns and sign up for junk mail to go there. It might buy me more time from Ezra. Like a bird dog on a scent I pop open the laptop and hop on the USPS website. Within the hour I have three new addresses in different states under Cypress White, and I managed to apply for credit cards and have the bills sent to the different P.O. boxes. Maybe it will throw him off just long enough for me to develop some sort of plan. The light on my phone pulses on and off. I check it to find a new text from Aster.

My mug IS worth missing. Talk today?
xoxo

She never was shy or humble. I snicker to myself and reply that I’ll call her in a few hours when I’ve had my coffee. As the coffee pot brews I hop in the shower and let the hot water stream down over me. I lather the shampoo into my long locks and let the scent fill the tiny bathroom. By the time I’m finished the bathroom is a wall of fog. I wrap my towel around me and open the door to let the steam out. I quickly do a scan of all the monitors on the wall. Nothing moves outside the immediate area of my trailer. All’s quiet, just the way I like it. I throw on yoga pants and a long sleeve shirt and head out to the kitchen, not bothering to tame my wet hair. I flick on the radio on my way to grab a mug from the cabinet. Ironically ZZ Ward’s
Put The Gun Down
is on. I can’t help but laugh at the irony. I turn it way up. I also can't help but start to move along to the upbeat tune. Before I know it I’m full on dancing as I pour coffee into my mug. I dance to the fridge for the creamer, add some to my coffee and then put it away, still dancing. Careful not to spill my precious caffeine, I hold it out to my right and swing my kitchen door open with my left hand. Not only did I do it with dramatic flair, I swished my hips and sang the chorus out loud. I can’t sing. Never could. As I saunter down my three steps to the Adirondack chairs I continue my happy little indulgence. I for a moment feel completely content. Normal. Almost... happy.

“What’s the happy dance for?” As always Bentley appears out of nowhere, scaring the ever living crap out of me. My precious coffee spills all over the front of me. I turn slowly and glare at him.

“Honestly, a little warning would be useful.” I gesture to the spilled coffee on my shirt. His eyes sparkle with amusement and it irritates me.

“You’re so angry all the time. You know that?” he muses.

“Maybe it’s just you. I wasn't angry till you showed up,” I volley back.

“Aww, you know, you might be right,” he grins.

“I usually am,” I huff and pass him.

“When you come back out, I’ll take a mug too,” he says, and smirks at me. I really want to strangle this jerk. He is so intrusive. I charge into the trailer and back to my bedroom and strip off my shirt. I tug on a new one and refill my mug on my way back outside. I do not get Bentley a mug. As I stomp down my stairs and plop into the chair I had plans of relaxing in the first time around, Bentley stares at me, mouth hanging open.