Objective: (Bloodlines Book 2) (2 page)

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

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 violently 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.

I’m too exhausted to ride for long. I’ve never ridden this long before, not even as a passenger. It’s taking its toll on me. Sleep was my enemy last night. It came and went throughout the night and I’d fought to control my breathing each time I woke, consciously trying to slow it down to avoid a meltdown. I pull into a strip mall somewhere west of the Virginia coastline I think, to rest. As soon as I stretch my legs and relieve myself in the public restroom, my nerves take over and I can barely keep myself upright. I throw up in the nasty toilet until my stomach is empty, like my soul. Anxiety controls me whenever I’m not riding. If I could stay on the bike comfortably for longer, I would. I wander into a couple of low-end shops and peruse until I finally settle on a cheap pair of boots, a faux leather jacket and jeans. The wind has already chapped my skin from riding for so long, and in my current mental state I can’t afford to crash the bike and tear my skin to pieces just because I didn’t dress appropriately for riding – though that would solve a few issues.

The sales associate watches me warily, like I’m going to steal the clothes or hold her up at gunpoint. It’s absurd. I’m a nice girl, from a nice family. I’ve never had someone look at me like this before. Maybe I’m losing my mind. I unzip the pack a smidge and dip my hand in, pulling out a wad of fifty dollar bills, which surprises me. I’d expected
some
cash but fifties? I shove my surprise deep inside and I throw them onto the counter before snatching up my purchases and high-tailing it out of there. I can’t afford to think about the contents of the backpack for right now. I force one foot in front of the other back to the bathroom and change. I don’t even bother keeping what I have on. The clothes are tainted, unwashable. I leave them in the stall for someone else to clean up. Washing my hands before leaving, I look up into the mirror and gasp. My mascara is dripping down my face and I’m pale and puffy looking. My eyes are vacant orbs. I look like Courtney Love’s next album cover.
That explains the weary looks in the store.
I splash some water on my face to wipe away the mascara before walking back out to the bike.
This is it. This is the moment where I can go back and face Ezra or leave forever.
Ezra’s a dangerous man; a monster, vicious and vile. When members of his crew were injured he killed for vengeance. Killing his nephew might as well be a death sentence. Decision made, I swing a leg over the seat of the bike and start her up.

I pull off the highway in a
 little college town not an hour later. As I ride down the quaint little main drag a tattoo parlor catches my attention. I pull off the road and park the bike before pushing through the crowd of townies to the entrance of the shop, called ‘Bloodlines’. I like the name of the place. I feel drawn to it. When I push through the door a little bell chimes above my head. I walk to the desk and am greeted with a tough smile.

“How can I help you?” a short person says. This kid can’t be more than ten years old. I stare at her, unsure of how to answer her question. She puts a hand on her hip and cocks her head at me, waiting for a response.

“Um, I guess, I want a tattoo…” I start. “You guess?” she quips with irritation. “My mom says that’s a
really
bad reason to get one. They are
permanent
you know,” she states. I can’t help the small smile that forms on my lips.
Who is this kid?

“
Alliecat! Are you being nice?” a woman calls out as she comes into view. She’s stunning, despite the strange neon green streak in her hair. Her smile is warm and inviting. She’s petite and curvy, with warm eyes and just....stunning. I immediately feel at ease near her. It’s stupid really. I can’t afford to feel at ease. I don’t deserve to feel at ease.

“Hi!” she smiles.

“Uhh, hi. I need a tattoo,” I blurt. She raises an eyebrow at me and stares with a smirk. Her eyes show curiosity before she answers.

“You sure ‘bout that?” she counters.

“I am,” I state.
No. I’m not.
I hate tattoos. I think they’re classless. I never wanted one. Scratch that, Cypress White never wanted one but I am not that girl anymore. I am...someone else.

“Well then, come on back...” she says, waiting for my name.

“Magnolia,” I offer. Pain erupts in my chest. What a stupid name to choose. Something about the pain soothes me, though, as much as it hurts, as if I deserve it. My brain slows its thoughts, as if on cue, at hearing the word Magnolia. A needed reminder of what I’ve done.

“Magnolia,” she repeats, grinning, and waves for me to follow her. It’s odd to see her smiling while I’m rotting on the inside. I sit on the table as she instructs and wait. I’m not sure what I’m really doing here. Why did I come in? This is sheer craziness. I feel flushed and start to fidget in my seat.

“So, Magnolia, what did you want done?” she asks lightly while fiddling with strange tools I’ve never seen before. Her voice soothes me. It’s calm, smooth and soft. I want a beautiful Magnolia tree. I
want
to permanently be reminded of him.

“I want a Magnolia tree. I want the branches to have blossoms and I want it big,” I say, still not fully aware of where this is coming from. But deep down I
do
know where it’s coming from. I know exactly why I am requesting this. It’s my way of keeping him with me. I didn’t have the opportunity to say goodbye, or to keep anything that was important to me. This way I can have him with me, just a little bit.

“How big are you thinking?” She eyes me, surprised.

“I want it to cover my back and shoulder...and arm,” I say quietly, looking down. She pauses for a moment and looks me over. Really looks me over. I fidget under the weight of her gaze. This lady means business. My nostrils flare with my intake of breath. One. Two. Three. Four.

“How many tattoos do you have?” she asks, breaking me from my routine.

“None,” I admit. “Can you do it?”

“It’ll be expensive, and it will take at least three sessions, minimum,” she informs me.

“I have money, and I have a couple days,” I answer.

“Alright then, let’s look at some designs, see what you like, and go from there,” she offers excitedly. She switches on the speakers and cranks up ZZ Ward as she makes her way to the computer in the corner. This slight little lady is bursting with energy. Her hips sway and her head bobs as ZZ’s voice rumbles from the speakers.

I stay in Blacksburg for four days. The tattoo took three four-hour sessions and Clara, as I’d learned was her name, refused to see me after the first twenty-four hours, stating that I needed a break between sessions. She was right and wrong. Once we started I found that I needed the pain. I needed to feel something, anything, and pain seemed to be the only thing appropriate to feel. The buzz of the needle combined with the pain kept my mind from wandering. Whatever awaited me would still be there tomorrow. We did the tattoo in three pieces. Each day she would complete a segment from outline through color; that way, she explained, we wouldn’t be going over sensitive skin. I stayed in a cheap hotel and visited the London Underground Bar each night until they closed. Migs, the owner, was nice enough and didn’t make me talk too much. I let Clara mar my body with a large, colorful, permanent reminder of the love in my heart. The love I slayed.

The little spitfire at the reception desk was Allie, her daughter. She hung around for most of the sessions and chatted with me about music and boys. I didn’t really say much but she seemed happy to chatter on, at least until her dad stopped by to pick her up. Clara must be a real firecracker in bed or something because Allie’s dad is honest-to-God one of the most Adonis-like men I have ever seen. His smile is broad and the love that radiated from his eyes when he looked at Allie and Clara couldn’t be missed. Sawyer, as he’d introduced himself, was a good hearted man, you could just tell. He had this laid back badass vibe, like he would be surfing one moment but riding off on a Harley the next. I hadn’t said much to him. I’d just nodded when he introduced himself and looked away. I couldn’t figure out why on earth she would have left that man or not done whatever it took to make it work, until at the end of my last appointment when her fiancé, Dominic, showed up with a cup of coffee for us both. Mind-blowingly handsome doesn’t even cover it. Allie’s dad had a tattooed, muscled, badass surfer look but her fiancé was dashing and cut and manly in a more refined way. I’d just gaped at him when he flashed his smile at us and openly kissed Clara with more passion than I’d seen in a long time between adults in public. How she ever had the luck to draw in two such amazing men I’ll never know. My heart constricted with jealousy at their open display of love. I
had
that once. I knew that feeling and I killed it.