Objective (Bloodlines #2)(15)
“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!