Objective (Bloodlines #2)(19)

“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





“Life is such a glorious trauma, is it not?”- J.R. Ward


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.