Objective (Bloodlines #2)(27)

“Nice morning for a run,” I offer as he lounges in the chair next to me sipping his coffee. His defined abdominals contract as he sips and swallows. It’s mesmerizing.

“Not too hot, not too cold. Perfect running weather.” He grins and I nod. He leaves it at that and lets us sit in silence for a while. It’s comfortable silence. I think he knows I don’t chit chat, but he’s so comfortable with it that it makes me wonder if he’s somehow broken like me. I stare at the dregs of coffee in my mug and contemplate refilling my cup. I have nowhere to be for another two hours. Just the gym and then work.

“More?” I ask. He shakes his head no.

“I’m set, but mind if I sit for a while still? Your flowers smell good, princess.”

“Yeah... that’s fine.” I half-smile. I wander into the kitchen, refill my coffee and rejoin Bentley outside.

“What do you do?” I find myself asking. It’s taken twelve months of our non-friendship to actually start wondering about him but finally I’m growing curious about my mystery neighbor.

“Wow, princess, thought you’d never ask.” He chuckles as he tugs his shirt on. I don’t respond, but stare at him willing him to answer. “Can you keep a secret?” he asks seriously. Something in his tone makes me think that maybe I don’t want to know the answer to my question anymore. I don’t like secrets. They’re a burden I’m all too familiar with.

“I can, but maybe I shouldn’t have asked you,” I tell him seriously. He laughs loudly.

“Jesus, Mags, I didn’t kill someone!” he jokes. My heart stops. My breathing stops and I try like hell to not turn as white as snow. “I’m undercover,” he finishes. I let out the breath I was holding and stare into my mug. Great, all this time, I’ve been hanging out with a cop. World’s stupidest girl right here. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

“I promise I won’t blow your cover,” I say, not having a better response.

“No worries, you can't. We’re good,” he answers. I can’t? Why can't I? His answer makes me nervous. Paranoid.

“So, you’re not really Bentley, born and raised in the park?” I scoff.

“Actually, that part is true, just not this park.” He chuckles.

“Why did you say that I can’t blow your cover?” I blurt. His face grows serious and his eyes cloud. I don’t know what to make of it.

“I’m not a cop like that. The things I deal with are things that a beautiful woman like you would never know anything about,” he says firmly. I stare at the line his mouth has formed and at his eyes. He believes what he says, or he’s a damned good liar.

“So you’re not a cop?” I push, knowing we’re treading a thin line for our particular friendship.

“I get bad men off the street. That’s all I can say, Mags, leave it.” His tone has moved from friendly to something less than friendly. I know I should take his verbal cue and shut up but my curiosity is killing me.

“Okay. Well, stop by the club some night, I deal with bad men for a living,” I quip trying to lighten the mood. “But seriously, Bentley, I’d never run my mouth. I like my privacy and I understand your work is important.” He smiles at me and stares at my face so long that I start to fidget in my chair. Just before I think he’s going to make my brain explode with silent scrutiny he stands and sets his mug on the side table between us.

“No lie lives forever, Mags,” he says softly and then strides around the trailer next to me without another look. What does that mean? I’m sure I’m reading into his cryptic language too much but it sets off all the alarms and red flags in my head and puts me on high alert. His lies or mine? Does he know who I am? Did Ezra send him? Will it be Bentley who brings me down? My head hurts from too many thoughts and I need a release. What does Bentley know? I jump up from my seat and jog toward his trailer. I’ve never been in it and I only know it’s his because I drove by one time and saw him going in. I pound on the door until he finally opens it.

He has nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. Clearly I’ve interrupted the shower he was preparing for. He stands holding his towel up with one hand while the other holds the door open, and stares at me pointedly.

“Was there something you needed, Mags?” he asks, looking slightly irritated. My mind blanks. How do I ask what he knows or doesn't know without giving up information? If he doesn't know, I’m not going to tell him. Shit. I fiddle with my fingers and stare at my toes. I’m still barefoot. I look back up through my lashes to Bentley and bite my lip nervously. Say something, Mags, Jesus. His hand at the door shoots out and tags me behind the neck, pulling me into the living room as the door slaps closed behind us. I stiffen at the contact before crouching down, as my training dictates, to get free of his hold and back up a few feet.

“What the hell, Bent?!” I hiss.

“I was right…” he laments, shaking his head slightly.

“About?” I ask, feeling slightly lightheaded. The skin on the back of my neck still tingles from where his hand rested. I haven’t let anyone touch me in so long. It feels foreign. Wrong somehow.

“You,” he says, taking a step towards me delicately with his arm outstretched like I’m some scared animal.

“What about me?” I whisper and look away. Our exchange has gotten too close for comfort. I’m petrified that the next words out of his mouth will be my undoing.