Objective (Bloodlines #2)(28)

“Someone broke you. You flinch every time you think I’m going to make contact with you. What happened, Mags?” he asks softly. Thank God. Thank God that's his big realization. I heave a couple of deep breaths and fall back onto his couch letting myself look around finally.

“Oh, that,” I laugh mockingly at myself. “Don’t worry about that shit, Bent. I’m fine. I just don’t like people touching me.”

“Mags, Brock says that...” he starts.

“How do you know Brock and who the hell is he to say anything about me?” I demand, cutting him off, thoroughly irritated now.

“Calm down. Brock and I train together at the gym once in a while. I’ve seen you there sometimes but I didn't know if you’d even say hi back if I waved. You’re so intense when you train, you don't notice anything or anyone around you,” he explains calmly. Huh.

“Well, Brock hasn't mentioned that he knows you,” I push.

“I asked him not to. We agreed treading lightly and treating you with kid gloves was the best way.”

“Best way for what?!” I clip, flustered at this insane conversation. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. One. Two. Three.

“To help you, Mags. Brock knows little more about you than I do. You never have friends over. You never hang out after work, you never talk about your life or yourself and you have this steel fortress trailer and crazy training regimen.” I sit before him, stunned. Obviously he is a well-trained lawman of some sort to pick up on all this from the kitchen view of my trailer, the three times he has been inside in the six months since we’ve barely started speaking to each other. I need to get out of here.

“Screw you! And Brock! I didn’t ask either one of you to go nosing around in my life. I’m perfectly content, not that it’s any of your business!” I holler, and stalk towards his bare chest. When I’m toe to toe with him I poke him in the sternum, hard. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Shit,” I snap. He smirks at me and drops his towel. I drop my jaw. Partly in awe but mostly in shock. I squeeze my eyes shut tight. What the hell is he doing? My fear is starting to take over. I can feel the panic tighten my chest. I can’t do this. Has he misread my anger for angry flirting? No. No. No, God, please don’t touch me. His arms wrap around me and squeeze me to him as his lips crash into mine. He’s warm, firm and delicious. He smells good. I shudder with want. For the briefest moment I’m okay, until I’m not.

On its own accord my body goes rigid and tight and I start trembling so ferociously that I’m sure I’m about to black out. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I don’t want him to be near me, let alone touching me. No man touches me. No man kisses me. Only my man. Only mine. It’s my only way to preserve him. To not tarnish the last part of what we had. My eyes snap open just in time to see Bentley’s stormy blue eyes open. He’s afraid. At least his eyes say he’s afraid. He pulls himself away from me, tagging his towel from the floor between us and covering up. Just as my knees start to give out he scoops me up and sits me on the couch. Tears stream down my face. I can’t stop them. I feel violated. Dirty. Guilty.

“Jesus,” he blows out before pinching the skin just above the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” He stands and leaves me a trembling, tearful catatonic mess on his couch. Moments later he returns and hands me a glass of water.

“Bourbon,” I croak while staring at my lap. “Only bourbon.” He shakes his head and retraces his steps before reappearing with a glass of bourbon for me. My hand shakes as I try to take the glass from him. I shoot the entire glass, not caring that he’s looking at me like I have three heads. My eyes water for a different reason now, a reason I can cope with. I set the glass on the side table and stand up letting the burn continue down into my stomach. It’s a calming sensation.

“Bye,” I mumble. I haul ass out of his trailer and back to the safety of mine in record time. I intend on locking myself in and ‘self-medicating’ for the remainder of the day. Hell, maybe I’ll drink myself stupid for a few days. I definitely don't have the capacity to deal with what just happened. I just need to shut it down and lock it away. I grab the bottle of bourbon that’s staring me down from the shelf next to the fridge and climb into bed with it. Am I doomed to spend forever here and never be satisfied? I miss him in my soul. I need some distraction; I spend all this time waiting for a second chance that will never come. My soul is a hurricane, but everything is fine when you’re standing in the eye of it. I just can’t seem to find the eye and stay in it.



“What do you do?” I ask, politely looking around for Cane.

“I’m in trades.” His face looks hard and mean. I can’t read him. It freaks me out.

“Trades? Is that good?” I try to keep up the niceties.

“Good? I don't know about that, but I’ve made a f*ck lot of money.” He laughed oddly. “Are you here for money, Cypress?” The way my name slipped from his mouth made me cringe. It sounded vile. I hated the sound of it.

“What money?” I ask, confused. What was he talking about?

“Come on. Take some money and move along, honey. You’re nothing but a bad influence. A distraction. Cane’s head needs to be in the game,” he stated. My blood boiled. I knew what he was saying without being too overt. The audacity of his request, of his thoughts about my character set me off.