Objective (Bloodlines #2)(29)

“I’m not here for any money, Ezra. I don’t understand what you’re talking about. I’m here for Cane and I’m not going to let you bully me out of his life,” I ground out. His mouth contorted into a strange tight thin line. Like his whole face was sucking inward. I heard the slam of a car door and turn on my heel quickly making my way towards the front door, to Cane. More than ever I didn't trust Ezra Ash.

“What’s the matter, baby girl? I thought you were staying today,” Cane cooed as he caught me tumbling toward the exit.

“I am... I was... I don’t know. Your uncle’s in there. He creeps me out,” I rambled. Cane studied my face intently before growling, “Stay here.” I nodded compliantly and watched as he sauntered over to Ezra. They exchanged words heatedly before Ezra stormed off out the back door of the gym. Cane purposefully strode back to me and scooped me up into his arms, making me smile.

“Better?” He asked. How could I say no to this man when I felt like he would do anything for me.

“What’s the rope down the middle for?” I asked, confirming that I’m staying.

“Ducking and slipping. It’s good practice.”

“You look hot dipping, slipping and punching.” I giggled and blushed.

“Jesus, Mags... you’re so goddamn adorable when you try talking boxing.” His lips brushed the spot behind my ear, sending a chill through me. Was it possible to love someone too much?

“Well... are you going to teach me to box or what?” I’d asked.

I hear knocking. Lots of loud knocking. I groan and roll over. I wake up slowly, trying to hold onto my dream, to the memories. I can feel a slight smile on my face and it feels good. The elation lasts only seconds though. As soon as my brain is fully alert the crushing ache replaces the happiness in my heart. I wipe away the single tear that’s dripping down my face and sit up. Fuck you, life. Swinging my feet over the edge of the bed, I pause and do a quick scan of the monitors along the wall. Bentley and Brock. What the f*ck. The pounding resumes and I push up to my feet. I’m in only yoga pants and my head is swimming. I feel like death. A mostly empty bottle of bourbon lays haphazardly on the edge of the night stand. I grab a tank top from the back of a chair and tug it on as I make my way to the door.

“Jesus! Stop!” I yell towards the door while covering my ears. The sound is making everything about this morning worse. When I get to the door I twist all three deadbolts to the unlocked position and, as violently as I can muster through my hangover, I swing the door open. Brock and Bentley stand there with relief clearly showing on both faces.

“I’m not dead. Go. Away,” I glower, and slam the door shut in both their faces. Before I can lock it the door is thrown open and I’m thrown backwards by the force of it.

“Shit, Brock!” Bentley yells as he rushes me and kneels to where I’m crumpled.

“Damn, sorry, Mags, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Brock mumbles as his enormous frame fills up the trailer.

“What the hell?!” I bluster.

“You missed work,” Brock states. “You never miss work, and you missed the gym. You never miss the gym.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask as I shake Bentley’s hand off me and push up off the floor.

“You’ve been in here for two days, Mags,” Bentley says in a low voice. I shake my head to clear it a bit and think. It was just this morning that Bentley was over, wasn’t it?

“I gave you the rest of the day, you know, to cool down, but then you didn't come out on Monday,” he says, filling in the blanks for me.

“Wait, what? What day is it?” I ask feeling a little woozy.

“Tuesday, girl, damn, did you eat?” Brock bellows. Shit, Tuesday. I did miss work. I drag a hand down my face and then run it through my hair and start counting to ten.

“Crap,” I blow out when I hit five. “Brock, I’ll see you tonight if I still have a job,” I say and push past them to the door. I open it and point outside. “Out,” I clip.

“No way. Talk, Mags,” Bentley barks. Brock moves to his side and crosses his arms over his massive chest. They are fools if they think they can intimidate me.

“I got drunk. Really drunk. Okay? It’s not that big of a deal,” I huff.

“It’s not that big of a deal?” Bentley grinds out.

“Why do you give a shit?!” I bark.

“You know what? I need time to cool off. Go to work tonight. When you get home, we talk,” he growls as he storms past me pausing at the door.

“I’m not yours, Bent!” I holler after him. Brocks hand runs down my left arm. The contact makes me spin around, glaring.

“Is this how you want to be remembered?” Brock pleads.

“I don’t want to be remembered at all. If I’m being remembered, it means I’m dead,” I snip.

“Mags, there are two types of tragedies in life. One is not getting what you want, the other is getting it,” he says, shaking his head at me. His words send chills down my spine.

“Listen to him, Mags. You can’t do this to yourself. Maybe you think no one cares about you, but you’re wrong,” Bentley says gently before seeing himself out. Brock follows him out. I shut the door behind them, lock the deadbolts and slide down against the door to the floor. What am I doing? I moved past this phase! I function again without drinking. Feeling like I was run over by a Mack truck, I slowly crawl across the trailer to my phone to call Aster when I notice the date. One year. It’s been one year since his funeral. The funeral I missed. The funeral I caused. I pull myself off the floor and grab my keys.