Objective (Bloodlines #2)(3)

My job is to stalk. To watch. To gather enough intelligence to get what I need done cleanly and swiftly eventually. The job should have been completed by now. I’m getting pushback from home. Execute and get home. It’s not that easy though. Not for me. Certainly it won’t be for her. It will kill her, mentally and then, literally. Currently I’m watching her train through the plate glass window of the gym. Her movements are fluid and powerful. She’s mesmerizing really. If that giant linebacker black dude would just step back and keep his hands off her I’d almost be able to enjoy the show. She doesn't need his guidance. Her moves, stances, punches are perfect. He’s touching her just to cop a feel. Exactly why I didn't want her training at the gym with me. Gym junkies are creeps. I wanted to keep her safe. Away from all the crap. I did for a while, or so I thought. She wasn't so innocent after all. Maybe I was the one who needed protecting. I still believe in Paradise. But now at least I know it's not someplace you can look for, 'cause it's not where you go. It's how you feel for a moment in your life when you're a part of something, and if you find that moment... it lasts forever.



Sunday mornings were my favorite. No place to be, no classes and just me and Mags. I relished the time with her. There was a tingling deep in my belly. No...lower. I shifted my thighs a bit.

“Mmmmm,” I mumbled as a wave of pleasure swept over me.

“You like that?” A breathy voice woke me up. Mags was trailing kisses down my torso. I hardened at the sight.

“I thought I was dreaming. What time is it?” I asked. I should have been dreaming. She had faith in me. She made me want to be different, better. She always had. No one had ever felt the way that she made me feel. I’m one lucky son of a bitch.

“Six.” She groaned. “Should I stop?”

“I think in this case, reality might be better.” I winked. Then my amazing girl got busy giving me the stuff fantasies are made of.





PART I





Chapter 1





“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear”- C.S. Lewis


Ezra. Ezra is going to kill me. The thought hits me like a Mack truck. I have to get out of here. If I don't get out now the chance won't be appealed. I know with deadly certainty he will kill me. I watch Ezra cradle Cane in disbelief that mirrors my own. I will my feet to move to him, but they won’t comply. I stand frozen with shock. He wasn’t supposed to die. He wasn’t here. I don’t know where he came from. I shake my head slightly and break eye contact with Ezra’s glare. The hiker’s pack by the door has his key clipped to it. The contents of his latest errand for Ezra in it as well. I’m sure cash rests just inside the pack. All errands for Ezra revolve around cash and guns. Cane always drops his pack there when he gets home. He also has only one rule for me: ‘Never touch the backpack.’ The realization pierces my insides. I didn’t hear the door. I didn’t see him. The strangled sound of wheezing, of fighting for air, cuts through my thoughts. I need to move. With bare feet I dart to the door, snatch the backpack and sprint as fast as I can outside. I hear Ezra’s ragged battle cry pierce the silent air from the open window but I don’t stop. I unclip the key from the bag strap, sling on the pack and straddle the Harley Sportster. I yank the helmet roughly over my head. My hands are shaking violently but I manage to crank the key and throttle the engine. It roars to life under me and before I can truly process anything that’s happened I peel away from my apartment, our home, our life. I leave my heart behind and speed down the highway headed southwest.

I feel like I’ve been riding forever. I almost turn around at one point, even though it’s now the middle of the night and I think I’m in Virginia already. I stop and pick up a pair of cheap ugly flats at a quick-stop store about sixty miles outside of town. It’s not really any better than riding a motorcycle with bare feet but at least people aren't staring at me as much anymore. I don’t want to be noticed. I continue to ride until my hands are numb and my body is exhausted. I ride until the trees and vegetation blur together in myriad colors on either side of me. I don’t think and I don’t let myself feel. I can’t afford to lose it right now. I don't contemplate the last few hours of my life at all. I just ride. My arms are numb like my heart. When I can’t ride a second longer I pull off at a sketchy motel that looks like something out of a horror movie.

“How many?” the unobservant desk clerk asks as his keyboard clicks and the phone rings.

“Just me,” I mumble. I shuffle and keep my eyes down.

“Forty-six fifty for the night, then. The vending machine don’t work and the pool is closed. We call the cops here, so keep it down. No parties,” he says, as if on autopilot. I hand him a wad of cash from the backpack and take my key. I walk the bike to the back of the motel strip where it can’t be seen from the street and walk back around to my room. The door squeaks when I push it open. I flick the light switch on the wall and a single lamp next to the bed illuminates the room. Cheap, dirty, smelly and home for the night. The boxy TV set has a crack in the screen. The white bathroom tiles are tinged yellow from years of abuse and the bedding has two tears that I can see from here; there’s no telling how much nastier it’ll be up close. I shudder and step inside. Locking the door behind me, I toss the pack on the floor next to the bed and lay down on top of the covers. I’m alone. The silence is overwhelming. I’m scared, and I just killed a man. My entire soul recoils at the thought. As soon as my head hits the pillow the tsunami of grief crashes through me. I break down and sob, unable to stop, for hours before finding sleep.