Objective (Bloodlines #2)(35)

“Girl, sometimes I wish I didn’t give a shit about you and your sass mouth,” he chuckles.

“Uh, huh. You love it.” I smile and push away from the wall where we people-watch.

“ASK HER,” I push.

He shakes his head at me and crosses his arms over his chest as I head back out to take more orders.

My shift drags on despite it being a busy night and by the time we close all I want to do is go home, jump in bed and dream about being able to tolerate a massage. Someone giving me a good foot-rub truly never sounded better. Maybe I was ready…maybe I could do this. It’s just one small step, really.

I sling my purse strap over my chest diagonally and push through the back exit, my keys in one hand and my other hand on the pistol tucked inside my bag. The fresh air, albeit cold, is refreshing after being inside the club. I breathe it in deeply before scanning the parking lot. Clear. I approach the car like I always do, carefully. I’m sure I’m insane for being so careful. Something rests on the hood of my car. I can’t quite make it out from this distance, though. I continue towards the land yacht slowly, hyperaware of every sound and sight around me: the gust of wind that whips the lock against the backdoor of the club, the slap of my shoes against the asphalt, the way the light flickers in the one lamp lighting the parking lot.

When I reach the car I lose my breath altogether. I stare at the branch on the hood and will myself not to lose it. A cypress branch rests delicately near the windshield. Of all the things that could cause me to come unglued, this, this is beyond anything I imagined. My chest is tight and I fight my throat to swallow. Cypress trees are not native to Arkansas. I know this. It did not fall from a tree and land on my car. This is intentional. This is just the beginning. A warning perhaps? But why? I’ve been found, obviously. I scan the parking lot and crouch down to look under the car. Nothing. My breathing is short puffs of air that don’t feel like they bring any oxygen to my lungs. I steel myself and remove the branch from my hood. Dropping it on the black asphalt, I unlock my door and slide in, quickly shutting the door and locking myself in. I take the safety off and let the gun rest in my lap. My mouth is dry, so dry. I start the car up with no problem and pull out of the lot. Nothing. The drive home is uneventful, but my senses are in overdrive. I pull into my dirt patch parking strip and push the button on my phone to make the flood lights come on. Everything looks as it should. If this is some kind of mind game, it’s pure torture. My fear is palpable, yet part of me, a small sliver, thinks it was stupid for Ezra to give me a heads up. I am not the person I was a year ago. I’ve been training. I’ve been focused and I’ve been preparing for the day when he comes for me. He just gave me a small advantage.





Chapter 13





“The truth isn’t always beauty, but the hunger for it is.”-Nadine Gordimer


My night was shit. I barely slept. My mind was in and out of thought and I’d watched the monitors like a hawk only to have nothing happen. Exhausted, I roll out of bed at around ten o’clock to shower. I’m going to keep the appointment Bentley made for me. I’m going to prove to myself that I can face my shame, guilt, and fear. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I really need to stop counting.



The spa is a small shop on the main drag in Beebe. The walls are a soft soothing green and the music playing is relaxing even though I feel anything but relaxed right now. A short woman with wavy brown hair greets me.

“Hi there, you must be Magnolia,” she says.

“Yes,” I answer without ceremony.

“Are you ready to come on back? I’m Jess and I’ll be doing your massage today.”

I nod and follow her down the hall and into a small room that’s dimly lit. I stand board-straight while she explains that she will be doing an hour-long full body massage. Keep your underwear on. Check. Lay face up to start. Check. And then she’s gone. I disrobe quickly and hop up onto the table, fidgeting with the blankets until they are up around my neck and she knocks on the door.

“All set,” I call out in a small voice. Man up, Mags. It’s just a massage.

She enters the room and adjusts the lights even lower before switching on some quiet music. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, counting to ten in my head. When her hand lifts mine and she starts massaging my arm, I stiffen and try not to freak out. It’s a woman. She’s giving me a massage. I am fine. I repeat this mantra repeatedly while keeping my eyes squeezed shut until she stops.

“Magnolia?” her voice is gentle and soft.

“Yes?” I whisper, opening one eye.

“You’re going to have to relax a bit for this to work…how about you roll over and we focus on your back?” she offers.

“Sorry. OK.” I comply. She lifts the light blanket slightly allowing me to roll so I’m face down, and then folds the blanket back to my rear. I feel too exposed like this.

“I’m going to start with your shoulders,” she states. Her warm, lotioned hands come to my shoulder blades and start methodically working at the knots. The longer she works, her strokes long and deep, the more I can feel the tension easing from my body. I close my eyes and breathe, in and out, in and out, in and...

“Take your time getting up. I’ll be out front waiting,” she says softly, waking me from my nap. I blink a few times as I hear the door click shut. I must have dozed off, which means I did it and I did it well! I feel relaxed and peaceful in a way I haven’t since before this new life. Rejuvenated, I sit up slowly and get dressed. I sweep my hair up into a loose bun and check my face in the mirror for sheet marks. Somehow I feel more whole, like a tiny slice of me has been repaired. I even feel a nugget of happiness. Sad but true, something as simple as a massage has fixed some small part of me.