Objective (Bloodlines #2)(4)

I’m too exhausted to ride for long. I’ve never ridden this long before, not even as a passenger. It’s taking its toll on me. Sleep was my enemy last night. It came and went throughout the night and I’d fought to control my breathing each time I woke, consciously trying to slow it down to avoid a meltdown. I pull into a strip mall somewhere west of the Virginia coastline I think, to rest. As soon as I stretch my legs and relieve myself in the public restroom, my nerves take over and I can barely keep myself upright. I throw up in the nasty toilet until my stomach is empty, like my soul. Anxiety controls me whenever I’m not riding. If I could stay on the bike comfortably for longer, I would. I wander into a couple of low-end shops and peruse until I finally settle on a cheap pair of boots, a faux leather jacket and jeans. The wind has already chapped my skin from riding for so long, and in my current mental state I can’t afford to crash the bike and tear my skin to pieces just because I didn’t dress appropriately for riding – though that would solve a few issues.

The sales associate watches me warily, like I’m going to steal the clothes or hold her up at gunpoint. It’s absurd. I’m a nice girl, from a nice family. I’ve never had someone look at me like this before. Maybe I’m losing my mind. I unzip the pack a smidge and dip my hand in, pulling out a wad of fifty dollar bills, which surprises me. I’d expected some cash but fifties? I shove my surprise deep inside and I throw them onto the counter before snatching up my purchases and high-tailing it out of there. I can’t afford to think about the contents of the backpack for right now. I force one foot in front of the other back to the bathroom and change. I don’t even bother keeping what I have on. The clothes are tainted, unwashable. I leave them in the stall for someone else to clean up. Washing my hands before leaving, I look up into the mirror and gasp. My mascara is dripping down my face and I’m pale and puffy looking. My eyes are vacant orbs. I look like Courtney Love’s next album cover. That explains the weary looks in the store. I splash some water on my face to wipe away the mascara before walking back out to the bike. This is it. This is the moment where I can go back and face Ezra or leave forever. Ezra’s a dangerous man; a monster, vicious and vile. When members of his crew were injured he killed for vengeance. Killing his nephew might as well be a death sentence. Decision made, I swing a leg over the seat of the bike and start her up.

I pull off the highway in a little college town not an hour later. As I ride down the quaint little main drag a tattoo parlor catches my attention. I pull off the road and park the bike before pushing through the crowd of townies to the entrance of the shop, called ‘Bloodlines’. I like the name of the place. I feel drawn to it. When I push through the door a little bell chimes above my head. I walk to the desk and am greeted with a tough smile.

“How can I help you?” a short person says. This kid can’t be more than ten years old. I stare at her, unsure of how to answer her question. She puts a hand on her hip and cocks her head at me, waiting for a response.

“Um, I guess, I want a tattoo…” I start. “You guess?” she quips with irritation. “My mom says that’s a really bad reason to get one. They are permanent you know,” she states. I can’t help the small smile that forms on my lips. Who is this kid?

“Alliecat! Are you being nice?” a woman calls out as she comes into view. She’s stunning, despite the strange neon green streak in her hair. Her smile is warm and inviting. She’s petite and curvy, with warm eyes and just....stunning. I immediately feel at ease near her. It’s stupid really. I can’t afford to feel at ease. I don’t deserve to feel at ease.

“Hi!” she smiles.

“Uhh, hi. I need a tattoo,” I blurt. She raises an eyebrow at me and stares with a smirk. Her eyes show curiosity before she answers.

“You sure ‘bout that?” she counters.

“I am,” I state. No. I’m not. I hate tattoos. I think they’re classless. I never wanted one. Scratch that, Cypress White never wanted one but I am not that girl anymore. I am...someone else.

“Well then, come on back...” she says, waiting for my name.

“Magnolia,” I offer. Pain erupts in my chest. What a stupid name to choose. Something about the pain soothes me, though, as much as it hurts, as if I deserve it. My brain slows its thoughts, as if on cue, at hearing the word Magnolia. A needed reminder of what I’ve done.

“Magnolia,” she repeats, grinning, and waves for me to follow her. It’s odd to see her smiling while I’m rotting on the inside. I sit on the table as she instructs and wait. I’m not sure what I’m really doing here. Why did I come in? This is sheer craziness. I feel flushed and start to fidget in my seat.

“So, Magnolia, what did you want done?” she asks lightly while fiddling with strange tools I’ve never seen before. Her voice soothes me. It’s calm, smooth and soft. I want a beautiful Magnolia tree. I want to permanently be reminded of him.

“I want a Magnolia tree. I want the branches to have blossoms and I want it big,” I say, still not fully aware of where this is coming from. But deep down I do know where it’s coming from. I know exactly why I am requesting this. It’s my way of keeping him with me. I didn’t have the opportunity to say goodbye, or to keep anything that was important to me. This way I can have him with me, just a little bit.

“How big are you thinking?” She eyes me, surprised.