Objective (Bloodlines #2)(5)

“I want it to cover my back and shoulder...and arm,” I say quietly, looking down. She pauses for a moment and looks me over. Really looks me over. I fidget under the weight of her gaze. This lady means business. My nostrils flare with my intake of breath. One. Two. Three. Four.

“How many tattoos do you have?” she asks, breaking me from my routine.

“None,” I admit. “Can you do it?”

“It’ll be expensive, and it will take at least three sessions, minimum,” she informs me.

“I have money, and I have a couple days,” I answer.

“Alright then, let’s look at some designs, see what you like, and go from there,” she offers excitedly. She switches on the speakers and cranks up ZZ Ward as she makes her way to the computer in the corner. This slight little lady is bursting with energy. Her hips sway and her head bobs as ZZ’s voice rumbles from the speakers.

I stay in Blacksburg for four days. The tattoo took three four-hour sessions and Clara, as I’d learned was her name, refused to see me after the first twenty-four hours, stating that I needed a break between sessions. She was right and wrong. Once we started I found that I needed the pain. I needed to feel something, anything, and pain seemed to be the only thing appropriate to feel. The buzz of the needle combined with the pain kept my mind from wandering. Whatever awaited me would still be there tomorrow. We did the tattoo in three pieces. Each day she would complete a segment from outline through color; that way, she explained, we wouldn’t be going over sensitive skin. I stayed in a cheap hotel and visited the London Underground Bar each night until they closed. Migs, the owner, was nice enough and didn’t make me talk too much. I let Clara mar my body with a large, colorful, permanent reminder of the love in my heart. The love I slayed.

The little spitfire at the reception desk was Allie, her daughter. She hung around for most of the sessions and chatted with me about music and boys. I didn’t really say much but she seemed happy to chatter on, at least until her dad stopped by to pick her up. Clara must be a real firecracker in bed or something because Allie’s dad is honest-to-God one of the most Adonis-like men I have ever seen. His smile is broad and the love that radiated from his eyes when he looked at Allie and Clara couldn’t be missed. Sawyer, as he’d introduced himself, was a good hearted man, you could just tell. He had this laid back badass vibe, like he would be surfing one moment but riding off on a Harley the next. I hadn’t said much to him. I’d just nodded when he introduced himself and looked away. I couldn’t figure out why on earth she would have left that man or not done whatever it took to make it work, until at the end of my last appointment when her fiancé, Dominic, showed up with a cup of coffee for us both. Mind-blowingly handsome doesn’t even cover it. Allie’s dad had a tattooed, muscled, badass surfer look but her fiancé was dashing and cut and manly in a more refined way. I’d just gaped at him when he flashed his smile at us and openly kissed Clara with more passion than I’d seen in a long time between adults in public. How she ever had the luck to draw in two such amazing men I’ll never know. My heart constricted with jealousy at their open display of love. I had that once. I knew that feeling and I killed it.





Chapter 2





“Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on. I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you.”- Jonathan Safran Foer


At seven-thirty pm I stop at a diner in the middle of nowheresville, better known as Dexter, MO, for some lunch and a stretch, and then I keep right on going. My mind doesn’t rest. I keep thinking that my life is unfinished, that it’s missing something, someone.

I don’t have a plan. I figure I’ll just ride until I arrive someplace where I feel like I can breathe. Someplace I can just exist quietly. I’m not in control right now and that scares me. I need to be somewhere that is far away from Ezra Ash. Far away from the memories of the life I’ve decimated. I need someplace I can start over somehow.





Four hours later I’m ready to slit my wrists. The phone call I make to Aster during a pit stop is torture. Explaining something you can’t explain to yourself makes for an uncomfortable discussion. Horrified would be a good term to describe her thoughts on my situation. Horrified, disgusted, and heartbroken.

“Cypress White, what the hell is going on?! Your apartment is on the news! Cane...Honey, Cane’s...gone…” she cries. Hearing her confirm what I witnessed is harder than I thought it would be. I still held out hope, even a small trickle of it that maybe, just maybe, he’d survived. I roll my shoulders and crack my neck.

“I know, Aster. I was there,” I say flatly.

“WHAT?! Where are you now? Why didn’t you call me? What’s going on?” she wails into my ear.

“Aster, something happened. Ezra showed up, but Cane wasn’t home. He...” my voice trails off at the memory that I haven’t let myself revisit since that day. “I meant to shoot Ezra. I don’t know when Cane came in, I didn’t see him, I didn't hear him.” My last admission comes out as a sob. There’s silence at the other end of the line. “Aster?”

“I’m here,” she breathes. “Cypress, what did Ezra do to you?” My eyes fill with tears as I shudder.

“I...I can’t. Please, I can’t.” I sniffle, trying to regain composure. I push my memories down deep.