Objective (Bloodlines #2)(50)

“So what do you think?” She cocks her head to the side waiting for an answer.

“Huh?” I say glancing at her again.

“Cane!” she squeals before chuckling. “Were you even listening to anything I said?”

“I was too busy watching you to listen,” I grin. Her face falls slightly but I don’t know what I said wrong. She raises her fingers to her face and tentatively touches her cheekbones and nose. Shit. I should’ve known.

“You’re gorgeous, Mags. Always have been, still are right now,” I say determinedly.

“Yeah...” she mumbles, readjusting herself to face her window. The next hour is silent except for the radio, which she adjusts every so often to find a more suitable song. I try once to rest my hand on her thigh. She used to love it, but she casually removes my hand, pretending to fiddle with the radio to avoid seeming offensive. How will we overcome what we’ve each turned into? We pull into the Walmart parking lot in Jackson, Tennessee at eight pm. I kill the engine and contemplate my options. There is still a chance she might run and I can’t have that, but she needs some clothes and shoes and she can’t go in barefoot.

“Uh, can you grab me a bra while you’re in there?” she asks hesitantly.

“Yes.”

“I need a thirty-four...” I cut her off, remembering well what her size is. “C. I know, Mags. I know you,” I say gently. I want her to know that I remember every detail of our life together. That I never forgot her. No small detail was over-looked on my part. I want her to feel my love for her.

“Right.” Her tone is short and indifferent.

“Mags?”

She sighs before turning to me. I reach my hand out and cup her face, moving my thumb gently across her beaten face. She definitely can’t go into the store with that face. “If you want this trip to be all roses and romance you’re gonna have to work with me.” Her mouth quirks up one corner at a time.

“Roses and romance, huh?” she snorts.

“Just cut me some slack and tell me what you need,” I beg, feigning irritation. Her eyes spark with mischief.

“A bra. A dress. Shorts. Two tank tops and a long sleeved shirt, all smalls. And panties and tampons,” she rattles off quickly. I mentally check off everything she listed and stop short at the last item.

“What?” I squawk.

“What?” she shrugs.

“Wait? Really?”

“I have a vagina...generally speaking that means tampons are needed every once in a while,” she deadpans.

“Right. So, uh, is there like a brand or size you need?” I choke out.

“Super jumbo sized for heavy flows. If you can't find them, ask one of the sales people.” She quickly turns her head to face the window and goes silent. Of all the things we shared, and it was mostly everything, she never, ever, would admit to having a period. She said it made her unsexy and she didn't ever want me to think she wasn’t hot. I’d laughed then, but secretly had been happy with her little confession. It seems now she was no longer concerned with holding up that facade. Crap.

I pull out a set of handcuffs from the glove box and hold them out to her. She eyes me warily and makes no move to take them from me. Her arms cross over her chest.

“Mags. Come on, there’s no guarantee that you’ll be in the car when I get back,” I say trying to stay calm. Jesus, f*ck this is hard. Do I trust her? Can I trust her?

“I won't run,” she states.

“I can’t know that for sure.”

“You can because I’m telling you,” she offers softly. I sigh and press the heels of my hands to my eyes.

“You always do that when you’re stressed.” Dropping my hands, I look over to her.

“What?”

“Mush your eyes, you do it when you’re stressed. I have no shoes, barely any clothes, no phone or money, Cane. I’m not going to run,” she states matter-of-factly. I let her words sink in and finally just take it for what it is. I exit the car, slamming the door shut behind me in frustration, and head into the store. She better be there when I get back.



Goddamn tampons. There is an entire wall of those things. Tiny, medium, large, super large, scented, unscented - it’s like Bubba reciting a million different kinds of shrimp to Forrest. Gross. Shrimp-talk and tampon-talk should never enter the brain at the same time. Super jumbo for heavy flows doesn't seem to be printed on a single box and I’m losing my mind trying to pick out the right ones. Applicator or no applicator? Jesus, what is the need for so many different sizes and kinds? A vagina is a vagina, right? How hard can this possibly be? In pure frustration I grab one box of each super-sized kind and throw them all into the cart with the clothes I’ve picked out. I push the cart to the checkout lady and toss all the boxes on the conveyor belt along with the clothing, shoes and undergarments.

“First time?” The forty-something clerk chuckles as she rings up all the stuff. If I could shoot laser beams from my eyes and kill, I would. Instead I just glare at her and stay silent. One hundred and sixty three dollars later, forty eight of them being for tampons alone, I schlep all the bags back to the car. Mag’s head isn't in the passenger window where it should be. Panic flares and I sprint the rest of the way to the car. Dropping all the bags on the asphalt I tag the keys from my pocket and unlock the doors. Her head pops up from the back seat and gives me a confused look.