Objective (Bloodlines #2)(60)

“Yeah. I think you’ll like Blacksburg. It’s nice there,” she says wistfully.





Chapter 18





“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.”- Cormac McCarthy


Blacksburg is nestled in the Blue Ridge and Alleghany Mountains in the New River Valley and blissfully far off the grid. Main Street, which has numerous bars, restaurants, and shops, seems to be hopping tonight with college students. It makes my chest tighten at all the things she should have had. All the normal experiences that somehow, simply by knowing me, have been taken away from her. Maybe she took online classes this last year or maybe she attended an actual school in Arkansas somewhere. I hope she did.

“The main drag is only about six blocks long, so it makes for an easy stroll if you want to check it out,” she says, eyes sparkling vibrantly. It’s hard not to feel what she feels when she's animated like this.

“You really like it here, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs.

“When were you here?”

“Oh, after.” She pauses. “I got my tattoo here. There actually.” She points across the street to Bloodlines Tattoo Parlor. It’s five p.m. and it already looks like they’ve closed up for the day. Her eyes are warm and a contented grin plays on her face. “It’s too bad they’re closed. I’d like to meet the dude who did your piece.”

“It wasn’t a dude!” she laughs.

“Oh?”

“Geez, Cane, you make it sound like girls can’t be good at much,” she teases, raising an eyebrow at me. I sigh and scratch my head because let’s face it, no reply will be the right one at this point. Silence is golden.

“So what did you want to do tonight?” I hurry to change the subject.

“Well...” she says sheepishly. “I might have already planned our evening.” She clasps her hands together with excitement.

“Lay it on me,” I chuckle. She was always taking control of our social life before so this show of her Type A personality doesn't surprise me.

“Okay, so there is this ice cream shop down the street and we are definitely hitting that up, and then I thought we could grab a drink at the bar I visited while I was here before going to the Starlite. It’s a drive-in!!” she gushes. Her eyes are bright and her movements are animated. It’s as if she feels at home here. It’s a hell of a lot better than the guarded, hard version of herself that’s been rearing its ugly head.

“Where to first, then?” I ask.

“Uhh, ice cream of course!” she squeaks. I can’t stop the smile that creeps up my face. She’s so damned adorable. We walk hand in hand to The Parlor. It’s set up to look like it’s straight out the fifties. A retro wet dream. It’s definitely not my bag of chips but she seems to be in heaven right now. The bell chimes as we walk through the door into retroland. She tugs me towards an open booth near the front window.

She tosses me a menu from behind the napkin stand and immediately opens hers without hesitation. Dessert. Gets her every time. Her nose wrinkles up as she looks over certain items. I can almost predict which ones those are, too. She hates fruit in her dessert. She says that if she wanted fruit she would eat it, but dessert is supposed to be gluttonous. Nuts are the number two offender. She doesn't like nuts in her desserts. That one I don’t understand, never have.

“You two kids have an idea of what you want?” A tall lanky guy who is definitely not older than us holds his pad waiting to take our order. Johnny, according the name tag, looks like a rockabilly punk, complete with checkered skinny pants, a chain hanging from one pocket to his belt loop and slicked back hair like a greaser.

“Well?” he prompts again.

“Uh, we need a couple, I guess,” I answer for us. He cocks his head to the side and raises his eyebrows at Mags.

“Yeah, he needs a minute, I guess.”

“Your gal here knows what she wants. You sure you wanna keep her waiting?” he smirks.

“Go ahead, Mags, I'll figure something out on the fly,” I answer, feeling pressured by this punk.

“I'll have the Hunk-a-chunka PB Fudge sundae with extra peanut butter sauce,” Mags says proudly, beaming at the guy.

“Excellent combination of flavors, Cat,” Johnny winks. Cat?

“Am I missing something here?” I interject. I swear they are communicating on some level I’m not privy too.

“No need to get frosted, Daddy-O. You’re gal here is one fine ice cream sundae creator.” Daddy-O? Sundae creator? What the hell is he talking about? Magnolia beams but her shoulders give her away. She shakes gently, eyes sparkling with challenge and humor.

“I'll have a banana split,” I order. Johnny writes down my order and shoots Magnolia a shrug and a look of disappointment, like I’m a total square or something. When he’s a safe distance away her laughter bellows out of her and her forehead hits the table as she doubles over.

“What the hell was that?” I ask, slightly irritated at being picked on.

“OH MY SHIT! That was hilarious!” she laughs heartily.

“Really?” I squawk at her.

“Cane, seriously,” she snorts, and slaps a hand over her mouth and nose. “Yes. I mean, you were so out of your league. You should have let me order for you.”