Objective (Bloodlines #2)(61)

“There is something very, very wrong with you dessert people.”

“Dessert people?” she says laughing even harder.”

“Yeah and don’t try to tell me that’s not a thing. You are one,” I accuse, smiling.

Johnny saunters up, tray in hand, and sets Magnolia's tall ice cream glass in front of her with a wink. He turns to me and sets down an oblong dish with a huge banana split mounded with whipped cream in front of me. “Sir,” he says dramatically. I roll my eyes as he leaves and shake my head at the monstrosity in front of me.

“Well, crap,” I mumble. Mags snickers and points the menu on the table. The Parlor’s Epic Banana Split is the ultimate dessert for the ice cream crowd. Serves 4-6. Of course I didn’t read the menu.

“Well, looks like I’m eating for four,” I quip over Magnolia’s moans of pleasure.



It took me a trip to the bathroom and a forty-five minute walk around town with Magnolia to shake off the effects of the Epic Banana Split, but hell, I’d finished the whole damn thing just to prove a point to the two twits named Johnny and Magnolia. The last two bites I was sure I was going to up chuck all over the table but I’d managed to keep it together until the bill came. I’d had to leave it with Mags so I could run to the bathroom. Johnny had patted me on the back as we headed out and Magnolia didn’t stop laughing for a solid twenty minutes. Not that I’m complaining. Her laugh could cure cancer, I’m sure of it.



The London Underground is a dark long narrow bar with hightop tables lining one wall and a strange menu, including things like Crawdad and Chips. We discussed trying it but both chickened out. The music is low like the lights and the bar is lined with patrons. Magnolia snagged us a table back near the restrooms where the only foot traffic is from the people needing the bathroom. It’s nice having a beer with her alone, just chatting about nothing and people watching.

“Truth or lie?” she asks randomly.

“Uh, I dunno. Lie,” I shrug going along with her game. I watch as she thinks of something, her expressions changing with her thoughts.

“Family,” she says finally.

“Okay, what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you have a topic...I guess I should have given you the topic first and then let you pick truth or lie. Anyhow, now you have to tell the truth about it...you know like...sex! Sex lie would be that it’s all hot and sexy and whatever, but really its sticky and loud, or something like that. So tell me how family is - the lie version.” I instantly am over this game. Her version of family and mine were always one hundred and eighty degrees from each other. I sigh and massage my brow line.

“Family, okay...the lie. Family supports you and loves you no matter what. They are your life line, you can trust them with anything. They always come through for you and you’d be lucky to know them because they are all little pieces of you.” I can tell she doesn't like my answer, simply because her eyes get sad and her lips frown at me. It’s like she’s looking through me though, searching for something.

“Truth or lie, Mags.” I ask.

“Truth,” she answers.

“Life.”

“Life?” Her brow knits together at my suggestion.

“Yeah, we all know that the lie is that we go to school and work hard and will end up with good lives and jobs and live happily ever after...so what’s the truth?”

“Fine. Life. The truth is, life is hard. Life hurts. It’s a complete shit show.” Her tone is clipped and jaded and I can’t help but think that somehow it’s my fault she feels that way. She takes a long swig of her beer, finishing it off, and slides off her seat.

“I’m grabbing another, you need one?” She eyes my mug and looks up at me.

“Naw. I’m good.” She saunters, glass in hand, up to the end of the bar, pushes up onto her toes and leans over the bar, wagging her glass to get the bartender’s attention. I watch as he notices her. He’s older and looks worn down, tired and disheveled. His face breaks into a wide grin and he pushes past a bar back to get down to her. They shake hands and exchange words that I can’t hear and it strikes me as odd. He nods seriously at something she says before taking her glass and replacing it with a fresh tall beer. She slides cash across the bar top to him and his hand covers hers with the money under it. The hair at the back of my neck prickles. Something is off. I watch as he half smiles and nods at something else before she turns, hair thrown over her shoulder and comes back to me.

“Truth or lie, Mags?” I ask.

“I just went,” she replies, looking at me quizzically.

“Truth or lie?” I push.

“Truth again,” she shrugs.

“How the hell did you pay for your beer?” She grimaces and looks sheepishly at me.

“I stole from you,” she admits with a little pout. Her bottom lip looks edible.

“When?”

“This morning when you were in the shower. I took a twenty outta your pants pocket. She’s being honest, I can see it written all over her face, but for some reason I still feel that something is seriously off about the situation.

“How do you know the bartender?” I venture. Her expression darkens and I’m not sure how to read it.

“I met him when I was here for my tattoo. I came here every night for the three or four nights I stayed in town. I drank a lot. He owns the bar,” she explains rather bluntly. It’s a likely story. It makes sense, adds up if you will, but it feels wrong. I can’t put my finger on it though so I leave it alone.