Objective (Bloodlines #2)(9)

“Yeah, I guess it was what you thought,” I’d said, grinning.



After an uncomfortable night sleeping on the floor of my trailer I woke up smiling with tears streaming down my face. The dream was so vivid. So real. I felt everything. I pressed my palms painfully into my eyes and shook my head a dozen times before squeezing my eyes shut to rid myself of the feelings left by my subconscious. He was just right here. I could feel him still. I forced myself up and stumbled through my new home. Eventually I made my way to the local Social Security Office to officially change my name. I figure if Ezra is looking for me I have two things going for me: he thinks I’m clueless, and he’d never look for Magnolia Ash. And Magnolia Ash now exists.





Chapter 4





“Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don’t.”- Bill Nye


Aster, true to her word, managed to secure me a new I.D. and I’ve instructed her to UPS it to my new post office box downtown. I stop by the real estate office and pay a year’s rent in cash so that I don’t have to deal with the landlord knowing me or coming around. The classless receptionist didn’t even bat an eye at the year’s worth of rent; in cash, which surprised me. Not that I wanted any red flags raised, but I’d been prepared to explain it if I’d had to. I stop in a local cafe and order a large coffee and a Danish. When I get to the table I dump a shot of Bailey’s in it. Now all I need is a job and to figure out how best to furnish and fortify my lackluster new home.





*****


My first week has been completely uneventful. I feel like people on the run always have some adventure-filled glamorous life but that’s bullshit. My days have become routine. A routine I need to follow in order to survive. Wake. Count to ten. Shower. Start drinking. At three o’clock I make my way just outside of town to a bar/dance club establishment called Mack’s and drink my weight for the remainder of the day. I’ve stopped for groceries once in the last week. I’m barely holding it together. The alcohol keeps me numb and dull. The dreams are unbearable. If I sleep, I dream. They are real, vivid dreams. I feel everything. I remember everything with acute attention to detail. It’s torture. I wake and feel like my insides are slowly burning me to death. By the time I manage to get myself home at night I retire to one of the Adirondack chairs I purchased from the hardware store and drink some more. If I drink enough, I pass out. If I pass out, there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’m unable to dream. If I’m unable to dream, I don't have to wake up daily with the weight of the guilt. I don't have to remember that life. I always feel the weight of grief. Like maggots in a corpse, it destroys me bit by bit. It’s consuming. Beyond that, anyone who touches me makes me freeze and panic. Even an innocent brush or bump causes me to lose the anxiety battle and until I’m one with him again I don’t think I’ll ever be right. My life will be a degraded shred of what it was. Every touch makes me feel dirty, shameful, violated.

“Jesus, Cypress, I can barely understand you!” Aster screams into the phone. I’m sitting at the end of the bar near the bit where it makes a corner to the wall.

“I’m goodIpromse,” I slur and rest my head on the bartop. God, I’m tired. So tired.

“Did you even hear me? The funeral was two days ago. Oh God. It was awful. Like a terrible high school reunion. Misty Faulk actually collapsed. Can you f*cking believe that?! I mean they dated for like a second freshman year.”

“I hate her,” I answer, completely disengaged from our conversation. I motion for the bartender to pour me another drink.

“Cypress. Are you okay?” she asks hesitantly. What a stupid question. I love my cousin more than life but seriously, sometimes, I want to strangle her.

“Dandy,” I spit.

“I want to come see you.” Her voice firm in its demand.

“Nope. Nooooooocando,” I slur. Jesus. The funeral. I’m the most rotten person on the face of the planet. Satan will probably ask for my soul very soon.

“Ezra cornered me at the funeral.” Her tone is reserved and quiet.

“What?!” I perk up slightly.

“He asked where you were. Everyone did, actually. People are starting to wonder, Cypress. He said if I wouldn't tell him where you were then he’d find you himself. He said....” she trails off, leaving me hanging.

“W-what did he say to you?” I demand.

“He said you can come home and deal or he can find you and have a repeat play date with you. Cypress, what the hell happened that night?” I shudder and gag. He will come for me. I can’t fathom seeing him again. I can't imagine looking into his eyes and not shattering into a million pieces. The bartender sets another drink in front of me. I think she's pretty. I can’t really tell. My vision is getting blurry and tears threaten to spill out from my eyes. “Aserr...” I chug the contents of the glass, “I godda go.” I need to get the memory of that night out of my head. I need to forget... life.

“Every goddamn time we talk you’re wasted. What the hell is wrong with you?” she screeches in my ear. I pull the phone away and stare at it like it just bit me.

“I’m fine,” I grumble.

“Give the phone to the person to your left. RIGHT. NOW,” she bellows. I chuckle at myself for no reason and look left. I think. Wait, no, that’s right. Damn. I swing my head the other way and find myself staring at a short blonde woman doing some kind of paperwork two stools down from me. I extend my arm sloppily and thrust the phone at her.