Objective: (Bloodlines Book 2) (12 page)

“More?” I ask. He shakes his head no.

“I’m set, but mind if I sit for a while still? Your flowers smell good, princess.”

“Yeah... that’s fine.” I half-smile. I wander into the kitchen, refill my coffee and rejoin Bentley outside.

“What do you do?” I find myself asking. It’s taken twelve months of our non-friendship to actually start wondering about him but finally I’m growing curious about my mystery neighbor.

“Wow, princess, thought you’d never ask.” He chuckles as he tugs his shirt on. I don’t respond, but stare at him willing him to answer. “Can you keep a secret?” he asks seriously. Something in his tone makes me think that maybe I don’t want to know the answer to my question anymore. I don’t like secrets. They’re a burden I’m all too familiar with.

“I can, but maybe I shouldn’t have asked you,” I tell him seriously. He laughs loudly.

“Jesus, Mags, I didn’t kill someone!” he jokes. My heart stops. My breathing stops and I try like hell to not turn as white as snow. “I’m undercover,” he finishes. I let out the breath I was holding and stare into my mug.
Great, all this time, I’ve been hanging out with a cop. World’s stupidest girl right here.
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

“I promise I won’t blow your cover,” I say, not having a better response.

“No worries, you can't. We’re good,” he answers. I can’t? Why can't I? His answer makes me nervous. Paranoid.

“So, you’re not really Bentley, born and raised in the park?” I scoff.

“Actually, that part is true, just not
this
park.” He chuckles.

“Why did you say that I can’t blow your cover?” I blurt. His face grows serious and his eyes cloud. I don’t know what to make of it.

“I’m not a cop like that. The things I deal with are things that a beautiful woman like you would never know anything about,” he says firmly. I stare at the line his mouth has formed and at his eyes. He believes what he says, or he’s a damned good liar.

“So you’re not a cop?” I push, knowing we’re treading a thin line for our particular friendship.

“I get bad men off the street. That’s all I can say, Mags, leave it.” His tone has moved from friendly to something less than friendly. I know I should take his verbal cue and shut up but my curiosity is killing me.

“Okay. Well, stop by the club some night, I deal with bad men for a living,” I quip trying to lighten the mood. “But seriously, Bentley, I’d never run my mouth. I like my privacy and I understand your work is important.” He smiles at me and stares at my face so long that I start to fidget in my chair. Just before I think he’s going to make my brain explode with silent scrutiny he stands and sets his mug on the side table between us.

“No lie lives forever, Mags,” he says softly and then strides around the trailer next to me without another look. What does that mean? I’m sure I’m reading into his cryptic language too much but it sets off all the alarms and red flags in my head and puts me on high alert. His lies or mine? Does he know who I am? Did Ezra send him? Will it be Bentley who brings me down? My head hurts from too many thoughts and I need a release. What does Bentley know? I jump up from my seat and jog toward his trailer. I’ve never been in it and I only know it’s his because I drove by one time and saw him going in. I pound on the door until he finally opens it.

He has nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. Clearly I’ve interrupted the shower he was preparing for. He stands holding his towel up with one hand while the other holds the door open, and stares at me pointedly.

“Was there something you needed, Mags?” he asks, looking slightly irritated. My mind blanks. How do I ask what he knows or doesn't know without giving up information? If he doesn't know, I’m not going to tell him. Shit. I fiddle with my fingers and stare at my toes. I’m still barefoot. I look back up through my lashes to Bentley and bite my lip nervously.
Say something, Mags, Jesus.
His hand at the door shoots out and tags me behind the neck, pulling me into the living room as the door slaps closed behind us. I stiffen at the contact before crouching down, as my training dictates, to get free of his hold and back up a few feet.

“What the hell, Bent?!” I hiss.

“I was right…” he laments, shaking his head slightly.

“About?” I ask, feeling slightly lightheaded. The skin on the back of my neck still tingles from where his hand rested. I haven’t let anyone touch me in so long. It feels foreign. Wrong somehow.

“You,” he says, taking a step towards me delicately with his arm outstretched like I’m some scared animal.

“What about me?” I whisper and look away. Our exchange has gotten too close for comfort. I’m petrified that the next words out of his mouth will be my undoing.

“Someone broke you. You flinch every time you
think
I’m going to make contact with you. What happened, Mags?” he asks softly. Thank God. Thank God that's his big realization. I heave a couple of deep breaths and fall back onto his couch letting myself look around finally.

“Oh, that,” I laugh mockingly at myself. “Don’t worry about that shit, Bent. I’m fine. I just don’t like people touching me.”

“Mags, Brock says that...” he starts.

“How do you know Brock and who the hell is he to say anything about me?” I demand, cutting him off, thoroughly irritated now.

“Calm down. Brock and I train together at the gym once in a while. I’ve seen you there sometimes but I didn't know if you’d even say hi back if I waved. You’re so intense when you train, you don't notice anything or anyone around you,” he explains calmly.
Huh
.

“Well, Brock hasn't mentioned that he knows you,” I push.

“I asked him not to. We agreed treading lightly and treating you with kid gloves was the best way.”

“Best way for what?!” I clip, flustered at this insane conversation. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. One. Two. Three.

“To help you, Mags. Brock knows little more about you than I do. You never have friends over. You never hang out after work, you never talk about your life or yourself and you have this steel fortress trailer and crazy training regimen.” I sit before him, stunned. Obviously he is a well-trained lawman of some sort to pick up on all this from the kitchen view of my trailer, the three times he has been inside in the six months since we’ve barely started speaking to each other. I need to get out of here.

“Screw you! And Brock! I didn’t ask either one of you to go nosing around in my life. I’m perfectly content, not that it’s any of your business!” I holler, and stalk towards his bare chest. When I’m toe to toe with him I poke him in the sternum, hard. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Shit,” I snap. He smirks at me and drops his towel. I drop my jaw. Partly in awe but mostly in shock. I squeeze my eyes shut tight. What the hell is he doing? My fear is starting to take over. I can feel the panic tighten my chest. I can’t do this. Has he misread my anger for angry flirting?
No. No. No, God, please don’t touch me
. His arms wrap around me and squeeze me to him as his lips crash into mine. He’s warm, firm and delicious. He smells good. I shudder with want. For the briefest moment I’m okay, until I’m not.

On its own accord my body goes rigid and tight and I start trembling so ferociously that I’m sure I’m about to black out. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I don’t want him to be near me, let alone touching me. No man touches me. No man kisses me. Only my man. Only mine. It’s my only way to preserve him. To not tarnish the last part of what we had. My eyes snap open just in time to see Bentley’s stormy blue eyes open. He’s afraid. At least his eyes say he’s afraid. He pulls himself away from me, tagging his towel from the floor between us and covering up. Just as my knees start to give out he scoops me up and sits me on the couch. Tears stream down my face. I can’t stop them. I feel violated. Dirty. Guilty.

“Jesus,” he blows out before pinching the skin just above the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” He stands and leaves me a trembling, tearful catatonic mess on his couch. Moments later he returns and hands me a glass of water.

“Bourbon,” I croak while staring at my lap. “Only bourbon.” He shakes his head and retraces his steps before reappearing with a glass of bourbon for me. My hand shakes as I try to take the glass from him. I shoot the entire glass, not caring that he’s looking at me like I have three heads. My eyes water for a different reason now, a reason I can cope with. I set the glass on the side table and stand up letting the burn continue down into my stomach. It’s a calming sensation.

“Bye,” I mumble. I haul ass out of his trailer and back to the safety of mine in record time. I intend on locking myself in and ‘self-medicating’ for the remainder of the day. Hell, maybe I’ll drink myself stupid for a few days. I definitely don't have the capacity to deal with what just happened. I just need to shut it down and lock it away. I grab the bottle of bourbon that’s staring me down from the shelf next to the fridge and climb into bed with it. Am I doomed to spend forever here and never be satisfied? I miss him in my soul. I need some distraction; I spend all this time waiting for a second chance that will never come. My soul is a hurricane, but everything is fine when you’re standing in the eye of it. I just can’t seem to find the eye and stay in it.

“What do you do?” I ask, politely looking around for Cane.

“I’m in trades.” His face looks hard and mean. I can’t read him. It freaks me out.

“Trades? Is that good?” I try to keep up the niceties.

“Good? I don't know about that, but I’ve made a fuck lot of money.” He laughed oddly. “Are you here for money, Cypress?” The way my name slipped from his mouth made me cringe. It sounded vile. I hated the sound of it.

“What money?” I ask,
 confused. What was he talking about?

“Come on. Take some money and move along, honey. You’re nothing but a bad influence. A distraction. Cane’s head needs to be in the game,” he stated. My blood boiled. I knew what he was saying without being too overt. The audacity of his request, of his thoughts about my character set me off.

“I’m not here for any money, Ezra. I don’t understand what you’re talking about. I’m here for Cane and I’m not going to let you bully me out of his life,” I ground out. His mouth contorted into a strange tight thin line. Like his whole face was sucking inward. I heard the slam of a car door and turn on my heel quickly making my way towards the front door, to Cane. More than ever I didn't trust Ezra Ash.

“What’s the matter, baby girl? I thought you were staying today,” Cane cooed as he caught me tumbling toward the exit.

“I am... I was... I don’t know. Your uncle’s in there. He creeps me out,” I rambled. Cane studied my face intently before growling, “Stay here.” I nodded compliantly and watched as he sauntered over to Ezra. They exchanged words heatedly before Ezra stormed off out the back door of the gym. Cane purposefully strode back to me and scooped me up into his arms, making me smile.

“Better?” He asked. How could I say no to this man when I felt like he would do anything for me.

“What’s the rope down the middle for?” I asked, confirming that I’m staying.

“Ducking and slipping. It’s good practice.”

“You look hot dipping, slipping and punching.” I giggled and blushed.

“Jesus,
Mags... you’re so goddamn adorable when you try talking boxing.” His lips brushed the spot behind my ear, sending a chill through me. Was it possible to love someone too much?

“Well... are you going to teach me to box or what?” I’d asked.

I hear knocking. Lots of loud knocking. I groan and roll over. I wake up slowly, trying to hold onto my dream, to the memories. I can feel a slight smile on my face and it feels good. The elation lasts only seconds though. As soon as my brain is fully alert the crushing ache replaces the happiness in my heart. I wipe away the single tear that’s dripping down my face and sit up.
Fuck you, life
. Swinging my feet over the edge of the bed, I pause and do a quick scan of the monitors along the wall. Bentley and Brock. What the fuck. The pounding resumes and I push up to my feet. I’m in only yoga pants and my head is swimming. I feel like death. A mostly empty bottle of bourbon lays haphazardly on the edge of the night stand. I grab a tank top from the back of a chair and tug it on as I make my way to the door.

“Jesus! Stop!” I yell towards the door while covering my ears. The sound is making everything about this morning worse. When I get to the door I twist all three deadbolts to the unlocked position and, as violently as I can muster through my hangover, I swing the door open. Brock and Bentley stand there with relief clearly showing on both faces.

“I’m not dead. Go. Away,” I glower, and slam the door shut in both their faces. Before I can lock it the door is thrown open and I’m thrown backwards by the force of it.

“Shit, Brock!” Bentley yells as he rushes me and kneels to where I’m crumpled.

“Damn, sorry, Mags, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Brock mumbles as his enormous frame fills up the trailer.

“What the hell?!” I bluster.

“You missed work,” Brock states. “You never miss work, and you missed the gym. You never miss the gym.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask as I shake Bentley’s hand off me and push up off the floor.