Objective: (Bloodlines Book 2) (15 page)

Swinging the door open, I notice an envelope drift to the ground at the bottom of the steps. Panic sweeps through me instantly. I set my coffee on the edge of the bottom step and squat to pick up the envelope. No name, just blank. I sweep my gaze over the areas nearest to me before planting my rear on the bottom step next to the coffee mug. I lift the unsealed flap on the envelope and peer in. A gift certificate? I pull it out and read the small sticky note attached to it.

Maybe a good massage will help you get over your fear of contact.
– Bentley

I groan and look at the certificate. An hour-long massage, courtesy of Bentley. The man just doesn’t quit. I haven’t indulged in any spa-type treatment in well over a year. To be honest the thought behind it is touching and I do miss having a good pamper day, but I’m not sure I can tolerate someone’s hands on me. I finish my coffee, pondering whether or not I can use the gift.

After a long hot shower and a call to Aster to check in on how her first post-college job is going, and getting my ear chewed out about still not seeing her, I head out at three o’clock for my shift at work. As I slide the key into the lock while juggling my purse I notice another sticky note. What now? I pick it off the windshield and read.

Your appt. is at noon tomorrow BTW.

Well isn't he clever. I yank the key from the door and toss my purse and the note inside before sliding into the driver’s seat. Honestly, it’s as if he knows my next move before I even decide what it is. I pull out my personal phone and shoot him a quick text thanking him for the kind gift and that maybe I’ll go tomorrow. Almost instantly he responds saying
No woman turns down a massage - is that your secret?
I snort, and toss my phone into my bag without replying. What a shithead. I’m not sure how I allowed him into my life, but he’s weaseled his way in and quite frankly I’m tired of fighting him.

The music blares a steady, fast beat. The bass thumps in the floorboards of Mack’s. I shimmy and slide between clusters of people with my tray high in the air. My three-inch heels are already rubbing my feet the wrong way but such is life. Tips are good tonight. Brock and I hang on our breaks together and make fun of patrons. He’s cheery tonight and I think it has something to do with a new girl he wants to date. I’ve seen her a few times meandering around the gym. She’s fit and pretty in an athletic way and she’s always staring at Brock.

“I
dunno…” he crows.

“For crying out loud, just ask, the worst that happens is she says no!” I counter.

“Yeah, but no ego is better than a bruised ego,” he rumbles. I look up to his face and watch his eyes crinkle at the edges as I start to laugh at him.

“As if, Brock! Since when do YOU have no ego?” I snort, still laughing.

“Girl, sometimes I wish I didn’t give a shit about you and your sass mouth,” he chuckles.

“Uh, huh. You love it.” I smile and push away from the wall where we people-watch.

“ASK HER,” I push.

He shakes his head at me and crosses his arms over his chest as I head back out to take more orders.

My shift drags on despite it being a busy night and by the time we close all I want to do is go home, jump in bed and dream about being able to tolerate a massage. Someone giving me a good foot-rub truly never sounded better. Maybe I was ready…maybe I could do this. It’s just one small step, really.

I sling my purse strap over my chest diagonally and push through the back exit, my keys in one hand and my other hand on the pistol tucked inside my bag. The fresh air, albeit cold, is refreshing after being inside the club. I breathe it in deeply before scanning the parking lot. Clear. I approach the car like I always do, carefully. I’m sure I’m insane for being so careful. Something rests on the hood of my car. I can’t quite make it out from this distance, though. I continue towards the land yacht slowly, hyperaware of every sound and sight around me: the gust of wind that whips the lock
against the backdoor of the club, the slap of my shoes against the asphalt, the way the light flickers in the one lamp lighting the parking lot.

When I reach the car I lose my breath altogether. I stare at the branch on the hood and will myself not to lose it. A cypress branch rests delicately near the windshield. Of all the things that could cause me to come unglued, this, this is beyond anything I imagined. My chest is tight and I fight my throat to swallow. Cypress trees are not native to Arkansas. I know this. It did not fall from a tree and land on my car. This is intentional. This is just the beginning. A warning perhaps? But why? I’ve been found, obviously. I scan the parking lot and crouch down to look under the car. Nothing. My breathing is short puffs of air that don’t feel like they bring any oxygen to my lungs. I steel myself and remove the branch from my hood. Dropping it on the black asphalt, I unlock my door and slide in, quickly shutting the door and locking myself in. I take the safety off and let the gun rest in my lap. My mouth is dry, so dry. I start the car up with no problem and pull out of the lot. Nothing. The drive home is uneventful, but my senses are in overdrive. I pull into my dirt patch parking strip and push the button on
 my phone to make the flood lights come on. Everything looks as it should. If this is some kind of mind game, it’s pure torture. My fear is palpable, yet part of me, a small sliver, thinks it was stupid for Ezra to give me a heads up. I am not the person I was a year ago. I’ve been training. I’ve been focused and I’ve been preparing for the day when he comes for me. He just gave me a small advantage.

Chapter 13

My night was shit. I barely slept. My mind was in and out of thought and I’d watched the monitors like a hawk only to have nothing happen. Exhausted, I roll out of bed at around ten o’clock to shower. I’m going to keep the appointment Bentley made for me. I’m going to prove to myself that I can face my shame, guilt, and fear. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I really need to stop counting.

The spa is a small shop on the main drag in Beebe. The walls are a soft soothing green and the music playing is relaxing even though I feel anything but relaxed right now. A short woman with wavy brown hair greets me.

“Hi there, you must be Magnolia,” she says.

“Yes,” I answer without ceremony.

“Are you ready to come on back? I’m Jess and I’ll be doing your massage today.”

I nod and follow her down the hall and into a small room that’s dimly lit. I stand board-straight while she explains that she will be doing an hour-long full body massage. Keep your underwear on. Check. Lay face up to start. Check. And then she’s gone. I disrobe quickly and hop up onto the table, fidgeting with the blankets until they are up around my neck and she knocks on the door.

“All set,” I call out in a small voice.
Man up, Mags. It’s just a massage.

She enters the room and adjusts the lights even lower before switching on some quiet music. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, counting to ten in my head. When her hand lifts mine and she starts massaging my arm, I stiffen and try not to freak out. It’s a woman. She’s giving me a massage. I am fine. I repeat this mantra repeatedly while keeping my eyes squeezed shut until she stops.

“Magnolia?” her voice is gentle and soft.

“Yes?” I whisper, opening one eye.

“You’re going to have to relax a bit for this to work…how about you roll over and we focus on your back?” she offers.

“Sorry. OK.” I comply. She lifts the light blanket slightly allowing me to roll so I’m face down, and then folds the blanket back to my rear. I feel too exposed like this.

“I’m going to start with your shoulders,” she states. Her warm, lotioned hands come to my shoulder blades and start methodically working at the knots. The longer she works, her strokes long and deep, the more I can feel the tension easing from my body. I close my eyes and breathe, in and out, in and out, in and...

“Take your time getting up. I’ll be out front waiting,” she says softly, waking me from my nap. I blink a few times as I hear the door click shut. I must have dozed off, which means I did it and I did it well! I feel relaxed and peaceful in a way I haven’t since before this new life. Rejuvenated, I sit up slowly and get dressed. I sweep my hair up into a loose bun and check my face in the mirror for sheet marks. Somehow I feel more whole, like a tiny slice of me has been repaired. I even feel a nugget of happiness. Sad but true, something as simple as a massage has fixed some small part of me.

I haven't seen or spoken to Bentley since he up and bailed on me a few nights ago. When I woke up this morning I felt the overwhelming urge to go out. The only problem with that is I have no friends. Well...no girlfriends. I seriously doubt Bentley or Brock would be game for a girls’ night out with me. They still watch me like a hawk when I’m drinking. It’s cute and infuriating all at the same time. I grab a phone from a basket on my dresser and text Aster that I love her before tossing the phone back in the basket. The right hand basket contains the go-phones that only have one number programed in: Aster’s. The two phones in the other basket are for personal use. They contain the club number, Bentley and Brock’s numbers, and the local pizza place that delivers. I grab a phone from the left-hand basket and text Bentley and Brock asking if anyone is available for a night out, and scan the monitors on the wall as I saunter into the bathroom to get ready for my day. No counting. Everything’s in order. I turn the water on and feel calm and focused.

Brock had jumped on the idea of going out together and convinced Bentley to change his plans to accommodate me as well. I’d showered and texted them both back, saying they were to pick where we go tonight since I have no idea what’s fun around here. It took me forever to figure out what to wear on a night out. I don’t really have any clothes outside of those for work or working out. I finally settle on a cream-colored blousy top that comes up in gathers around my neck and wraps around with a sash that ties at the back, leaving my shoulders, arms, and back mostly exposed. I pull on dark, fitted jeans (because it’s chilly out) and my cowboy boots with the bone-colored flower inlays. My hair is down and curled loosely and my makeup is light, outside of my telltale cat-eye eyeliner. I see them both approach on a monitor and hear the front door open and muffled voices talking, so I spritz on my perfume and head to the living room.

“So?” I ask the two gaping men standing in my living room. “Do I look alright?” I glance down, wondering if I went overboard. It’s been so long. Bentley coughs and runs his hand through his hair but doesn’t answer.

“Smokin’ hot girl. Damn,” Brock cat calls. I curtsy and beam a real smile back at both of them. When it’s clear that Bentley isn’t going to say anything I cock my head and let them know I’m ready to go.

“Yeah. Okay,” Bentley mumbles. What is his issue tonight? His sudden shyness is so unlike him.

“Where we going?” Brock asks, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. I shudder slightly and shrug out of his hold. Hm. Maybe I’m not all better after all. He laughs and shakes his head at me.

“Honky
Tonk,” Bentley says over his shoulder.

“SCORE! I’ve never been,” I say cheerily. Brock groans and cracks his neck a couple times. My guess is he isn’t a big fan of country. Bentley and I
 hop into his truck while Brock climbs onto his bike to follow behind. Apparently he has some hot date tonight and he’s not sure she’ll want to join us at a honky tonk so he needs to be able to leave without us. Pansy. But it’s good to see him excited over something.

The honky tonk is a large wooden structure, sort of like a barn, with Christmas lights strung up in a criss-cross pattern over the dance floor. The place is packed with line dancers, who I find fascinating. I like country music but there are no places where I’m from that offer up this kind of country so it’s really awesome to see, like a live musical. Bentley walks behind me, and Brock in front, as we wind through the crowd towards a vacant table. The chairs are hay bales. A tall, leggy blonde stops and asks us what we want to drink. I watch the way she drinks in Bentley from head to toe but he doesn't seem to notice her googley eyes at all. Surprising. I can picture him bedding someone like her.

“So, where’s the woman?!” I ask Brock over the music after we’ve ordered.

“Not here,” he grumbles. “I’m going to go meet her at Mack’s in an hour.”

“At work? Can't she meet you someplace where you don't already spend all your time?” I ask, feeling slightly territorial over him.

“I don't mind,” he answers.

“How’s the knee, man?” Brock directs at Bentley.

“Better. Still sore though.”

“What happened to your knee?” I ask, clearly out of the loop.

“Work injury. Nothing too bad. Brock had a connection at the gym for a sports physical therapist so I’m fine,” he says, not giving any more details. I stare at him hard, watching for some sign that explains his mood tonight but find none.

“Oh,” I say and stare into my bottle of Corona.

We chat about training and boxing and the upcoming MMA fight for a while before agreeing that we should all watch it together at Bentley’s place next Friday night. It feels nice to be out. It feels even better to have people to be out with and making plans with. When nine o’clock rolls around and I’m already five beers into the evening, Brock excuses himself and takes off, but not before placing a kiss on the crown of my head, which I’m happy to report did not make me cringe.