Objective: (Bloodlines Book 2) (4 page)

I banged my head off the steering wheel three times and chastised myself out loud for being such an enormous dork. I turned to the passenger seat to fish my keys from my purse so I could get the hell outta there when I realized my purse wasn’t on the seat like it should be. Three loud knocks on the window made me clutch my chest and scream like a little girl. “You left this,” Cane said through the glass while he dangled my purse in the air. I’m sure my face was beet red by then, again, but there was nothing I could do about it at that point. I opened the door and stepped out slowly.

“Welp. This day cannot get any more embarrassing,” I crowed nervously at him.

“What if I told you there’s a hole in the crotch of your pants?” he deadpanned. Panic shot through me as my eyes bugged out and I contorted my body to a weird angle to try to see the crotch of my pants. He was kidding, obviously. I looked up at him, horrified to see pure amusement dancing on his face. His ribs were shaking and I knew he was trying his best not to laugh out loud. I couldn’t take it anymore. A loud giggle bubbled up from my gut and burst out of me over all this ridiculousness. At my laugh he let his rumble out of him. His laugh was heartfelt and completely contagious. Moments later both of us were doubled over with laughter, struggling to catch our breath. The last thirty minutes had been nothing short of bizarre. All thanks to me of course. But somehow, he’d managed to make me feel okay
about it instead of horrified.

“Thanks for making my shift entertaining.” He grinned and handed my purse to me.

“You’re welcome?” I’d offered, unsure.

“Maybe we could hang out sometime?” His eyes darted over my body, head to toe, as he said this, making me blush again.

“Um, sure. I mean, if you want to,” I lamely replied.

“I asked, didn’t I?” he retorted with a grin.

“You did. Yeah.”

“Okay, well, I have to get back in… but tomorrow - in History class - I want your number.” He smirked. Stunning me, he leaned in to kiss my cheek before jogging across the parking lot back into work.

“Yeah… okay,” I mumbled to myself. Aster was never going to believe this. I pulled my phone out and dialed her number, mentally reminding myself not to squeal when she picked up.

The next day in History class, true to his word, Cane kicked John Edgecomb out of his seat next to me and plopped down, grinning. “Hey, Cypress. Think I could get that number?” Grinning like a fool, I’d grabbed his notebook off his desk and scribbled my number on the back cover. “There.” I handed it back to him.

“Everyone take your seats and let’s get started... who actually read chapter thirteen?” Mr.
Eskilson bellowed to us all. I flicked my eyes over to Cane to find him watching me. I could feel my skin turning pink as he smirked at me instead of looking away. By the end of class I was a nervous wreck over the secret attention he was lavishing on me.

“Boy, Cy, you really don't like it when I check you out, eh?” he’d chuckled as we headed into the hall.

“I…uh…I’m not used to it?” I mumbled awkwardly. He grabbed my hand and laced his fingers through mine. My head snapped down to look at our intertwined hands. The gesture felt too intimate yet just right all at once. “Get used to it, Cy, you’re worth looking at.” I whipped my head back up to his face and despite my blush, smiled at him.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend. I wasn't allowed to date until this year,” I explained. I’m not sure why I told him this. It was embarrassing. I knew he’d been with girls, a lot of them actually, and I didn’t want to seem...inexperienced, even though that’s exactly what I was. But something about his face, the way he’d held my hand and the way he looked at me made me want to tell him everything about myself. He bumped my shoulder playfully and smiled wide. “I know.”

“You do?” My voice squeaked with embarrassment.

“Yeah, Cypress, I think everyone knows. Aster has a big mouth and there’s probably not a guy in our class that hasn't wanted to ask you out over the last three years.” His words shocked me. I knew I was pretty but I was also a nerd. I worked hard on my studies and read a lot. I’d only been to a handful of parties and even then Aster had to drag me to them. He was right though, my cousin Aster was boisterous and
 a loud mouth, but she'd been the closest thing I’d had to a sibling and I loved her to death. She was always telling me she wished she looked more like me and I would think she was on crack because she was stunning. Boys fell all over her and she fell all over them right back. I lived vicariously through her since my parents were so strict.

“Well I don’t know about that, but Aster does have a big mouth,” I giggled. We arrived at the door to my next class and Cane released my hand. I missed the connection as soon as he let go. I liked the way his large rough hand molded to my soft small one. He smiled at me and his eyes seemed to light up. “I’ll call you later, Cy,” he said as he turned to leave.

“Okay,” I’d mumbled softly.

“HOLY shit,” Aster barked, “was that what I think it was?!”

“What do you think it was?” I’d laughed and tossed my bag on the floor next to my desk.

“Cane fucking Ash holding your hand and walking you to class!” she’d squealed.

“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

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 fucking 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.

“Furyew.” I muster a smile as I butcher my speech. She looks up from her paperwork and shakes her head at me disdainfully. “Take it.” I try again, wiggling the phone at her. She relents and snatches the phone from me.

“Hello?” She speaks while keeping her eyes on me. I watch the sequence of sounds from her mouth as she okays, yeses and
mmhmmms her way through the conversation with Aster, I let my eyes close and tuck my hands under my right cheek. I’m so tired.

After a few phone calls and a week of begging me to go on a date with him I’d finally decided playing hard to get, like Aster suggested, was overrated. Dad wasn't overly thrilled with the idea of Cane, citing that he was a ‘rough boy’ from a crap family, but after five days of begging and nightly hour-long phone calls with Cane that left a permanent smile on my face, he’d relented.

“So tell me something about yourself that I don't know,” he’d asked as he shoved a fork full of ravioli into his mouth. I watched his jaw work as he chewed, mesmerized. How was it even possible to look so good eating? I’d barely even taken in the upscale Italian restaurant he’d taken me to. My eyes seemed to be stuck on him, the way his muscles flexed under his t-shirt as he moved, the way his handsome face transitioned from one look to another. I was surprised I hadn't started drooling yet.

“Well, I was named after a tree. My dad and his brother have this weird thing for plant names... Aster is a flower name, too.” I said. I stabbed my fork into my tortellini and groaned when it hit my tongue. So delicious. He smirked at my groan and winked at me.

“Why’d they pick that name, though?” he asked. I sighed and blew out a breath…here we go.

“It’s kind of depressing, actually,” I muttered. He held my eyes and waited. “It’s known as the mournful tree,” I started. “The tree would be planted by a grave, in front of the house or something, as a warning against people entering a place corrupted by a dead body. Romans would carry branches of a cypress as a sign of respect, and bodies of the respected were placed on cypress branches before being buried. It’s supposed to designate hope, as the tree supposedly points to the heavens. He picked that name because my mother died giving birth to me,” I finished. He’d blinked at me three times.

“That’s heavy. So your ‘mom’ is really your stepmom?” he asked.

“Yeah, my dad married her when I was two, but I don't remember life before her,” I explained.

“I don’t think that name fits you at all,” he blurted. “I’m going to figure out a better name for you.” My lips tipped up and I’d smiled brightly. I always wanted a different name. Mine always seemed so depressing.