Objective: (Bloodlines Book 2) (9 page)

“You plan on catching flies?” I quip.

“You really are a rude bitch, you know that?” he shoots back. Inwardly I smile at his reaction. It feels nice to have caught him off guard for a change.

“Finally! I get through to you!” I laugh. A real hearty laugh. The lines in his forehead smooth out as he watches me laugh. I can’t help but notice his face go from shocked to warm and soft.

“I was actually just coming over to see if you wanted to come with me to the shooting range today.” This catches my attention and I stop laughing abruptly.

“Why?” I question.

“You’re always so jumpy. I thought maybe if you learned to handle a gun you might feel more...safe.”

“Why would you assume that I don't know how to handle a gun?” I ask carefully.

“I don't. I just know a lot of women feel better after instruction, many go on to buy their own. I’m going. If you
wanna tag along, you’re welcome to, on one condition,” he offers.

“Oh? And what would that be?” I tease.

“You must fix me a coffee and under no circumstances is this to be considered a date,” he says and narrows his eyes at me.

“That’s two things,” I scoff.

“Fine, two conditions then,” he amends. I take a sip of my coffee and deliberately moan at its yumminess while I think about his offer. I’m going to come face to face with Ezra at some point, so I’m going to have to know my way around a gun. He definitely has the upper hand in that department. But do I want to forge any sort of relationship with Bentley?

“Deal,” I state as I stand to go grab Bentley a cup of coffee. His face registers surprise but I manage to play it off coolly.

When we arrive at the range, or rather the vacant patch of land where Bentley swears it's okay to shoot, he sets his guns on the table and calmly talks me through them all. He is patient with me and doesn’t push me into anything. It’s almost as if he’s taught people before. He’s good at it. I find my heart racing at the sight of the guns though. Real guns. Real, working handguns, laid out on the table in front of me. My mind starts to flash back to the one time I handled a gun like these. I push those thoughts down and try to focus on Bentley’s words.

“This is a 44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun,” he says and then sets it down in front of me.

He talks me through the safety rules and tells me a bit about each of the weapons. Next he coaxes me into picking each of them up, unloaded, and shows me how you would fire them. They are heavy. That’s the first memory that hits me, the weight of it in my hand. Then I feel sort of disgusted with myself for touching them, worried that I’m forever tainted by the contact. The springs are powerful, these things are powerful. I know full well what damage they can do. I’m nervous, but having come this far, I feel I might as well continue to face my fears.

I try the revolver first. Something about it feels a bit less scary than the others. Possibly because it’s the sort of thing they use in old movies. It feels like a cartoon gun, although at no point do I forget that this is in fact very, very real.

Pulling the trigger is harder than I expect. You really do have to apply some force to it. With arms outstretched and hands shaking, I flinch and shoot. There is a loud bang, a flash, I’m jolted back a little and the whole thing takes me somewhat by surprise. I hit the target paper, not that I was really aiming, but quickly want to put the gun down, so I do. My breath comes in short gasps as the memories invade my mind.

“Magnolia...” I can hear him calling but I can’t make myself respond. “Magnolia!” I snap my head up and meet his eyes. Concern etched in his features. I lock my eyes with his and breathe.

“I’m okay,” I manage, “just...just give me a minute.” I count to ten and inhale deep breaths. I manage to compose myself after a few minutes, thankful that Bentley didn’t even bring up what a freaking mess I am. He let me have my space, and continued on like I wasn’t a freak when I was ready again.

We went through the other guns. He told me what they all were but that information went in and straight out of my head. I was spending too much time attempting to combat my desire to just run away. I shot each of them once, then twice, the bangs getting louder along with the size of gun. Each made me feel dirty. I pushed the feelings away. Compartmentalized them into different boxes in my mind. I kept,
This is how I bring Ezra down
, on repeat in my mind, letting my bitterness, rancor and vengeful thoughts guide me through this.

Bentley talked about making sure the guns felt comfortable in my hands. He made me hold them, walk around with them in my hand, to adjust, he said. I looked at the targets; I hadn’t done badly, but I’d not hit that little cross in the middle. Perfectionism gets the better of me so I fire two extra bullets in an attempt to hit it. I catch the white
ring around it on my final shot, which apparently counts if you’re scoring in competition. Four handguns, eight bullets, one technical bullseye.

One of the guns is apparently the same type that European police use – a ‘
Glock’. It is all black, weighty and really requires a lot of pressure on the trigger. These guns are designed to take people down, but they are also designed not to go off accidentally. I think that sort of scares me the most. That you really have to make that effort to shoot someone. That someone holding that gun would really have to pull hard, knowingly pull hard on a trigger, and want to shoot. I know that feeling. I know how to be that person. I know that everyone out there has that person living in them, somewhere dark and hidden. Most people never find cause to have that person emerge in them. I did and once it’s out, I’m not sure how to put that person back in the dark hole they came from, or that I want to. This is the same type of gun I raised with trembling hands that horrible day. The same gun that I pulled the trigger on. The same gun that ruined everything about me, my life.

Three hours later I climb into his truck and he drives us back to the park. Our ride, like the drive there, is silent. I don’t really have anything to say to him and he seems lost in thought.

“You did well,” he offers as I exit the truck.

“Thanks,” I say, avoiding eye contact with him.

“See you later, Mags.”

“Yeah,” I call out as I swing the door closed.

As soon as I’m through my door I let my back hit the wall as the emotions I’ve been keeping in check come at me full force. I slide down the wall and let it all come out. This is the last time I will show weakness. This is the last time I will cry. I am changing. I am becoming something else. Memories hold no place in my life now. They won't control me anymore. I am going to be ruthless...right after I let the last of these tears out.

Chapter 8

A Year Later

There are exactly five people in this town that know me, or of me. My neighbor Bentley, the bouncer where I work, Brock, the pimply faced kid who works the late shift at the liquor store, the chick at the Knight’s Super Foods who always seems to be working when I go in and Penny, the manager at the club who hired me. It’s just enough people to be safe and few enough to avoid drawing any attention to myself. I’m not a hermit. I just don’t like people all that much anymore. I suppose if shown a picture in a line-up some of the gym junkies where I box with Brock would be able to say
‘yeah, I’ve seen her’
but I doubt they’d remember my name. I like my quiet life. No distractions. It allows me to keep my eyes open and to stay alert and watch for the real danger. It’s not easy being paranoid and afraid all the time. Somewhere over the last year I went from feeling non-stop sorrow and bone-crushing guilt to rage. Pure hate. It fills me. It drives me now. I train because of it. I stay alert because of it. And I will achieve my objective because of it. Ezra will come for me. I realize he is the only thing keeping my hurt around. It was his fault. It still is and yet, I’m the one paying. I gave up my life, my love, my soul. Ezra has to pay and I am determined to make it happen, on my terms. I just have to stay alive long enough to kill him first. I have to do this. He ruined my life. I have nothing. I am nothing. I want it done as soon as possible. I’ve bided my time for so long now. Then I will forget. I will begin my life and I will forget that I ever knew him.

If there were more people close to me there would be more people to be worried about. More potential casualties or more people who could say the wrong thing to the wrong person without knowing, leaving me in real danger. My life is a shell of what it once was but I don’t have a choice in the matter. Bad things
do
happen to good people. I know all too well. You have to move on, move forward, if you can. You have to be a survivor. Adapt or die, because in an instant your entire life can be upended. One moment of panic. One millisecond of courage can alter the course of your life.
 

Sweat drips down my chest and back as I finish my
workout on the treadmill. Brock ran me hard today in the ring but I like the pain. I prefer the exhaustion. It helps me sleep. His big black frame looms over me, watching the beads of perspiration roll down my cleavage.

“Quit it,” I bark, slowing to a walk.

“I know the rules, Mags, I can look but I can’t touch,” he smirks. God, he’s irritating sometimes. He pulls the ripcord on the treadmill and I hop off, taking the towel from him.

“I wish you wouldn't bother looking either,” I huff.

“Can it, honey, it’s good practice for you to not be an uptight snot for work, better tips.” I roll my eyes at his lame response and brush past him. It’s the most contact he’ll ever get from me. He’s built like a linebacker, broad and ripped and firm. He’s quite handsome actually, but he’s not for me.

“So you gonna come out and say it?”

“Say what?” I ask.

“You’re into me,” he smirks devilishly.

“I’m not into you, I’m Mags,” I bite out teasingly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His adorable face wrinkles in confusion.

“All I’m saying is, if you were lucky enough to have me, you wouldn't wanna share.” I watch Brock's eyes widen and follow me as I head to the locker room. “See you tonight, B!” I call over my shoulder before pushing into the women’s locker room to shower and get ready for work.

The music blares and the bass vibrates the floor. Neon colored lights flash and strobe around the throng of people dancing. When the music’s loud, I don't think about him. As I filter through the crowd, I can be without him. It’s a small club really but Thursday through Sunday night it’s packed. I work Wednesdays through Saturdays and make a killing. I lift the tray loaded with mixed drinks and beer over my head as I pass through a crowded part of the floor, a few whistles and catcalls come from the frat boys close by. I ignore them. I suppose if I were a normal twenty-three year old I’d like the attention, but I’m not. I have no interest in a relationship with anyone of the male population that frequents this club. I bring the tray in front of me and pass out the drinks to their appropriate owners before smiling and heading back to the bar. A hand grabs my rear and squeezes. It makes my lungs squeeze the air out and my breath hitches. I drop my tray and grab the wrist of the offender, twisting it painfully. “Damn! Down girl!” the idiot grits out while I glare at him.

“If I
wanted
your hands on me, you’d know it,” I spit out. I can’t cause a scene, one more and I'll lose my job. I’ve already been warned. I
need
this job for my sanity. Must remain calm.

“I thought dressed like that you
did
want my hands on you,” the jerk seethes, pride wounded. It takes everything I have not to punch him in the face. What an ignorant ass. I dress this way because I’m supposed to for work, but also because it’s better for tips. I roll my eyes at the sad little man in front of me and stomp off to the bar without bothering to pick up my tray again.

This is a far cry from where I thought I’d be by now in life. Hell, a year or two ago I’d have never even wanted to be a patron in a place like this, it just wasn’t my scene. Now, well now, it pays the bills and mostly I’m just a number. A faceless, barely-dressed girl slinging drinks in a large crowd. I like being anonymous. It helps me feel less out of control, less afraid and less paranoid. The rest of the night slides by with ease and after the club shuts down for the night I grab my bag from the backroom and make my way out, grateful to be done with work. I relish the quiet hours of the morning when I get home from work.

“Mags, girl, you got another fan.” Brock chuckles deeply before handing me a hundred dollar bill. Great, just what I need, another stalker. I take the bill from him and roll my eyes.

“Who’s it this time?” I snort in disgust. Men, always trusting my smile. Always trying to get me to want them. Leaving little notes with Brock or the bartenders for me with their numbers on them. ‘
Call me’
or ‘
You’re hot’
etched on the check or bill. Lame.

“No name, just said ‘for the
hot
black-haired chick with the back tatt’,” Brock explains. I stare at his large linebacker frame for a moment before checking the bill for a phone number or name. Nothing. Huh. “I wouldn’t worry ‘bout it, hun, I keep my eye on you girls, you know that.” He smiles gently. I return his smile, although mine doesn’t reach my eyes.