Free Objective: (Bloodlines Book 2) by K Larsen Page A

my thoughts of shame and being tainted out of my head. I’m a good enough rider to not need to meld myself to him to stay on. It’s the thoughts of betrayal that I can’t seem to get past. He would be so hurt, so upset, so...angry to see me riding on the back of another man’s bike. I don’t want to cause him any more pain. If he can see me, he’s fuming and it’s just one more way I’ve hurt him.
    Twenty minutes later we pull into the parking lot at work. The bike idles and before I let myself process any more morbid thoughts, I strip the helmet off and jump off the bike. My legs start to give way but before I lose the ability to stand, I lock my knees and rigidly stand facing Brock. He towers over me and removes his helmet.
    “I’m not that bad, am I?” he asks, smirking.
    “Nah, not that bad, but I’m glad my car will be here when we’re done tonight,” I chirp, and make my way inside. Brock catches up to me in a few lo ng strides.
    “Hey, I know you’re ahh...different and all but, would you wanna grab dinner sometime?” he asks, and my breath falters. I can’t imagine being with anyone ever again.
    “I don’t date. Don’t take it personally,” I offer.
    “Aww come on. I don’t bite...much,” he returns playfully.
    “I don't date,” I repeat.
    “Why?”
    “Because, Brock, I don’t make mistakes, I date them. And I need another mistake like I need a hole in the head, not to mention finding a good guy, a real man worth fighting for is like coming across a unicorn in your backyard. Legend. Myth. Fairytale. Does. Not. Exist,” I state firmly, but I know differently, I know because I did find it once and then I lost it. Brock's face falls and he shakes his head at me.
    “Well shit, girl, aren’t you just the optimist,” he mumbles, while holding the door for me.
    My first two weeks at the bar have been good. Work agrees with me, although the hours are hell. I’m tired after every shift and my feet hurt. But the music that blares from the club, combined with me trying to avoid touching people as I deliver drinks and fend off men’s advances, keeps my mind thoroughly occupied. It’s a nice reprieve from the whirlwind of emotions that normally consumes me. And I know the social interaction is good for me. It’s helping. I can feel it. I feel more like a human being, more like a bitter woman with a chip on her shoulder than a helpless sad mess.
     
    By the time my shift is over my car is fixed and parked in the lot out back. It’s dark and painfully quiet outside. I take one step out, letting the door click closed behind me. A light breeze whips my hair around my face as I force myself to keep walking. Keys in hand, I make my way to the car, careful to keep an eye out on my surroundings. The smell of motor oil and cinnamon hits me as I near the big clunker. I freeze as the memory plays out in my head.
    “Kissing requires a total of thirty-four facial muscles, and one hundred and twelve postural muscles. The most important muscle involved is the orbicularis oris muscle, because it is used to pucker the lips,” Cane recited. I giggled and tilted my face to his.
    “Sounds like someone’s been on Google.”
    “What can I say? You totally make me a pansy,” he laughed.
    “I do?!” I squealed.
    “Woman, I wasn’t complaining! Now shut up and kiss me.” He grinned.
I pressed into him, and when I felt his mouth move with mine, I wrapped my arms around his neck. When I caught his bottom lip between my teeth and tugged he opened to me. His tongue slipped into my mouth and it kindled a fire inside me. He smelled so delicious, like motor oil and cinnamon. I nibbled his neck, kissing and biting as he ran his hands down my back and up my stomach. I was going to explode from want.
    A hand at the small of my back startles me. I jump a foot in the air and scream bloody murder before even bothering to look at who it is. Bentley stands a foot away from me laughing, hard.
    “Jesus, Bentley!” I