Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Read online

  He raises a hand. “I get it, Mel.” His hazel eyes skim over my face, and I feel more than vulnerable. “I’m glad you’re being honest, because you’re right. It would’ve been difficult to continue any friendship outside these walls.” He starts off around me, brushing my shoulder as he passes. My heart lurches into my throat.

  He doesn’t get it. I’m doing him the biggest favor. I know I am—but what sucks? I usually don’t give a damn when I blow a guy off. I’m through. Moving on. But for some screwed up reason, I feel ashamed that I can’t let Boone in on why I’m giving him the ice bitch brush off.

  “Oh wait—here,” he says.

  Turning slowly to face him, I see him dig something out of his pocket. He walks over to one of the tables and scoops up a pencil. He jots something down on a tiny piece of paper, then walks back to me. During this whole process, I’m already deciding that whatever help he’s going to offer will end up in the trash. I won’t stay in St. Augustine for long. I’m not someone he needs in his good, clean world, so why bother keeping up the pretense?

  “Just in case you need anything.” He hands me his number scrawled on the paper. I take it, suppressing the effect his quick touch has on me as our fingers connect.

  He shrugs a shoulder. “I know you won’t find a sponsor after treatment, and I’m not offering that. But if you ever just need someone to talk to…” He sighs and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”

  The paper is hot in my hands. I tuck it into my back pocket. “Do me a favor,” I tell him, looking up to find his gaze. When he raises an eyebrow in question, I say, “Find a good girl, Boone. Someone who will get you out of this scene, away from this depressing shit.”

  He smiles. “I can’t have both?”

  I shake my head. “No, you can’t. Whatever is dragging you here, day after day, whatever guilt, you won’t move past it until you’re away from Stoney. No matter how bad the thing is you’ve done, you are a good guy. Stop torturing yourself. The past is the past.”

  His easy smile falls fast. “You don’t know—” He clips his words off, anger evident in his tone. My stomach sinks as he looks away, his jaw tight. Then, with a sigh, he says, “And what if I already found her?”

  My insides knot. “I said a good girl.”

  Gaze still holding mine, he flexes his hand and curls it into a fist. His mouth pinches into a hard line. “Right. Because you’re such a badass, Rizzo.”

  This makes me smile a little. I glance at the tile floor, forcing my features stern. “No, because people I care about get hurt around me,” I say seriously, then look up at him. “The worst thing I could ever do is care about you. I’m telling you right now”—I stare into his eyes; make sure he sees the truth—“if you were counting on me being some kind of mission, where you’d swoop in and save the lost girl, then we’d run off into the sunset…that’s not the way this story ends.” I walk around him, hoping he finally gets the point. I won’t be responsible for hurting this guy, or making him slip off his clean track. Because I know that’s not where I’m headed.

  “Why does the story have to end?” he calls out.

  I turn back one last time. “They always do.”

  And because I hate ending things on a grave note, I add, “Do me another favor. Make sure this girl fucks you good and proper. For me.” I wink.

  There. All done. I walk away feeling marginally better about myself for cutting ties with this guy. It was bound to get messy, and I have no way to bail while I’m trapped here. He’s safe now.

  Boone

  Taste not, sweetness is deception

  GOOD GUY BOONE. THAT’S me. I almost laugh. But the tragedy of those words rip through me with serrated edges of truth, killing the joke. I can’t stop thinking about them, though. Wondering if I made the wrong call by allowing Melody to believe them.

  When she called it quits, I let her. I walked away. It was the right choice. Let her believe whatever the hell she wants.

  Propping my elbows on my knees, I lean over my hands and begin wrapping. The smell of dank, dirty carpet and ammonia irritates my nose. The cleaning bottle sits next to a fresh stain of blood near the door. Humming from the tropical fish tank is the only noise bouncing around the small room other than the stretch and tear of the tape. Stretch and tear. Repeat.

  Colorful fish—yellow, blue, orange—flutter around the grimy tank, and it does little to calm me like its purpose here suggests. I’m wound too tight. Stretch and tear.

  I probably just dodged a bullet, though. If Melody hadn’t given me the elbow, I wouldn’t have left her alone. I would’ve kept going back, seeking more of her, like she’s my new fix.

  And that’s pretty much what she’d become during her short stay at Stoney. Because now that she’s no longer around, I feel the emptiness. The craving and the need—the want. Just to be near her and stare into her dark eyes, feel her soft skin, hear her throaty voice.

  That’s a dangerous thing for an addict. Anything, anything can become an addiction.

  But damn if I wasn’t welcoming the torture. Look but don’t touch.

  I got so wrapped up in my fixation with this girl I even stopped going to Nickel’s as much as I should’ve been. I wasn’t feeling the pull that I normally do. That’s why the shit with Miata Guy happened in the first place; it was the first time I’d skipped. So it makes sense that I went seeking it elsewhere. Melody could’ve been really dangerous for me.

  This fact is further proven as I’m sitting here obsessing over her now instead of paying attention to how I’m wrapping my hands. Shit. I undo the white tape and start again. I need to have the thought of her and her sexy ass beaten out of my head.

  Peeking his head into the small, dingy room, Turner cocks his chin and holds up a hand, fingers splayed. “Five minutes, bro.”

  I nod and return to taping my hands, leaving my knuckles exposed this time.

  One good knuckle-buster should knock Melody out of my head for good.

  Melody

  Follow me down, my love, to the void

  “THERE SHE IS!”

  Randy’s voice rises above the chaos of cheers and welcomes as I enter the bar. He rushes over and wraps his big, burly arms around me and lifts me in the air. I laugh as I’m spun around, suspended by this bear of a man.

  He sets my feet to the floor. His scraggly beard snags a few of my hairs as he steps away and smiles down at me. “What kind of bird don’t fly?”

  I never understood this saying, but I answer anyway. “A jail bird?”

  His deep laugh vibrates through me as he hugs me against the side of his chest. “That’s right, girl. Welcome back.”

  He releases me from his hold, and I’m immediately pulled into another hug. This time by Suzie, one of the bartenders. She’s usually the one on duty when I work weekday nights. When I worked…past tense. I’m not sure yet where I’ll be working now.

  “Missed you, hunny,” she says. Her lazy drawl is in part from being from the south, but mostly sluggish from the number of shots she’s already downed. It matches her giant, blue-rimmed eyes and redder than red full lips. She’s a walking cliché, but she’s the sweetest woman in the world, and she’s genuine, at that. I smile as she slips back to adjust her bra, squishing her boobs higher toward her neck.

  “Damned things just don’t work like they used to,” she says, pulling her fitted shirt down. Then she winks at me. “Don’t take your youth for granted, hunny.”

  Rolling my eyes, I laugh. “Yeah, Suzie, because perky tits is what it’s all about.”

  “Hell, yeah. Just wait until you’re flopping the flat pancakes around.” She eyes me, one lid half-closed. “Then you’ll know for what.”

  The music is cranked up, The Civil Wars blaring over the sound system. My chest tightens; it’s the first song I’ve heard since my incarceration, and it’s Dar’s favorite band. Was Dar’s favorite. She’d be bombed out of her mind, begging Randy or whoever to play them. It lo
oks like someone remembered.

  As I work my way through the crowd, some of the members of Lone Breed greet me, either by inquiring about torture techniques in the “hole,” or telling me how my dad would be proud at how I’m hanging in there…and I’m reminded that this—right here—is what I’ve missed so much.

  I glance around, slowly easing away from the edge I’ve been toeing since I left Stoney—I wasn’t sure how I’d handle being back. But I breathe the smoke-filled air. Hear the music. Taste the freedom. And it’s almost like nothing has changed.

  Then I see Jesse.

  He’s at the far end of the bar, his back against the wall. His leather vest is zipped closed, one hand sunk into his pocket, the other holding a beer bottle. He’s staring right at me, a crooked smirk on his face.

  I wish I could say that my stomach flutters, or that I feel giddy—for Dar, I wish I could. But instead, a hollow pain carves its way into my chest. Seeing him again…without her…is like a sickness pitting out my stomach, so much stronger than homesickness, but I know that’s what it is.

  I miss Dar in this moment so hard, it physically pains me to keep standing. Not to allow my legs to give out. For the first time, I feel tears well in my eyes. With a deep breath and quick blink, I push them back. I give my head a jerk to clear my thoughts.

  Before I face Jesse, I take another glimpse around the room—the laughing, dancing, partying. It’s a celebration for me, sure, my welcoming home from rehab. But this is also Darla’s wake in a way. There won’t be any mournful testaments of her life. Prayers to see her to heaven. Cherished, tearful memories shared. By the end of the night, people will be drunkenly consoling me, well-intended sentiments candidly spoken aloud, and there might even be a couple of brawls as some of the MC get rowdy.

  This is their way. My way. But I can’t do it. It’s like my dad’s funeral all over again—and suddenly I need fresh air.

  I turn and start toward the door. I only get a few feet as people continue to crowd me, telling me how much I’ve been missed, then I feel strong arms circle my waist. My first instinct is to jab an elbow into the person’s ribs, but a deep voice booms near my ear, halting the fight in me.

  “I’ve missed you, Mel. God, so much.” Jesse’s arms tighten as he leans his forehead against the back of my head. I swallow, forcing the hard lump down. Words won’t form. But I don’t need to say anything as I’m suddenly swept off my feet. “Time to get the rehab out of the girl!”

  “Wait…Jesse. You ribs—oomph.” I’m slung over his shoulder, the air knocked from my lungs.

  “I’m healing up just fine,” he says. Cheers and hollers swirl around me as I’m carted toward the bar. I can only see Jesse’s backside—his prospect patch and his black combat boots. The dirty floor. Then I lift my head just enough to see the crowd rooting us on.

  I brush my hair out of my face, then Jesse cradles his arms around my back. He flips me over and lays me on the bar top. My stomach bottoms out.

  It’s not that I don’t want a drink. I damn well do. I’ve wanted one since the second I stepped foot into Stoney. But it’s my first day out, and seeing everyone, and having Dar’s presence so…present—I’m terrified to lose touch with reality right in this moment. I just need some time to process, to equilibrate, before I lose track.

  Jesse reaches across me toward a bottle of bourbon, and I wave my hand in the air. “Jesse! I’m not ready—”

  Bringing the liquor bottle back with him, he poises it just above me and looks down, a silky smile stretching his lips. “You are so ready.” And it feels as if a weight thunks right on top of my chest. My whole body tingles, cold, prickly.

  My lips go numb, and my tongue thickens, my stomach rocky like I’m going to be sick as a memory surfaces of the last time I was with him. I try to raise my head, but someone is holding it firmly in place. Suzie. She’s laughing.

  Panic floods me. My whole body locks up, and I don’t understand why, or what I’m feeling. The sudden need to flee. All these emotions rush me and seem to last forever in the brief time it actually takes Jesse to tip the bottle to my mouth.

  The warm, amber liquid hits my closed lips, runs down my cheeks. The smell of alcohol engulfs my senses, and my mouth waters.

  “Open up, Mel! You can do it! It’s like riding a bike,” Suzie says. The crowd around us is chanting and encouraging me on, laughing, like I’ve simply forgotten how to take a shot. No one notices the fear seizing my limbs and mind. Not even Jesse, who’s still smiling as he tips the bottle again for another bourbon bath.

  On instinct, I open my mouth and push my tongue to the back of my throat, so I don’t choke. When the hollow of my mouth is full, I gulp down the warm liquor. I repeat this action five times, hearing the room whoosh in and out of my ears, growing louder with claps of praise.

  Finally, I kick my foot, tapping out.

  I’m pulled up by my hands as Jesse helps me sit forward. The bar spins, and I blink a few times, trying to stop the dim lights from swirling. Tracers flash before my vision. I swat them away.

  “Damn, Mel. I thought you were going to choke there for a second.” Jesse rubs my back, laughing as I shake my head. “What did they do to you in there?”

  Annoyed, I shove his hand away and hop off the bar. “I need to go to the bathroom.” I glance back to see the disappointed look on his face, but he doesn’t say anything as I take off through the crowd.

  I head for the exit, bypassing the restroom, and push open the door. The muggy air blasts me in the face, making my stomach feel queasy. As the door closes behind me, muffling the sounds from inside, I inhale a full, clean breath.

  The bite of alcohol stings the back of my throat. I exhale a hot breath, tasting the bourbon on my tongue. It’s already clouding my thoughts. Dulling my senses. I should relish this feeling, begging the numb to finish dulling the ache—but I’m frightened. It’s so stupid, and I can’t for the life of me understand why.

  Maybe because it’s the first time in a long while that I’ve drank without Dar. Maybe I’m scared to do anything without her. But no, I don’t think that’s the problem. It’s the guilt that I’m here and she’s not—that I shouldn’t be here, partying and having a good time, when she’ll never get to again. And as I continue to contemplate the many, mounting reasons, my head grows foggy and lightheaded, and I smile. I want another shot. That’s all I crave, just to finish the job and empty my head completely.

  “When your daddy died, I stayed on a straight drunk for a week.”

  I whip my head around, quickly wishing that I hadn’t as I stumble a bit on my feet.

  “Whoa,” Tank says, a smile lighting his weathered face. “Take it easy, lightweight. No need to prove nothing to no one. You should pace yourself, ya know.”

  Scoffing, I roll my eyes. “This wasn’t my idea.” I realize my bandana has slipped from my hair, so I yank it off and start to wrap it around my neck.

  Tank nods as he leans his back against the brick wall of the bar. “I know, girl. Jesse’s not doing such a good job conveying his…apologies.” I raise an eyebrow. “Look, he’s like a son to me. I’m his mentor, but I’ll be the first to admit he doesn’t have the first clue when it comes to, uh, expressing his feelings.” He says this last part like it tastes bad in his mouth, and I laugh.

  “Please don’t tell me the MC is in group therapy or some shit,” I say. “I don’t think I could handle you guys being down with the times.”

  He chuckles, long and deep. I’ve missed his laugh. It reminds me of when he and my dad would hang out in the dining room all night, playing cards and telling raunchy jokes. My heart pangs with so much loss.

  “Hey, we’re trying,” he says, nudging me. “All I’m saying, Little Rider”—he winks at me, and the use of my father’s nickname almost brings on the tears—“is you have to give the man a break. He’s been in a black funk since that night, and he’s counting on you to help get him through this. He needs you. Every man needs a good woman, and I know you�
�re hurting, baby…but your daddy would want to see you settled with a good man. The two of you, you and Jess, could come out of this together and on top.” He places a hand on my shoulder, but I’m so shocked about the words leaving his mouth, I don’t even acknowledge the touch. “Take some time, then do what’s right by yourself. Don’t let your girl’s death ruin two lives.”

  With that, he gives me a quick one-armed hug, pats my shoulder again, and nods his head. “I’ve got a lot more drinking to do before the track tomorrow. You going?”

  And like that, the topic of my future prospects is over. I clear my throat and nod. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t have a bike. I might need to—”

  “Use Jesse’s. It’s the least he can do. And he’ll help you replace your Breakout.”

  He says this like it’s final. No arguing. So I say, “Sure. Sounds like a plan.” But my stomach is churning, and I’m wishing I had a ride right this minute. To get out of here and try to think through what’s happening.

  “Good girl,” he says. Then he leaves me with my muddled thoughts.

  For Christ’s sake…

  I slap a hand over my mouth, feeling the rage bubbling up inside me about to spew everywhere. I don’t know what angers me more: the fact that my dad’s best friend is more concerned about his prospect getting the boot over how I’m handling the death of my best friend, or that the MC have clearly put Jesse’s future in my hands.

  It’s fucking simple; if I become Jesse’s ol’ lady, then he’s innocent of Dar’s death. My acceptance will clear him in their eyes, and he’ll become a full-patch member. Shit fuck. I was going to back him anyway…at least, I think. But I don’t like being told I have to do something. Least of all, forced into some twisted relationship for the benefit of the MC.

  I know Tank means well. Hell, he’s like a second father to me. But my dad never would’ve put on the pressure like this. My dad would never have wanted me to settle with one of the MC, anyway. He made that clear a long time ago, and it’s a rule I’ve always stuck to. One of the only ones I’ve ever followed.