Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Read online

  It’s a good one for a reason, too. And I don’t plan on breaking it for anyone, not even my dad’s best friend.

  This sucks. Getting older and growing up and seeing people in a whole new light fucking sucks.

  People really are selfish assholes.

  I suck up my butthurt feelings and toss my head back, determined not to let them see me crumble. I’ll mourn Dar in private. I’ll do what I have to until I get my ride and can get the hell out of here. No one dictates my choices.

  The scary thing; I didn’t know how much I depended on Dar for added backbone until this moment. I was stronger when I was with her, when I was looking out for her. I’m horrible at taking care of just me.

  Melody

  To the scentless air, free of blame

  FIRST CHECK-IN WITH MY PO after being released from rehab and I’m already about to bolt. This Jacquie chick comes off more like a therapist than a parole officer, and I got enough of the head shrinking at Stoney.

  One thing I will admit that I didn’t think was possible: I miss Nurse Bridge. Out of everyone there, she was real, she had grit. She didn’t sugarcoat anything and she always said what was on her mind. I miss her candid little quips. Her overbearing, big mama fortitude. And I just miss feeling like I wasn’t a complete loser for being me around her.

  My PO looks too young, too innocent, and too sweet to be in charge of my freedom. But maybe this is a good thing. She won’t come down too hard on me when I slip. Because I won’t lie to myself and claim I’m going to stay off the white—that’s one thing I don’t do; lie to myself. I know there will be many temptations over the next months, and I’d be so full of it to think I’m not going to buckle once.

  “Okay, Miss Lachlan, let’s continue,” she says, scanning over the file on her desk instead of looking at me. “Have you found a residence to reside at during your probation period?”

  Yes…and no. Because Jesse has to stay in St. Augustine throughout the duration of his pretrial court stuff, the MC sprung for a small apartment for him. Tank footing most of the rent, I’m sure. Jesse made the offer the other night to let me stay with him until I could afford my own place.

  This did not seem like a good idea. Especially since Jesse is far from clean. I might be honest about my dependence now—not addiction; there’s a difference—but I don’t need to topple on unnecessary temptation.

  Besides, after the way Tank not-so-subtly hinted to me and Jesse becoming an MC item, I don’t want to encourage Jesse. I’m not sure if it’s Tank’s idea or his, or the whole of the MC pushing the idea—but it’s better not to encourage any of them. Jesse will do whatever the MC tells him to. If his mentor says he needs an ol’ lady to settle him, to keep him out of trouble, Jesse will follow instructions. I know he’d do anything at this point to earn his full patch.

  I’m not MC property, though. And both Tank and Jesse know this. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try. I thought I’d made my intentions clear about that a long time ago, but maybe they’re just trying to look out for me. Thinking I need an ol’ man now that Dar is gone.

  I’ve been tussling with this since the other night. I just don’t know what to believe. Or what I want to believe. That’s two very different things, there.

  “Melody?”

  Jacquie’s soft but firm voice draws me out of my musings. I sit forward. “Sorry. Yes, I have a residence.”

  She poises her pen over the page. “And where is that?”

  I rub the back of my neck, feeling stilted. “Someone from Stoney Creek hooked me up with a cheap apartment near here. Month-to-month lease. For now.” That would be big mama Nurse Bridge. On the day of my release, she told me that her daughter was going off to graduate school and vacating a cute little apartment. The timing worked out perfectly, and she drove me there that afternoon to sign the lease with the landlord and get moved in. My whole two boxes and all.

  “That’s great. And have you been able to schedule your group meetings yet?”

  Shit. “Uh, yeah.” I nod, even though no, I haven’t done that yet. But I’m sure Nurse Bridge can help me there, too. “Once a week, right?”

  Jacquie looks up and smiles. “Right. You’ll be required to take a drug test every week before group, and the counselors will also make random home visits. So…just keep that in mind.”

  Great. I feel like a freaking cow, but instead of milk, my udders are being milked for urine. Bottled water will be my new BFF. At that thought, my heart pinches. I have no one to share my inside joke’s with. Dar would’ve had a funny comment about this. I can hear her running through the apartment, pretending to ding a cowbell every time the doorbell rings.

  “We can go ahead and set up your next appointment for here, too. Pick a day that works best for your weekly schedule. We’ll do once a week for the first two months, then see how it goes from there.” She tilts her head questioningly when I don’t respond with an affirmative right away. “Do you have any questions so far?”

  I shake my head. “None. Stay sober and out of trouble and I get off in five months, right?”

  She folds her hands atop the desk and hunches her shoulders, her features severe, like she’s about to impart some terrible news. “Melody, have you received any grief counseling?”

  At once, my defenses flair. “I got plenty of counseling at Stoney.”

  “Yes, but that was a short, twenty-day treatment, primarily focused on giving you the tools needed to battle addiction. With what you’ve been through…” She gives her head a quick shake before her eyes drill into me. “It would be wise to seek help in order to deal with your loss in a healthy way. Most people who are physically dependent on substances find it very difficult to get and stay clean, but having to deal with the death of a close friend makes it nearly impossible. I strongly advise seeing someone, anyone you trust.”

  I want to tell this lady that I’ve dealt with a whole hell of a lot more in my short lifetime, and I know all too well how to handle it. But I don’t. Something in her demeanor, her soft eyes, says that she’s not like Doc Sid and the others. She’s my parole officer, this really isn’t her MO, to hook me up with a therapist and shit.

  Finally, I shrug a shoulder. “I’ll manage. As long as I don’t have to do another turn at Stoney, locked away from civilization, I’ll be fine.” I stand and push my chair back, leaving regardless of whether our time’s up or not.

  She glances down and jots something on the page before she says, “All right. We’ll meet again next Friday, and for the time being, I’ll put in your notes that you’ll continue to see me once a week until you’re released from parole.”

  Again, she comes off more like a counselor than a PO—not that I have much experience with either. I’m trusting my people skills here. And she might even be someone who gives a real shit.

  I make for the door, and she says, “My card is in your folder. Call if you need anything.”

  I’m hoping that I don’t have to take her up on that offer.

  “This was not the plan,” I say, shrugging out of Jesse’s jacket and handing it to him.

  He takes it and slips it on over his tee. He lent it to me before I hopped onto the back of his new hog, his Harley Forty-Eight he scored a good deal on down in Daytona. I’m so sick with envy I could choke.

  “Relax,” he says, motioning me through the door of some run-down house in the middle of a neighborhood that looks worse than the worst of Hazard—and that’s saying something. “I promised you’d get to race on the track, and you’re going to.”

  “Then why the hell are we at some crack house?” I glance around the foyer as we enter. The walls are either nicotine-coated yellow, or the last time they were painted was for a porno shoot back in the seventies.

  He points to an open sliding glass door on the other side of the small house, to where a heard of people are filing through. “You’ll see. You can make some dough at the track tomorrow, but this will give you a nice start. You’ll earn twice as much in an hour here
.”

  Tank is tagging my trail, and I look back at him with raised eyebrows. “You approve?”

  He laughs. “A good brawl is good for the soul, baby. And the prospect is right.” He punches Jesse lightly on the shoulder. Although he “loves him like a son,” even Tank refers to Jesse as prospect until he’s a full-patch owner. “You’ll make an okay amount to get you going toward your new hog.”

  As we work our way toward the glass door, I slip my thumb into my jean pocket, making sure the last of my savings is still there. I’d rather have most of it for the track, where I know for sure I can earn out. With Jesse’s Forty-Eight—a fast as hell bike—I could at least enter and win three races. That would get me to the halfway mark, and I’d still have enough for rent and food, and other necessities I usually don’t think about on the road.

  Like toilet paper. Who forgets to buy that? I do. When I’m used to using it in motel rooms, bars, public restrooms, wherever. Well, I found out I had none the hard way this morning.

  The noise of the crowd intensifies as we push through to the backyard. Bodies are packed tightly, heads weaving side-to-side as people try to glimpse something in the center of the commotion.

  Jesse tugs my hand, and I’m led toward the side, around the crowd, to where a group of bikers are pumping their fists in the air and shouting. They’re old school riders; faded Harley Davidson tats on their forearms, worn leather vests with no MC affiliation. Black bandanas wrapping their graying, long hair. Jesse nods to one and hands him a roll of dollars.

  He then turns to me and raises his eyebrows, prompting me. I dig out the wad of cash, silently cursing as I hand Jesse half of my stash. “This better be damn good,” I say.

  “Don’t worry. I got you.” He hands the biker my money and says, “Two on The Hunter.”

  Blowing out a deep breath, I stand on my tiptoes to peer over the crowd. A makeshift boxing ring is positioned in the middle of the wooden fenced-in yard, and I can just make out two guys in the center dancing around each other, their fists raised.

  Holy shit. My mouth pops open and my head snaps around toward Jesse. “A backyard brawl?”

  He laughs. “Relax. The po-po know about this club. In fact, I think they sponsor it.” He points toward two obvious cops despite their street clothes. You can always tell by the haircut and the clean-cut look regardless of how grunged out they try to appear. It’s in the way they stand, trying to look comfortable but like there’s a stick up their asses.

  “Still,” I say close to Jesse’s ear. “It’s illegal, dude. The last place either of us should be, ya know?”

  His forehead creases. “Wow, Mel. Rehab really put a hurt on your spirit. Look”—he motions toward the ring—“one fight and we’re gone. Just chill, okay? I promise there’s nothing to worry about. This shit is huge down here. It’s everywhere. No reason why we can’t make bank until we can get out of here.”

  Turning my attention back toward the fighters in the ring, I try to assure myself that Jesse’s right. I mean, fracking cops are standing a few feet away, placing their own bets. When did I become so fucking uptight?

  Just as I’m maneuvering to get a better view, calming down enough to enjoy the show…my gaze lands on something that spikes my heart rate, and all bets are off.

  Fucking good guy Boone.

  Hardcore straightedge, sobriety peddler and keeper of celibacy, Boone Randall.

  In the ring.

  “What the hell…?” I’m taking off through the crowd, pushing around people and weaving a jagged path to the front of the throng before I know what I’m doing.

  I don’t have time to process what I’m seeing, what I’m feeling—deceived. Played. Confused. Many things swirl the chaos of my thoughts as I watch Boone take a hard punch to the jaw. Bareknuckle. No gloves to soften the blow.

  His head snaps sideways, and a stream of red sprays from his mouth. My gut clenches.

  I finally reach the ring, but a band of yellow tape holds me back from getting to the ropes. I have no idea what I was going to do once I got here—what I intend to say. The shock of seeing Boone in the ring getting the shit beat out of him stunted all rational thought and I just needed to… What?

  All thoughts cease the moment our eyes connect.

  His deep hazels surrounded by sweat and puffed skin. Mine so wide, I swear they’re about to bulge from their sockets. In the two seconds it takes for Boone to register me, my utter confusion and disbelief, I glimpse the same in him. A fraction of a second now, his features shift from confusion to awareness.

  Then a slight smile tilts his lips.

  The fighter coming at him drives a fist right toward his face, and Boone shifts his attention from me to the guy, quickly dodging and delivering a powerful punch to the guy’s ribs. Without pause, he nails his opponent again in the same spot. Then with his other fist, lands a blow to the guy’s temple.

  Wobbling on his feet, the fighter blinks and then sways left, unable to keep his fists raised.

  I’m sure the fight is over. That whoever is in charge is about to call the end of the round, or the fight, ding the bell, whatever. But the crowd’s cheers rise around me, muffling the sounds in the ring. They stomp and chant, “Finish him! Finish him!”

  Boone wipes the sweat from his brow, turning his gaze to mine once more before he stares down his opponent. He hauls back and sends an uppercut to the fighter’s chin.

  The guy is through. He hits the mat with a solid thud, his head bouncing a couple of times before he blacks out. Everyone is screaming, and cheering, and money goes up in the air, gripped in fists and passed to others. It’s chaos.

  And the whole time, my gaze is on Boone. Good Guy Boone. What. The. Hell?

  Boone

  For who should feel the swift assault

  SON OF A BITCH.

  I duck under the rope, then half sit, half fall to the edge of the mat. After flexing my hand, I peel away the tape. Back propped against the corner post, I swear under my breath. My knuckles are a bloody mess. Some of it mine—most of it the other guy’s in the ring.

  I reach for the towel draped over the chair next to Turner and wipe my face and hands, then toss it over my bare shoulder.

  How the hell did Melody wind up here?

  “I haven’t seen you lay someone down like that in weeks, man. What was that?” Turner asks, chuckling. He hands me a water bottle, and I nod my thanks.

  “Don’t know,” I say, shrugging and immediately wincing as white pain slices through my shoulder blade. Duregger got a few good hits in. “Just didn’t feel like dragging it out.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Well next time, do try to add a little show, man. I’m going to have to round up Jacob quicker than I thought and toss him in the ring before the crowd eats me alive.” Then he’s off. But before he disappears into the crowd, he calls back, “Killer!”

  The pain throbbing beneath my skin explodes into a roaring fire. I’m off the mat, storming through the mass of people chanting Hunter’s name, ignoring their congratulations for making them money, and on my way to Turner’s house in seconds flat.

  That word should be imprinted on my soul by now, a part of me; it shouldn’t have any effect—but I let it tear me down in one unguarded moment. I’m not prepared to deal with this shit while I’m trying to figure out what to say to Mel. If I should even bother saying anything.

  Someone hurriedly steps aside so I can enter the house. I head straight to the small room with the fish tank, where my clothes and stuff to clean up are stashed. I’m almost to the door when I hear her deep, throaty voice.

  “The Hunter?”

  The air leaps from my chest. My lungs expand and contract as I concentrate on breathing. Giving myself time before I have to face her. I wrap my shame around me like a security blanket, guarding myself from the judgment I know I’ll see in her deep brown eyes, then turn. “It’s a stage name.”

  Her arms are tightly crossed over her chest. She’s wearing a skimpy tank top and j
ean shorts that are rolled just above her knee-high boots. It’s hotter than hell outside, even in the evening, and her hair is tied up into a loose ponytail with her pink bandana. I take all this in, admiring every inch of her, slowly working my way to her face—trying to avoid her gaze.

  But when I finally meet her eyes, it’s not anger or resentment there; it’s confusion. Maybe some hurt. “I never lied to you,” I say quickly, attempting to quash the hurt. “This isn’t something I like to brag about. Hell, tell anyone about. It’s—” I break off, not knowing how to explain, since I can’t really admit to my own damn self what I’m doing here.

  Melody nods, repeatedly. “You never owed me the truth. As I remember, we went out of our way not to talk about real shit. So it’s all good, Hunter.”

  That searing pain fires a bolt of lightning into my chest. She thinks I lied to her about my real name. Only the realization of that comes a little too slowly, and my defenses shoot up before I can reel in my anger. “Don’t call me that.”

  More confusion spreads across her face, flushing her skin. “Anyway,” she says. “I just wanted to thank you. You just made me a shit load of money.”

  I release a heavy breath. Notice we’re starting to attract too much attention. “Come on.” I open the door and move into the room, hoping Melody follows. For whatever reason, I worry about what she thinks of me. I want the chance to explain—to not be the guy who misled her.

  She hovers in the doorway, her gaze scanning the room, the fish tank, me. Then with a forced show of bravado, she steps inside. I close the door behind her and nod to one of the two chairs backed against the wall.

  “No thanks,” she says, choosing instead to anchor one booted foot to the wall and lean there, not touching the griminess of this place. I don’t blame her. “Haven’t had a tetanus shot in a good ten years. Plus, I’m not a fan of other people’s blood—not that kind of junkie.” She cuts her eyes at me.