Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Page 17

  “I’m not some junkie,” I say, leaning my back against the cool wall for support. “I’m not all cracked out, picking at sores on my face, begging for change on the side of the road. Sleeping with nasty trucker dudes to score a bag.” I bite my lip, stopping my rant. But the justified anger continues to rise.

  He lets a smile slip. “You paint a vivid picture.”

  I mock laugh. “Yeah, well. Sometimes I try a little too hard.” Staring down at the scuffed hardwood floor, I think about the journal next to Dar’s bandana on my wobbly nightstand. The random thoughts I’ve put on paper since my first week at Stoney. For whatever reason—therapeutic or boredom—I’ve continued to write. Short poems transforming into longer stories.

  The most recent one: a ride Dar and I took a year ago to the falls. One of our secret spots that we call our own. Five little waterfalls funneling into a small, windy stream. The red and orange clay slick against our feet. We covered ourselves with the stuff, bragging it was better than a snazzy mud wrap. Our bikinis caked with the clay, we looked like two super tanned naked chicks biking down the highway when we left.

  A pang hits my chest, and I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to repress the memory. I can feel the baggie of crank burning a hole in my pocket, calling me. Summoning me to sniff the fuck out of it and halt the flow of memories threatening to pull me under.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, nodding toward the bathroom.

  I lock the door behind me. The wooden barrier separating Boone from me doesn’t feel like enough. Like he can sense what I’m about to do; judging, disappointed. My reflection in the mirror mocks me; wild, windblown burgundy and black hair, pinhole pupils, flushed skin. I need an added layer of protection against his disapproval. Something to dull the sting.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the baggie. Set it on the counter. Christ! What am I doing? I step away from the sink, hands fisting in my hair, pulling it away from my face.

  Slowly, calmly, I talk myself through it. Just another line. Just to take the edge off, to stop the past from creeping up. I suddenly see Dar’s dopey smile as she winks at me, laughing at something totally random and stupid. My dad, bent over a mirror, snorting a line of white powder. Him tossing his head back, seeing me…and winking.

  The two memories collide. Flickering like an old movie reel.

  Everything was always in the open. No one in my life held back dirty secrets. It was life, normal, who we were. All this rehab and counseling shit, and Boone’s constant, uptight presence in my life is what’s skewing my perception.

  And I don’t even know why I care. I’ve never cared what anyone thought of me—especially some temporary guy. And really, if I’m fucked up in his book, just what does that make him? He fucking wails on people, inflicting pain, trying to inflict it on himself, as some form of punishment or redemption.

  That shit is far worse than getting a high on and not wanting to settle down anywhere. Who the hell wants to be just like all the rest of the lame asses out there? All tied down to some loser who comes home late every night, two kids on either hip, miserable, discontent.

  Fuck that.

  I march toward the counter and grab the baggie. Wiping away any dust from the yellow marble, I clear a spot and empty half the contents onto the hard slab. I reach into my back pocket and tweak out my photo ID (my license still in the process of being suspended).

  I don’t think while I chop. The hard plastic card cutting through the tiny white nuggets, turning them into fine powder, makes me sweat. I feel it beading along the back of my neck. Anxious to taste the bitter numbness.

  My life is no harder than the average Joe working a nine-to-five—it’s just…a different kind of hard. People come in and out of my life. Floating along the timeline like little warped butterflies. Some I care for, some I love, some I even despise. But at some point—

  Everyone leaves.

  I drop my head and snort right off the counter.

  The burn races up my nose, my eyes water. I blink, my breath stuck in my chest as I swallow hard. Force saliva down my dry throat. I gasp when my lungs free up. Rub at my forehead, already feeling the numbing. Tingling my skin. My cheeks are pale, and I cough to finish clearing the initial rush.

  I turn on the faucet and run water over my fingers, then twist a pad around the inside of one nostril, then the other. I pinch my nose and sniff. Suck up the rest of the crank to clear away the white residue. Another big hit goes into my system, and I stumble back. Water always ramps the buzz.

  My nose feels so fucking numb, but as I look in the mirror, I notice trace blood. It’s been a minute since I’ve done anything this harsh, and having taken some time off from everything, I’m just a little sensitive. I rip some toilet paper from the roll and pat the red away.

  As the high takes full effect, I press my back against the wall, deciding I could stay in this tiny ass bathroom all night. Only the thought of Boone sitting in my living room gets me moving.

  I can’t have him out there, wigging, calling an ambulance or some shit if I don’t come back out.

  But before I leave, I secure my pink bandana around my wrist. One last thought of Dar, touch her tree charm necklace—I still can’t remember where she got it—then push all thoughts to the back of my head. Store them away. With all the other people no longer a part of my life.

  As I enter, I see Boone staring down at my phone. I didn’t realize I set it on the bar. With my keys. Right. I saunter toward him, feeling weightless. “Something interesting you got there?”

  His head snaps up. Brows pulled tight. Awareness lights his hazel eyes. He’s not stupid, and knows I just refreshed my high. “It was beeping. I didn’t mean to look…but the screen displays texts as they come in. It sounded urgent since the person kept hitting you up so hard.”

  I nod, not caring in the least if he searched my phone. I don’t have anything to hide. Not really. I walk past him and scoop my iPhone from the countertop. I hit the button to light the screen and see five texts from Sam.

  Shit. She’s worried, saying that she’s been sending me emails and texts and hasn’t heard back once. That she’s seconds away from hiring a private investigator to hunt me down. Or call the police. I smile at the thought; she so would, too.

  I wasn’t trying to avoid her…not really. I just didn’t want to go through the whole explanation of Dar’s death yet. Not to her, and not to anyone else. Not yet. But I quickly type out a response because I don’t want her any more upset than she already is.

  Me: I’m fine, girl. Just between places right now. Will call with the deets once I’m settled.

  She replies instantly.

  Sam: Finally! You had me scared shitless. Wild biker girls cannot leave the rest of us lamers out of the loop, ya know? We tend to freak. I even sent Darla a message! She won’t reply to me either ☹ Did she get my birthday present to her? Anyway, let me know when and where you settle. Holden and I are thinking of taking a trip soon. Would be awesome if we could meet up ☺

  A searing fire travels up my chest, closing my throat on a sob. I can’t even think about trying to tell Sam why Dar will never respond to her messages again. It just feels so far removed from reality.

  But then…Dar’s birthday. During the week she died. We partied so hard, and she did get a package. I was messed up then; can’t remember who she said it was from. But it was Sam. She must’ve told Sam where we were staying. My present to her was a week of partying. I cringe and fight back the tears.

  Blistering at my own softness, I type out a final text: You’re on, girl. Will get you word from the road soon.

  I set the phone back on the bar. Without another thought wasted on hard truths and inevitable, fucked up shit that I have no control over, I try to focus on Boone. On the guy who, for a brief moment today, revealed this completely different side of himself. When he encouraged me to ride. Patient, stimulating, intelligent. Self-aware. And totally in tune with me and what I needed in that moment.

  Smi
ling to myself, I have to admit, it was fun.

  “What?” Boone nods his head toward me as he reclines on the couch.

  I shake mine, still smiling all stupid. My high is in full swing. “I was just thinking about how much fun you were today.” One thing about methamphetamines? They make you brutally honest. “I wish you could be like that more often. Just confident, not cocky.” I eye him.

  This actually gets a quick smirk from him. “Well, have dilemmas you need help with all the time, and I’ll come to the rescue.”

  I roll my eyes, and move to sit on the arm of the couch. “What is with your freaking hero complex?”

  “I like doing what I can for other people.”

  “Meaning”—I use my fingers to make air quotes—“saving other users.”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “I told you before, it keeps me straight. Takes away the boredom.”

  “So it’s a completely selfish thing, this need to save me.”

  He seems to get uncomfortable and adjusts his position, pressing harder into the couch cushion. “We’ve had this conversation before, Melody. Let’s leave it alone this time.” He frowns. And I know it’s because I’m high. I’m pushing his buttons. Causing him to crave.

  Guilt pools in my stomach, and I almost ask him to leave. But then I remember why I even wanted him here in the first place; to help him relax. It’s the least I can do after he did help me today. Getting me past the cravings so I could ride and at least win one race. That high far outmatched the one burning through me now, that’s for damn sure.

  But this one isn’t bad.

  I scoot off the armrest and plunk down onto the seat. Bounce a couple of times to get closer to him.

  “Mel…come on.” He rolls his shoulders, easing himself away from my close proximity. “Look, falling off the wagon is a part of recovery. I’m not judging. I’ve been there.” He finally looks me in the eyes. “But I can choose not to commiserate with you while you’re hurting yourself.”

  My mouth tightens into a clenched frown. “God, why do you do that?”

  His head jerks back. “What?”

  “Just…” I shake my head, trying to find the right words. “Just so preachy. I get it, okay? You do what you do to stay on track.” I run my fingers loosely through my hair, massaging my scalp. It feels so soothing. “Just don’t push it on me. Especially right now. Not feeling it.”

  He huffs out a long breath. “Fine.”

  He’s all tense again. Ugh. I scoot another inch closer to him, so our thighs touch. “We ever going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

  No response.

  “Okay, then I’ll just dive in.” I lean in close to him, rest my arm against the back of the couch. “Why do you brawl, Boone?” I trace a finger over the bruise purpling his cheek.

  Looking down, he rubs a hand across his forearm, drawing my attention to the colorful tats decorating his skin. Finally, he shrugs. “If we’re going to play twenty questions, you have to answer honestly when it’s your turn.” He cocks his head in my direction and raises his eyebrows.

  Yeah, I don’t like how he’s spinning this. But since I don’t have cable, or anything else entertaining here, I might as well play along until I don’t want to play anymore. “Deal,” I say.

  Holding my gaze, he says, “I already told you that I lost someone close to me. But I didn’t tell you how.” He pauses, and I can see him debating just how much to reveal. “His name was Hunter. I just…I should’ve been the one watching out for him, but I always bailed. And that night, I got high—like really fucking high—and did what I did best back then. Found some chick to bang. Because being high and fucking was pretty much all that mattered.”

  I want to tell him that it’s okay—that most guys pretty much roll like that. But I know he’s not done. There’s an ending to this average story that’s not so average, that will change everything, because obviously, it changed him. I bite my bottom lip, antsy, waiting. The crank working itself more into my bloodstream by the second. It’s hard to keep still.

  “Anyway,” he huffs out. “The person Hunter was with wasn’t stable. She was a user, too, and she shot up more than her usual. She OD’d. Which would have been tragic enough on its own, but she was driving at the time…and they said she started convulsing. With Hunter in the car.”

  Shit. I rest my hand on his arm. He doesn’t have to say it, to finish. I know the outcome.

  “I was the one called in to identify them both. High. High like a motherfucker, looking down at the two, still bodies. And I could’ve just cashed out right then. Just ended it. I wanted to. But I’m a fucking coward. As guilty as I felt, as much blame as I owned, all I could do was think about getting another fix to dull my senses. To not think about them. About Hunter.”

  He runs a hand through his hair, eyes wide, and shakes his head. “When I finally did decide to stop using, I found out that being sober sucked.” I allow myself to offer him a slight smile. “Everything you don’t think about while high, well, it pounds the hell out of you when you’re not. Demanding to be heard. I nearly lost myself in the guilt over what happened, and I couldn’t function. I decided that everything I enjoyed while high had to go.”

  I lick my lips, my mouth so dry. “You cut out sex.”

  He nods. “Yep.”

  “Not because it’s a trigger…” I prompt.

  “No, well, I guess it can be. But honestly, I went celibate because I was more concerned about getting a piece of ass than what was happening to Hunter that night. So it had to go. I couldn’t have sex without seeing his face, feeling like shit, so it had to end. Along with my old friends, places I hung out, everything.”

  This is so messed up. For someone who acts like they have it all together, have all the answers, Boone is wrong. “I’m sorry, Boone. I really am. What happened to your friend, it was a horrible accident. But you do understand that’s what it was, right? An accident? I’m sure your counselors have preached this to you, but you need to hear it from me.” I reach over and palm his cheek, turn his face toward me. “You didn’t kill your friend. Hunter’s death, though tragic and maybe avoidable, was not your fault.”

  As the words leave my mouth, I hear all the things said to me at Stoney. Things I blocked out—not willing to hear because I full-on knew Darla’s death was my fault. But saying them now, to Boone, I feel that blame slowly start to dissolve. I never would’ve done anything on purpose to hurt Dar. Ever.

  Doesn’t make the guilt stop—but it might be a start.

  His hazel eyes glaze over, red, on the brink of shedding tears. But he coughs, clearing his throat, and blinks. A tough guy’s way of stopping the waterworks. “So yeah, after I didn’t have anything in my life but the pain and guilt, I went a little—” he struggles to say the rest “—crazy. I got into a fight one night with this real douchebag. He was in a checkout line, giving the girl ringing him up a hard time, and I just hauled off and punched him.”

  I can’t help it, I laugh. Imagining ultra-straightedge, always-in-control Boone losing his shit in the middle of a store—well, it’s not funny, but it’s amusing. “That’s how you got started with the backyard brawling?”

  “No, that’s how I found out that I had an outlet. I actually didn’t beat the shit out of the guy. I stopped and ended up letting him kick my ass. It felt right. And afterward, I slept that night. I hadn’t slept a full night since Hunter died. And for a split second, my conscience was clear. I ached and bruised and was locked up, but the all-consuming pain was less than it was the day before.”

  “Then that’s when you went looking for it.”

  He nods. “I play the part at Stoney. Tell a story and talk to counselors, putting on a good show to keep me in line. But the real release, the freedom from my addiction owning me, comes from getting my face punched in.”

  “Damn. Do you even know how warped that is?” I dip my head, finding his eyes. “You’re punishing yourself. I mean, what if the next time you don’t walk away from the
fight?”

  Something seems to resonate within him, his features conveying acceptance. Shit. This guy has a death wish.

  “I know,” he says. “But how much more warped is living a user’s lifestyle, Mel? That’s rolling the dice every day, isn’t it? I don’t think an addict can ever truly be a healthy individual. I mean, shit. Who the hell is really mentally healthy, anyway? But brawling, I at least have control over that. I say when, who, how long. And it doesn’t hurt anyone else. Not even me. Because I get more benefit from it than injury. It’s better than a prescription.” His gaze is so intense, my breath halts. “It sure beats the hell out of lame ass NA meetings.”

  “At least you admit they’re lame,” I say, pushing my hair away from my shoulders. “You should have owned up to this a while ago, we would’ve had so much more to talk about.”

  This gets a tiny, crooked smile, and I can see he’s relieved I’m not probing further on his relationship with Hunter. For all I know, the guy is gay. Or maybe bi-sexual. He swore once before that he wasn’t, but maybe that’s only because he didn’t want to think about it. Have me ask questions. I mean, he did have a hard-on at the lake. But then, that could be nearly a year’s worth of pent-up sexual frustration needing to vent.

  Regardless, I like seeing this side of Boone. The reckless, get-out-of-my-way rebel. It’s hot. And he needs to know that he can move on. Especially since he admitted that sex isn’t a trigger for him. He’s only punishing himself.

  I push off the couch.

  “Where are you going? It’s your turn to answer some unpleasant and uncomfortable questions.”

  On my way to the bathroom, I say, “I’ll be right back.” If I’m going to commit to this, I can’t be the least bit sober. I don’t want to harbor any guilt for what I’m about to do.

  Boone

  Taste only yearning, make me full