Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Page 19

  Turning toward her, I slip my free hand through her hair, my fingers pushing her red strands behind her ear. I need to see her face. Her eyes are glazed over, no tears falling. She’s holding it all in. “What could you have possibly done?” I ask.

  She shakes her head a little, releasing a clear trail of tears down her cheek. “Nothing. I’m sure of that. I’m not a fucking psychic. But there were so many other courses of action I could have taken that night—like many nights before—that could’ve altered the outcome.”

  “Mel, who looks out for you? Who’s responsible for your pain?”

  Her dark eyes flick up, the question catching her so off guard I hear her slight gasp. “I want you to say something aloud. Even if you don’t mean it. Just speak the words.”

  I lick my lips, stopping myself from kissing her. Instead, I nod. No questions asked. I’d do just about anything for her right now.

  “Say, I’m not responsible for Hunter’s death.”

  My brow furrows, and I shake my head. “No.” I’m not sure what she’s trying to do, but she’s asked one of a few things I can’t do. Not even for her.

  She reaches up to run her hand over my cheek. In this intimate span of time, it’s possible the outside world doesn’t exist. It’s possible that, somehow, I’m not responsible. That maybe fate is a real force, and there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent his death. That Melody’s actions had nothing to do with what lead up to her friend’s death.

  But beyond this bubble, there’s a very real world, one we can’t escape. Actions have consequences. Even if in your darkest dreams you could’ve never predicted the pain, the hurt, the loss—every action has an equal and opposite counter reaction. That’s the law of physics, but it’s also the words that thrum through me daily.

  I don’t want any of my actions to cause Mel any more pain than she already has to endure.

  I’m not…whole. I can’t offer her the life she needs in order to get out of this rut. To be sober, functioning. I thought I needed to steer clear of her for my own benefit. To keep me on the straight and narrow. But it’s evident now that it’s just the opposite.

  She needs to get away from me.

  “Let’s pick this up another time,” I say, and she gives me a questioning look. “I should really go…clean myself up.” I lower my gaze to my crotch.

  With a knowing laugh, she says, “All right…” and bounds up, grabbing her underwear and quickly putting them on. “I need some alcohol to come down, anyway. Be right back.”

  As she takes off toward the small kitchen, I release a heavy breath. I’ve given her more than anyone else; more of my story, of myself. But I’m still holding back.

  If I can help it, I want to prevent seeing that appalling look on her face—the judgment in her gaze that not even Melody would be able to disguise if she ever discovered the truth.

  Melody

  For my longing overflows, bitter pain

  I QUICKLY DOWN TWO shots of Jack. I had half a bottle stashed under my sink for emergency situations just like this. Thank, God.

  Even though I was really, really trying not to use, truth is, there was no way to handle Jesse any other way. Our circumstance didn’t technically get “handled,” but it did get confronted. Well, most of it. Now the conflict is over, I can move on and try to enforce some damage control. Let him in on the fact that I have zero intentions of becoming his ol’ lady.

  But that’s another day, another uncomfortable situation—not tonight.

  For good measure, I take a swig right from the bottle before capping it and returning the liquor to its place under the sink. I just want to pass out and not think about today until the blistering morning sun awakens me for the ultimate hangover.

  Today was one of the longest days ever.

  As I enter the living room, I stop midway in. Boone’s chin rests on his hand, his elbow propping his head up. If he’s not asleep yet, he will be soon. Walking over to the bar, I look down at my phone and hit the button to light the screen: 2:37. Nice. He probably doesn’t have late nights like this anymore. And really, I’m sure he’s spent after earlier.

  What guy doesn’t pass out afterward? Dudes, I think, shaking my head.

  I love seeing him like this, though. All laid back, his usually tense and uppity self too worn out from a full day to compete with his dire need to be a savior. I wonder just who or how he was before shit went wrong in his life.

  I wonder if I’ll ever get the full truth of his story.

  Then I realize that I don’t even want that. Ugly pasts shouldn’t play a part for us.

  My head is starting to spin with the rush of alcohol hitting my bloodstream, and I grab my phone and hedge for the couch. I settle down on the opposite end from Boone, trying not to wake him, and scroll through my messages.

  The ones from Sam, and some new ones from Jesse.

  My heart constricts as I read his desperate words. Pleading, begging, apologizing. Shit, how the hell did things get so fucked up between us? For the millionth time, I wish I could ask Dar what I should do.

  In reality, if she were still here, I probably wouldn’t go to her for advice. I always thought I was so much smarter than her, that I was the brains of our duo. That I had everything figured out. But that was such bullshit. She saw through my crap and called me out on it, and I should’ve listened to her more.

  Yeah she wasn’t on target with the whole me and Jesse thing. Actually, I still haven’t figured out why she even thought we’d hook up. But maybe it was for the same reason I wanted it for her—so she’d settle down with someone who’d take care of her. Maybe she saw me spiraling out of control and thought…and thought that someone like Jesse could look out for me.

  I run my hand over my face, my skin buzzing with warmth from the liquor, and suddenly wish I was somewhere cool, up north, away from this heat.

  Another text beeps from my phone in my lap, and I look down, peeking through my fingers.

  Jesse: I’m leaving tomorrow. Come with me.

  Shit.

  I drop the phone like it’s a snake ready to bite.

  Jesse must’ve gotten news about his acquittal today—and he didn’t even tell me. Scratch that. I didn’t give him the chance to tell me. That’s what he wanted to talk about at the bar, in the bathroom, but I wasn’t hearing him in my anger.

  I’m good with it, though. It’s what’s right, ultimately. Regardless of the shit that’s between us, he’s not to blame for Dar’s death. And he deserves to get his full patch. He’s earned it.

  My whole being thrums to be on the road. Traveling, riding, being somewhere other than here. But I glance over to Boone, his mouth parted in sleep, his face so peacefully unaware. And I smile.

  I don’t know what will happen if I see this probation thing through. If I stay in this city, stay with Boone. We might fight, but we might have some times, too. We won’t see clearly on everything. Hell, we’ll rarely see eye-to-eye on anything. But—

  I don’t want to leave him. Not just yet. I want to see what might transpire if I stay. If what happened between us tonight could bloom into something real. It felt real. And for the first time in ever, I need something real.

  With one last glance at Boone, I turn my attention back to my phone and pull up a text message to Tank.

  Crap. Crap crap. I feel like smashed assholes.

  I leap from the couch, the annoying tune I set for my wakeup call blaring from my phone. Rushing around my apartment, one leg in my jeans, I hop around my living room, trying to get dressed and make it to work on time. I’ve only been awake a total of one minute, the heavy reminder sinking past the fog in my hung-over brain that I actually have a day job.

  A flipping, awake-at-the-crack-of-dawn morning job.

  Coffee lovers, I loathe you.

  With a startling clarity, the events of yesterday surface. The track, racing, getting wasted, getting high, Jesse…and Boone.

  Boone.

  I glance around the living room a
nd stare at the couch, where I somehow fell asleep right next to him. Not there. But his boots are. A thunk in the kitchen snags my attention, and my heart judders awkwardly in my chest.

  Pulling my jeans over my hips, I button them and ease myself into the kitchen. I finger comb my rat’s nest, open my mouth to say a hello—and stop.

  Boone’s sitting at the bar with a nearly empty bottle of Jack. A tumbler with a splash of amber liquor before him. His head buried in his palms. Fingers speared through his blond hair.

  In a panic, I dredge up the memory of what I did with the last of the crank I had in the bathroom. There was just dust leftover in the baggie…but I could not handle my shit if I had anything to do with Boone getting high. After he’s been sober for… I scrunch my face, realizing I’ve never actually asked him how long he’s been off the hard stuff.

  But all my thoughts cease when he lifts his head and pins me with a sloppy glare.

  With a mental nod, I remember that I did stuff the baggie way in the back of the bathroom cabinet. Either he didn’t find it or he didn’t go looking, because he’s too shitfaced drunk to be anything else.

  I push my hands into my back pockets and walk toward him. “So it’s liquid breakfast this morning, huh?”

  He grins and releases a light chuckle. At least he’s not a mean drunk. Or maybe he hasn’t drank enough yet. His tolerance is probably zilch, but he’s a big guy. A few tumblers of Jack won’t do him in.

  “It’s not exactly breakfast time,” he says.

  I look toward the three windows lining my living room wall. It’s still dark outside, but it is morning. And shit, I’m going to be late for work. But I can’t up and bail on him like this. Something changed from the moment we last spoke to this morning, and it has to be pretty effin big if sobriety hero Boone Randall is getting hammered first thing in the a.m.

  And damn, my head is putting a hurt on me right now. A shot of Jack, a little hair of the dog, really would help at this point.

  “Where are you going?” He looks over my clothes.

  “Work?”

  “I thought you said you had the day off?”

  My head jerks back, and I turn and dash for my phone. Oh, please be hangover brain, I plead with it. As I light the screen, I see the day: Saturday. I have this weekend off. I think…and then I’m at the calendar, checking my bloody schedule.

  A sigh of relief, a quick glance back at drunk Boone, and all relief is quashed.

  “Good memory,” I say. I walk over, pull out the stool beside him, and take a seat. “That would’ve been embarrassing, just showing up at work. With a mad hangover to boot.”

  Nudging his glass with his knuckles, he slides it toward me. “Only one way not to be hung-over.”

  I hike my eyebrows. “You’re encouraging me to get wasted? Dude, this is so not the guy I’ve come to know and be annoyed by.”

  A glimpse of a smile. Shrugging, he picks up the glass and downs the rest of the Jack himself. Setting it down hard, he says, “This is the one day a year I think I’ll make an exception.”

  I part my lips, ready to probe a bit, but I decide against it. Whatever the issue is, it has to be a heavy one, and handled delicately. And I don’t feel my usual, tactful self right now. I’m off my game. I’ve barely slept and my head is pounding.

  And I smell like a bar.

  I want so badly to take a shower and restart this morning, but as I watch Boone pour another shot, I’m scared to leave him alone. He might leave, or shut down, or throw up his walls—the ones that, for whatever reason, have seemed to come down for this rare second.

  I bite the bullet.

  Slipping off the stool, I head for my backup stash of vodka. Not my first choice, but it works well in a bind. Suzie gave it to me as a parting gift my first night out of rehab. Granted she didn’t buy it for me, or wrap it, she snaked it right off the liquor shelf behind the bar. Drunk and all huggy. I smile at the memory.

  Shaking my head, I refocus my thoughts on the here and now. On Boone. I grab the unopened bottle of vodka and a glass and rejoin him at the counter. “Backup reserve,” I say. “Just in case.”

  He chuckles. “I actually thought hanging out with you might keep my mind too busy to think. Keep myself preoccupied, focused on you…” he trails off. “It’s funny how well we lie to ourselves. I pretty much put myself right in the lion’s den.”

  I try not to take offense, because hey, he is right in his own personal den. Drugs and alcohol runneth over here. But I shouldn’t have to watch my P’s and Q’s for anyone. I’m not responsible for him or his choices. That much I did take away from my short stint in rehab.

  Instead, I open the vodka and pour myself a small shot. I clink my glass against his and say, “To the lions,” before I toss it back. My gag reflexes fight back, my throat thickening, and I force the warm, sour-tasting liquid down.

  Boone nods and finishes the rest of the amber liquid in his own glass.

  As the vodka does its magic, easing the throb at my temples and for the moment, clearing away the fog, a bit of bravery fuels me. I stare ahead, through the windows, at the gray early morning. The sun not out just yet, but the sky preparing for its entry.

  “Why is today the exception?” I ask. He peeks over, his brow furrowed. “Why did you subconsciously put yourself right in the lion’s den? I mean, you know when you’re either strong enough or not to resist temptation. I’d like to take the blame”—I pull back enough to fan my hand over my body like I’m a showcase of hot sex; he laughs—“but I don’t really think our tryst had anything to do with your falling off the wagon, Boone. I won’t take that bullet.”

  With a forced exhale, he runs a hand through his hair. Then down his face. I’m sure he’s feeling pretty numb by now, physically. But the lines etched around his eyes and mouth convey how much he’s suffering internally.

  “I thought I could avoid Hunter’s birthday,” he finally says.

  My heart jackhammers in my chest. “Boone, why the hell didn’t you say—?” I stop myself short. For some reason, maybe it’s Dar’s recent death, the thought of how we celebrated so hard the week of her birthday, all of it—but I can’t understand how Boone wouldn’t say something to me. To anyone. Or maybe he did. Maybe his counselor or whoever knows.

  But still. Hanging out with me, in a den full of alcohol…I would’ve found a better way for him to deal with this had I known.

  I realize just how self-absorbed I’ve been lately. How, with all this shit I have going on, I haven’t stopped long enough to consider maybe he’s fighting his own demons. He always comes across as so together, so strong, so sure. But it’s a façade; no one has it all figured out all of the time. And with his need to “deal” by fighting, accepting pain as his own form of personal punishment, I should’ve been a better friend. There for him, somehow.

  I should have not gone to the bar last night. I should have not gotten fired up over Jesse and our issues. I should have—for once—not thought I could toss meaningless advice out there like life’s guidelines, and been more present for him.

  But that’s done now. I can’t turn back time. As lame as that sounds. So I fill my glass with a heavy splash of vodka and take a slug before I commit to making it up to him now.

  “You should’ve told me. We could’ve been better prepared for today, had something planned.” I lay my hand on the bar, close to his, but not touching. Just a gesture for him to know I’m here. “As much as you want to help me, you could have allowed me the chance to maybe help you.”

  “I appreciate that, Mel. I do.” He looks at me, his hazel eyes glassy and bloodshot. “But nothing could prepare me for today. It’s probably better if I let it crash all around me.”

  “I get that. But we can still try.” I walk my fingers toward his glass and slip one over the rim, then slide it away from him. “I don’t think you really want to do this to yourself. You’re going to punish yourself so hard for this later. I know what it feels like to not want to deal, Boone. T
o just get so wasted you don’t have to face reality. Fuck, it’s my MO. I mean, I do a pretty damn good job of pretending I’m a hardcore biker chick with nerves of steel, but we both know the truth.” I smile, and his lips tip up just enough to offer a small one back.

  “Anyway,” I say. “How about we don’t count this past twenty-four hours. We both had a lot of shit on our plate, and we both fell pretty hard off the wagon. But if we chalk it up to life sucks, and sometimes you have to suck with it to get by, we can start fresh again after a nap.”

  He nods a few times. As if he’s considering the possibility that we could erase the day. Erase and start over. Then he pours the last of the Jack into his glass.

  “First, I want to finish what I started.” He chugs it back, his throat forcing the drink down with obvious struggle. He slams the glass down. “I just have to knock myself out. I just wasn’t…I tried not to remember today. But it hit like an atomic bomb. I just need not to think.”

  “All right.” I down the rest of my drink, too. “Now let’s go forget about it.”

  As I lead him to the bedroom, my hand in his, highly aware of his proximity, his touch, I realize I’ve never gone down this road before—allowed myself the comfort of just sleeping next to someone, trusting them. Not with a guy. I’d have been out the door so fast, he’d have serious whiplash. But with Boone, it’s different. I know he’s not asking for anything I can’t give.

  He’s not trying to save me in a way that selfishly satisfies a need for him. He’s not coveting me, desiring me sexually, though there may be some of that…but he’s not trying to change me overall. He wants me sober, sure. Because he thinks I’ll be happier for it—not because it’s an ultimatum.