Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Read online

  Honestly, I really don’t know why he chose me—why I’m the girl who stood out from the rest, who he couldn’t walk away from. Why he felt Hunter’s birthday would be better dealt with in my company over anyone else’s.

  With that realization, an enormous vise of guilt squeezes my chest. Wraps around me so tightly, I struggle to breathe. The fire swirling my stomach from the vodka travels my bloodstream, igniting my veins, my limbs. My face is flush, and a hollowed out pit opens up inside me.

  “Lay down beside me,” Boone says, his voice distant, beckoning.

  My heart aches, and I can’t deny him his request. I slip onto the bed and rest my head on the pillow, his right beside mine. His eyes trace the features of my face, his lids blinking closed, heavy with alcohol.

  I don’t want to acknowledge my own pain; the reminder of Dar on Hunter’s birthday. Two people stolen from us, from life. But it’s too deep a connection. Something I can’t toss off as a life lesson. Having lived and learned.

  Boone’s hand reaches up and his fingers slowly graze my cheek, then my forehead, pushing my bangs away from my eyes. He slips my hair behind my ear, rests his hand on my face. His palm warm and calloused. The friction spikes my blood, a craving for him so deep. To keep touching me.

  Against my better judgment—and I will so blame the vodka later—I lean into him and press my lips to his.

  For a second, pure shock causes my heart to flutter and skip a beat. He’s jolted, too. I can feel it in his tense body, locked up and taut, his muscles flexed. Then, he relaxes against me, his hand pulling my face closer to his, his lips moving against mine.

  Our bodies align, and he breathes deeply through his nose, his hot breath caressing my skin as he consumes me within his kiss. And as his tongue tentatively slides along my bottom lip, testing, sampling, I wrap my arm around his waist, allowing myself to be pulled even closer to him.

  And then the kiss is hungry and soft all at once. Slow and burning. Hurried and patient. It blazes a trail across my whole body in a fulfilling ache of want, yearning.

  But too soon I pull away, knowing we have to sleep and start again. The hazy effect of alcohol first thing in the morning, right after a night of partying, is quickly catching up. And for him, I won’t allow us to do anything either of us will try to regret later.

  I lick my lips and whisper, “Night.” His eyes close before mine do.

  The taste of Boone is still strong on my lips and mind when I wake to awareness. I blink my eyes open, a stupid smile already curling my mouth.

  But my breath halts in my chest as I glimpse Boone asleep, his hand near his head on the pillow, a picture trapped between his fingertips.

  I already have an idea of what I’m going to see as I rise up to get a better look—but nothing prepares me for the total shock to my system. Nothing.

  A beautiful, plump baby boy with a soft blue beany, chubby cheeks, a lone dimple, smiling into the camera. He’s only a few months old, maybe. I mean, I don’t know. I know nothing about babies. He could be six months…but as everything registers, and my hung-over, foggy brain starts to do the math, everything collides together in a shattering realization.

  Breathless, I stare down at Boone. My gaze flicks back and forth, between the picture of baby Hunter and the man in my bed. I’ll regret so hard confirming this, but with slow, shaky movements, trying hard not to wake him, I slip the picture from his fingers. Flip it over.

  Hunter Boone Randall.

  Shit. My stomach sinks, and I palm my forehead. Dizziness and dehydration zapping all reasoning from my brain.

  I thought Hunter was his friend…maybe a brother, even. Or hell, I even seriously thought a lover at one point. And then every selfish, destructive thing I’ve done around Boone comes into focus.

  This guy, who has experienced a grief I could never imagine, somehow found a way to continue on in this shit world, sober at that, and I mocked him. Tempted him. Drank and did drugs in front of him. He had it figured out, how to keep himself straight, and last night I…I totally ruined him. Just crashed landed right into his world and shattered his security.

  I’m a piece of fucking work.

  Shame fills me, searing, suffocating.

  I’m sliding off the bed and grabbing my side tote, stuffing random items of clothing inside. Trudging to the bathroom on my tiptoes, I plunk whatever I can fit into my pack. I grab more clothes and my boots on my way through the living room, then snag my phone and charger.

  I don’t even take one last look at Boone, still asleep, still unaware, before I bolt from the apartment.

  Boone

  And my wounds reopen, torn and salted

  MY HEAD IS RIPPED open at the seams, the sun bleeding into my conscious, tearing me away from the peaceful oblivion.

  I bolt upright in bed—but not mine. And for the first time since I can remember, I’m not waking to the torment of the nightmare. Hunter’s tiny, lifeless body stretched out on that massive stainless steel gurney. The black hole gripping me as I stare down at him, pale, broken. So small, helpless. Just a baby. As I somehow try to rationalize the horror. To make it not true.

  Wiping my hands down my face, I give my head a shake, trying to wake up fully. I’m so used to the dream, living it every night, every morning, that I feel almost guilty for not having it today.

  Then I understand with a perfect clarity that I’m out of my element. In Melody’s bed, and that I drank a shit ton of Jack Daniels. A heavy breath escapes my lungs. Of course, you don’t dream when you’re knocked the hell out on alcohol. That’s why I did it, though, right? Why I got wasted when I woke in the fit of the nightmare, Hunter’s would-be first birthday such a despairing reality that I couldn’t manage to bend my own anymore.

  I’d planned to take off to Nickel’s for the day. Spend the whole day and night brawling myself into a coma. But then…I looked over at Mel. Her creamy naked legs so gorgeous, her chest just rising and falling as she slept. Her burgundy and black strands draping her face, eyes moving beneath her lids as she dreamed.

  And I couldn’t do it. Not to her.

  I realize we’re not anything yet. But she means more to me than anyone else in my life. And even though she hasn’t rejected the world as a whole—the way I have—I know somehow I mean something to her, too.

  The thought of her face wilted in hurt as she gazed at my bruises and cuts, the pain I’d inflict on myself becoming her pain…for the first time, I didn’t want to lose myself in a fight.

  But fuck. I didn’t want to face Hunter’s birthday painfully aware, either.

  One moment of weakness. One second of doubt. And I took action.

  The wrong one, but I stopped myself from causing someone who I care about hurt.

  Rolling out of bed, I mumble to myself, “Day one.” Starting over. My record sobriety streak goes down the toilet along with my morning piss. I flush the toilet and notice bottles and hair ties strewn around the small room.

  Panic seizes me, and I throw the door open and shout, “Melody—”

  No answer. Shaking my head, I summon fuzzy memories from earlier. Her saying she had to work. But wait, no, she said before she had the weekend off. I find my phone. No calls. No texts. I stare at the time: 3:32. Hell, it’s already the afternoon. I slept the day away.

  Heading back toward the bedroom, my fear is starting to ease until I spot the picture of Hunter I keep in my wallet. I walk slower now, toward that picture and the understanding of why I’m here alone.

  I’m locked in dread as I just stare, willing my body to move. Sickness pours through me, but I manage around it and grab the picture. Stare long and hard at Hunter’s chubby face, his blue eyes, feel the ache start to pull me under, then tuck it into my wallet.

  I make my way to the kitchen and fix a glass of water, then drain the cup and fix another. Trying to curb the dehydration pulsing through my head and body. So I can think. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I reason that she probably took off. Got tired of watching me s
leep. Saw the picture and put it all together and knew the truth of how fucking fucked up I am.

  I told her last night that I blamed myself for Hunter’s death. Whether or not she believed her own words, trying to convince me that I’m not to blame—I’m sure she doesn’t trust those words now.

  Who could fucking be anywhere near a sick shit who loses his son?

  That doesn’t stop my desperate attempt to contact her, though. I try to call her, let it ring seven times before I hang up and start to send a quick text…but my thumbs hover over the screen, frozen.

  I hate this. The whole thing all over again. The not knowing what stupid shit I did or said while messed up. I haven’t had to deal with any of that for a while. And I especially don’t want to send some lame apology text to Mel.

  Pocketing my phone, I find my boots near the couch. I step into them and then leave without bothering to lace them until I’m clear across the parking lot where I parked my bike. I pop the helmet over my head and kick-start the engine, the rumble that usually soothes me heightening my anxiety.

  Nickel’s is tucked way back into a rundown old neighborhood on the other side of St. Augustine from where the decent folks of the city reside.

  It’s dank and dirty. And it’s where I’m posted as I mentally argue with myself, trying to talk myself out of tonight’s fight. Or fights. As Turner has them lined up. I made that request, though. I’m the one who told him to “do it up.”

  Like Jacquie so eloquently puts it: I hadn’t planned to walk away tonight. Not this time. I’d have either been escorted out on a stretcher, or a body bag.

  But that was before last night.

  Now, I’m wrestling with that fucking debasing, half-written text message, attempting to find the words to express to Melody… Shit. I don’t know what to say to her. I should’ve told her the whole truth about my son before now. Before she figured it all out on her own.

  I’m not sure that I could’ve changed the outcome. She still wouldn’t want anything to do with me, but it was the right thing to do. I’m fucking disgusted with myself. All the shit I preach about—honesty, following steps, owning your own bullshit—and I failed her completely.

  Instead, I swipe the on-screen keyboard away and pull up my contacts. I’m desperate.

  Jacquie’s voice sounds over the earpiece. “Boone, are you all right?”

  My own voice is stuck in my throat. I’ve never taken Jacquie up on her offer to call if I needed her—but right this moment, I do. I need someone to talk me down from the ledge.

  “I lost her, and I don’t even understand, Jacquie.” I take a breath, find my resolve. “I wasn’t even looking. She was just there, and I couldn’t help myself. I wanted the right to have a chance with her.”

  “Boone, slow down. First tell me if you’re okay?”

  I hate that I put panic in her tone. Jacquie doesn’t deserve the stress after everything she’s done for me. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m okay. Just with today’s date…”

  “Shit,” she blurts. And my eyebrows raise. “I’m so sorry. I had it marked on my calendar to remind me…Boone, I’m so sorry. Where are you? Can you meet me somewhere?”

  I lick my lips, my mouth dry, and a pang of guilt hits my chest knowing why I’m still so dehydrated. “Jacquie, I messed up. I didn’t tell Melody the truth, like you’ve been telling me I should. Tell the real story. I think she’s really upset, and I don’t want her to do something or go somewhere that she might get into trouble. Not because of me—not over my dumb shit.”

  I push the phone away from my ear for a second to try to get myself and thoughts together. “Look, I just need a favor. I need you to find her information, whoever her parole officer is, and make sure she’s okay. That she hasn’t left town or something.”

  “Melody…You mean Melody Lachlan?”

  “Yeah.” I look around the yard, at the cars starting to fill up the parking spaces. “You know her?”

  “Boone, you know I can’t disclose—”

  “I know. Just let me know somehow if she’s your case.”

  A beat, then, “She is. Listen, I can’t talk about her, but I can say that I don’t think you need to worry. She’s a pretty tough one, can take care of herself.” She pauses. “But I’m worried about the two of you getting involved, Boone. I’m not your therapist, and I don’t want to stick my nose in it, but I know you, and even though I’ve only met with her a couple of times, I just don’t know how—”

  “How it will work between two addicts who may or may not be responsible for a loved one’s death?” My heart plummets right to my boots. This whole thing was doomed from the moment I cornered Mel at Stoney.

  I hear Jacquie sigh into the receiver. “That’s not entirely what I meant. You both need a lot—” She sighs. “I want both of you to report to my office first thing Monday morning. I’ll contact Melody. I’ll make sure everything is okay with her, but I need you to do something, Boone.”

  My gaze follows Turner as he nods to me and then walks into the old house. I turn my back on the crowd and trail his lead. “What?”

  “Wherever you are, whatever you’re about to do, just walk away.”

  For a brief second, I glimpse Melody clearly in my mind’s eye, finding the picture of Hunter, the repulsion on her face, and I know that I can’t do this request for Jacquie. More than ever, I need the punishment to offset the pain I’ve caused. I need the pain to balance the status quo.

  “Thank you, Jacquie. I’m out, going home. Don’t worry, okay?”

  A small hitch in her voice, but she trusts me. “You’re going to get through this, Boone. I’ll see you Monday morning.”

  I pocket my phone and stare down at the cracked pavement of the street. Wondering how far away I drove Melody. Then I turn back toward Nickel’s and start for the door.

  From pain comes strength.

  Damn, how I wish that were true.

  Melody

  Resolve can blind yet heal

  MY JUDGMENT MAY BE slightly off, considering I’ve had exactly three hours of sleep, and it was pretty rough sleep, at that. A full night of cranking it up followed by a morning drinking binge does not have me feeling very confident in my choices, but I’m short on time.

  Jesse kicks the front tire of the Harley Breakout, a nervous habit of his, because really, kicking tires won’t determine if a bike is in good condition. “She’s not as solid as your last bike, but she’s damn good for the price.”

  He doesn’t look at me when he says this; guarding his pride. He won’t let me get a good look at the black eye Boone gave him last night. I only feel a small twinge of guilt; he said some pretty shitty things to me. But I won’t hold it against him forever.

  My apology was my message to Tank. So I think we’re good. Neither of us are the type to drag out drama. Past is past.

  “I agree,” I say. That’s not what has me stalled. I’m simply torn about doing what has to be done next. “Tell him I’ll take it.”

  I glance up at Jesse, and he finally looks at me, so I search his dark eyes. Past the bruising. Past the hurt. He sent one last, desperate text to gain my attention, and it worked. Tank knew a guy trying to get rid of his Breakout, and it was going to be at the garage only for today.

  A one-time only kind of deal.

  Regardless as to whatever I decide later, I’m going to need a bike. It’s just time.

  Jesse nods and takes off toward the old biker talking to Tank. I usually handle my own dealings, but I’m not feeling it today. And if Jesse feels this is his way of making some kind of amends, fine. Let him have this win.

  Swinging my leg over the seat, I sit atop my new bike, getting a feel for her. An immediate, noted difference stirs a sadness deep within me. Dar’s customized seat is missing. It’s all wrong. Wrong—but it can’t ever be right again.

  Before I can get lost in thought, my phone buzzes against my butt. I reach into my back pocket. I have my finger poised at the ready to send it to voicemail, dreading see
ing Boone’s name on the screen. But it’s not him.

  My PO’s name flashes in sync with the vibration.

  Besides Boone, really, she’s the last person I want to talk to right now. I already know I’m about to violate my probation, regardless what I ultimately choose. And I don’t need the heavy reminder that I’m about to be a hunted woman.

  Okay, that’s quite an exaggeration. I’m not actually sure what the consequence is for a parole violation, but I’m sure it’s not a trip to Disney.

  With a groan, I answer the call. “Hello, Jacquie.”

  “Melody, I’m calling to check in and let you know I’ve moved our regularly scheduled appointment to Monday.”

  Right to business. This woman doesn’t play. “Um, I don’t think I’ll be able to make that. I have to work.” And get the hell out of here.

  “Melody,” she says again, and I can hear the strain in her voice. “I’ve been given some alarming news, and I want to verify that it’s not true.”

  I feel my face screw up. “What news? From who?”

  “I can’t reveal that, but I can say this particular person is very concerned for you. They believe you’re considering leaving Florida. And you know this would be a violation of your probation. You’d be sent before the judge again, and possibly return to Stoney Creek, or worse, go to jail for some time.”

  Shit. I sit back on the seat, my whole body deflated. As the realization of my sorry reality settles over me, what she said at the start breaks through my fear of being committed. “Wait, who said this?”

  At her hesitation, I see red. Of course Boone and I would have the same damn PO. And of course she’d be one of his many Boone fangirls. I laugh out loud, not even hearing her reply. Oh, the fates. They are tricky little bitches.

  “Jacquie, I’m not going to lie and say that it hasn’t crossed my mind to leave,” I say, cutting into her speech. “But please tell Boone it has nothing to do with him, okay? I’m just not settle down material.”