Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Page 22

  I’ve somehow managed to get the whole story across to Sam without making any accusations against Boone. Well, I might have called him a sobriety peddler at one point—but that was early on in the story. I’m allowed a slight poke at him on occasion. It keeps me…me. Real.

  “As much as I want to lock you up and keep you to myself,” Sam says, cupping her coffee mug close, “because I’m selfish like that, you know what you have to do, Mel. You don’t need me to tell you that. You have to go back. And soon.” Her eyes widen to punctuate her point. “I mean, hell, you can talk to that PO lady and I’m sure she’ll understand. She’ll work something out where you don’t have to go back to rehab or jail. Those people want to help…addicts, not punish them.”

  I give her credit for only slightly stumbling over that word. But at least she’s keeping it real, too.

  Nodding, I say, “I’m sure she would. Yeah.”

  “And you really need to send Boone a message soon,” she pushes on, not missing a beat. “Mel, this guy is like whoa. Intense. I hate to say it, but he’s like your equal. He challenges you. And as much as I love you—and you know that I do—you have to admit that you really don’t hook up with guys that are much of a challenge. It’s a safety thing with you. No one gets close, and you don’t get burned.”

  This is Sam. Blunt. Direct. No holding back. But it’s why I’m here. To get the truth with no filter. She wasn’t always this sure of herself, though; she had a crap ton of things to figure out, and from the little she’s told me of what’s been going on with her, she’s still working through that process. But the strong woman I always saw in her from the start, the one she bottled up deep down, is finally breaking the surface.

  “That’s why I’m so scared of him,” I admit, hugging my legs to my chest. “Look, I’m not trying to bring up bad shit, but you know what that kind of loss can do to you.” For a second, I glimpse the fleeting panic in her eyes, the struggle she endured after the death of Tyler, her fiancé. But she checks it quickly.

  “Boone lost his son, Sam,” I continue. “His tiny baby son. He’s probably out there now at some backyard brawl getting the shit beat out of him. He’s…hurting. I’m terrified I’ll only add to that pain. I’m so strung out. So fucked up. I just…” I drop my legs and clamp my hands on my head, trying desperately to force the words in my brain out. “I’m not what he needs. I might make light of life, treat it like it’s one long ride, but truth is, I actually care whether or not my mark on this world causes someone else pain. I don’t want that.”

  Sam tilts her head, her eyes squint in contemplation. “You know, for someone so poetic and worldly, someone who tries really hard to come across like she knows herself, you don’t see yourself in true light, Mel. That’s the best part of you, or at least one of the best. Listen, you’re going to hurt him, and he’s going to hurt you. That can’t be helped.”

  I huff out one short, forced laugh. “I thought you were supposed to be making me feel better.”

  “Oh, no,” she says, setting her cup down, getting all seriously feisty. “You’re going to get it straight from me. The heart wants what the heart wants, remember that? You gave it to me straight once, and now it’s my turn to return the favor. I’ve always had faith you’d eventually break through to your heartwood.”

  At my confused expression, she sighs, then moves to the couch to sit beside me. “Right before her birthday, Darla called me. She was freaking out. She was in some fight with this guy Crank or something, and she said she was tired of giving so much of herself to losers who were never going to be ‘the one.’”

  The light goes on in my head; I vaguely remember Dar’s drama about Crank, and me trying to convince her to get over him. She always got caught up with these guys, losing herself in them, and it pained me to watch. But it was always her choice, and I… Hell. I always convinced myself to allow her some privacy, but really, did I ever actually want her to settle down with a good guy?

  I know now that I needed her more than she needed me.

  Even though I thought her and Jesse could make it work, I’m not sure who that was for more. So that she’d be taken care of, or so that she wouldn’t ultimately leave me. With Jesse, she’d always still need me in some way, would always remain close.

  Shit, I feel even worse. The worst BFF award goes to me.

  Sam notices my inner monologue with a pained expression. “I’m getting off topic. Rewind.” She reaches out, slips her finger under the silver chain around my neck and snags the charm. Then traces the little tree between her finger and thumb.

  My gaze captures the tattoo of the dead tree on Sam’s inner wrist. The bare branches reaching up toward her forearm. How I missed the connection between Sam and Darla’s charm before, I don’t know. I was just so lost in my own emotional denial. Of Dar’s death, of Jesse’s involvement, of mine. Of everything.

  It’s a wonder my psyche didn’t fracture that first night of stone cold withdrawals at rehab.

  “What I’m getting at, is that I sent this to Darla with a reminder about what we talked about.”

  At my confused look, she smiles, only it’s filled with so much heartache. “A while ago,” she says, “I figured out this link between me and dead trees. Holden had imprinted himself so deeply on me that, no matter how hard I tried to be the woman who did not love him, who did not fall apart when I thought of us, everything I became and everything around me seemed to resonate with the death inside the trees I loved so much. But…really, it wasn’t a death that brought us together. I loved his brother. I cared so much for Tyler, as my best friend and a lover, and we could’ve made a life together. There’s no true one person for any of us, no one special soul mate. We can find different levels of love and understanding and connection in a million different ways with any number of people.”

  She pauses, allowing the silver tree to fall from her fingers. She places a hand on my lap, wraps her fingers around mine atop my thigh. “But I was meant to love Holden, and he was meant to complete me in a way like no other. After Tyler died, I thought I was like the heartwood of a tree, the dead part. But there’s a very special heartwood that’s anything but dead—it lives. A living anomaly that flourishes in the midst of so much decay, rot, and ruin. The destruction breaking down the tree doesn’t touch this. It fights back and it wins. Even thrives. And the reward is something so striking, nature has to stop its hands of time just to acknowledge that one breathless, beautifully stubborn tree.”

  I don’t realize I’m crying until warmth trickles down my cheeks. They’re quiet tears, a deep ache so painfully raw in my chest I have to fight past it to breathe. But when the cool breath comes, a shower of pure enlightenment pours over me, freeing. Liberating in a way that’s so simple.

  “And you call me the poet.” I smile, the wetness on my face spreading into the cracks of my lips. I wipe at it, and Sam’s hand trails mine. Lightly palming my cheek.

  “Could you love Boone?” she asks. I feel my heart dropkick my chest at her words. “Is there any way that in time all this pain and self-abuse that the both of you inflict on yourselves, the death that has taken so much from your lives, could rebound into a living heartwood?”

  I lick my chapped lips, desperate for the moisture leaking from my eyes. “It’s not impossible. I think I could learn to love him the right way. And maybe he could even heal enough to love me back.”

  Sam’s eyes plead. “Then it’s time to give up the ghost,” she says, nodding down to my arms. The well-worn track marks, some faded, some new. “Yours is just a little more figurative than mine.” She winks.

  And despite the seriousness of her statement—because I literally witnessed her battle her ghost—she finds a way to bend and even lighten the meaning for me. I do have ghosts. I put the needle to my arm, the line of coke to my nose, the drink to my mouth, trying every day to make them disappear.

  To fool my desolate existence into believing it’s anything but decayed. I ride hard. I live hard. I fight my demon
s with sheer stubborn determination and the will not to succumb. But I’m so tired of fighting…

  After losing Dar, that fight which was born of bravery morphed into a raging war that will put me six feet under. I can’t win. Not with the weapons I’ve armed myself with. They’re self-destructive.

  “I need to call him,” I say suddenly. “I just left him—just took off. He probably thinks it’s his fault. That I couldn’t accept him, or that I couldn’t deal with his level of grief.”

  Sam sits back, exhaling a long breath. “You need to call him because, honestly, he probably thinks you do blame him for his son’s death, Mel.”

  I feel my face blanch. “What? I know he’s not responsible.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “With how you bailed on him, with the last thing he admitted to you, and then seeing that picture…yeah. I think that’s a safe assumption.”

  A sickening feeling roils my stomach. I swallow the nauseous ache down to the pit. Before I can torture myself any longer, I head straight to my pack and dig out my phone. No messages from him. No calls.

  I type out a quick text: I’m sorry. Pick up your phone.

  Then I scroll through my contacts and call his number. I bounce nervously on the steel toes of my boots, each shrill ring ratcheting my anxiety another notch. At ring number ten, the voice mail kicks on: You’ve reached Boone, you know what to do. Beep.

  “Hey, I wish I could change the other morning. It wasn’t you, it was me… Yeah, I know. I know. But as lame as that is, it’s the truth. I’m on my way back. We need to talk, okay? I…”

  I’m sorry. I miss you. I don’t want to have fucked up the only real thing in my life… All these words are true, but won’t leave my mouth. I hate voice mail. Instead, I end with, “I’ll see you soon.”

  Just as I hit end on the call, the apartment door opens. And in steps Holden.

  Pulling myself out of my morbid thoughts, I smile at him. “Well, if it isn’t lover boy himself.”

  First his pale blue eyes widen, then his smile catches up to match. “Biker Chick,” he says as way of greeting. “Miss me that bad, huh? Had to hunt me down. I told you, Sam wouldn’t go for the threesome.”

  A true laugh escapes me as he walks over and wraps his tautly muscled arms around me in a tight hug. After he releases me, he steps back and looks me over, avoiding the obvious question as to where my counterpart is. Sam must have clued him in via text message.

  And really, Holden is the silent type. To the extreme. But I appreciate his lack of communication skills right now. My emotions have been wrung through, and Boone not answering my call is wearing down the rest of my rapidly fading bravado.

  While Sam and Holden put together some kind of quickly hatched lunch, I crash on the sofa, unable to keep myself from peeking at my phone every minute, nearly praying for a text from Boone.

  A sinking gut feeling springs me from the couch. “I can’t wait any longer,” I say, and both Sam and Holden turn to face me, hands stilled in the process of making sandwiches. “I need to get back down there. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  Sam nods to Holden, and they share some kind of unspoken understanding. She looks at me. “Let’s go, then. Grab your gear.”

  That was quick. Maybe too quick. “Wait…what? It’s going to take me a couple of days. Or possibly one, if I don’t make any unnecessary pit stops. I need to recoup first before making that trek again.” Fucking Florida.

  “You’re not riding down,” Holden says, walking toward the table near the door. He grabs his keys. “You’re flying. Our treat.”

  “Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “Guys, I’m really grateful, truly, but I can’t just leave my bike in New York.” Not after I finally got one again. But dammit, Boone. I can’t not know what the hell is going on with him.

  Why the hell did I bail like that? The guilt is starting to pile on when Sam interrupts my brooding fit. “Stop tormenting yourself. You’ve done enough of that, it’s time to move, Mel. Holden and I can ride your bike down in a few days when we close up the shop. We were planning a mini vaca, anyway.” She smiles at him, and my chest constricts.

  One day, I might have that kind of communication, that kind of understanding, the way they do. And I might already have it with Boone…if I haven’t already ruined everything.

  I grit my teeth and nod. “All right,” I say, even though my soul is screaming. Last time I let someone else ride my bike, it ended…it just ended. Panic flares inside me, but I tamp it down, demanding my fears to relinquish their maddening control over me.

  I have to trust. Really trust. I have to let people who I know care about me actually in. As much as I loved Darla, and as much as she was a part of me, I still held back—even with her. This change thing isn’t going to come easily, but dammit, it’s going to come.

  With that final release of will, I follow Sam and Holden through the door. We’re outside and making our way toward Holden’s truck before I can give myself the chance to back out.

  Boone

  Mend and patch, the fissure travels on

  WITHOUT CHECKING THE NOTIFICATIONS, I power down my phone and shove it into my bag. The messages from Jacquie were starting to weaken my resolve. I’m surprised she hasn’t sent someone to hunt me down, not that I have mandatory meetings anymore, but the pre-trial hearing to settle the Miata Guy incident is this week. And I haven’t checked back in with her once.

  I don’t want to hear the worry or the fear in her voice.

  Stoney hasn’t seen my face since last week, either. Good thing, too. I wouldn’t be able to get through my speech with all those eyes scouring the purple bruises and cuts. Hell, I wouldn’t be able to stand for long, anyway. Not with the beating I’ve taken over the past few days.

  Better to hold off until things settle down. Soon, I’ll be too whipped to think, then the peace will come, the acceptance. And then the rebuild. I’ll drag ass back to Stoney, I’ll apologize to Jacquie, and I’ll take whatever punishment comes my way.

  But right now, I’m ducking under that rope and swinging until my arms burn. Get the crazy thoughts knocked around my head until they’re battered and broken, before they slice my head clean open. I’m so sick of thinking about Mel, Hunter, a fix…about everything.

  I just want it to stop.

  Turner taps the rope and cocks his chin; my cue to start my march toward the ring. The announcer in the middle of the mat shouts over the crowd, “The Hunter!” and the whoops and cheers, money-fisted hands raised in the air, all bleeds into the background of my mind.

  My hands flex, testing the tape, as I climb into the ring. The guy on the other side with the hood draped over his face is enormous. A beast. Hunched over on his chair, I can just make out his six-foot-three frame, wide as fuck. When he stands, I realize I was short by a few inches. Damn.

  This is going to hurt.

  I stretch my arms, swinging them before me and to my sides, back and forth. Getting loosened up. Popping my head side-to-side, I feel the pull of tension stringing my neck tight. My body has been pushed to its limit before—but not this hard. Not so many fights this close in a matter of days.

  Just one more.

  The ding sounds, and the fighter is coming at me before I’ve put up my guard. My arms come up over my face a fraction of a second too late, and the fist flattens against my cheek. My head snaps sideways, and I hear a pop in my neck. Feel the excruciating scorch race down one side of my body.

  I’m frozen in place. The pain a splintering web of white-hot fury traveling my veins. Then, the rage catches a whiff of defeat, and I spring forward. Leaving the pain crumpled and bleeding on the mat.

  My fists take action. One, one two. Temple, jab. Rib, uppercut. I’m a machine without thought process. But instead of numbers and binary code racing across my screen, my vision focuses in on the meaty flesh of my opponent, demolishing. Raging. Destroying.

  The cheers whoosh in and out of my hearing, fading farther into the scenery, as my line of sight zer
os in on the beefy fighter. His face tight with frustration as he bobs and weaves, trying to evade my blows. Seeking the perfect strike to back me off.

  And when he finds it, he digs in. Hard.

  His fist meets the already tender spot just under my left rib cage. Twice. Two quick succession, back-to-back punches send me reeling. A grunt escapes my mouth in a harsh curse that follows me to the ground.

  He sends his foot to the same place, knocking the rest of the air from my lungs. I gasp, sucking in fire-hot air, trying not to black out. But I’m not through yet. The rage won’t let it end like this—I’ll take my beating. Shit, I welcome it. Only first, I’m going to release all the fucked up warping my brain in a violent, purging eruption.

  Cleansing.

  Rolling to my side, I block his next kick with my arms, then push away from him with my feet. I inch toward the edge of the mat and reach for the rope, pull myself up. Fuelling my limbs with the bitter aftertaste of resentment, I crave that blackness now, for the void to swallow me.

  The guy shakes his head, as if I’m some crazy motherfucker for wanting more. I suppose I am. Because right this second, I’m barreling toward him, fists locked and loaded.

  My fists descend, two quick jabs to his stomach. His oomph speeds the next round of blows to his ribs. He stumbles, sidesteps, and catches his balance, before I’m on him again. He mirrors my stance, dancing in time as I land punch after punch, his arms blocking. My frustration mounts, needing one more, good round of blows before I tap out.

  I haul back and bring it home. But this time, I’m met with an expert dive and fire.

  Right to my gut.

  As I’m dropped to a hunched position, he throws a dirty punch to my throat. The air vacates my lungs, my eyes bulge, and the hard point of his elbow to my back takes me down. This time, I’m too fixated on the need to breathe, the panic seizing my lungs shut, to block his attack.

  My ribs take a righteous beating.

  Somewhere in the thick haze surrounding my brain, a sweet voice bleeds into my ears. I’m sure I’m about gone, not getting back up. Not living through this…because Melody’s voice is all I hear.