Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Page 3

  I shake my head and fall into the seat. As I turn the engine, I look up and watch Darla climb onto my bike behind Jesse. She twists around and waves, then blows me a kiss. I can’t help it. Through the coke amping my senses and anger over getting the shaft driving Jesse’s POS, I let a laugh slip. That’s my girl. She’s the only one who knows how to loosen the kinks that bind me tightly.

  I blow a kiss back to her. She smiles, then turns and latches on to Jesse’s waist. Jesse’s back rises as he jumps and his foot slams down the kick starter. An angry growl from my Harley, and then they speed off.

  The fading rumble of my bike resonates under my skin. A fierce shiver wracks my body.

  The tail lights twinkle out into oblivion.

  Melody

  Break for her

  FLASHING LIGHTS. SIRENS. RISING screams. My screams, hitting my ears on impact.

  Impact.

  The scene swims before my vision. Rippling like waves of heat steaming off the pavement in August. The gravel presses into my skin. Scrapes my knees. My hands—coated with blood and hair.

  I run my fingers through her hair. It still has two large, teased knots. I swipe my thumb over her cheek, under her eye, clearing away the black makeup smudge. To make her look pretty. Because she wouldn’t want to look like—

  “Miss?”

  A thick male voice bleeds into my ears, distorted and distant.

  “Miss, you need to move back now.”

  Hands grip me under my arms and wrench me away. My fingers snag her pink bandana, and I ball it in my hand. Grip it tightly until my fingers ache. My gaze is steady on her as I’m forced behind yellow tape.

  Too many noises and flashing lights. Static from radios and beeping bangs against my eardrums. Blinking red and blue lights spin, flashing in and out. I close my eyes, can feel their heat on my lids. My head expands. Shrinks. Expands. Shrinks.

  “Miss, are you all right?”

  Everything blacks out as I hit the ground.

  Melody

  Ascend, and be salvation

  “WILL THE DEFENDANT PLEASE rise?”

  My pro-bono lawyer touches my arm and we both stand. The judge’s gaze shifts between me and the sheet of paper before him. He doesn’t look anything like the judges you see on TV. No white hair. No bald spot. No wrinkly, furrowed brow as he scowls at me. He looks too young, and too happy.

  “By the state of Florida, I hereby sentence you to six months of probation, in which you, Melody Lachlan, will report to your designated parole officer.” His gaze flicks to my face. “After which, upon a full evaluation conducted by the Mental Awareness Center of St. John’s County, you will, successfully, complete twenty days of rehabilitation in the recommended facility of their choice.”

  My stomach drops—free fucking fall. I start to open my mouth, but my lawyer’s foot taps my shin. She’s well aware of my outbursts, and reminded me three times before we entered the courtroom to “keep your mouth shut.”

  I swallow my rebuttal.

  The judge clears his throat. “Once completed, and tested free of all illegal substances for the pre-determined probation of six months, your case will be reevaluated and considered for dismissal.” He lowers the papers to his judge desk—whatever the proper name for those hulking things are where they stare down at you all judgy—and cocks his head. “Do you understand that you are not to leave the state of Florida during your length of probation?”

  My lawyer nudges me. “Yes, sir,” I respond.

  “Do you understand the length of your probation can and will be extended if you do not successfully complete rehabilitation or do not meet your assigned probation officer’s requirements in this time?”

  I bite my bottom lip. Forcing my head high, I say, “Yes, sir.”

  He nods once.

  The gavel slams.

  The harsh boom echoes through the courtroom, sealing my fate. It’s so fucking cliché, I want to laugh. Or cry.

  “I told you,” my lawyer, Stephanie, says. She collects the few pages on the desk and shuffles them before slipping them into her briefcase. “That’s the minimum. I told you you’d get the minimum. It could have been much worse…considering.”

  She’s smart. She won’t say it. She made that mistake once, and nearly got her pretty blue eye all blacked.

  I follow her out of the courtroom as the next person is called forward. My eyes scan the lobby, looking for Jesse. His hearing date is the same as mine. I know this, because I just visited him in county lock up last night. His case, though—I’m told—won’t go as smoothly as mine.

  But Tank has gotten him the best lawyer money can buy. So I have some faith; the Lone Breed will take care of the legal issues.

  Tank offered the same to me, but I prefer to handle my mess on my own. Out of respect for my dad, they still look out for me, making sure I get jobs on the road, or a place to crash if I need it. But I never ask for favors.

  Those are debts.

  Nothing, nothing is free—everything comes with a price.

  Stephanie sticks out her hand for me to shake. I stare at it, and she pulls it back to her side. Runs her hand over her purple pantsuit. Purple. How tacky. I hate fucking Florida.

  “All right. That’s it,” she says. “Oh.” She reaches into her case and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Take this to the filing office in the building across the street. They will give you all the information. Where to go, who to see. They’ll get it all set up for you.” She smiles.

  I grin, my teeth gritted tight. Then I accept the paper from her bony hands and head out to find the filing office. Like the good girl that I am.

  The smell of this place is musty and old. Humid—like everything in Florida. It clings to you. No amount of air-conditioning can blow the sticky stench off. I fan the form as I walk, waving it in front of my face to feel what little breeze I can.

  Finally, after traversing the many mazes of halls and elevators, I find the right office area for filing court case info. And awesome. There’s a long ass line. Settling against the wall for the wait, I take out my iPhone. I had to give it to the rent-a-cops at the courthouse to hold during my case. So at least now I can check my messages.

  Nothing.

  Pfft. Not surprising, since everyone I consider close to me, who would reach out to me on a day like this, is either dead or locked up. Mom’s busy with her new husband, Jack “Mad Dog,” another member of Lone Breed. We’ve had little to do with each other since my father’s death. Tank, who’s pretty much like an uncle, would’ve been here, only I told him not to come. One thing I agreed with my lawyer on: his biker attire probably wouldn’t have gone over well in court. And the MC don’t or won’t convert to the public’s rules.

  Best if I just fill him in later.

  I flip through my most recent pics, and a deep pang tears at my chest. An image displays of me and Dar at Randy’s Bar the night before the last night… The night it all went to hell.

  Her lips are painted red, stretched in an O as she makes a dumb face. My arm around her shoulders, my head leaning against hers as I make a similar stupid face. We weren’t even hammered, not yet. Just kicking the night off with our first drinks and waiting for the local band to come on stage.

  A searing anger rises into my throat, almost choking me. I cough and blink the mist from my eyes.

  What a fucking waste.

  I click the photo album off and see a red icon over my inbox. There’s not many people who use my email to contact me, so I already have a good idea who it is. When I open my inbox, I’m nervous. I’m all okay with handing out somewhat sound advice, coming off like I’m smarter than I am, and trying to help poor lost souls find their way—wisdom from the well-traveled biker—but for whatever reason, Sam really got under my skin.

  I’ve kept in touch with her—one of the few chicks that I consider a friend—and we talk at least twice a week. Usually about her college junk, and Holden, and their combined love fest shit. It’s cool. I’m always happy to hear tha
t something is working out for someone I care about.

  But today…right now…I’m not in the mood.

  An irritating voice inside my head says maybe I should ask her for some advice. That it couldn’t hurt. She lost her ex fiancé in some kind of car accident a while back, her parents forcing her go to all these psychiatrist meetings and shit. I remember her dancing by herself in a bar when I first met her, falling apart at the seams. Now, with Holden, she’s gotten herself back on track.

  But this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve lost the most important person in my life once before—and I sucked it up then. I’ll suck it up now.

  Besides, calling Sam and crying about it would be admitting defeat. I can get through this. All of it. The loss of my Harley. Rehab. Jesse’s incarceration—if that’s what it comes to. The half a year probation sentence where I’m stuck in fucking Florida and this goddamn sweltering hell pit of a climate.

  The one thing, though, that I wish I could have gotten through—Darla’s funeral.

  She was sent back to Hazard. Her asshole dad had to come down here and pick up “the body,” and take her back. I hate that that prick was the one who laid her to rest. In that crappy little town with those shitty little people. Darla should have been buried somewhere on the road, surrounded by her friends and her real family.

  Instead, she was probably cheaply incinerated and her ashes stuck in a small urn. Likely sitting on that asshole’s floor in the trailer where she grew up. I know she hates that. Being trapped back there, no way out.

  And me, stuck here and unable to leave this God forsaken state, can do nothing about it. Anger rises like bile to my throat.

  My hand grips the paper, turning it into a ball before I hear the voice.

  “Next.”

  Glancing around, I realize that’s me. I step forward and un-wrinkle the paper. “I’m supposed to give this to you.”

  The lady behind the glass stares down at the crinkly mess I’ve made and sighs. She pushes her thick black frames up her nose. “Let me get you the information.” Then she waddles to the back of her office and digs through more papers.

  My foot taps impatiently, and I really don’t know why I’m so on edge. It’s not like I have somewhere else to be. I’m just over all the bullshit, I guess. Waiting here. Waiting there. All the rules and regulations. I’m about as far from a law-abiding citizen as you can get. And for the past three weeks, that’s exactly what I’ve had to become.

  No bike—no riding. My Breakout was totaled in the wreck. Living out of a shitty motel room. One that, because I’ve recently ran out of my savings, I can no longer afford. No way to make any money. I had to leave my part-timer at Randy’s Bar due to ridiculous appointment times. Randy, the bar owner and close friend of Tank and the Lone Breed, was only doing me a solid till I was back on the road, anyway. Letting me work there to earn enough to get to Daytona. And, now that I am a law-abiding citizen, walking the straight and narrow—that means no side work either.

  I only ever sold enough weed for pocket change, really. But still, it was nice to have that option.

  I’m about ready to ram my head through the plate glass window when the office chick returns. “You can head on down to the mental awareness facility now.” She scrunches her nose, like she’s smelling the stench of that place on me. “You’re processing claims that you’re to be admitted to a rehabilitation center right away.”

  I snag the papers from her. “Thanks.”

  And now, I’m a committed, law-abiding citizen. Awesome.

  With nothing but my clothes and a few personal items to pack, it didn’t take long to prepare for the twenty-day vaca from my life.

  What things I was told at the mental awareness place that I couldn’t bring—my music, phone, Darla’s effects I couldn’t part with—the Stoney Creek rehab facility locked away in their safe-keeping room. I have to trust that it is safe; I have nowhere else to stash my stuff.

  The only thing of Dar’s on me: a silver charm she got for her birthday. I found it in our hotel room. I can’t remember from where or who she got it—but I couldn’t imagine doing a stint at rehab without her. Her pink bandana is locked up with my stuff. I don’t trust whoever I’ll be rooming with not to go through my shit. Not chancing losing that. So I clipped her charm to my necklace. Just a bit of her with me at Stoney Creek.

  And what the hell kind of name is Stoney Creek for a place full of…stoners?

  Dumb.

  I drum my fingers against the table, waiting. Again with the waiting. A person could go crazy just sitting around waiting. But it’s all I’ve been doing since my court hearing yesterday.

  I didn’t go directly to the crack-job place like I was told. First, I had to try to see Jesse. To find out what happened to him. But no one would answer any of my questions at the courthouse. I’m not a relative. I’m not his spouse—I cringe just thinking the word. So I can’t even find out if he’s out on bail, still locked away, or what.

  Since my PO called me right when I was trying to say my goodbyes to Randy and Tank, and a few members of Lone Breed who are sticking around until Jesse’s release, I didn’t get a very long send off to my twenty-day sentence.

  Things work freakin’ fast in Florida. One day you’re cruising the road, the next you’re processed and checking into rehab. Fran-freaking-tastic.

  If only their fucking streetlights operated at this stellar speed…

  “Melody.” The nurse who ran a million tests, took a gazillion vials of my blood, walks into the small room. “Just to let you know, the staff at Stoney Creek is here to help. When withdrawal effects start, just ask for help.” Her gaze sharpens on me as she lowers her head.

  I shrug. “I’m not an addict,” I say, gripping my hand into a fist on the table. “I’ve never suffered withdrawal a day in my life.” Her thin lips turn down at the edges, and I add, “But thanks,” trying to lighten my tone.

  She nods, then takes the seat across from me at the little table. “Your tests show that you’ve used in the last twenty-four hours, and that you’ve used cocaine and other stimulates at least once a day for the past two weeks. Is that long-term use? How long have you been a daily cocaine user?”

  I shrug. “I use a little here and there. Not a ton, I mean. Just to wake me up. Better than coffee.” I smile, but she doesn’t. Lame joke, I guess. Nonchalantly, I tug my sleeve below my elbow, covering the recent track marks.

  She jots something down on her page. “You may suffer some unpleasant symptoms during your first few days here, just—” she looks up, drops her voice “—just let us help, okay?”

  I huff out a breath. The sooner I let these people do their thing, the sooner I can get back to my life. Or what’s left of it. “All right.” I glance around the room as she fills in her reports.

  The walls are covered with all kinds of helpful info. From the many toxins that are in our average cig, to the number of steps it takes to reach maximum sobriety, there’s a poster for it all. Damn. I’ve been smoking formaldehyde? Like embalming fluid?

  Regardless of that less-than-appreciated knowledge (I could have done without that, really), my craving to light up hits me hard. I swing my gaze back to the nurse. “So…is this place like super strict? Can I smoke here?”

  She pushes a hank of blond hair behind her ear and glances up from her paperwork. “Oh, yeah. It’s not that kind of facility, Melody. You can smoke, have caffeine. I don’t think I could survive without my three cups of coffee a day habit.” She laughs.

  I smile awkwardly. Yeah, the coke and coffee jokes don’t really fuse. If this is her attempt to form some bond with me, like we’re in this together, one addict to the next—I’d rather punch myself. We’re nothing alike, me and this chick. She screams tight-ass. Control freak. Covered head-to-toe in intricately placed details, not even a stray hair out of place on her slick blond head.

  I lick my lips and lean forward. “Can I also use a phone?” Her eyes widen, and I add before she can shoot me down, “I
know not my cell. But can I make phone calls? I have a friend I need to check in with soon.”

  “You can make calls once a week. So that’s no problem. Family only, though. Or someone you add to your contact list. But they have to sign a waiver if they’re not a relative before you or they can be contacted.”

  Well, fuck. “This person wouldn’t be able to sign anything.” At least, I don’t think. I don’t know if Jesse’s made it out yet and I hate it. I hate not being able just to hop on my bike and ride wherever, to see whoever. I also hate that he’s the one being convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit.

  I hope his pricey defense lawyer is better than mine.

  I should have gotten out of this shit—no charge. No DUI on my driving record, no nothing. Because I was there at the scene, and ended up passing out and needing medical attention, I got tested for alcohol and drugs. I was a damn .02 over the legal limit for alcohol, and tested positive for narcotics later in the lock-up medical ward.

  And even though I wasn’t behind the wheel when the police arrived, I left the keys in the ignition. They charged me on a technicality. What kind of shit is that?

  The state of Florida is a tough bitch. Regardless that it’s my first offense, they find it their duty to make it my last. Getting me all the help they deem I need through their government issued programs.

  Like if I checked myself into rehab I could afford it. Right.

  But Jesse…he was the one driving the bike that got pulled under a truck. A truck whose driver blew past both our alcohol levels combined. A driver who registered the red light just a second too late.

  That probably doesn’t matter for Jesse’s defense, however. He’s a tatted biker who was coked up at the time. Last I heard from him, the state was pressing charges against him in Darla’s defense. Involuntary Manslaughter.

  At least he didn’t get too hurt. A fractured rib and some bruises. He was thrown from the bike on impact, out of the path of the truck. Not like Dar...who was sitting on her customized seat, and got trapped underneath.