Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel

by Wolfe, Trisha

  formatted by E.M.Tippetts Book Designs

  Living Heartwood Series

  The Darkest Part: Living Heartwood Book 1

  Losing Track: Living Heartwood Book 2

  Untitled: Living Heartwood Book 3 (coming soon)

  The Goddess Wars Series

  Of Silver and Beasts: The Goddess Wars (Book 1)

  Of Darkness and Crowns: The Goddess Wars (Book 2)

  Kythan Guardians Series

  Destiny’s Fire: Kythan Guardians (Book 1)

  Astarte’s Wrath: Kythan Guardians (Book 2)

  Fireblood Series

  Fireblood: Fireblood Book 1

  Unveiled: Fireblood Novella

  To someone, with hope.

  Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.

  ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Melody

  To yield is forgiveness; follow me down, my friend

  THE BURN RACES UP my nose. Hits the back of my throat. Drops down as I swallow. The taste of bitter baking soda giving way to numbness. Numb.

  I savor the first numbing effect.

  Like I’ve been long lost and finally coming home. It’s familiar and comforting. Sweat prickles across my forehead, chills dance down my back, and my skin hums.

  Swiping my finger across the little mirror, I lick my lips and then rub the white-tipped pad across my front teeth, along my gums. Just to help speed the buzz along.

  “Mel, freakin’ give it up.” Darla sits beside me in the old, tiny Honda. She makes grabby hands, waiting for me to hand her the straw and mirror. “I want to get inside already.”

  “He’ll wait,” I say, taking another quick numby before passing her the mirror. “Your vagina isn’t going to spontaneously combust if you don’t throw a dick in it in the next five seconds.”

  Holding her recently dyed platinum blond hair aside with one hand, she leans over the mirror balanced on her knees. Her pink bandana slips past her bangs. She peeks up at me and says, “Fuck yeah it will.” Then snorts the last line of coke.

  I laugh. She’s right; if Darla doesn’t get laid at least twice a day, she goes into DTs. And it’s not pretty.

  She flips her head back and sniffs, pinching her nose open and closed to get the last of the blow into her system. Then she blinks a few times while shaking her head. “Woo. That’s nice, but I really miss—”

  “Don’t. Say. It,” I warn. Giving her a hard glare, I reach for my bag.

  Darla presses her red-hot lips into a thin line and mimics zipping them closed. “I’m off,” she says, completely ignoring the fact that she just zipped her mouth. I roll my eyes and smile. “If I see him talking to that ho bag tonight, I might just go all gangsta. A bitch is gonna get cut.” Then she readjusts the bandana on her head, flings the door open, and tramps off toward Randy’s Bar. Her four-inch heeled boots wobbling her legs as she hikes up her jean skirt.

  I have no fear of Darla cutting a bitch. She’s about as hard as a cheerleader. Well, probably less so. I could see some of those chicks getting rowdy—not Dar. She’s all pink and sparkles, like a princess…on Percs. And just as loopy.

  But damn. Why’d she have to say anything? It’s been weeks since I IV’d, and just hearing anyone almost mention it gives me the shakes. I’m doing good, though. Not that I have a problem that needs to be compared with bad. I just don’t want to end up like Jesse. All strung out and three trips a year to the ER. I’m more in control than him, but still. There’s always a chance. And I’ve been close before. Five weeks ago, close. That’s when I decided to take a break from the needle.

  Darla isn’t in it for the rush, only the inclusion; she doesn’t like being left out—she’ll snort, shoot, smoke, whatever’s handy at the time—but I don’t need her bringing it up.

  Digging through my side tote, I pull out my favorite cover up and unscrew the cap. Even as high as I am now, I miss that intense feeling—that first, ultimate rush when it hits your bloodstream. I know I could reach that euphoric moment if I shoot a gram…instead of sniffing one. Releasing a heavy breath, savoring the scent of metallic aftertaste, I apply another coat of fairly nude to the dark track marks lining my inner elbow.

  I might enjoy my blow, but I don’t broadcast it. Hell, even wasted meth heads get all judgy on IV’ers.

  Tossing my makeup in my bag, I buckle the latch and then scrub my nails into my fringe, teasing out my bangs. One last hard sniff to clear my sinuses, a tug to adjust the pink bandana around my neck, then I reach for the door handle.

  This piece of shit belongs to Jesse. His hog got totaled during his last drag race, and he’s since been tagging the Lone Breed’s trail through Florida in his mom’s old Honda. What a dork, but you gotta’ love him. He’s bent on getting a new one at the biker rally in Daytona tomorrow.

  My ride—the love of my life—is parked just ahead of Jesse’s POS.

  Running my fingers along the sleek seat as I walk, I could wet my panties. My baby, my Harley CVO Breakout, might be viewed by some a “chick” bike—but it’s bad as hell. Only another Breakout rider would get that. I’m not against bobber boys and their toys, but my cruiser could rival their fierce devotion with its 1800ccs, regardless of its weight…only they’d never own up to it. Pussies.

  Doesn’t matter. As I lay my arm over the gas tank, hugging my all black and chrome beast machine, I nuzzle my head against the handlebars. Dar and I have one difference: I happen to prefer the vibration of a mean bike between my legs over a sorry-ass guy. “Who loves you, baby?” I whisper.

  “Mel!”

  My head whips up. Darla waves her hands frantically at the front door of the bar. “Get your ass in here,” she shouts.

  Giving my ride one last pat, I push myself up and head toward the bar. When I reach Darla, she’s lighting a cigarette. “What the hell, Dar? What has your thong in a twist?”

  “First, I’m not wearing any underwear.” She smirks and exhales a hard puff, the smoke swirling above her head as she cocks her chin. “Second, Crank’s with that bitch again.” She runs her tongue over her top lip, pausing at the corner as she thinks. “I don’t want to go in alone.”

  For the love of… “When are you going to get the fuck over him?” I shake my head. “He’s so not worth it, Dar. Not at all. He rides a freakin’ scooter, for Christ’s sake.”

  Her black-rimmed eyes glower at me. “It’s not a scooter.”

  “Ninja. Same diff.” I shrug.

  She shifts her weight. “Anyway, I’m not a hog snob….like you.” She ticks her head. “Come on. He’s Crank,” she whines, hopping on her toes.

  “Yeah,” I say, snagging the cigarette from her and taking a drag. “And last week it was so and so. Next week it will be some other loser. We were supposed to be spending your birthday week partying—just us, remember?” She puckers her lips into a pout, and I sigh. Then, “Hey, what about Jesse?”

  Her mouth twists and her nose scrunches. “He’s like my brother. And besides, he’s always had a thing for you.” She shrugs one shoulder.

  “Whatever.” I glance through the bar window. It’s too dark to make anything out, but the thump of a kick drum beats in sync with my rising heartbeat, beckoning me inside. I look into Darla’s frosty blue eyes. “Listen, Jesse’s my big bro, too. Yeah we’ve had some times…but he’s not my type. You know I don’t date anyone from the MC. He is a good guy, though. He’d treat you so much better than the turd droppings you’re always falling to your knees for.”

  Her mouth opens, but I press on before she retorts. “And, I’m over this shit, Dar. I came here to listen to the band, not watch you mope all night, and then hook up with another lamer. Just for once, can w
e be like old times?” Now that the blow has worked its way into my bloodstream, I’m feeling more loving and forgiving. Nostalgic. Wanting Dar and me to reminisce and bring back the two girls who first hit the road five years ago, seeking adventure.

  At least, that’s the way we tell it—purposely omitting why we really bailed the hell out of Dodge. It makes a much better story than running away from Darla’s dad—the ever pervert who couldn’t keep his drunk ass away from my friend—when we finally turned seventeen.

  Taking her cigarette back, Darla smiles. “Yeah, I’m down for that. If Crank wants that trash, let ‘em have her. I’m sure I can find someone better, anyway.”

  I release a heavy sigh. It’s not exactly the point I’m making, but at least she’s trying. “All right. Bar, beer, then back wall, where the raised platform is.” I lower my chin, meeting her gaze straight on. “No detours. Not even if Crank—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says, fluttering her hand, then she drops the butt to the cement and grinds it out with the toe of her boot. “Got it, boss. I’m all about the sisterly love tonight.”

  She links her arm through mine as we turn toward the door.

  “And I’m not on the market to make him jealous either, Dar.” I nudge her hip with mine, driving home the point that the one time we made out to entice her ex will not happen again. I’m sick of all the shit she puts the both of us through for these assholes.

  “You don’t love me anymore? What, I’m not hot enough?” She reaches for the door and her mouth turns down in classic Dar pouty lips.

  “You’re the hottest chick I’ve ever made out with,” I tell her in all seriousness. Her ego is about as fragile as a snowflake. “But that shit is dumb to do for them. Don’t you get that?” I widen my eyes, hoping she notes the seriousness in my tone.

  The music engulfs us as we enter the bar. It muffles her reply, and I move my head closer to hers. “What?” I shout.

  “I said, I’m sure Jesse wouldn’t mind the show.” She pulls back and winks at me.

  Why the hell is she on this kick with Jesse all of a sudden? I don’t bother with a comeback for that one. The coke is obviously making her more loving than me tonight.

  “Besides,” she adds. “If I did date Jesse, that’d make me his ol’ lady, and then I’d have to jump your bones if he said so.” She sticks her tongue out.

  She’s right, of course. It’s the reason why I won’t get romantically involved with any of the members of Lone Breed—I’m my own woman. But for Dar, who keeps getting mixed up with losers, being bound to one guy—who’d keep her safe and scare away the jerkoffs—wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I could adapt…if it meant my girl was taken care of.

  As we head for the bar, I spot Jesse seated there. His rumpled leather vest jacket open to expose a white tank underneath. The white and black bottom rocker patch on the back. Dark hair mussed from running his hand through it. He’s all brightly lit with alcohol and I suspect a fresh shot of blow.

  My insides tug painfully at my belly, the craving gripping me hard. But I shake it off, along with Darla’s arm, and take a seat next to him.

  “Saving it just for me?” I say over the music, flagging down the bartender.

  “Of course.” He gives me a wink.

  I nod. “That’s what I thought.” I motion for Dar to sit on the edge of my stool, but her attention is aimed out over the crowd, scanning for Crank.

  Well, that lasted all of a second.

  “I’ll be right back,” she says, her eyes still scouring the scene.

  I wave my hand in the air, dismissing her. It’s a waste to get fired up over Dar’s need for seduction. It’s always been this way—giving her a degree of power, something she can own. I’m used to it.

  Instead, I order my usual bourbon and Coke from Suzie and then snag Jesse’s beer to take a sip. The harsh bite of it foams in my mouth, some residue from the blow still clinging to my throat. I force it down and smack my lips.

  “So are you getting it tomorrow?” I ask Jesse, switching his bottle for the glass Suzie sets before me.

  He tilts his head. “I’m about a grand short. Thought I’d hit the track first. Try to get up the money before we head down to Daytona with the others.”

  I roll my eyes. “No.”

  His head jerks back. “What? I didn’t even—”

  “No, but you’re going to. And you’re not racing my baby on the track. That’s exactly how you wasted your hog, dude. Forget it.”

  What I leave unsaid is that he was wasted when he did so, and he’s probably already shot at least a kilo into his veins since we’ve been in St. Augustine. All four days. But who am I to judge? I just don’t let anyone other than me drive my bike. Not even Darla. She’s always been my second in command—from the time we skated out of Hazard, Kentucky till now, she’s ridden with me. I even had my bike seat specially modified to seat Dar’s ass. I guess that alone says something for our sisterly love.

  Jesse hunches over the bar top, propping his forearms on the counter and dipping his head low to find my gaze. Fuck. He’s going for the damn puppy eyes, and he’s going to call it in.

  He bailed me out of the craptastic disaster that became my brief hookup with Simon: biker creep extraordinaire. He and Derick—Dar’s one true love for a couple of weeks—were their own breed of loser. I cringe remembering how I even wore his black bandana, letting him put claim to me. It was more for Dar than him…but still. Never again.

  But I owe Jess one. After we parted ways with Sam and her guy Holden, it was an endless downward spiral for Simon and me once we left Kansas. Part of the reason why I hit the needle so hard, and why I almost pulled a Jesse and wound up in the ER.

  Not that night, though. Jesse and Tank swooped in and kept me from OD’ing. I still don’t really know how—just that the next day, I was packed and already looking at Simon’s backside from the mirror of my Breakout.

  “Shit, Mel…” Jesse moans. “Just one race. I can make enough for my new hog and a little extra.” He gives me his panty-dropping smile that works on every girl at least once. Even me. But only just once.

  I sigh to myself. “What about Tank? Can’t you use his bike?” Tank was my dad’s best friend, and he’s Jessie’s mentor—the full-patch member sponsoring Jesse until he becomes a full-fledged patch-holder of Lone Breed himself.

  Jessie swivels on his stool, his face pinched in frustration. “Tank’s doing me a solid by not telling the others heading to Daytona about my hog…just yet. But he said I had to earn my ride on my own. So no,” he says, finding my gaze. “He won’t step in.”

  I nod solemnly. “They’d rag you pretty fucking hard, huh?”

  Jesse releases a clipped laugh. “You don’t even know.” I glimpse his two back patches; the MC patch on the right, and the bottom rocker beside it that reads “Prospect.” He’s basically in the hazing phase of motorcycle club initiation. So my sympathies do go out to him—he’s going to be put through some major shit if he doesn’t get a new ride soon.

  “Fuck it. One race,” I say. Before his arm encircles me, I pull back and add, “But on one condition.”

  He raises his eyebrows over deep chocolate eyes.

  “You forget about the little extra.”

  Swiping his tongue over his bottom lip, he narrows his dark gaze. Studies me. “I can do that.” Then he moves in closer, where I can see the curve of his tat peeking above his collar. “But first, you do a little extra with me tonight.”

  My gut twists. My hands get clammy, and my heart knocks hard against my ribs. “No.” I shake my head and then take a swig of my drink. “And you’re not going anywhere near my baby tomorrow if you—”

  “Last time. Tonight,” he cuts in. “You’re the only one I ever get that pure bliss with, Mel. After this, I won’t ever ask again.” He uses his finger to cross his heart.

  I know exactly what he means. Company can make all the difference in the level of high you obtain, and Jesse and I seem to reach astounding lev
els for some dumb reason. I can’t explain it, other than right now, something is damn near clawing at me from the inside to get to that feeling. Trying to break out and attack the guy in front of me.

  Glancing across the crowd, I locate Darla. She’s already against the back wall, Crank leaning over her as he kisses her neck. She’ll be occupied for at least twenty minutes. Maybe more…if Crank doesn’t already have whisky dick.

  I succumb. It wasn’t even a fight. “All right,” I tell Jesse. “But I just finished an eight ball not long ago. I don’t want a full dose. And I want to get back quickly to watch the band.”

  See? I am responsible. I know what my body can and can’t handle. I know my limits.

  Jesse’s full mouth quirks into his sexy smile, and despite my brotherly affection for him, I can appreciate it.

  He spins my stool and steps in front of me, then pulls me up. “To the blow mobile.”

  I laugh. A true one. Reaching behind me, I grab my drink and down it quickly.

  I’m alive and aware. I’m about to find my happy.

  Melody

  To the depths, to the black, the hole in me

  “JUST STRADDLE ME.”

  I groan as I shift on top of Jesse, trying to wedge my knees on either side of his hips. “Damn. Why can’t we just get in the back?” I grasp the oh shit handle with my left hand and palm the ceiling with my right. “This isn’t working.”

  Jesse shakes his head. “Backseat is too obvious. This way, we just look like we’re getting busy.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Hey, use my jacket to block off the window.” He shrugs his vest off his shoulders, gets one arm free, and his hand nails me in the boob.

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry…if your ass wasn’t so big…”

  “Watch it,” I warn.

  “I love that fat ass.” He grunts and grabs both butt cheeks, giving them a squeeze.

  Laughing, I slap his arm. “Knock it off.”

  Finally, he’s wriggled his jacket from behind him, and now hangs it over the passenger side window, trapping the bottom seam between the top of the window and door. I stare down at his sleeves—the tats covering his arms from neck to wrists. Colorful and intricate designs stand out against his leanly ripped arms.