Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel

by Wolfe, Trisha

  Ignoring the slight against her, and me, for that matter, I nod. I’ve earned some of her wrath, and really, I don’t even notice the blood anymore. The patches where guys have lain and bled out. I sit in the metal chair and unwrap the tape from my right hand, then toss the bloody, balled heap into the waste basket in the corner, my knuckles dripping and adding their own swirled design to the stained carpet.

  Mel pushes off the wall. “Shit, Boone. You’re a wreck.” She looks around, and her gaze lands on the first-aid kit near the tank. Quickly grabbing it, she marches over and kneels before me.

  “Mel, you don’t have—”

  “Shut it, duce.” She opens the kit and then grabs a rag near the water bucket. “This water clean?”

  I nod. I’d just filled it before the fight for this specific reason. She dunks the rag and wrings it out.

  When her hands take mine, she’s not hesitant or wary. Blood doesn’t seem to make her squeamish, despite her initial repulsion toward this room. Or maybe that was toward me—but it’s like she’s done this before. She’s sure, but also gentle. My throat thickens as she wipes away the blood, delicately, tenderly. Then, as she looks up, her gaze meets mine.

  “Close your eyes,” she whispers. I do, and feel the cool cloth smooth over my brow, cleaning the cut above my eye. It stings, but that small pain is dull compared to the sharp, rising ache in my chest at the feel of her soft hands as she holds my head in place to examine the damage. She wipes my cheeks, my jaw. Then my lips. I open my eyes.

  She pauses, and I watch as her throat bobs with a hard swallow. She blinks and lays the rag aside. Then gathers the bandage. “Is it for the money?”

  “Yes,” I answer, readjusting my position so she can wrap my knuckles. “And no.”

  A heavy sigh escapes her pursed lips. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But—”

  “Wait.” Suddenly—and it may be because I’m dazed from the fight but—I want her to know everything. Except I don’t want to go through the process of having to actually tell her. I just want her to already know. She’s still on her knees before me, looking up at me with those deep brown eyes, waiting.

  “Addicts have to replace using with something else,” I finally say. Her eyebrows hike. “For me, it’s all about balance.”

  She shakes her head and mock laughs once. “Don’t start this shit, dude. Honestly. Not after what I saw you do out there. Just…don’t.” Her eyes level me with a knowing glare.

  I push back in the chair, press my freshly bandaged palms to my thighs. Meet her gaze, and decide it’s time to let someone—partially—in. It might as well be Mel. “I lost someone. And it was my fault.”

  Mel’s features fall, and she swipes at a loose strand of hair near her eye. “You know it was your fault for sure, or you just feel guilty?”

  “I know. Because had I been there, he never would have died. I was selfish, thinking only about getting my fix and…” I don’t really know how to explain the rest, so I leave it at that. “I was pretty damn selfish. But this—” I motion around the room, indicating the brawl “—is how I atone. It makes me feel, even if the only thing to feel is pain. It’s the only thing I deserve. I’m alive, I’m here, and he’s not.”

  Before Melody is able to process my words, I lean forward and snag her tank strap. She pulls back at first, caught off guard. But I don’t let her get away. I pull the strap and her toward me, then push it slowly aside, revealing her tattoo. I skim my thumb over her flesh, along the word pain.

  “From pain comes strength,” I say. “You understand a little of what I’m saying.”

  She licks her lips, her eyes flick to my face. “I’m not saying that I don’t, Boone. But how is getting beaten to a bloody pulp atoning for anything?”

  Still caressing her skin, I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know. But it feels right. And it keeps me sober. Isn’t that enough?”

  We lock eyes. Stay in this close position for what feels like an eternity. I’m scared to move, scared that once I release her she’ll walk out that door and I’ll never find her again. Then I’ll never find this feeling again, the one that makes it almost okay to want to exist.

  Her lips part, but before she’s able to voice anything, a beep breaks the silence of the room. She blinks and looks down, then snakes her phone from her pocket. I’m still holding on, to her and this moment, as she types something on the screen.

  “I need to go,” she says, looking up.

  “Right.” My hand pulls back. I run it through my sweaty hair. “You came here with people, not alone, right?”

  She nods.

  “Good. Not that I think you can’t take care of yourself, but there’s some pretty shady people here.”

  She cranes an eyebrow. “Really?”

  A smile twitches at my lips. “I deserve that.”

  Before she’s on her feet, I snag the phone from her hand. I quickly enter my number, and in a couple seconds, my own cell rings from my pack. “Now I have your number.”

  I look up to gauge how much I just pissed her off, and the door swings open. A guy in a black leather vest and tats covering his arms enters. He sees Mel, then he sees me. His attention turns back to Mel.

  “Are you okay—what are you doing here?” he says as he stalks up to Mel. He asks both so quickly, and so irately, I see the stunned look on Mel’s face as she wavers about answering either.

  His hands latch on to her shoulders, and a blaze rockets through my chest. I’m on my feet before she can respond. “She’s fine. Was helping me get bandaged up.”

  The guy’s gaze snaps to me, his dark eyes looking me over before they settle on my face. “I wasn’t asking you.”

  I pull my shoulders back. “Well, I’m answering.”

  “Hey,” Mel interrupts. “Both of you put your pricks away. Chill.” She stands between us, hands up, and turns toward the guy. “I know him. He’s a friend…sort of.”

  “You know him? From where?”

  I really don’t like how this guy is talking to her. Like a possessive older brother. Or a possessive shithead boyfriend. And I don’t like that she feels she has to answer for herself. Who is this douchebag? The hand not holding Mel’s phone balls into a fist.

  “What does it matter, Jesse? Damn.” Mel reaches over to me and takes her phone, and I watch Jesse’s gaze closely follow her movements. His mouth hardens into a thin line.

  “Take care of yourself,” she says to me. “Try not to lose too much blood next time.” She winks, and that one action deflates the rage brimming inside me.

  Jesse pulls her aside. “You can’t just run off like that. Not here. I was freaking out.”

  She shrugs out of his hold. “You’re the one who brought me here. You’re idea. What, it’s not safe?”

  His mouth falls open. “Don’t do this shit.” His gaze slides to me, and he adds, “Not now, all right?”

  Something unsaid and tense passes between them, then, “Fine,” Mel says, and heads to the door. She gives me a quick look, crooks a smile, and walks out of the room.

  The Jesse guy follows, but sends me a look of his own. One that says stay the fuck away from her. I give him a head nod, cocking my chin out. He doesn’t like that at all. He closes the door to a crack and then takes a couple steps toward me.

  “Mel is MC property,” he says. When my face registers my confusion, and revulsion at hearing her be anyone’s property, he states, “She’s off limits.”

  This guy is my height, and I give him credit for squaring his shoulders and standing toe-to-toe with me. But I also know he just witnessed what I did to the guy in the ring. Maybe he feels I’m taxed after one brutal fight, but I’m far from out.

  I lift my chin higher, challenging. “If that was true,” I say slowly. “Then you wouldn’t need to spell it out for me now, would you?”

  His whole face contorts with anger. He takes a step back, then another, and I wait for him to make another threat, but he doesn’t. I guess there was something in his first warning t
hat should have been made clear, but I’m not accustomed to MC rules. Their lifestyle. As far as I’m concerned, every woman should be free to make her own choices.

  And from what I remember Melody telling me, she’s not in an MC. Her father was. So whatever claim this guy is trying to stake on her isn’t his right. Then again, he just watched me beat the shit out of someone. He could be trying to look out for her, which I understand. But his method is all wrong. He comes across all wrong.

  He leaves without another word or trading blows, and I sink into the chair. I have got to stop letting other people rile me up. Although I felt like this was one case that was justified.

  As I’m slipping my shirt over my head, I hear my cell beep. I reach for my pack and dig out my phone.

  Unknown sender: You shared one of your secrets, I feel obligated by the rules of our agreement to share one of mine. Parker’s Dragway. Tomorrow at 6. Come find out.

  A smile curls my lips, and I wince at the quick jab of pain from the cut on my mouth. I program Melody’s name to the unknown number and hit save.

  Affable just bumped up a notch.

  Melody

  An undercurrent in my sea of waves, crashing

  ALMOST A WEEK SINCE I was released from Stoney and I’m still sober—for the most part.

  I got a part-time gig at a coffee shop a few blocks down from my apartment. Which is a completely different clientele than I’m used to making drinks for. Although Randy offered me full time hours at the bar, I had to reject that sympathetic handout. Doesn’t mean I don’t drop in for a beer myself, but I make sure it’s a time when the MC aren’t around, like when Jesse’s working at the mechanic shop with Tank.

  There’s a small group of the Lone Breed staying in town until Jesse’s acquitted of all charges. Which his fancy lawyer believes will be really soon. And I am relieved, honestly. Regardless of how I turned on him yesterday at that backyard brawl thing, what I said…I do know in my heart the wreck wasn’t Jesse’s fault. And I do think it’s best if he leaves here. Leaves me.

  Being around Jesse more and more…it’s getting difficult not to think of doing a line, or taking a hit, of letting go, getting one last high... I know he’s always got a bag of something on him.

  So for now, I dull the cravings with beer, and stay away from the hard stuff. I attend group meetings. Never talking, just listening, but I’m there. Then I head to my mostly empty, cavernous apartment alone.

  That’s the hardest thing I’ve faced so far; living alone. All of my stuff fits into one corner of the bedroom. I have no cooking supplies. No TV. No real furniture. The apartment came furnished with the bare essentials; bed, couch, a small bar connected to the kitchen with two stools. But it’s the littlest, saddest, most depressing apartment in the world.

  Darla filled any space with her large presence. Without her, the place is a hollow shell. I try to spend as little time there as possible. Though I did buy a home warming present for myself: a calendar. It hangs on the fridge, and every morning before work I cross out another day. My probation hearing just under five months away circled in thick red marker.

  I’ve never had to do anything by a schedule, ever. Now, that’s my life. Everything scheduled down to the hour. Group meetings. PO appointments. Bill payments. Like electric and water. Things I’ve never had to keep up with before.

  A wave of unease washes over me as I start to think about all the things I have to keep track of. And I wonder, not for the first time, if Nurse Bridge can be coaxed into recommending me to a doctor where I can score some anxiety meds.

  But then there’s all the hassle I’d have to go through. Approval from my PO; statements sent to my counselors at group about my medication so my drug tests don’t pop. It’s not worth the effort. I’ll stick with beer.

  The irony in all this: I was always the responsible one out of the Dar and me duo. The one who looked out for her, who made the plans on the road, who found us work gigs and places to crash. Who kept her safe, like a big sister, who took care of us…and I’m realizing for the first time in my life that I don’t have a fucking clue how to be a grown up. Not the real kind. I was so full of shit.

  I take a sip of lukewarm beer and gaze out over Parker’s Dragway. The race track.

  I’m always jacked before a race. My adrenaline amped. My nerves revved. I’m so wired and I haven’t even done any blow. The thought kicks my pulse. Before every race, I always took a good luck hit. Got myself right, focused. The craving is hitting hard right now.

  It’s like that learned memory shit or whatever Doc Sid always ranted about. Something about how your body and mind recalls things in an inebriated state, and can’t do them or enjoy doing them without the high it’s used to getting as a reward. Some other shit about dopamine—I can’t remember it all. But suddenly, I’m freaked that I won’t be able to race.

  I don’t know if I can ride tonight without the blow. I just don’t know. I feel like I should back out, wait a couple of weeks until I get past the hard cravings. But then…will I ever be able to do anything again? Fuck.

  My hands tear through my hair, feeling the clamminess of my scalp. It’s a million degrees out here on the surface of the sun, and I’m covered in chills.

  “You want anything, baby doll?” Tank stands at the bottom of the bleachers, pointing toward the concession stand.

  Shaking my head, I wave him on. If I drink anything more, or try to eat, I’m sure I’ll lose my stomach. I set the bottle of beer down and wrap my arms around my legs.

  “This seat taken?”

  Boone’s deep voice sends a trill up my spine. My arms still secured to my legs, I look up. His massive six-foot-self blots out the lowering sun. I can’t believe it, but I’m so relieved to see him.

  I wasn’t sure if I’d done the right thing yesterday by inviting him here. Earlier at the coffee shop, I was regretting it, thinking I’d lowered the barrier between us too much. Hell, I worked hard at releasing him, trying to keep him away from my scene. But yesterday kind of changed everything. He seems to be in the midst of his own messed up scene, so I don’t feel I’d hinder his “personal growth.” And I really need someone who understands what I’m going through near my side today.

  Not that I can’t do it on my own. I’ve damn well been doing it so far. But today is a huge test. I need the added encouragement, it seems, and getting that little extra backing from a really hot guy never hurts. I wouldn’t even mind hearing some of his sobriety campaigning right this moment. At least he gets the deal.

  “Take any one you want, guy,” I say, smiling.

  He settles on the metal riser next to me. I can feel the warmth of his body against my side, my thigh, heating the chill from my skin. It feels good, and I’m tempted to lean into him.

  “So you come here to watch?” he asks, like we’re just getting acquainted. Like we haven’t been in rehab together, or swam half naked together, or thought about sexing each other up together.

  A nervous half smile pulls at my face. Not nerves from being around him; it’s really the fact that I feel so out of my element. And now, Boone’s presence just confirms that everything has shifted. Some guy from rehab, here at the track, where I race. Where Dar would be partying and cheering me on like a lushy cheerleader while picking up a new boy toy.

  Everything feels so far out of trajectory.

  Why did I invite him again?

  “Yeah, to watch, and other things,” I finally say. His brow furrows. “I’m racing tonight.”

  A splash of fear registers on his face. “That’s pretty dangerous. Don’t tell me this is your way of trading one high for another?”

  “Har,” I mock laugh. “Believe it or not, I race all the time. Well, I used to before my bike got totaled.” I look past the stands, away from him, to where two motorcycles are gearing up to race down the dragway.

  I feel Boone’s hand, his fingers sliding through my hair, as he slips a stray lock behind my ear, turning my attention back to him. “Is that how y
ou ended up at Stoney?” he asks.

  Well, he did offer me a partial truth yesterday… “I didn’t wreck it. But I was there, and I did blow the legal limit.” I tilt my head, thinking. “And I had a massive amount of blow in my system.” A twinkle in his hazel irises; his drug of choice, maybe. “Anyway, past is past. I’m out now and have to earn some quick money to buy another bike.”

  His lips verge on a smile. “So it was the bike,” he says.

  “It was totally the bike, dude.” I nudge his arm. “Did you really think I went with you that day because of your hot ass?”

  He chuckles. “A guy can dream.”

  His gaze rests on me and I stare back, our sight only on each other, and a stupid flutter wings to life in my stomach. Stupid hormones. I tamp the feeling down and look back to the track.

  “So you’re a biker,” he says. “A one-percenter. Living the lifestyle.”

  “I see you’ve been doing your research.”

  “And then some,” he says. I glimpse a guarded expression crossing his face from my peripheral. “I thought you weren’t in a motorcycle gang.”

  “I’m not. Not every biker—especially women bikers—are part of an MC. You can travel the country without an affiliation, ya know.”

  He nods slowly. “You really are all about the rush, aren’t you?”

  “I can say the same about you.”

  His face is so close to mine, I can feel his warm breath feather along my lips. Our stare down is becoming too intense. I lick my lips, watching his eyes follow my tongue’s trail across my mouth.

  “Mel!” Jesse calls from the other side of the giant fence, gaining my attention and breaking the moment. I sit back and look for Jesse. He’s down in the pit with Tank, getting ready for his race. “You coming?”

  “Go on!” I yell back. “I’ll be there soon.”

  Jesse hesitates, his gaze hard on me and Boone, before he turns and heads toward his Forty-Eight. A sinking feeling hits my stomach, and I’m again craving a hit. I push that feeling way down. It’s like chemistry or some shit. Jesse is linked to getting a high. Cause and effect.