I try to grasp that one true feeling of bliss I had with Dar back in high school. The one Boone—cheesily, but sweetly—made me recall, when I didn’t let the jones for a high suck me under, when I knew exactly who I was and what I loved. I latch on to it. Everything went wrong that day, and I should have been pissed. Angry that I got played and didn’t get Dar and me the buzz we wanted. But instead, all the wrong turned out to be so right. And she said, “We should always do this.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“This,” she repeated, wrapping a skinny arm around my neck. “Just be us.”
She was right. I was weak, she was strong. I thought I was the one looking out for her, but she had the answers. I wish she had been confident enough in herself to tell me that I was fucked up. That I didn’t need to get high, that she loved me more sober, that it wasn’t as much a part of me as I thought.
That I’m not my dad—I don’t have to live his life.
The risers and people and track all whoosh past. I’m no longer thinking of the race as my thumb bumps the gear, and I pick up speed. It’s such a short distance, this stretch of asphalt. But time is relative. Even though it’s only been seconds, I’ve been on this track for a lifetime.
My tire is neck-and-neck with the bike next to me. Inching up and back, taking the lead and losing it. When I cross that finish line, whether in first or last, there’s no going back. I cross it. Period. New chapter.
The roar of the engine engulfs my senses, and I lean forward, chin to handlebars. I’m racing against myself.
The white and black checkered flag waves as I fly past. I rise up and squeeze the brake. Dropping my foot to the ground, I grind to a stop, the smell of burning rubber hitting my nose. I’m thankful Boone rides a bobber. Jesse’s Forty-Eight probably would have sent me tumbling down the dragway. I’d been a skid mark on the pavement.
I’ve come to a full stop a few feet away from the finish line. I’m shaking. The rumble of the bike beneath me drowns out the commotion of the dragway, and I idle there, just taking in the moment before I turn and look back.
Jesse and Boone are running up the strip. The biker right behind me pulls his helmet off and bangs it against his thigh.
I won.
“Baby! You’re amazing!” Jesse shouts as he meets me on the track. His arms circle my waist and pull me from the seat. I’m laughing as he spins me around, giddy from the sheer surge of adrenaline, dizzy from the twirling and the win.
“And I won a hell-of-a-lot, too,” I say, even though I’m realizing how much the money was not the point of this race.
“Yeah, you did,” Jesse says, placing me back on my feet. “You going again?”
I nod. “Hell yeah.” Then I quickly look at Boone. “I mean, if that’s cool with the owner of the bike.”
He’s standing beside Tank, his hands in his pockets, a proud expression lighting his face. “Yeah, of course. You tore that track up. I didn’t know my bike was that bad ass until you.” He winks at me.
A stupid smile spreads across my face, and I swear I’m blushing. I could kick those dumb butterflies attacking my stomach, cheesy little sprites. But it’s the whole thing: the high from winning; the power I feel from defeating my panic; Boone looking at me like I’m the brightest star in his sky.
I feel Jesse’s arm slide across my neck, and I lean into him. We’re going to have to have that unpleasant, uncomfortable talk soon—the one where I clarify I’ll never be his ol’ lady. No matter what his mentor thinks. But for right now, I bask in this moment with my friend. Soon as Jesse’s used to Boone, maybe even thinking of him as a hangaround, he’ll ease up. But yeah, we’re long overdue for a talk. About everything.
Tank shrugs over and ruffles my hair. “That a girl. And look what I got here.” He flips open a wad of cash and starts thumbing through. “Couple more, and I think you’ll have enough for your bike, baby girl.”
I accept the cash, then head back to the pit with them. Boone walks his bike along beside me and Tank. There’s a crackle in the air, a tension. Beneath the celebratory atmosphere, a high pressure is building.
The calm settling over me, wrapping me, suddenly feels fragile, fleeting. Like the cliché eye of a storm. I shake the unease away, trying to stay in the now. In this rare, non-chemical high, where everything feels safe.
As I gear up to race again, watching the bikers ahead of me speed down the drag strip, I think of Dar, wishing she could give me a hint as to what I’m feeling. She always just knew. Sometimes before I did. I miss having that backup. My counterpart.
I reach up and slip her charm under the collar of my shirt before I slide on the helmet.
Safe is no more than a concept.
Two races later, I’ve lost more than my winning streak.
“Son of a bitch.” I slam my back against the chain fence and run a hand through my sweat-slicked hair. The humidity is suffocating, and the lights of the dragway glare down on me, exposing. Like spotlights.
“Those two were practically undefeated, Mel,” Jesse says. He picks up a couple stray tools from the pit ground and drops them into a toolbox. “Look, don’t sweat it. Don’t freak. You’ll get your stride back.”
I huff out a harsh laugh. “I’ll get,” I repeat, my tone bitter. Since when have I ever needed to try to get anywhere? Try so damn hard. I’m struggling to hang on to that initial feeling of perseverance I had after the first race. Right then, it felt like I could coast through all this. That I had more than a handle on my path. A plan.
But being beaten so badly during the last two races…damn. I feel like shit. As high as I was before, I’m down in the trenches now. A sharp contrast. I just dropped off the side of a cliff. Free fucking fall.
“Here.” Jesse hands me a bottle of Jack. “Don’t sulk. It’s not hot.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “Thanks.” I take the bottle and tip it to my lips. Feel the burn in the back of my throat. Taste the bitter sting of warm alcohol and setback.
Those too races were more money than ten altogether. Yeah those guys were top dogs. Yeah I probably had little chance in beating them even before I lost my Breakout. Yeah I shouldn’t be such a sore loser; content to have won the money in my pocket, and to be back riding again. Period.
I know all this. I’m self-aware enough to see it from all perspectives. But that doesn’t mean it makes it any easier to accept. I just…I wanted that rush. I wanted that ultimate moment where the stars aligned to tell me everything was going to be right from here on out. Maybe not perfect, but on to the next part. Where I’d find my new life. The one after Dar and me. Like when I lost my dad, and everything changed. But I was on to the next phase.
This all feels stuck. Motionless. Stagnate. And I hate standing still.
Taking another swig of liquor, I let the hard bite drown out the commotion in my head.
Boone wanders over, hands tucked under the hard muscles of his biceps. He left to park his bike, and I’m glad he didn’t witness my semi meltdown.
He tilts his head, inspecting me closely. “You need a ride home?”
Normally, after a night of racing, we’d head to Randy’s or whatever local bar we were occupying in whatever town. But I look down at the bottle in my hand and shrug. “I probably should go home. Yeah.”
Jesse braces his arm above my head, his finger linked to the chain fence. “You’re not riding with me to Randy’s?” he asks. “Come on. It’s tradition or some shit. You can’t go to bed all whooped up on by a couple bad races.” He widens his eyes, imploring. “It’s the rules, Mel.”
It is the rules. And despite my deflated mood, I know I shouldn’t let tonight end like this. It was never a question before; race, party. Win, lose…there was always an after. But a vital piece of the group is missing, that’s what’s throwing me. I’m not sure if it could or should be the same without Dar. Maybe I just need to go home.
That thought is backed up by the look in Boone’s eyes, the serious furrow of his brow. “I don’t mi
nd dropping you off, Mel.”
I can feel the tension radiating off Jesse at hearing Boone call me by my nickname. Before they get into another pissing match, I hold up my hand. “I’m tired, not whooped, though those last two races got me good.” I look between them. “But I don’t want to just go home and sulk. One drink, then I’ll head home.”
Glancing at Boone, I nod. “I’ll see you later?” I hope he hears the thanks in my voice, for helping me earlier.
He shrugs a shoulder. “How about I just follow you there.”
Jesse laughs. “All right, man. Don’t fall behind.” Then he’s off, slapping Tank’s hand in acknowledgment as he hands off the last of his tools and heads to the parking lot.
I move closer to Boone, confusion pinching my face. “Straightedgers like to hang at bars? You think that’s a good idea?”
His hazel eyes—stone gray against the night—narrow on me. “Do you?”
The judgment in his tone immediately sets me off. “I’m not you, Boone. I haven’t sworn myself to absolute sobriety and…” I almost slip and say celibacy, but I backtrack quickly. No matter how he’s acting, throwing that in his face isn’t right. I still don’t know exactly what happened to him to make that choice. “And whatever,” I finish lamely.
He hikes an eyebrow, and I say, “Listen. I really appreciate what you did. For real. I was wigging hard before the race. But this isn’t exactly how I operate.” I rub the back of my neck, anxious to get cleaned up and cooled down. Some kind of buzz on. Even a lame drunk one. “And besides. You really do need to be careful with these guys. Don’t do something stupid, okay?”
A slight smile tugs the corner of his face up. After I saw what he did in the brawl yesterday, okay yeah, I’m sure he can handle himself. But still, it’s not wise to piss off the MC. I’m not sure even I could help him if he gets in too deep.
“I can handle it, Mel. I promise. I’m not ready to leave you yet, is all.”
I cock my head. “You’re not just bulldogging me? Making sure I don’t slip?”
He shakes his head. “You’re your own person. Choices to make and that shit. I’m not your counselor or your PO or group leader. I’m not your boyfriend. I just want…” His face flushes, and again, I see the hint of his vulnerability. His innocence despite his tough exterior shell. “I just want to be your something. Anything.”
“Dammit, Boone. Why do you have to be so adorable?”
The smile that reveals that hard to get dimple speeds across his face, and I admire my ability to make it appear. Suddenly the end of tonight doesn’t look like a bow out to losing, but maybe a slow start toward an ultimate win.
“Come on,” I say, leaving the pit. “Let’s get you some kind of manly virgin drink.” I place my hand over my mouth, feigning a slip up.
“Wow. That was ruthless.” He chuckles.
I shrug. “Boy, you have yet to see ruthless.” I wink.
I swear the look on his face is one of pure terror. I laugh.
Boone
Rolling, and tumble, back down the hole
RANDY’S IS A ROWDY, run-down, biker dive bar on the outskirts of St. Augustine’s drinking district. Had I stumbled in more than a year ago, I’d have found the place really entertaining. I might have gotten drunkenly belligerent and ended up with a severe beating—but I’d have held my own, and it would’ve been a crazy fun memory.
As of now, those “crazy” memories of times like that are more shameful than fond. They were what came before Hunter. And they should have ended then. I should’ve acted like a responsible, boring grown up, and this past year would’ve been some awful, alternate nightmare reality.
So that’s why I’m here. Not for me, but for Melody. Watching her ride my bike and race down that track only heightened my already intense feelings for her, and I can’t walk away now. Not when I know that even as strong as she is, as determined as she is to fight, she’s still holding on tightly to that part of her. The one that doesn’t want to let go of the destruction.
Besides, I have to find some way to tire myself out—so I might sleep through most of tomorrow. Jacquie offered—for this one day—to have one of the doctors at Stoney prescribe me a sleeping aid, or Valium. Or some other drug to help me deal. I’m not about to break my drug-free streak, though. Not yet.
If sleep fails, there’s always Nickel’s. Nothing like a few well planted blows to the head to knock you out for a day.
But since Melody found her way back into my life, I think I’ll put my self-loathing on hold. Focus on her instead. Her needing my help today…I could do that. If she wants it, I’m more than willing to spend the next twenty-four hours giving her whatever help she needs.
She believes her main goal is getting off probation. Which for her might be the ultimate reason—but I’ve witnessed rare glimpses beneath the cover of her existence, and the hard-as-nails girl she shows the world isn’t the smart, poetic woman she hides from most. She’s probably only revealed that depth to a handful of people, if that. And I want to be one of them.
I want to fight not to lose that woman. Whether I’m fighting for her or fighting her.
The stench of cigarette smoke mingling with alcohol fills my nostrils, and I’m somewhat ashamed that it’s not a stink at all. It smells damn good. I’m used to the onset of cravings, but that doesn’t mean they still don’t become overwhelming.
Especially now, while I watch Melody down a shot.
“Another!” Jesse shouts to the blond bartender already pouring more rounds.
“Fuck it,” Mel says, waving a hand in the air, her eyes half slits. “Why not. Not like I have anywhere special to be tomorrow. Not like I’m picking up my new Breakout.”
“Aw, come on,” Jesse plies her. “Who the fuck is this? Since when do you whine like a little bitch?”
My hackles raise. I know this is their typical banter, and it works for them. I really don’t want to be that guy—the one who demands a girl drop her friends for him. We’re not even to that point yet, and I wouldn’t request it, regardless. I hate those guys. But this isn’t about me and her, us. It’s about her recovery. And this guy is toxic to Mel.
“Fuck you, bitch,” Mel tosses back at him. “I can act anyway I want. I’m not the one who totaled his bike and mine. I think you owe me some cash on that one.” Her head sways a little, following the loose movements of her body on the stool. “Actually, duce, you owe me a lot more than that, like a—” Biting down on her bottom lip, she cuts herself short.
For a quick second, I watch her battle her drunken state; blink hard, shake her head. Lick her lips, as she tries to fight something back. I glance at Jesse, feeling like the third wheel between them. His expression is sheet pale. What she just said to him has no real meaning for me, it’s all drunk talk—but he looks like he’s two seconds from either bolting or exploding.
With a less than steady hand, he reaches for the shot glass in front of him and throws it back. “I don’t want to do this here,” he says, low, intended only for Mel to hear.
Mel takes a fast glance at me, blinks, then swivels in her stool to face Jesse. “I figure here is the proper place, wouldn’t you agree? Here is where—”
“Stop!” he shouts. “Not here. Not now.” He sends her a stern glare that makes Mel sit up, her lips trembling. But it’s not from fear; it’s anger.
Whatever they have to level between them isn’t going to go well at this point. Jesse’s holding his liquor better than Mel, but he’s on something. He talks a little too loud, looks around a little too much, paranoid—the opposite response to alcohol.
He groans and runs a hand through his messy hair. “I knew this was coming,” he says. “I fucking knew it. We should’ve just hauled ass out of this town. Got the fuck away.”
I push the glass of water to the front of the bar, ready to move in a flash if one of them gets physical. My eyes are on Mel, waiting to see if she snaps or welcomes the lethargic effect of the liquor. She’s teetering. Could sway eithe
r way.
Her hands are gripped into fists by her sides. Her eyes are watery, on the verge of angry tears, and she’s eased herself to the edge of the stool. The heels of her knee-high boots pressed to the bar under her seat, ready to spring.
The music overhead changes, a new song starting up. And in the quick moment of quiet, I hear Mel’s deep breaths. She reaches for her shot glass and swallows the amber liquid in one gulp. “Fuck this,” she says. “I’m through, Jess. I need to get out of here.”
He turns and faces her. “That’s what I’m saying. We—”
“No,” she cuts him off. “I need to get the hell out of this bar. Right now. You’re missing the point, like usual.”
His thick eyebrows pull together. “What the fuck does that mean?”
She shakes her head, pushing herself away from the bar. “Have a good night, prospect.” Then she’s off the stool, and I’m on my feet.
Jesse grabs her arm, stopping her retreat. “You’re not leaving. Come on.” He pulls her toward him as he hops off his own stool.
“Let go of me, Jesse. I’m out. I can’t do this—”
“Like hell,” he snaps. “We’re doing this.” He hauls her toward the back of the bar, and I’m moving to break in-between them.
I’ve kept my cool this whole night—told myself I’d just make sure Mel got home safely. Didn’t get too fucked up. Slip from her record drug-free month. Wouldn’t get involved in her personal business. But I’m not idly standing by while this guy—friend or not—hurts her. And I’m not thinking physical, though in his state he’s not taking no for an answer. He could, unintentionally, strike out. It wouldn’t be the first time something went down that way.
In the few seconds it takes me to reach them, Melody has broken away. She sways some on her feet, then notices me, frozen, waiting to know my next move.
“Back off, bare-knuckle.” She slurs a bit, but the words are still delivered with a stinging clarity. They’re true. Truth sucks. “Not looking for any hero action tonight, okay? I got this.”
Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Page 15
