Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel

by Wolfe, Trisha

  My teeth grit under the pressure of my clenched jaw. “Maybe a little hero action is just what you need.” Soon as it leaves my mouth, I deflate. Fury evaporated. My anger wasn’t supposed to be directed at her, and I hate that I’m so easily provoked.

  She doesn’t seem to notice, though. She’s smiling, amused. “Got a white steed, guy? Or you planning to whisk me away on your heroic bobber?”

  Jesse’s the one who speaks next. “Bullshit. Mel, you don’t even know this asshole. It’s not like you…you’re acting like—”

  “What? Who?” Her head whips around. “It’s not like me, it’s like Darla? Huh? Is that what you were going to say?” Her whole body tightens with rage. “You calling her a slut? You calling me one? You’re fucking slut-shaming me?” She shakes her head, laughing. “You are such a fucking hypocrite!”

  At this point, the bar has noticed their spat. Heads turning their way, conversations dying down. I glance at Jesse. His countenance suddenly changes; he’s aware of the gathering attention, and he shifts in place, latches his hands to his elbows. Sweat beads at his hairline.

  Melody checks the crowd, then slams him with a disgusted look. “Can’t have any negative publicity for the prospect, can we?”

  Stepping into her personal space, he lowers his voice. “Please, Mel.” He jerks his head toward the back of the bar.

  I’m about to cut in, voice my opinion on what a bad idea going off with this guy is, when Melody says, “All right.”

  What? I’m crossing the distance, not about to let this happen, but she stops me halfway in my pursuit with a severe look.

  “It’s fine,” she reasons. “I got this, okay?”

  No, it’s not okay. But I’m on her turf. Her ground. Her way. I’m the invader, having swooped into her life…not really understanding what I wanted from her, or us—this. But I did want something, and it’s not fair to ask anything of her when I can’t give her all of me in return.

  I’m a selfish bastard.

  With a forced nod, I back away. “Text me if you need me,” I say. “I’ll be outside.” And with that, I turn and head out of the loud, smoky bar.

  I don’t look back to watch her disappear with Jesse. I can’t block any of the bad from her life; she has to make her own choices. I’m a fucktard for getting involved with her shit in the first place.

  I push open the door, letting the humid night air welcome a blast of clear thoughts. If Mel can’t leave the scene behind, won’t get sober, then how far into it am I willing to go to protect her? I know from firsthand experience that no one and nothing can make a user stop using.

  No scare tactic, no amount of pain, no quantity of remorse, can force someone straight. If anything, those are only more reasons to get high; drown out the fear and the guilt. One last time…then I’ll deal with tomorrow. A classic user mantra.

  It was the one I recited to myself, over and over, then again the night Hunter died. I was singing that tune as I put the needle to my arm, fucked that girl hard, high as a kite, while he was taking his last breath.

  Frustrated, I dig out the cigarette pack from my jean pocket, thump out a cigarette and fire it up. I inhale a deep drag and lean against my bike. I haven’t smoked in months. But I keep them close, just in case. And this is a stressful, just-in-case kind of moment.

  Streetlamps light the asphalt parking lot a surreal gray. Cars coasting along the A-1 fill the void of sound with a distant zip and hum.

  I’m contemplating jumping on my bike and hauling ass, getting out of Mel’s way, when a bang shatters the deceptive quiet. Cigarette butt between my lips, I swing my head toward the sound.

  The front door of the bar slams against the outside wall as Melody storms out, yanking away from Jesse. He’s trying to pull her back inside, but she rips free of his hold and through the doorway. She loses balance with the forward momentum and stumbles to her hands and knees on the sidewalk.

  I toss my cigarette, already marching toward her.

  Jesse pushes the door closed, then kneels beside Mel.

  The door swings open again, and Tank sticks his head out. He says something to Jesse. “It’s okay,” Jesse assures him, waving him back inside. “I’ll take care of her. Just a rough night.”

  As I get closer, Tank eyes me with a squinted gaze, then another member of the MC pops up beside him. Jesse glances at me quickly before nodding to his friends, and they disappear back into the bar.

  Jesse moves his head closer to Mel’s and whispers in her ear. She shakes her head. “It’s over. It’s never going to be the same. All this…” She motions sloppily around. “We can’t have it back, Jess. Over. Gone. Oblivion.”

  Her words are tumbling out with her sobs. Shit. She’s really messed up. How long was she gone? Five…ten…fifteen minutes? While I was out here pouting. I curse under my breath as I kneel beside her. I never should have left her.

  “Mel, let’s go.” I quickly check one of her hands, noting the scratches, brush off the loose debris and concrete rubble, and pull her arm around my waist. I tuck a hand under her other arm and begin to lift.

  “What the fuck?” Jesse’s on his feet and staring me down. “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

  I’m one short second away from losing all self-control. I get Melody to her feet, her weak body leaning into mine. Her head sways awkwardly on her shoulders. If this guy sucker punches me with her in my arms, it’s the last action he’ll do tonight before I end him.

  Looking into his dark, glassy eyes, I say, “She’s done, man. I’m just taking her to her apartment. I think she needs to sleep it off—pick up with you when her head’s on straight, right?”

  His brow furrows, hands fisted, arms flexed. “I’m telling you, this does not concern you. You’re just one of many and I’ve been here, will be here, when you’re a speck in the rearview mirror.” He wiggles his fingers in front of his face, smiling, eyes ablaze.

  And I realize he’s fucked up. I mean, not coherent, talking way out there fucked up. Meth, maybe. Or MDMA. Fear seizes my chest as I pull Mel closer to my side.

  “What did you give her?” I demand.

  “She needed to forget this shit for a while. I just needed her to hear me…” He runs a hand through his slick hair. “Just to listen. Mel.” He weaves his head, trying to gain her attention. “Tell him how we are together. How we reach that plateau, baby.”

  Mel struggles to right her head and look at Jesse. “How we were,” she slurs. Then shakes her head. “It’s all shit without Dar. You know that.”

  Jessie’s head jerks back like he’s been slapped. “I loved Darla. You know that what happened…it was an accident, Mel. You have no idea how shitty I fucking feel, baby.”

  The picture about what happened to land Melody in rehab is starting to become clearer. But I’m not sure I want the whole story. My stomach is sinking with each admission between these two, and a wave of sickness crashes over me. Like shitty history repeating itself.

  “I told you no,” Mel mumbles. She’s staring at the ground, her gaze unfocused. “I told you no. If you would’ve listened, then that night wouldn’t have happened.” She shakes her head again. “No, if I wouldn’t have even been with you, it wouldn’t have happened. Dominoes. Dominoes.”

  As she continues to mutter to herself, I’m eyeing Jesse with a new kind of hatred. “What the fuck is she talking about?”

  That snaps Mel out of her trance, and she turns her head toward me, waving her hand. “Wait. It’s not like that—”

  But I’m asking Jesse again. “What is she saying?”

  Regaining his composure, Jesse rolls his shoulders. Cocks his chin. “It’s none of your business.” He reaches for Mel, grasping her arm. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Come on.”

  She pulls away, closer into me. “I’m not that fucked up! I know what happened that night, and so do you.” Though she’s wavering, she focuses a hard glare on Jesse that makes him back up a step.

  My blood is lava. Ang
er is rippling through my veins, heating my insides, boiling over. If not for the half-lucid girl in my arms, I’d already be throwing down on Jesse. I can read between the lines—what Mel is trying to voice. And as that knowledge splits the seams of my brain, I’m moving her toward the sidewalk.

  I try to set her down, but she places a hand on my chest. Looks up into my eyes. “Let’s just go.”

  I grind my back teeth. My jaw aches from the pressure. Try to suppress the explosion getting ready to erupt, the rage triggering the need to connect flesh with flesh, inflict pain—feel pain. To make the noise stop.

  My gaze steady on hers, I bite it back. She needs to get somewhere safe to come down. Focus on her. I turn us toward my bike and start walking.

  “What the fuck,” Jesse says. “Really? All right, Mel. Christ, I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

  Melody’s still stumbling alongside me, ignoring Jesse’s admission. I’m bottling my rage best I can.

  “This is bullshit,” he shouts. “Fine. Go off and fuck him. Just another douchebag I have to wait out until you’re through with, huh?”

  I feel Melody tense in my arms. I keep us moving.

  “Maybe I should’ve fucked Darla that night!” Jesse says.

  And Mel hurls around, breaking free of my arms. Her face is pinched and red, and I just grasp her around the waist, stopping her attack. But her words try to assault anyway. She’s seething threats and insults, but they’re muffled below her fight.

  I groan, and before she says or does something she’ll regret, I step in for her and take the lead.

  Her last recognizable words: “Oh, shit,” before I’m on top of Jesse. Dropping fists.

  Melody

  Shiny metallic, tangy and wet

  “OH, SHIT.”

  My knees are wobbly, my legs liquid. I try to reach for Boone as he quickly deposits me on the pavement, my butt hitting the ground hard on my own account, but he’s taking off toward Jesse before I can get a firm grasp.

  The streetlamps streak across my vision, multicolored tracers leaving a blur of trails. I swat at the air, trying to move them out of my line of sight. I can’t let this happen; Boone and Jesse fighting. It’s my fight, not Boone’s.

  But I’m suspended, unable to move. My stomach bottoms out as I hear the sick crunch of fist meeting face.

  I shake my head. More tracers. Crawling on my hands and knees, I focus on Boone’s black boots stomping the ground, follow his lead. Slowly. I can tell the gravel is grinding into my knees, my palms, but it’s such a distant sensation, like it’s happening to someone else. I’m feeling their residual pain.

  Two bodies connect. A thud, a smack. The figures are two dark objects colliding. I squint. Boone has Jesse by the vest collar. He’s backing him up against the brick building. Shouting.

  Jesse asked Tank to “let him handle it”—but Tank could change his mind any second. The MC tearing into Boone to protect their own. My anxiety ramps.

  We need to leave.

  Working my voice up through my chest, I hear a low buzz in my vocal chords. Then, “Stop!” I think it’s loud enough. And suddenly the nausea pulls me under.

  I roll onto my side, tears sliding down my cheeks. I haven’t done crank in ages. Like a year or more. I can’t remember ever feeling this horrible. But I wasn’t ever this drunk when I did, and I was always happy…before. You can’t do this shit when you’re already off. When you’re thinking too much about bad shit. It fucks with you.

  Jesse offered the hit; one small line. And I put my head to the bathroom counter and snorted. Like old times—just to try to find that connection with him; that blissful moment when Dar was still alive, and we were all together. But it went wrong. Jesse groping me, wanting to be with me, trying to move past that one second when everything changed. Make me forget. It won’t work, though. Ever. Him losing himself in me won’t erase her.

  “Mel.”

  The voice is a distorted echoing of sounds. But it’s my name. I blink my eyes open. Center my doubling vision on Boone’s concern-etched face.

  “I’m ready,” I mumble, hoping he understands. I want to leave. Get him away from here. Just get out of here and into my bed. Funny, that I have a bed I call mine. My head starts to drift, other thoughts clouding and fuzzy, as Boone picks me up. His arms cradle me to his chest.

  Inching my chin upward, I lay it on his shoulder and peek back at Jesse. He’s sitting on the sidewalk, his hands fisted in his hair, head aimed down between his parted knees. The ache takes over my whole body, stemming from my chest and radiating out to every limb. A blind ache, disorienting.

  I know, I know. Damn, do I know, that what happened to Dar that night—it wasn’t his fault. But this fucking pain has to have an outlet. Jesse triggered all the rage when he touched me, like nothing had changed between us. But everything has changed.

  It won’t ever be the same.

  By the time Boone’s bobber rumbles into my apartment parking lot, the crank has dropped. It’s no longer the early sketchy phase, where I want to tear at my hair, scratch at my skin. Usually, that part doesn’t last long, because I know the deal, it passes quickly. The anticipation for the ultimate high makes it just the build-up to the next phase.

  But I know in my muddled brain that the sheer amount of alcohol I consumed first did not mix well, and that first half hour was like something out of a bad trip. Now, alcohol burning out of my system, the line of crank traveling through my bloodstream, the euphoria is finally taking effect.

  There’s a tiny niggle of guilt, some worry, that I’m going to pop on my next drug test. That I could be sent back to Stoney, or worse. But I push that thought so far back in my mind, it’s only a tiny, annoying whisper. I don’t want to think about it now—to waste this fleeting moment of happiness.

  Boone lowers the kickstand and sets his bike on its side, then runs his hands along my arms. He made me sit in front of him, like a freaking kid. Because he didn’t think I could manage on my own. Like really, I’ve never ridden on a bike fucked up before. This is not my first rodeo. But whatever. If it got me to my apartment where I could relax, so be it.

  “You feel okay?” he asks.

  I bob my head. “Oh, yeah.” I push my back into his hard chest, loving the feel of his toned muscles pressing against me.

  I feel him tense, but then he’s swinging his leg behind the seat and slipping off the bike. Damn, he is so uptight. A thought spikes my brain with the next wave of heat that flushes my skin. Boone needs to decompress. As in, he needs a good fuck. He doesn’t even drink. He has no outlet for all his pent-up bullshit.

  I wriggle myself off the bike. Stand and look up at the night sky. Millions of fiery stars blaze against the black backdrop like a sea of embers. It makes my breath stutter in my chest. I could stand here and stare, writing lines of poetry in my head all night.

  Awareness trickles over me. I can feel Boone watching me, and then I realize, or remember, that his outlet is brawling. Fighting. He’s such a guy. All testosterone and balls.

  Sliding my fingers into my back pockets, I lower my gaze to him. Just standing there, his tatted arms all crossed across his chest like a scolding parent. I have no idea why this guy chose to 86 his sex life along with drugs in order to get and stay sober. Maybe sex is a trigger for him. (Ha! Look, I learned some shit in rehab; triggers.) But a good round of hot, carnal, fuck-up-against-the-wall sex would do him a world of good.

  He really needs to let some steam out of the pot.

  I hold my hand out to him. “Walk me up to my apartment?”

  He glances down at it, his eyebrows pressing together, really contemplating whether or not he should.

  “Christ, Boone. Not everything is a dire decision.” I take off toward the outside hallway and stairs leading to my place. Then I hear his audible groan not far behind me. I smile.

  “You seem to be doing all right now,” he says as we reach my door. “I think I should go.”

  Turning around, key in hand, I shrug
. “You really think you’re not going to worry about me all night.” Just as I say this, I sway a little, completely not intending to. I’m still a little sloshed from all the shots. But luckily, I didn’t bail out of the bathroom before I scored a small baggie from Jesse. I’ll work the rest of the drunk out of my system in a minute.

  Boone sighs heavily, his broad chest falling with his deep breath.

  Pushing the key into the deadbolt, I say, “I’ll be fine. Just do you, okay? I got me covered.” Then I’m inside my apartment and hating the emptiness. I toss my keys and tote on the bar near the small, sad entryway. The echo reverberates through me, and I truly do not want to be here alone.

  If Boone cuts out, I’ll call someone, anyone, to party with. One last blow out before I seriously commit to this sobriety program shit. At least for the next four and something months.

  Dude, where is my calendar. I head toward the kitchen, wanting to count the days again, totally obsessive compulsive like. I’m turning into a freak.

  I hear the door close and Boone’s heavy footfalls. “You don’t have a TV?”

  Reaching into the fridge, I grab the orange juice. “Nope.”

  I take a swig, cringing at the bitterness, “blah” then set the jug on the counter. “Want something to drink?” A shot of pure 100 percent liquor to chill you out? Then I immediately berate myself. I don’t even care that Boone’s so straightedge. I’m just really not in the mood to deal with his intensity tonight.

  As I enter the living room, I note his stiff posture on my one piece of furniture. He’s sitting rigidly on the couch, his back straight, hands on thighs, feet planted evenly on the floor. He won’t look at me.

  “I’ll stay until you come down. Make sure you don’t tweak too hard.” He runs a hand through his disheveled, spiky blond hair. “You’ve been clean long enough now that you could wig pretty hard…but you’ll be fine. Just in case…” He raises his eyes to me. “I’ll make sure.”

  My heart thuds anxiously in my chest. My lips thin into a pursed, hard smile. I don’t want sobriety super hero Boone right now, swooping in and being all good guy, trying to save me and shit. I don’t want to feel bad about myself for getting high, for doing what I do, for being who I am.