Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel

by Wolfe, Trisha

  It’s the one sound that makes this okay. That makes ending it right here just fine.

  I close my eyes, let the sound cocoon me. A kind of inevitable tranquility.

  I wish I could’ve told her I’ve fallen for her. Just once.

  Blackness is all that’s left as I fade.

  Melody

  Until you see me

  THE HUMID FLORIDA NIGHT is made even warmer by the press of too many bodies vying for a good viewing position of the ring. I muscle my way through the crowded house, my goal so close.

  The plane touched down a little over half an hour ago, a two and a half hour non-stop flight. When Sam and Holden make it down here, I owe them a huge wad of cash for that. It wasn’t cheap.

  But right now, my only thought is Boone. The whole cab ride here, my stomach was knotted, my sixth sense tying me up inside, just knowing something is wrong. Please, let me have made it in time.

  I bounce up, trying to get a glimpse of the ring in the center of the backyard of Nickle’s. I’m actually praying that I don’t see Boone anywhere near here—that he’s at his apartment, watching boring TV. Or at Stoney, finding obsessive, constructive projects to fill his sober time.

  But those hopes are shattered the moment I spot the ring.

  Boone’s near the edge of the rope, buckled over. And oh, my God, the guy he’s fighting is a Neanderthal.

  Attempting to block the attack, Boone brings his arms up, but too slowly. I watch the punch in slow motion, seeing the huge fist connect to his throat, and my stomach bottoms out.

  Boone drops to the mat.

  I’m shouting now, pleas and threats to the people around me to move. My voice being ripped from me as I try to reach Boone.

  The ring swarms with people, all surrounding Boone and blocking my view. I’m barreling through the crowd, my chest tight and my heart hammering. I’m unsure if I should stop now and call 911—if it will be too late by the time I reach him. If I should just get him help.

  People are bent over and kneeling in the ring. My heart beats in time with the ache pounding my head, and I shout over the crowd, demanding them to let me through.

  I drop my tote to the mat and reach for the rope. Pulling myself into the ring, I don’t ask for permission, I crawl right through legs toward Boone. Someone’s hand tries to force me back, and I’m tempted to bite it, my sole focus on an unconscious Boone lying on his back, eyes closed, not breathing.

  No. No. No.

  Some kind of paramedic is leaning over him, checking his vitals. “Stay back,” he tells me.

  “Are you licensed?” I ask, my voice shaky. I lay my hand on Boone’s arm. He’s drenched in sweat, his skin too cool. My eyes scan the many bruises covering his face and body.

  The paramedic doesn’t answer my question. He reaches into his bag and takes out some kind of breathing tube with a faceplate. He places it over Boone’s mouth and nose, then pumps the device, forcing air into Boone’s lungs.

  My gut is on fire, demanding I call for real help. I look back at my pack, ready to leap for my phone, when a hard gasp snaps me back. Boone’s chest flinches as he coughs, his eyes blink and then stay open.

  “Boone! Can you hear me? I’m here.” I rest my hand on the side of his face as the paramedic pulls the device away, then rests his fingers on Boone’s wrist, taking his pulse rate.

  Everyone surrounding us—all the ruckus, shouts, questions—disappear when his swollen eyes find me. In this one moment, I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want Boone to be okay. To walk away from this and never return.

  Even if I’m not with him. Just let him live and leave, God.

  Then his hand reaches up to find mine. His fingers link our hands together. “You’re in so much trouble with Jacquie.” His lips stretch into a slight smile. It looks painful.

  Lips trembling, my mouth attempts to smile back, but I’m just too relieved. “I’m sure I’m going to catch hell,” I say, tightening my fingers around his. I bring his hand to my lips, kiss his battered knuckles. “I need to call for an ambulance. I’ll be right back.”

  “No, I’m fine,” he says, then coughs as the paramedic places his hand under Boone’s neck to lift his head.

  “You need to be moved to a room,” the guy says.

  My head jerks up. “Moved? Isn’t that what you’re not supposed to do with an injured person?”

  The paramedic—though I now seriously doubt he’s for real—ignores me again as he begins to bring Boone forward.

  “Hey, asshole! I’m talking to you.”

  I hear Boone’s raspy laugh and look down. “Don’t piss her off, man. She’s a fucking feisty one.”

  Against my distress and the need to assault the paramedic, I feel a small smile twist my lips. “Yeah, well, you should talk. Honestly, we need to get you to a hospital. You need a professional.” I say this last part loud and glance up to glare at the paramedic.

  He shakes his head, and finally says to me, “Miss, he’s okay. Just got the shit beat out of him. He’ll live.”

  I hike an eyebrow. “And that’s your professional opinion?” I look at Boone.

  He’s sitting up, arms draped over his knees. “Someone just get me to the back room.”

  Then I’m physically removed from his side as two guys slide Boone’s arms around their necks and lift him. My instinct says he really needs to be looked at, but all I can do is follow behind them as they take him out of the ring and through the crowd.

  People cheer Hunter’s name, and I shake my head. I actually want to put my fist through a few faces. This man almost died…could’ve been injured so badly he’d never walk again…and these fuckers think they saw a good show.

  But Boone’s struggle to make it to the house steals my attention. I slip my side tote over my head and follow behind them, shouldering people out of my way. My only concern that he get somewhere safe and quiet. Away from all this crazy.

  Once inside, they walk Boone to the same small room where I once bandaged his cuts. I swallow hard, thinking about how I should’ve said something then. Should have dropped my hard façade and begged him not to fight, not to hurt himself.

  I knew then something was really off, and now it’s just more guilt mounting the heap of all my bad decisions of late.

  “Guys, I’m good,” Boone says. He settles on the floor, pressing his back up against the wall. Someone whispers in his ear and he nods. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Then they leave the room. Quiet settles between us, thickening into a barrier, keeping me from him. My feet are cemented to the floor. My whole body wanting to rush to him, but immobilized by the fear of what happens next.

  “Tell me the truth,” I say. “Are you hurt?”

  He chuckles. Wiping the back of his taped hand across his forehead, he says, “Yeah, Mel. I don’t feel like running a marathon, but it’s not hospital worthy. A couple fractured ribs, maybe. My throat will probably close up at some point with swelling…but I’m not dying.”

  Then my feet come unglued. I’m across the room and kneeling in front of him, my hands on his thighs, just to connect us together. “I’m a fucking bitch and I’m sorry.” My gaze captures his, then slowly, his eyes trace the contours of my face. Seeking the truth in my words.

  “What are you sorry for?” he asks. He begins to peel the tape away from his hands, and I reach up and take one.

  He allows me to remove the tape and inspect the damage. His knuckles are almost black. I taste the bile rising to my throat and swallow it back down. “I cannot understand why you do this to yourself. You have to stop.”

  His fingers grasp my chin, lift my face to his. “You know why.”

  A shaky breath slips from my lips. “I’m sorry I didn’t stick around, Boone. I freaked. And I can’t change it, and even if I could, it wouldn’t matter. We have some serious shit going on here.” I press my cheek into his palm, close my eyes, feel him. “I’ll do whatever it takes, but you have to promise to do the same. No more bullshit. N
o more half-assed speeches, and especially no more brawls, and I’ll…”

  I open my eyes to see his forehead furrowed in thought. “And you’ll what? Ditch your MC family? Settle down in one place?” He smiles. “You really think if we tried, seriously tried, that we wouldn’t end up hating and blaming each other in the end?”

  “I think you’re worth the challenge.”

  His hazel eyes flick over my face, taking me in, then his hand moves to my hair. His fingers clasp the back of my neck, and he pulls me to him. Our lips connect. He kisses me with the desire of a man starved for love. Despite the swelling split I feel along his lip, he ignores whatever pain he’s feeling and hungrily devours me, his tongue stroking mine possessively, until I’m breathless, meeting each motion with equal passion.

  My body sinks into him, and then I’m sliding onto his lap, my arms finding their place around his neck. He releases a hiss against my lips, and I pull back.

  “Shit. Did I hurt you?”

  He licks his lips, eyes trapping mine. “In the best way.” Then he palms both of my thighs. His fingers grip my jeans and yank me closer to him.

  I smile and kiss him. Like my lips, my body, my soul have always belonged in his possession. I was just waiting for the right moment for us to click into place. To find home.

  “So fucking stubborn,” I mumble as I push my key into the deadbolt.

  “A hot bath, a few packs of ice, sleep, and I’ll be fine, Mel.” Boone leans against the doorway, looking like he’s about to pass out.

  “We’re going to have to get something straight,” I say, pushing the door open. I wrap his arm around my shoulder as we head inside. “I’m in charge here, okay? Just always listen to me and this will work out just fine.”

  He chuckles, then winces. “Shit, my ribs feel like shattered glass.”

  “Well, that’s what happens when you let ogres use you as a punching bag.” I walk us to the couch, and Boone flops onto the cushion.

  Glancing around nervously, trying to figure out what he needs, I say, “I’ll run a bath. But I don’t think hot water is good…for like the swelling.” I take off toward the bathroom, my heart in my throat.

  Somehow, I convinced him to at least come back to my apartment so I could look after him for the night. He won’t go to the hospital, stubborn ass. I even suggested having the cab drop us off at Stoney. They have doctors, and everyone knows him there. Loves him there. They could help him.

  But he doesn’t want to tarnish his image. He’s still so concerned with how people see him; the illusion. Or maybe he took one too many blows to the head. Regardless, if the pain becomes unbearable, I’ll drag his ass somewhere tomorrow.

  I flip the faucet on and let the cool water run over my hand. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I stare blankly at the tiles, too many thoughts and questions and uncertainties filling my thoughts.

  I hear him enter, and I look up. “It’s okay,” he says. He drops the toilet lid and sits, now shirtless, his fighting shorts stained with blood. “I know why you left, and I get it. You don’t owe me an apology, and you don’t have to explain. I should have told you from the start.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t go there. We’re already past all that, okay? Whatever guilt you harbor, just know I see the truth.” I gaze up at him, my eyes holding his, unwavering. “I just want one thing answered.”

  He wraps his arm around his stomach, bracing himself as he leans closer to me. “What?”

  “The story you tell at Stoney, it’s about Hunter, not you. It’s Hunter’s user parents, and Hunter’s user mom who wrecked while high, but the child didn’t walk away from that crash, did he?”

  Boone’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, his face strained from the effort and pain. “Yes. It’s how I wish the story actually ended.”

  I nod slowly. “Then that’s all I need to know.”

  His mouth parts, ready to add something, but I stand and press my fingers over his lips. “Let’s get you in the tub. You smell like a backyard brawl.”

  Despite his desire to set the record straight on something important to him, he doesn’t say another word. I lower my hand, and he allows me to help him into a standing position. As I examine the damage inflicted on his body—the red welts, dark bruises, fresh scrapes—I run my hands along his skin. His abs. His chest. Feeling for broken bones or tender spots sensitive to touch.

  He accepts my examination of his body with tense muscles. After I made the connection to him and Hunter, his story he tells at Stoney, I understand why he chose celibacy. Why he chose, instead, to accept the touch of pain rather than of affection.

  The night his son was killed in that crash, he was off getting high—and getting laid. Which, in itself isn’t a crime. But while his son was taking his last, labored breath, Boone was panting in pleasure. For him, this was the ultimate wrong, which needed an ultimate right by contrast.

  He had to find a way not to be that selfish person who thinks only of himself and his wants. His high, his fix—whether it be drugs or sex. I get it now. And I think of that moment we shared on my couch and wish I knew then.

  I would’ve been more delicate. Or maybe I would’ve told him how his touch freed a desire buried so deep within me, I didn’t know it even existed. That it was more than getting off; it was a connection I’ve never experienced with anyone else before.

  But right now, I just want my touch to convey my respect for him.

  “Melody…” His voice is husky and raw. I look up, and his eyes are closed. His jaw tense. “I don’t know when I’ll ever not feel…guilty. I wasn’t very good to Ashely—Hunter’s mom. Even if we weren’t a couple, technically…I should’ve been there for her more. Helped out more. I damn sure shouldn’t have walked out when she was asking to me take our son for the night.” He opens his eyes, and I can see his pain pouring out through every irritated vein clouding them.

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able just to be with you without the shame that follows…” he trails off.

  “Shh,” I whisper. “One step at a time, right?” His swallows hard, and I place my hand in his. “I’m not expecting anything else. One day, one minute, one second at a time.”

  Tightening my hold, I tug him toward the tub, then reach for the laces of his shorts. He allows me to untie them, and I slip my fingers under the waistband. Slide them down along the hard, defined muscles of his lower stomach.

  I push his boxers down, and they drop slowly to meet his shorts around his ankles. I hear his sharp intake of air as my body lightly brushes his. But this isn’t about sex. It’s about me taking care of him, about him trusting and allowing me to care for him.

  With a grunt, he steps over the edge of the tub and settles down in the water.

  “Too hot?” I ask, already adjusting the temperature.

  He shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything, but I’m frightened that his pain is too intense. I rush toward the closet and dig out a clean washcloth from the jumble of linens.

  When I turn around, Boone’s gaze is hard on me. “I want you in here with me.”

  Boone

  And I burn, lit by your torch

  MELODY STANDS FROZEN IN place, washcloth in hand. Her eyes leveling me with a knowing look.

  From the moment she first touched me in this tiny ass bathroom, I’ve been counting down the seconds until I combust. Every nerve ending in my body is screaming in pain, but it’s a distant roar compared the desire to touch her soft skin. Taste her sweetness. Feel her body against mine.

  I rise from the tub, my legs aching, but I’ll go to her if she makes me wait any longer.

  She swallows and licks her lips, and I curl my hands into fists.

  I’ve never begged for anything.

  Ever.

  But if she doesn’t touch me right now, this second… I’ll fall to my knees. And dare her to give me just one look that says she’s mine.

  “You’re hurting,” she says.

  “I don’t care.” And I don’t. Af
ter suffering these past few days without her, not knowing if I ran her off forever, whether or not she despised me…not knowing if she was high, lost, in trouble—I have to touch her, make sure she’s real, and that she knows just how much I’m going to try for us.

  I’m scared as hell. Worried that when I kiss her again, I’ll picture Hunter’s face. Pale and empty of life. The self-loathing I feel for myself for not being there to protect him has crippled me, and I may botch this whole thing to hell.

  But for her, I’m willing to do anything to be the man she needs. The one who can hold her and not flinch. Be strong enough that, when she shakes with need for a fix, will rub her calves, soothing away the raw ache.

  When she pangs with need, I want to fill her physically and emotionally; remove her mind so far from the addiction she feels safe to lose herself, trusting me to be the one to take her away.

  I’m not a fool. I know it’s dangerous to trade one addiction for another, and I’m not so conceited to think I could even be that for her—but I’m damn stubborn enough to refuse to let this woman slip through my fingers again.

  She takes one small, hesitant step forward, and it’s all I need. I’m out of the tub and rushing toward her. I pull her body against mine and lower my head, my lips crush hers.

  Despite my swollen fingers, I work the button of her jeans open. My hands in a rush to remove every article of clothing, to feel her silky skin against mine. She notices my struggle, and I can feel her smile against my mouth as she helps me push her jeans down her legs.

  She backs away just enough to let me tug her tank over her head, then she removes her bra. My eyes hungrily devour her breasts and stomach, the curves I can’t wait to explore. Without any prompting, I’m on my knees and sliding down her underwear.

  A groan escapes my mouth as I press my lips to her thighs. Her hand goes to my hair, fingers fisting as she gains her balance against my greedy need to taste her. I lift one of her legs and place it over my shoulder. She yelps, catching the wall for better balance.