Losing Track (15 page)

Her throaty voice cuts through the suffocating fear creeping over me. “I got a letter. From a friend. He’s just been released from jail.”

I notice the folded paper in her hand. Her fingertips pinching the paper, holding it away from herself. “That’s good news.” It’s not a statement; it’s a question.

She nods. “Yeah.”

Silence thickens between us.

“Walk?” I offer, hoping I can get her out of whatever funk this friend has caused.

Nodding again, she picks herself off the floor and folds the letter to make it smaller. She stuffs it into the back pocket of her jean skirt before saying, “So how did you fair with the blue balls yesterday? You seem to be walking all right.”

A chuckle slips out. I know she’s avoiding. Doesn’t want to talk about the letter or her friend, so I can roll with her punches. “Worst case I ever had.” And that’s no lie. I thought long and hard about jerking my dick to kingdom come, but I settled for blue balls. An extra little dose of punishment for almost fucking up.

“And that’s the best compliment I’ve ever had. Thanks, Boone.” She nudges me with her shoulder as I shake my head.

As soon as we step outside, I drop my shades over my eyes and instantly regret my idea. For the seconds I was entranced with Mel’s pain, with her, I forgot about the sky-high heat index. “Shit. If there was ever a month to get the fuck out of Florida,” I say.

“No shit,” she agrees. Turning to face me, she adds, “You do have a bike. Well, sort of. Not sure I classify your Bonnie bobber as one, really…” she trails off, and I let the slight against my bike slide. I figured her for an all American girl. “But we could Bonnie and Clyde our way to Sturgis. Pun totally intended.” She winks. “There’s always, like, a crazy aftermath of drag races and parties following the rally.”

I want to think she’s joking. But I have a sure feeling in the pit of my stomach that if I offered her to leave right now, she’d hop on the back of my bike. No questions. And suddenly, there’s a sickness gripping my gut to match that feeling—I
want
that.

At some point, whether it was the moment she touched me, the heated look in her eyes, or the second I saw the hopelessness forming around her in the hall…a line was crossed. There’s no walking away now.

This girl will break me.

And I’ll beg her to do it.

We reach the benches near the basketball court and she slides onto the top seatback. I lick my lips, thankful for my shades as my gaze travels up her creamy legs to her thighs. I imagine running my hand up that same course. Under her skirt…

Fucking hell. At some point, I’m going to have to wear my dick out. I should beat the hell out of it each time before I see her. I’m like a horny teen getting a taste of porn for the first time. It’s embarrassing.

I’ve gone almost a year with no real temptations. Where the hell did this girl come from? She blindsided me.

Clearing my head, I pry my eyes away from her slightly parted thighs and try to focus on the fact that she’s upset about something. Try to get my head wrapped around the true reason why I invited her out here. To get her thoughts off of what’s bothering her.

“I don’t want to get too into it,” she says, staring at her flip-flops on the wooden bench. “Like, I just want to tell you something and have it out there.”

“All right. I think I can handle that.”

She slips one foot out of her shoe and rubs her pink painted toenail across the groove in the wood. “My dad was a member of an MC…a motorcycle club.” My brain starts trickling down the things she said at the lake, connecting the distinction between the different biker clubs. “By default, being a daughter gives me a level of acceptance from the MC. They protect their own, and my friend…he’s a member, too. Well, a prospect. Not a full member yet.”

At my confused expression, and really, I’m trying to hide it and follow along, she sighs. “Never mind,” she says, waving her hand. “It’s dumb. And I probably shouldn’t be saying—”

“No,” I say. “Go on. It’s not dumb if it’s important to you, and I’ll keep up.” I give a wry smile. “I’m not down with the cool kids, but I can follow.”

She pinches her lips together, suppressing a smile. “Right. Well basically it’s this. They got him the best damn lawyer money can buy, and he’s out on bail. Plus, he says they won’t have a court hearing, it will all be handled pretrial or something. He most likely won’t be found guilty. Which he’s not, so there’s that.”

I nod, sink my hands into my pockets. Wait for the next part. The bad. When she doesn’t say anything, I ask, “This is good, right?”

She exhales heavily and raises her eyebrows. “Yeah, sure.
That’s
good. But because what he’s accused of has to do with someone close to the MC, they’re going to conduct their own investigation. And the MC’s laws are different from the courts’.” She looks toward the parking lot, a faraway expression shutting her features down. “He might’ve been safer in prison.”

I let her words resonate. For Melody, from the little I’ve come to know of her, this is a lot she’s trusting me with. Which means she has no one else to turn to. This is something heavy that she needed to talk about, and she didn’t take it to her counselor. She needed someone neutral.

And I want to fix it for her. I wish I had the answer. She has enough to face and deal with trying to get sober, and I know better than anyone how the outside world bleeds into your cocoon, making it damn near impossible.

Then something she said hits me. “You’re a member?” I say questioningly.

She shakes her head. “No, women can’t be full-patch holders. Or members.”

“But you said your dad is.”

“
Was
. He died.”

Damn, this is edging that strained area between us. “Sorry.”

“It was a while ago.” She looks up at me. “But what are you getting at?”

“They value your opinion. If you know your friend is innocent, have some proof, then you could testify for them.”

Her brows pull together, and I don’t know if I’ve just embarrassed myself, having no idea how club politics work.

Something akin to fear passes over her face. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s what I have to do.”

I nod. “Okay. Good.” But I notice she said
have to do
. There’s a glaring difference between wanting to do something and having to. I tuck that away for now.

“Thanks, Boone. Really. You helped make this simple.” She holds my gaze, her expression bold, determined, and even relieved. But the underlying shadow of doubt cancels all that out. It’s not my place to question, though. No matter how badly I want to know what or
who
she’s doubting. Herself or her friend.

Melody

Feel not, fire only consumes

WHEN I WAS TWELVE, I begged my dad to take me with him to one of his meetings. I was well over double digits, finally old enough to be a part of his world. But instead, he told me no. Then he explained it had nothing to do with my age, but the fact that I was a girl.

Girls weren’t equal to the men in the MC.

He never lied to me. Even when the truth hurt, he was honest. Short, direct, and to the punch. But he also never treated me like I was a
girl
—as terrible as that sounds, it was an honor.

He built me a cruiser bicycle and called me Little Rider. I wasn’t allowed to know about his club business, but after that, I didn’t want to. He always found ways to show me the lifestyle through his eyes, how he viewed the one-percenter way of life. The important aspects about it to him.

For that alone, I felt more included in his world than any other woman or kid connected to Lone Breed.

Later that year, when he died, the best part of the Lone Breed MC died with him. I knew the MC wouldn’t let us starve, or lose our house, or get so bad off we’d have to leave Hazard. I didn’t turn away offers of help because I was fearful or even angry—though I was bitter, and resentful. And even though I knew my mother was fucking one of the members, getting her own handouts, I wanted to prove to them all and myself that I was just like him. Like my dad. That I was strong.

I earned a lot of respect from the MC. But I earned more than that—my freedom. Where I’m not indebted to the MC, but can count them among family. Truth is, there’s a fine line between family and enemy…if crossed the wrong way.

Pushing those conflicted thoughts aside, I spring from my bed. Nurse Bridge is going to have a shit fit, but I shut my room door anyway. I need some alone time. Stretching out on the bed again, I lie on my back and rest Jesse’s letter on my stomach. My hand covering it.

For the past week, I’ve done more than my usual bare minimum. Wrote letters to myself required by my treatment, things the “new me” would tell the “old me” if I could travel back in time. I didn’t make a fuss, didn’t argue when I was asked to complete other ridiculous assignments. Listened and held my tongue with Doc Sid. Because I need to pass their tests and get
out
.

Unfortunately, that means no more dicking around with Boone. Once I was decided on completing my treatment, Boone fun time had to go. Even though he’s the poster boy for sobriety and could help guide me through the system—truth is, just being around him makes me want to break all the rules. It’s the rebel in me. He says jump, I plop my ass down. He says hands off…I’m devising schemes to strip his clothes off.

Beating the utter boredom by checking out Boone’s cute bottom aside, he’s too much of a diversion from my goal. Sure, we could have some times once I get released from Stoney, but I have to get back to my life. One that is so far outside the neat, clean one he’s trying to live. For as long as I’m stuck in Florida on probation, I don’t need to make permanent attachments. I don’t need to fuck someone else’s life up.

I lift Jesse’s letter and think about reading it again for the hundredth time, then tuck it under my mattress. He says that if all goes well, he could earn his full patch by the time I’m out of rehab. What he doesn’t say, but what I can read between the lines, is that in order to earn his full patch, he has to prove he had nothing to do with Dar’s death.

Even though Dar didn’t have biological family in Lone Breed, she had me. I was her family. Every member of the MC knows that, and they looked out for her just like they do for me—because it was always us.

I don’t know why I thought I could bury this, pick up and move on, no repercussions. The MC has their own set of laws and punishments apart from the rest of the world. Tucked away in here, away from that life, it’s easy to feel disconnected. If I’m being honest, I haven’t felt fully connected since the moment I lost my dad. And then losing Dar…my brain shut down.

I’ve been selfish. So wrapped up in avoiding my own pain that I haven’t stopped to consider what Jesse’s going through. His letter didn’t say he was sorry. Or lament on any feelings of guilt. It was short and factual. But I know he’s torturing himself. How could he not? And he wrote this letter right before he was released. He won’t ask me right out, but by divulging the MC’s plans to investigate, he’s counting on me to take up his side.

Boone was right; I can testify for Jesse. It should be a simple fix. Except something Doc Sid said about people you trust protecting you has been picking a hole in my convictions. Making me question that night and the domino effect of my and Jesse’s actions. Dammit. These people are getting inside my head and twisting things.

I wish so badly that my dad was here. That I could ask him what to do. I’m confused and scared, and I hate admitting that. I feel so weak. And tired. I’ve been on the road for a long time, looking for answers, for the life my father found out there that he loved so much. He always had an answer, a way of explaining things that made people listen. I’ve tried hard to be just like him—but when it comes to me, I don’t have an answer for shit.

Fuck. I scrub my hand down my face, exhausted from the sheer amount of energy it takes to
think
. I shouldn’t have said anything to Boone at all. Now I also have his virtuous shit running through my mind. I have never craved a hit so badly like I’m craving one now. I just want to disappear into a high for like an hour and
not
think.

I have less than a week to sort through my shit and get my head straight.