Losing Track (18 page)

“Okay, Miss Lachlan, let’s continue,” she says, scanning over the file on her desk instead of looking at me. “Have you found a residence to reside at during your probation period?”

Yes…and no. Because Jesse has to stay in St. Augustine throughout the duration of his pretrial court stuff, the MC sprung for a small apartment for him. Tank footing most of the rent, I’m sure. Jesse made the offer the other night to let me stay with him until I could afford my own place.

This did not seem like a good idea. Especially since Jesse is far from clean. I might be honest about my
dependence
now—not addiction; there’s a difference—but I don’t need to topple on unnecessary temptation.

Besides, after the way Tank not-so-subtly hinted to me and Jesse becoming an MC item, I don’t want to encourage Jesse. I’m not sure if it’s Tank’s idea or his, or the whole of the MC pushing the idea—but it’s better not to encourage any of them. Jesse will do whatever the MC tells him to. If his mentor says he needs an ol’ lady to settle him, to keep him out of trouble, Jesse will follow instructions. I know he’d do anything at this point to earn his full patch.

I’m not MC property, though. And both Tank and Jesse know this. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try. I thought I’d made my intentions clear about that a long time ago, but maybe they’re just trying to look out for me. Thinking I need an ol’ man now that Dar is gone.

I’ve been tussling with this since the other night. I just don’t know what to believe. Or what I
want
to believe. That’s two very different things, there.

“Melody?”

Jacquie’s soft but firm voice draws me out of my musings. I sit forward. “Sorry. Yes, I have a residence.”

She poises her pen over the page. “And where is that?”

I rub the back of my neck, feeling stilted. “Someone from Stoney Creek hooked me up with a cheap apartment near here. Month-to-month lease. For now.” That would be big mama Nurse Bridge. On the day of my release, she told me that her daughter was going off to graduate school and vacating a cute little apartment. The timing worked out perfectly, and she drove me there that afternoon to sign the lease with the landlord and get moved in. My whole two boxes and all.

“That’s great. And have you been able to schedule your group meetings yet?”

Shit. “Uh, yeah.” I nod, even though no, I haven’t done that yet. But I’m sure Nurse Bridge can help me there, too. “Once a week, right?”

Jacquie looks up and smiles. “Right. You’ll be required to take a drug test every week before group, and the counselors will also make random home visits. So…just keep that in mind.”

Great. I feel like a freaking cow, but instead of milk, my udders are being milked for urine. Bottled water will be my new BFF. At that thought, my heart pinches. I have no one to share my inside joke’s with. Dar would’ve had a funny comment about this. I can hear her running through the apartment, pretending to ding a cowbell every time the doorbell rings.

“We can go ahead and set up your next appointment for here, too. Pick a day that works best for your weekly schedule. We’ll do once a week for the first two months, then see how it goes from there.” She tilts her head questioningly when I don’t respond with an affirmative right away. “Do you have any questions so far?”

I shake my head. “None. Stay sober and out of trouble and I get off in five months, right?”

She folds her hands atop the desk and hunches her shoulders, her features severe, like she’s about to impart some terrible news. “Melody, have you received any grief counseling?”

At once, my defenses flair. “I got plenty of counseling at Stoney.”

“Yes, but that was a short, twenty-day treatment, primarily focused on giving you the tools needed to battle addiction. With what you’ve been through…” She gives her head a quick shake before her eyes drill into me. “It would be wise to seek help in order to deal with your loss in a healthy way. Most people who are physically dependent on substances find it very difficult to get and
stay
clean, but having to deal with the death of a close friend makes it nearly impossible. I strongly advise seeing someone,
anyone
you trust.”

I want to tell this lady that I’ve dealt with a whole hell of a lot more in my short lifetime, and I know all too well how to handle it. But I don’t. Something in her demeanor, her soft eyes, says that she’s not like Doc Sid and the others. She’s my parole officer, this really isn’t her MO, to hook me up with a therapist and shit.

Finally, I shrug a shoulder. “I’ll manage. As long as I don’t have to do another turn at Stoney, locked away from civilization, I’ll be fine.” I stand and push my chair back, leaving regardless of whether our time’s up or not.

She glances down and jots something on the page before she says, “All right. We’ll meet again next Friday, and for the time being, I’ll put in your notes that you’ll continue to see me once a week until you’re released from parole.”

Again, she comes off more like a counselor than a PO—not that I have much experience with either. I’m trusting my people skills here. And she might even be someone who gives a real shit.

I make for the door, and she says, “My card is in your folder. Call if you need anything.”

I’m hoping that I don’t have to take her up on that offer.

“This was not the plan,” I say, shrugging out of Jesse’s jacket and handing it to him.

He takes it and slips it on over his tee. He lent it to me before I hopped onto the back of his new hog, his Harley Forty-Eight he scored a good deal on down in Daytona. I’m so sick with envy I could choke.

“Relax,” he says, motioning me through the door of some run-down house in the middle of a neighborhood that looks worse than the worst of Hazard—and that’s saying something. “I promised you’d get to race on the track, and you’re going to.”

“Then why the hell are we at some crack house?” I glance around the foyer as we enter. The walls are either nicotine-coated yellow, or the last time they were painted was for a porno shoot back in the seventies.

He points to an open sliding glass door on the other side of the small house, to where a heard of people are filing through. “You’ll see. You can make some dough at the track tomorrow, but this will give you a nice start. You’ll earn twice as much in an hour here.”

Tank is tagging my trail, and I look back at him with raised eyebrows. “You approve?”

He laughs. “A good brawl is good for the soul, baby. And the prospect is right.” He punches Jesse lightly on the shoulder. Although he “loves him like a son,” even Tank refers to Jesse as prospect until he’s a full-patch owner. “You’ll make an okay amount to get you going toward your new hog.”

As we work our way toward the glass door, I slip my thumb into my jean pocket, making sure the last of my savings is still there. I’d rather have most of it for the track, where I know for sure I can earn out. With Jesse’s Forty-Eight—a fast as hell bike—I could at least enter and win three races. That would get me to the halfway mark, and I’d still have enough for rent and food, and other necessities I usually don’t think about on the road.

Like toilet paper. Who forgets to buy that? I do. When I’m used to using it in motel rooms, bars, public restrooms, wherever. Well, I found out I had none the hard way this morning.

The noise of the crowd intensifies as we push through to the backyard. Bodies are packed tightly, heads weaving side-to-side as people try to glimpse something in the center of the commotion.

Jesse tugs my hand, and I’m led toward the side, around the crowd, to where a group of bikers are pumping their fists in the air and shouting. They’re old school riders; faded Harley Davidson tats on their forearms, worn leather vests with no MC affiliation. Black bandanas wrapping their graying, long hair. Jesse nods to one and hands him a roll of dollars.

He then turns to me and raises his eyebrows, prompting me. I dig out the wad of cash, silently cursing as I hand Jesse half of my stash. “This better be damn good,” I say.

“Don’t worry. I got you.” He hands the biker my money and says, “Two on The Hunter.”

Blowing out a deep breath, I stand on my tiptoes to peer over the crowd. A makeshift boxing ring is positioned in the middle of the wooden fenced-in yard, and I can just make out two guys in the center dancing around each other, their fists raised.

Holy shit. My mouth pops open and my head snaps around toward Jesse. “A backyard brawl?”

He laughs. “Relax. The po-po know about this club. In fact, I think they sponsor it.” He points toward two obvious cops despite their street clothes. You can always tell by the haircut and the clean-cut look regardless of how grunged out they try to appear. It’s in the way they stand, trying to look comfortable but like there’s a stick up their asses.

“Still,” I say close to Jesse’s ear. “It’s illegal, dude. The last place either of us should be, ya know?”

His forehead creases. “Wow, Mel. Rehab really put a hurt on your spirit. Look”—he motions toward the ring—“one fight and we’re gone. Just chill, okay? I promise there’s nothing to worry about. This shit is huge down here. It’s everywhere. No reason why we can’t make bank until we can get out of here.”

Turning my attention back toward the fighters in the ring, I try to assure myself that Jesse’s right. I mean, fracking cops are standing a few feet away, placing their own bets. When did I become so fucking uptight?

Just as I’m maneuvering to get a better view, calming down enough to enjoy the show…my gaze lands on something that spikes my heart rate, and all bets are off.

Fucking good guy Boone.

Hardcore straightedge, sobriety peddler and keeper of celibacy, Boone Randall.

In the ring.

“What the hell…?” I’m taking off through the crowd, pushing around people and weaving a jagged path to the front of the throng before I know what I’m doing.

I don’t have time to process what I’m seeing, what I’m feeling—deceived. Played. Confused. Many things swirl the chaos of my thoughts as I watch Boone take a hard punch to the jaw. Bareknuckle. No gloves to soften the blow.

His head snaps sideways, and a stream of red sprays from his mouth. My gut clenches.

I finally reach the ring, but a band of yellow tape holds me back from getting to the ropes. I have no idea what I was going to do once I got here—what I intend to say. The shock of seeing Boone in the ring getting the shit beat out of him stunted all rational thought and I just needed to…
What
?

All thoughts cease the moment our eyes connect.

His deep hazels surrounded by sweat and puffed skin. Mine so wide, I swear they’re about to bulge from their sockets. In the two seconds it takes for Boone to register me, my utter confusion and disbelief, I glimpse the same in him. A fraction of a second now, his features shift from confusion to awareness.

Then a slight smile tilts his lips.

The fighter coming at him drives a fist right toward his face, and Boone shifts his attention from me to the guy, quickly dodging and delivering a powerful punch to the guy’s ribs. Without pause, he nails his opponent again in the same spot. Then with his other fist, lands a blow to the guy’s temple.

Wobbling on his feet, the fighter blinks and then sways left, unable to keep his fists raised.

I’m sure the fight is over. That whoever is in charge is about to call the end of the round, or the fight, ding the bell, whatever. But the crowd’s cheers rise around me, muffling the sounds in the ring. They stomp and chant, “Finish him! Finish him!”

Boone wipes the sweat from his brow, turning his gaze to mine once more before he stares down his opponent. He hauls back and sends an uppercut to the fighter’s chin.

The guy is through. He hits the mat with a solid
thud
, his head bouncing a couple of times before he blacks out. Everyone is screaming, and cheering, and money goes up in the air, gripped in fists and passed to others. It’s chaos.

And the whole time, my gaze is on Boone. Good Guy Boone. What. The. Hell?