Losing Track (20 page)

A smile curls my lips, and I wince at the quick jab of pain from the cut on my mouth. I program Melody’s name to the unknown number and hit save.

Affable just bumped up a notch.

Melody

An undercurrent in my sea of waves, crashing

ALMOST A WEEK SINCE I was released from Stoney and I’m still sober—for the most part.

I got a part-time gig at a coffee shop a few blocks down from my apartment. Which is a completely different clientele than I’m used to making drinks for. Although Randy offered me full time hours at the bar, I had to reject that sympathetic handout. Doesn’t mean I don’t drop in for a beer myself, but I make sure it’s a time when the MC aren’t around, like when Jesse’s working at the mechanic shop with Tank.

There’s a small group of the Lone Breed staying in town until Jesse’s acquitted of all charges. Which his fancy lawyer believes will be really soon. And I am relieved, honestly. Regardless of how I turned on him yesterday at that backyard brawl thing, what I said…I do know in my heart the wreck wasn’t Jesse’s fault. And I do think it’s best if he leaves here. Leaves
me
.

Being around Jesse more and more…it’s getting difficult not to think of doing a line, or taking a hit, of letting go, getting one last high... I know he’s always got a bag of something on him.

So for now, I dull the cravings with beer, and stay away from the hard stuff. I attend group meetings. Never talking, just listening, but I’m there. Then I head to my mostly empty, cavernous apartment alone.

That’s the hardest thing I’ve faced so far; living alone. All of my stuff fits into one corner of the bedroom. I have no cooking supplies. No TV. No real furniture. The apartment came furnished with the bare essentials; bed, couch, a small bar connected to the kitchen with two stools. But it’s the littlest, saddest, most depressing apartment in the world.

Darla filled any space with her large presence. Without her, the place is a hollow shell. I try to spend as little time there as possible. Though I did buy a home warming present for myself: a calendar. It hangs on the fridge, and every morning before work I cross out another day. My probation hearing just under five months away circled in thick red marker.

I’ve never had to do anything by a schedule, ever. Now, that’s my life. Everything scheduled down to the hour. Group meetings. PO appointments. Bill payments. Like electric and water. Things I’ve never had to keep up with before.

A wave of unease washes over me as I start to think about all the things I have to keep track of. And I wonder, not for the first time, if Nurse Bridge can be coaxed into recommending me to a doctor where I can score some anxiety meds.

But then there’s all the hassle I’d have to go through. Approval from my PO; statements sent to my counselors at group about my medication so my drug tests don’t pop. It’s not worth the effort. I’ll stick with beer.

The irony in all this: I was always the responsible one out of the Dar and me duo. The one who looked out for her, who made the plans on the road, who found us work gigs and places to crash. Who kept her safe, like a big sister, who took care of
us
…and I’m realizing for the first time in my life that I don’t have a fucking clue how to be a grown up. Not the
real
kind. I was so full of shit.

I take a sip of lukewarm beer and gaze out over Parker’s Dragway. The race track.

I’m always jacked before a race. My adrenaline amped. My nerves revved. I’m so wired and I haven’t even done any blow. The thought kicks my pulse. Before every race, I always took a good luck hit. Got myself right, focused. The craving is hitting hard right now.

It’s like that learned memory shit or whatever Doc Sid always ranted about. Something about how your body and mind recalls things in an inebriated state, and can’t do them or enjoy doing them without the high it’s used to getting as a reward. Some other shit about dopamine—I can’t remember it all. But suddenly, I’m freaked that I won’t be able to race.

I don’t know if I can ride tonight without the blow. I just don’t know. I feel like I should back out, wait a couple of weeks until I get past the hard cravings. But then…will I ever be able to do anything again? Fuck.

My hands tear through my hair, feeling the clamminess of my scalp. It’s a million degrees out here on the surface of the sun, and I’m covered in chills.

“You want anything, baby doll?” Tank stands at the bottom of the bleachers, pointing toward the concession stand.

Shaking my head, I wave him on. If I drink anything more, or try to eat, I’m sure I’ll lose my stomach. I set the bottle of beer down and wrap my arms around my legs.

“This seat taken?”

Boone’s deep voice sends a trill up my spine. My arms still secured to my legs, I look up. His massive six-foot-self blots out the lowering sun. I can’t believe it, but I’m so relieved to see him.

I wasn’t sure if I’d done the right thing yesterday by inviting him here. Earlier at the coffee shop, I was regretting it, thinking I’d lowered the barrier between us too much. Hell, I worked hard at releasing him, trying to keep him away from my scene. But yesterday kind of changed everything. He seems to be in the midst of his own messed up scene, so I don’t feel I’d hinder his “personal growth.” And I really need someone who understands what I’m going through near my side today.

Not that I can’t do it on my own. I’ve damn well been doing it so far. But today is a huge test. I need the added encouragement, it seems, and getting that little extra backing from a really hot guy never hurts. I wouldn’t even mind hearing some of his sobriety campaigning right this moment. At least he gets the deal.

“Take any one you want, guy,” I say, smiling.

He settles on the metal riser next to me. I can feel the warmth of his body against my side, my thigh, heating the chill from my skin. It feels good, and I’m tempted to lean into him.

“So you come here to watch?” he asks, like we’re just getting acquainted. Like we haven’t been in rehab together, or swam half naked together, or thought about sexing each other up together.

A nervous half smile pulls at my face. Not nerves from being around him; it’s really the fact that I feel so out of my element. And now, Boone’s presence just confirms that everything has shifted. Some guy from rehab, here at the track, where I race. Where Dar would be partying and cheering me on like a lushy cheerleader while picking up a new boy toy.

Everything feels so far out of trajectory.

Why did I invite him again?

“Yeah, to watch, and other things,” I finally say. His brow furrows. “I’m racing tonight.”

A splash of fear registers on his face. “That’s pretty dangerous. Don’t tell me this is your way of trading one high for another?”

“Har,” I mock laugh. “Believe it or not, I race all the time. Well, I used to before my bike got totaled.” I look past the stands, away from him, to where two motorcycles are gearing up to race down the dragway.

I feel Boone’s hand, his fingers sliding through my hair, as he slips a stray lock behind my ear, turning my attention back to him. “Is that how you ended up at Stoney?” he asks.

Well, he did offer me a partial truth yesterday… “I didn’t wreck it. But I was there, and I did blow the legal limit.” I tilt my head, thinking. “And I had a massive amount of blow in my system.” A twinkle in his hazel irises; his drug of choice, maybe. “Anyway, past is past. I’m out now and have to earn some quick money to buy another bike.”

His lips verge on a smile. “So it
was
the bike,” he says.

“It was totally the bike, dude.” I nudge his arm. “Did you really think I went with you that day because of your hot ass?”

He chuckles. “A guy can dream.”

His gaze rests on me and I stare back, our sight only on each other, and a stupid flutter wings to life in my stomach. Stupid hormones. I tamp the feeling down and look back to the track.

“So you’re a biker,” he says. “A one-percenter. Living the lifestyle.”

“I see you’ve been doing your research.”

“And then some,” he says. I glimpse a guarded expression crossing his face from my peripheral. “I thought you weren’t in a motorcycle gang.”

“I’m not. Not every biker—especially
women
bikers—are part of an MC. You can travel the country without an affiliation, ya know.”

He nods slowly. “You really are all about the rush, aren’t you?”

“I can say the same about you.”

His face is so close to mine, I can feel his warm breath feather along my lips. Our stare down is becoming too intense. I lick my lips, watching his eyes follow my tongue’s trail across my mouth.

“Mel!” Jesse calls from the other side of the giant fence, gaining my attention and breaking the moment. I sit back and look for Jesse. He’s down in the pit with Tank, getting ready for his race. “You coming?”

“Go on!” I yell back. “I’ll be there soon.”

Jesse hesitates, his gaze hard on me and Boone, before he turns and heads toward his Forty-Eight. A sinking feeling hits my stomach, and I’m again craving a hit. I push that feeling way down. It’s like chemistry or some shit. Jesse is linked to getting a high. Cause and effect.

Which reminds me; Jesse got way out of line with Boone and the whole possessive MC shit. He was like that with Simon, too. I’ve always figured it was a brotherly kind of protection thing. But for the past few days, I’ve been considering what Dar said that night. How she kept hinting toward Jesse and me as an item. It’s amazing the crap you have time to think about when you’re sober. I never would’ve given it two seconds of my time before.

“Your friend doesn’t like me very much,” Boone says, interrupting my weird thoughts.

I shrug. “Jesse’s like that. Don’t worry about it.”

“I wasn’t, really.” He ducks his head to find my eyes. “But I am concerned that he seems to think you’re his property.”

My insides rage. “I’m no one’s fucking property,” I bite out. “And you don’t know him. You don’t know the MC. It’s just their way…to like, look out for me and shit.”

Boone holds his hands up in defense. “Take it down a notch, Riz. Not looking for a brawl here.”

“Funny. I thought that was your MO, fight club.”

This earns me a full-on smile, and my anger takes a dive. “Fair enough. Truce?” He extends his hand.

With a forced sigh, I take his hand and shake. But he doesn’t release it. Instead, he subtly twists his hand so that our fingers align, palm-to-palm, then laces his fingers through mine. My traitor heart kicks my rib cage.

“How ill am I going to be watching you out there?” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you won’t be on a bike you’re used to, right? I’m assuming whoever’s bike you’re going to race is one of the guy’s from down there.” He nods toward the pit. “Not built for a woman.” He eyes me. “A petite one, at that.”

“I resent the fact that you think I’d have to ride a chick bike.”

He looks me over slowly, from head, to body, to toes, sending a flood of new heat everywhere. “What did you ride before?”

I attempt to hide my smile, doing a terrible job. “A Breakout, okay?” His smile widens, and I’m tempted to punch him in the shoulder. “I know…I know. But you have to admit that like, even though technically designed for chicks, it’s still bad ass.” I shrug. “I need a lower model, being vertically challenged and all.”

“I get that. And it is a badass ride. I’m sure it was modded all to hell, too.”

“Damn right,” I add.

“So what are you riding tonight?”

I nod toward the track, to where Jesse is getting ready to take off down the strip. “Forty-Eight.”

Boone’s gaze follows mine to Jesse and his new hog. I take a quick peek at his face, see his brows pull together, before he says, “No. No way.”

“Huh?”

“No offense. I’m sure you’re an excellent rider…but I can’t in good conscience let you drive that beast.”

“It is a beast,” I say, having to agree with him. But then my feminine hackles raise. This is the second time in two days that a guy is telling me what’s good for me. First, Jesse and his jealous ol’ man act, when he reiterated again and again how he didn’t like me hanging out with some backyard brawler. And now, Boone’s laying it on pretty thick. Though in all fairness, I am taking more than a gamble with Jesse’s hog.