Losing Track (25 page)

“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.

“I’m not some junkie,” I say, leaning my back against the cool wall for support. “I’m not all cracked out, picking at sores on my face, begging for change on the side of the road. Sleeping with nasty trucker dudes to score a bag.” I bite my lip, stopping my rant. But the justified anger continues to rise.

He lets a smile slip. “You paint a vivid picture.”

I mock laugh. “Yeah, well. Sometimes I try a little too hard.” Staring down at the scuffed hardwood floor, I think about the journal next to Dar’s bandana on my wobbly nightstand. The random thoughts I’ve put on paper since my first week at Stoney. For whatever reason—therapeutic or boredom—I’ve continued to write. Short poems transforming into longer stories.

The most recent one: a ride Dar and I took a year ago to the falls. One of our secret spots that we call our own. Five little waterfalls funneling into a small, windy stream. The red and orange clay slick against our feet. We covered ourselves with the stuff, bragging it was better than a snazzy mud wrap. Our bikinis caked with the clay, we looked like two super tanned naked chicks biking down the highway when we left.

A pang hits my chest, and I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to repress the memory. I can feel the baggie of crank burning a hole in my pocket, calling me. Summoning me to sniff the fuck out of it and halt the flow of memories threatening to pull me under.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, nodding toward the bathroom.

I lock the door behind me. The wooden barrier separating Boone from me doesn’t feel like enough. Like he can sense what I’m about to do; judging, disappointed. My reflection in the mirror mocks me; wild, windblown burgundy and black hair, pinhole pupils, flushed skin. I need an added layer of protection against his disapproval. Something to dull the sting.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the baggie. Set it on the counter. Christ! What am I doing? I step away from the sink, hands fisting in my hair, pulling it away from my face.

Slowly, calmly, I talk myself through it. Just another line. Just to take the edge off, to stop the past from creeping up. I suddenly see Dar’s dopey smile as she winks at me, laughing at something totally random and stupid. My dad, bent over a mirror, snorting a line of white powder. Him tossing his head back, seeing me…and winking.

The two memories collide. Flickering like an old movie reel.

Everything was always in the open. No one in my life held back dirty secrets. It was life, normal, who we were. All this rehab and counseling shit, and Boone’s constant, uptight presence in my life is what’s skewing my perception.

And I don’t even know why I care. I’ve never cared what anyone thought of me—especially some temporary guy. And really, if I’m fucked up in his book, just what does that make him? He fucking wails on people, inflicting pain, trying to inflict it on himself, as some form of punishment or redemption.

That shit is far worse than getting a high on and not wanting to settle down anywhere. Who the hell wants to be just like all the rest of the lame asses out there? All tied down to some loser who comes home late every night, two kids on either hip, miserable, discontent.

Fuck that.

I march toward the counter and grab the baggie. Wiping away any dust from the yellow marble, I clear a spot and empty half the contents onto the hard slab. I reach into my back pocket and tweak out my photo ID (my license still in the process of being suspended).

I don’t think while I chop. The hard plastic card cutting through the tiny white nuggets, turning them into fine powder, makes me sweat. I feel it beading along the back of my neck. Anxious to taste the bitter numbness.

My life is no harder than the average Joe working a nine-to-five—it’s just…a different kind of hard. People come in and out of my life. Floating along the timeline like little warped butterflies. Some I care for, some I love, some I even despise. But at some point—

Everyone leaves.

I drop my head and snort right off the counter.

The burn races up my nose, my eyes water. I blink, my breath stuck in my chest as I swallow hard. Force saliva down my dry throat. I gasp when my lungs free up. Rub at my forehead, already feeling the numbing. Tingling my skin. My cheeks are pale, and I cough to finish clearing the initial rush.

I turn on the faucet and run water over my fingers, then twist a pad around the inside of one nostril, then the other. I pinch my nose and sniff. Suck up the rest of the crank to clear away the white residue. Another big hit goes into my system, and I stumble back. Water always ramps the buzz.

My nose feels so fucking numb, but as I look in the mirror, I notice trace blood. It’s been a minute since I’ve done anything this harsh, and having taken some time off from everything, I’m just a little sensitive. I rip some toilet paper from the roll and pat the red away.

As the high takes full effect, I press my back against the wall, deciding I could stay in this tiny ass bathroom all night. Only the thought of Boone sitting in my living room gets me moving.

I can’t have him out there, wigging, calling an ambulance or some shit if I don’t come back out.

But before I leave, I secure my pink bandana around my wrist. One last thought of Dar, touch her tree charm necklace—I still can’t remember where she got it—then push all thoughts to the back of my head. Store them away. With all the other people no longer a part of my life.

As I enter, I see Boone staring down at my phone. I didn’t realize I set it on the bar. With my keys. Right. I saunter toward him, feeling weightless. “Something interesting you got there?”

His head snaps up. Brows pulled tight. Awareness lights his hazel eyes. He’s not stupid, and knows I just refreshed my high. “It was beeping. I didn’t mean to look…but the screen displays texts as they come in. It sounded urgent since the person kept hitting you up so hard.”

I nod, not caring in the least if he searched my phone. I don’t have anything to hide. Not really. I walk past him and scoop my iPhone from the countertop. I hit the button to light the screen and see five texts from Sam.

Shit. She’s worried, saying that she’s been sending me emails and texts and hasn’t heard back once. That she’s seconds away from hiring a private investigator to hunt me down. Or call the police. I smile at the thought; she so would, too.

I wasn’t trying to avoid her…not really. I just didn’t want to go through the whole explanation of Dar’s death yet. Not to her, and not to anyone else. Not yet. But I quickly type out a response because I don’t want her any more upset than she already is.

Me:
I’m fine, girl. Just between places right now. Will call with the deets once I’m settled.

She replies instantly.

Sam:
Finally! You had me scared shitless. Wild biker girls cannot leave the rest of us lamers out of the loop, ya know? We tend to freak. I even sent Darla a message! She won’t reply to me either ☹ Did she get my birthday present to her? Anyway, let me know when and where you settle. Holden and I are thinking of taking a trip soon. Would be awesome if we could meet up ☺

A searing fire travels up my chest, closing my throat on a sob. I can’t even think about trying to tell Sam why Dar will never respond to her messages again. It just feels so far removed from reality.

But then…Dar’s birthday. During the week she died. We partied so hard, and she did get a package. I was messed up then; can’t remember who she said it was from. But it was Sam. She must’ve told Sam where we were staying. My present to her was a week of partying. I cringe and fight back the tears.

Blistering at my own softness, I type out a final text:
You’re on, girl. Will get you word from the road soon.

I set the phone back on the bar. Without another thought wasted on hard truths and inevitable, fucked up shit that I have no control over, I try to focus on Boone. On the guy who, for a brief moment today, revealed this completely different side of himself. When he encouraged me to ride. Patient, stimulating, intelligent. Self-aware. And totally in tune with me and what I needed in that moment.

Smiling to myself, I have to admit, it was fun.

“What?” Boone nods his head toward me as he reclines on the couch.

I shake mine, still smiling all stupid. My high is in full swing. “I was just thinking about how much fun you were today.” One thing about methamphetamines? They make you brutally honest. “I wish you could be like that more often. Just confident, not cocky.” I eye him.

This actually gets a quick smirk from him. “Well, have dilemmas you need help with all the time, and I’ll come to the rescue.”

I roll my eyes, and move to sit on the arm of the couch. “What is with your freaking hero complex?”

“I like doing what I can for other people.”

“Meaning”—I use my fingers to make air quotes—“saving other users.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I told you before, it keeps me straight. Takes away the boredom.”

“So it’s a completely selfish thing, this need to save me.”

He seems to get uncomfortable and adjusts his position, pressing harder into the couch cushion. “We’ve had this conversation before, Melody. Let’s leave it alone this time.” He frowns. And I know it’s because I’m high. I’m pushing his buttons. Causing him to crave.