Losing Track (Living Heartwood 2)

The judge clears his throat. “Once completed, and tested free of all illegal substances for the pre-determined probation of six months, your case will be reevaluated and considered for dismissal.” He lowers the papers to his judge desk—whatever the proper name for those hulking things are where they stare down at you all judgy—and cocks his head. “Do you understand that you are not to leave the state of Florida during your length of probation?”

My lawyer nudges me. “Yes, sir,” I respond.

“Do you understand the length of your probation can and will be extended if you do not successfully complete rehabilitation or do not meet your assigned probation officer’s requirements in this time?”

I bite my bottom lip. Forcing my head high, I say, “Yes, sir.”

He nods once.

The gavel slams.

The harsh boom echoes through the courtroom, sealing my fate. It’s so fucking cliché, I want to laugh. Or cry.

“I told you,” my lawyer, Stephanie, says. She collects the few pages on the desk and shuffles them before slipping them into her briefcase. “That’s the minimum. I told you you’d get the minimum. It could have been much worse…considering.”

She’s smart. She won’t say it. She made that mistake once, and nearly got her pretty blue eye all blacked.

I follow her out of the courtroom as the next person is called forward. My eyes scan the lobby, looking for Jesse. His hearing date is the same as mine. I know this, because I just visited him in county lock up last night. His case, though—I’m told—won’t go as smoothly as mine.

But Tank has gotten him the best lawyer money can buy. So I have some faith; the Lone Breed will take care of the legal issues.

Tank offered the same to me, but I prefer to handle my mess on my own. Out of respect for my dad, they still look out for me, making sure I get jobs on the road, or a place to crash if I need it. But I never ask for favors.

Those are debts.

Nothing, nothing is free—everything comes with a price.

Stephanie sticks out her hand for me to shake. I stare at it, and she pulls it back to her side. Runs her hand over her purple pantsuit. Purple. How tacky. I hate fucking Florida.

“All right. That’s it,” she says. “Oh.” She reaches into her case and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Take this to the filing office in the building across the street. They will give you all the information. Where to go, who to see. They’ll get it all set up for you.” She smiles.

I grin, my teeth gritted tight. Then I accept the paper from her bony hands and head out to find the filing office. Like the good girl that I am.

The smell of this place is musty and old. Humid—like everything in Florida. It clings to you. No amount of air-conditioning can blow the sticky stench off. I fan the form as I walk, waving it in front of my face to feel what little breeze I can.

Finally, after traversing the many mazes of halls and elevators, I find the right office area for filing court case info. And awesome. There’s a long ass line. Settling against the wall for the wait, I take out my iPhone. I had to give it to the rent-a-cops at the courthouse to hold during my case. So at least now I can check my messages.

Nothing.

Pfft. Not surprising, since everyone I consider close to me, who would reach out to me on a day like this, is either dead or locked up. Mom’s busy with her new husband, Jack “Mad Dog,” another member of Lone Breed. We’ve had little to do with each other since my father’s death. Tank, who’s pretty much like an uncle, would’ve been here, only I told him not to come. One thing I agreed with my lawyer on: his biker attire probably wouldn’t have gone over well in court. And the MC don’t or won’t convert to the public’s rules.

Best if I just fill him in later.

I flip through my most recent pics, and a deep pang tears at my chest. An image displays of me and Dar at Randy’s Bar the night before the last night… The night it all went to hell.

Her lips are painted red, stretched in an O as she makes a dumb face. My arm around her shoulders, my head leaning against hers as I make a similar stupid face. We weren’t even hammered, not yet. Just kicking the night off with our first drinks and waiting for the local band to come on stage.

A searing anger rises into my throat, almost choking me. I cough and blink the mist from my eyes.

What a fucking waste.

I click the photo album off and see a red icon over my inbox. There’s not many people who use my email to contact me, so I already have a good idea who it is. When I open my inbox, I’m nervous. I’m all okay with handing out somewhat sound advice, coming off like I’m smarter than I am, and trying to help poor lost souls find their way—wisdom from the well-traveled biker—but for whatever reason, Sam really got under my skin.

I’ve kept in touch with her—one of the few chicks that I consider a friend—and we talk at least twice a week. Usually about her college junk, and Holden, and their combined love fest shit. It’s cool. I’m always happy to hear tha

t something is working out for someone I care about.

But today…right now…I’m not in the mood.