She manages to call me out on that fact when she says, “So, during your speech this evening, why don’t you try telling the real story, Boone?”
A sliver of fear skitters up my spine. I dodge her disarming stare and look at the tile floor. “It is the real story,” I say. At least, it’s somebody’s real story.
She puffs out a quick breath. “You know what I mean. Try telling your story. Why you ended up where you did, and what drove you there.” She dips her head to snag my gaze. “Eventually, you’re going to have to let someone in. And you’re going to have to accept that there was nothing you could—”
There’s my cue. I stand and make for the door. “Thanks for everything…again. I’ll see you next week.”
Not even Jacquie has been able to draw that out of me. She knows the deal, has read my file. But the facts have never come from me. And today’s not the day for change.
I race down the stairway toward the rest of my day. Toward the routine that will keep all the bad suppressed where it belongs.
Melody
Screaming in the void of our decay
ONE WEEK IN—AND I’m seriously about to lose my shit.
Scooping up a soggy spoonful of mashed potatoes, I turn to say something about them to Dar...
And reality slams me full-on in the gut.
I keep doing that. Forgetting.
Damn it to hell.
I don’t know how to do this. Darla and I have been nearly inseparable since the seventh grade. We’d known each other before then, had gone to grade school together, had the same classes, recesses, but she’d been this shy little thing. While I was hanging out with the boys, beating the shit out of most and secretly crushing on the rest, she was a wallflower. Her nose always in a journal.
It wasn’t until Marcy DeLuca—the spawn of Satan and your resident mean girl (every school has one)—cornered Darla in a bathroom stall that we became friends. I’d never thought much about the shy girl, who wore the same clothes for every day of the week. Who seemed content to mind her own business. Hell, I kind of admired her for that. But when Marcy started to read her journal aloud to the cackling Marcy clones, and I watched as Darla crumpled to the floor and started hyperventilating, a fierce need to protect her coupled with my hatred for bullies and I reacted.
I ripped the journal from Marcy’s manicured fingers and pushed her up against the wall, threatening to tell the whole school about the time I caught her drunk, getting it on with Carter Lemons (your resident school troll) at the bonfire.
I handed Darla her journal. Slit my gaze at the bitches as they retreated. I didn’t ask Darla questions about the parts of her journal I’d heard, regarding her sickening dad—and I think that’s why we became friends.
I came from a broken family and so did she. No explanations needed.
Before Dar, I never needed anyone. I learned early on that you couldn’t trust people. My dad didn’t keep his promise to always be there, and my mom…well, that’s on the ol’ man, too. He left me behind with her.
And I made damn sure I didn’t let anyone close enough to discover my weaknesses and use them against me. I didn’t need anyone to spell it out for me; I was angry, not stupid. I knew what my problems were. Dar knew her issues, too.
From then, we were inseparable. Sisters. Dar began to come out of her shell around junior year, when we were finally old enough to get into our local biker dive bar. The MC lifestyle had been a part of me forever—the biggest part. And it was the closest thing I still had to my dad. But that aside, I loved the idea of hitting the road whenever I wanted, going anywhere I wanted—the freedom. The escape.
Dar loved this idea, too. She’d listen with rapt attention any time I talked to her about the idealism. But she also enjoyed the attention she got from bikers. That was her escape.
I didn’t judge. She deserved to have fun after the shitty childhood she’d suffered with her dirt bag father and emotionally unavailable mother. I knew she’d never be serious enough about a single one of those guys to abandon me. And I’d laugh in any guy’s face who thought I’d ditch her and go on the road with him. That was our signal to bail. It was an unspoken understanding between us. It would always be us.
“Mind if I sit?”
A gruff voice interrupts my reverie. I blink.
“You look deep in thought about those mashed potatoes,” Boone says as he slides into the seat across from me.
I realize I’m still holding up the spoon, the soggy starch side-dish dripping clumps onto my plate. Putting the utensil down, I push the tray away and straighten my back. “I didn’t actually give you permission.” Cocking an eyebrow, I glance over his baby blue T-shirt and the colorful tats that peek out from beneath the sleeves and travel down his forearms.
“Isn’t that really just a formality?” He scoops up a spoonful of his own soppy potatoes. “Besides, this isn’t grade school. No assigned seats. They trust us to make good choices.”
I smirk. “Yeah, because obviously, that’s what got us in here.”
This earns me a grin from him, and he lays his spoon on the tray without taking a bite. “So you accept responsibility. That takes years for some, never for most. That’s a major step, Melody.”