Losing Track (Living Heartwood 2)

I shrug. “Boy, you have yet to see ruthless.” I wink.

I swear the look on his face is one of pure terror. I laugh.

Boone

Rolling, and tumble, back down the hole

RANDY’S IS A ROWDY, run-down, biker dive bar on the outskirts of St. Augustine’s drinking district. Had I stumbled in more than a year ago, I’d have found the place really entertaining. I might have gotten drunkenly belligerent and ended up with a severe beating—but I’d have held my own, and it would’ve been a crazy fun memory.

As of now, those “crazy” memories of times like that are more shameful than fond. They were what came before Hunter. And they should have ended then. I should’ve acted like a responsible, boring grown up, and this past year would’ve been some awful, alternate nightmare reality.

So that’s why I’m here. Not for me, but for Melody. Watching her ride my bike and race down that track only heightened my already intense feelings for her, and I can’t walk away now. Not when I know that even as strong as she is, as determined as she is to fight, she’s still holding on tightly to that part of her. The one that doesn’t want to let go of the destruction.

Besides, I have to find some way to tire myself out—so I might sleep through most of tomorrow. Jacquie offered—for this one day—to have one of the doctors at Stoney prescribe me a sleeping aid, or Valium. Or some other drug to help me deal. I’m not about to break my drug-free streak, though. Not yet.

If sleep fails, there’s always Nickel’s. Nothing like a few well planted blows to the head to knock you out for a day.

But since Melody found her way back into my life, I think I’ll put my self-loathing on hold. Focus on her instead. Her needing my help today…I could do that. If she wants it, I’m more than willing to spend the next twenty-four hours giving her whatever help she needs.

She believes her main goal is getting off probation. Which for her might be the ultimate reason—but I’ve witnessed rare glimpses beneath the cover of her existence, and the hard-as-nails girl she shows the world isn’t the smart, poetic woman she hides from most. She’s probably only revealed that depth to a handful of people, if that. And I want to be one of them.

I want to fight not to lose that woman. Whether I’m fighting for her or fighting her.

The stench of cigarette smoke mingling with alcohol fills my nostrils, and I’m somewhat ashamed that it’s not a stink at all. It smells damn good. I’m used to the onset of cravings, but that doesn’t mean they still don’t become overwhelming.

Especially now, while I watch Melody down a shot.

“Another!” Jesse shouts to the blond bartender already pouring more rounds.

“Fuck it,” Mel says, waving a hand in the air, her eyes half slits. “Why not. Not like I have anywhere special to be tomorrow. Not like I’m picking up my new Breakout.”

“Aw, come on,” Jesse plies her. “Who the fuck is this? Since when do you whine like a little bitch?”

My hackles raise. I know this is their typical banter, and it works for them. I really don’t want to be that guy—the one who demands a girl drop her friends for him. We’re not even to that point yet, and I wouldn’t request it, regardless. I hate those guys. But this isn’t about me and her, us. It’s about her recovery. And this guy is toxic to Mel.

“Fuck you, bitch,” Mel tosses back at him. “I can act anyway I want. I’m not the one who totaled his bike and mine. I think you owe me some cash on that one.” Her head sways a little, following the loose movements of her body on the stool. “Actually, duce, you owe me a lot more than that, like a—” Biting down on her bottom lip, she cuts herself short.

For a quick second, I watch her battle her drunken state; blink hard, shake her head. Lick her lips, as she tries to fight something back. I glance at Jesse, feeling like the third wheel between them. His expression is sheet pale. What she just said to him has no real meaning for me, it’s all drunk talk—but he looks like he’s two seconds from either bolting or exploding.

With a less than steady hand, he reaches for the shot glass in front of him and throws it back. “I don’t want to do this here,” he says, low, intended only for Mel to hear.

Mel takes a fast glance at me, blinks, then swivels in her stool to face Jesse. “I figure here is the proper place, wouldn’t you agree? Here is where—”

“Stop!” he shouts. “Not here. Not now.” He sends her a stern glare that makes Mel sit up, her lips trembling. But it’s not from fear; it’s anger.

Whatever they have to level between them isn’t going to go well at this point. Jesse’s holding his liquor better than Mel, but he’s on something. He talks a little too loud, looks around a little too much, paranoid—the opposite response to alcohol.

He groans and runs a hand through his messy hair. “I knew this was coming,” he says. “I fucking knew it. We should’ve just hauled ass out of this town. Got the fuck away.”

I push the glass of water to the front of the bar, ready to move in a flash if one of them gets physical. My eyes are on Mel, waiting to see if she snaps or welcomes the lethargic effect of the liquor. She’s teetering. Could sway eithe

r way.

Her hands are gripped into fists by her sides. Her eyes are watery, on the verge of angry tears, and she’s eased herself to the edge of the stool. The heels of her knee-high boots pressed to the bar under her seat, ready to spring.

The music overhead changes, a new song starting up. And in the quick moment of quiet, I hear Mel’s deep breaths. She reaches for her shot glass and swallows the amber liquid in one gulp. “Fuck this,” she says. “I’m through, Jess. I need to get out of here.”

He turns and faces her. “That’s what I’m saying. We—”