Losing Track (Living Heartwood 2)

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.