Losing Track (Living Heartwood 2)

“I get that. And it is a badass ride. I’m sure it was modded all to hell, too.”

“Damn right,” I add.

“So what are you riding tonight?”

I nod toward the track, to where Jesse is getting ready to take off down the strip. “Forty-Eight.”

Boone’s gaze follows mine to Jesse and his new hog. I take a quick peek at his face, see his brows pull together, before he says, “No. No way.”

“Huh?”

“No offense. I’m sure you’re an excellent rider…but I can’t in good conscience let you drive that beast.”

“It is a beast,” I say, having to agree with him. But then my feminine hackles raise. This is the second time in two days that a guy is telling me what’s good for me. First, Jesse and his jealous ol’ man act, when he reiterated again and again how he didn’t like me hanging out with some backyard brawler. And now, Boone’s laying it on pretty thick. Though in all fairness, I am taking more than a gamble with Jesse’s hog.

“Ride mine,” Boone says.

Surprised, I look him straight in the eyes. “Are you serious?”

A moment of hesitancy pales his face, but to his credit, he checks it quickly. I know how much work he’s put into his Bonnie. And I’m sure he doesn’t trust me enough not to trash it on the track—he’s never even seen me ride.

“I’m sure,” he says. “It’s sits low, and it’s also a bobber, very lightweight. It rides pretty close to a Breakout, and you’ll handle it a hell of a lot better than that tank down there.”

This is actually true. His bobber is customized for speed, and it does sit low, lower than a Breakout, actually. But one thing: “It’s not American,” I say. “I cannot ride non-American.”

He cracks a smile. “How did I know you’d say that?” He gives my hand a pump, reminding me we’re still holding hands, and it scares me a little how right it feels, how normal. “I’m serious, Mel. You need to ride my bike if you’re going to do this. Don’t let your stubbornness get you hurt.”

A few weeks ago, him saying something like that would’ve ended with me telling him where to stick it. That it’s none of his business—which really, it’s not. But as I look down at our linked fingers, then up into his face, the light bruise covering one cheek, the cut above his eye, I know he also understands pain. Stubbornness. Determination. Want, and everything else I battle.

And truthfully, today is not the day I want to end up careening out of control. Whether on the track or off.

“Do you know how special you are, that I’m even offering you the chance to ride my baby?” His hand sends another pulse to mine, and it’s like a lifeline—his energy, his assurance, flowing from him to me.

I don’t think I would’ve offered him the same in return. I know what a huge thing it is to let someone else ride a machine you’ve put so much of yourself into. Really, I could get all misty on him in this moment.

Instead, I palm his large hand between both of my small ones. “I’m going to hear so much shit for racing a Triumph.”

Boone

Above the trees, soar the sky, touch the stars

MELODY ISN’T SUFFERING DT’S, I can tell. But the sweat glistening on her forehead isn’t due to the late August afternoon heat, either. She’s suffering from something nearly worse than the sharp, sudden pain that comes from withdrawal; she’s craving. Hard.

If racing has always been in her life, like riding motorcycles has, like traveling has—then I’m guessing she’s done so high. Probably for the most part, anyway. It’s an eye-opening realization when a user comprehends for the first time they cannot function—or do the simple things they love—sober. Like for Mel, who is now cracking her knuckles and anxiously running her hands through her sweat-slicked hair. Over and over, repeating her nervous tells.

“Just relax,” I say, lightly placing my hands on either side of her hips.

I hear her soft, nervous laugh over the rumble of my bike. “This is so freaking embarrassing. I’ve never—I should be schooling you on riding your own bike, dude. I got this.”

A smile breaks across my face, and I scoot up closer to her from behind. “I’m not letting you take my baby out there until you’ve at least given it a test run.”

“I get that,” she says, readjusting her grip on the handlebars. “But do you really have to ride along like I’m some newbie?” She releases the handle again to crack her knuckles. Or to try to crack them. She’s fiending, and if she wasn’t trying to figure out what’s wrong, she’d have already taken off by now, if nothing else then to shut me up. This is how I know she’s fiending. She’s trying not to think about the rush she loves tying together with the rush her body needs; the drug.

I wish I could take this part for her, but she’s going to have to face it in order to learn to ride again. Not learn the basics, like she’s a recovering crash victim who has to learn to walk again. But it’s similar. She has to learn how to simply exist in her world sober. It’s just as disabling until you conquer it.

There’s no not talking about the proverbial elephant in the room, since it’s hard on her mind. Might as well get to it and face the monster. Wrapping my forearms around her waist, I say, “Drug of choice?” I already think I know this, since she admitted to having blow in her system before she was sent off to Stoney.

I feel her quake beneath my hold. A hard shiver. “Coke.”