Losing Track (11 page)

A hole has been punched into my chest. I’m bleeding all over the floor. My lungs are filled with blood. I’m suffocating, and the shredded pieces of the flesh splay from the hole, fall to the floor, splash the walls.

So when I see Melody, and she says, “Stalk much, creeper?” my insides bubble and rage. The hole grows and swallows me. I can’t stop it.

“Full of yourself, much?” I respond, then turn the corner down the hall, heading toward the side door. I need
air
.

“What the…?” I hear her say before her rapidly paced footsteps are catching up with mine.

I push through the doors leading to the outside courtyard. The heat smacks me in the face and steals the rest of the air from my lungs. “Fuck. I’m so goddamned sick of the heat.” I rear my fist back, aimed at the brick wall, and stop mid-punch. Jam my hand in my hair and grip at the roots.

What the fuck! I haven’t had a reaction like this in a long, long time. I’ve carefully maneuvered things in my life to be just out of reach…for others. Not to get to me. Just keep everyone smiling and happy and unconcerned. And that Carly bitch just…Christ.

I groan. My hands slide down my face. My heart is pounding in my ears. Either from the heat or my soaring blood pressure. Probably both.

I can feel Melody behind me. Sense her. But she doesn’t say anything.

All of a sudden, I realize how out of control I am. How she must see me. The complete opposite of the calm, controlled guy she saw giving the practiced to perfection speech. The guise is over. Whatever cool and collected persona I was trying to impress her with is gone.

“Want to get out of here?”

The words are out of my mouth before my brain can process them. I turn around to face her, my throat tight, my pulse jumping.

Melody is wearing her pink bandana around her wrist. She looks me in the eyes while fidgeting with the worn, folded material. “We’re not supposed to leave, right?”

It feels like she actually thought that reply through. I expected a snarky response; something mocking my sudden detour from Mr. Do-gooder. If she only knew.

“It’s not lockdown. You’re required to finish your treatment, which most find harder if they leave.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and jerk my head in the direction of the parking lot. “That’s my bobber right there. One ride. I won’t rat you out.”

Her gaze travels over the courtyard to my bike, and her brown eyes widen. “Ride?” She grabs my arm and pulls me behind her as she power walks. “Why the hell didn’t you say that from the start.”

Melody

The demons do envy, do dream

SINCE BEING INCARCERATED AT Stoney Creek, I have become the walking dead.

I move and talk and eat; I exist—but I’ve stopped living. I’ve been in a holding pattern, waiting for the next part to start. Unsure what that would be, or who I’d be. Everything that once mattered is gone. Nothing could wake up my deadened senses.

Until now.

The wind whips my cheeks, my hair blows in tangled ribbons behind me. The rumble beneath my thighs, the vibration traveling through my body, exhilarates me, and it’s like waking from of a coma. A bed-ridden patient seeing the sky again for the first time. Tasting chocolate after nothing but pea soup for years.

Fuck. I don’t even know if that’s what coma patients really eat. I probably saw it on a soap opera when I was a kid. One of those my mom devoured every day, drunk, yelling at the screen. But I don’t care; I laugh at myself. I open my mouth and actually hear my full volume laugh over the roar of the engine.

Boone glances over his shoulder. “Like it?”

“Hells yeah.”

He twists the throttle, and we zoom over the asphalt. Coasting down highway A-1 toward an unknown destination. And I don’t want to know where. If he takes me all the way to the bottom of the world down in Key West and we never return, I’d be all too happy.

We swerve around cars, pass brig trucks, sail through lights. The road ours.

Then he slows to take a turn down a dirt road. I tighten my hold around his waist. We lean together as the bike tilts…and it’s like coming home. I’m itching to drive. To get behind the handlebars and rev the engine.

Too soon, the bike is coming to a stop. I look around and say, “Where are we?”

Boone allows me to slide off first before he kicks down the side stand. He sits back on the seat and rests his hands on his jean-clad thighs, his gaze wondering over the gray lake. “One of my favorite escapes to beat the heat.” He cocks his head toward the sandy bank and then he hops off. “Thought some cooling off and solitude could do us both some good.”

I smirk while trailing his lead, linking my hands behind my back. “Solitude. Right. Because I haven’t gotten enough of that lately.”

He kicks a rock out of his path. “What? You’ve been around nothing but people. You’re not cramped with roommates, counselors, and nurses all up in your business?”

I half-smile and shrug a shoulder. “It’s different. Those people…they’re not really—” I try to find the right word “—there. They’re like window-dressing. Props in a very bad movie. Like a Twilight Zone version of my own. I’m still waiting for the credits to role, for all this to be over.”

Boone stops and turns to look at me, his hazel eyes squint in contemplation of my voiced thoughts. I realize I’m toeing that invisible line, giving him a bit more insight into myself than he probably wants.

Dumb or not, that rule’s in place for a good purpose. The only reason someone doesn’t ask you about yourself is usually because they don’t want to be asked the same. I’m not in a rule breaking mood, so I let the silence consume the moment.

But I can’t help wondering now. What happened back there for him to lose his cool like that? I don’t know the guy, but I do know he’s trying pretty damn hard to suppress some major rage. A lot has been omitted from that story he tells.

He doesn’t say anything, and instead starts toward the water. Right. No questions, no answers. No chance I’ll demand anything from him. I’ve been around enough hot-headed guys to understand one thing: I probably don’t want to know.

He let his guise slip, and that should have sent up a red flag, waving frantically toward the side exit of the stage. But I sideline that concern for the moment. Anyone who has the patience to customize their own bobber gets a second chance.

Even if it’s not American.

I’ll rag him on that later, when he’s in a better mood. I smile to myself.

Finding a sandy seat on the bank, I watch the small ripples of dark lake water lap toward my flip-flops. I decide this is enough. I’m unwilling to talk about what got me into Stoney, to hash up painful memories, and he’s unwilling to reveal his demons. It’s enough to know we’re full of crap, and we want to leave it at that.

He further proves his need for avoidance when he says, “Want to swim?”

A forced laugh tumbles from my mouth. “In this?” I look over my attire: leggings, well-worn Ramones T-shirt, and my bandana. “I’m good.” Before Rehab Mel wouldn’t have thought twice about stripping down and jumping into a body of water with a hot guy. But that was Not Sober Mel.

Days upon days of straight sobriety and boredom has left me feeling not as adventurous—fun is too much effort. As much as that pains me to admit, it’s the sobering truth. Pun intended.

“You’re not as daring as I thought.” Boone gives me a challenging smile to match his words, then reaches behind his back and yanks his shirt over his head.

Damn. Too bad I’ve already decided not to get involved with the guy. His toned and beautifully sculpted body makes me yearn with regret. But gorgeous or not, cute dimple or not, I’m not in the mood to be reckless.

Shit. That’s a first.

He unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans, and I feel like I’m sixteen all over again, about to get my first glimpse of male perfection. My insides flutter like an innocent school girl. When his pants drop around his ankles, I longingly take in his black and blue boxers and the full package they’re concealing. There is no shame in my game.

What’s adorable? I think Boone actually blushes. The guy is covered in gorgeous tats and looks tougher than all hell, but his cheeks light up like the Fourth as I openly check him out.

My gaze zeros in on a couple fresh bruises along his abdomen. What happened there? He clears his throat, pulling my attention back to his face.

“Swimming relaxes me,” he says, as way of an excuse for getting down to his undies.

“Uh-huh,” is my reply.
And this is my first rodeo, slick.

I admit, it’s been a while—like since middle school, while—since a guy tried to pull something like this on me. But it’s cute. In a way. Sneak a girl out of rehab, take her for a ride on a mean bike, and strip naked for a swim. Sure. It’s all about the relaxing swim—because there’s nothing else that’s more relaxing to a guy than swimming. Uh-huh.

I want to believe I had him pegged from the get go. That his sole intention for talking to me that first night was to get into my panties…but as he wades into the water, carrying that adorable blush with him…something just doesn’t fit.

It’s all wrong. I still can’t get a read on him, his signals are crossed. Like he’s emitting all the right ones on the surface, but my radar is picking up on the subtle currents underneath.

If I had to guess, I’d say it’s been a minute since this guy got laid. I almost laugh out loud. Maybe he’s just good at his game. Maybe this coy technique works on most chicks. Whatever. Regardless, it’s a distraction from my now craptastic life.

What the hell.

I stand and drag my shirt over my head, then shimmy out of my leggings. Boone’s back is to me, so I quickly step into the lake and submerge myself. Holy hell—the water is colder than I thought. I shiver and dive under.

Coming up beside him, I splash through the surface of the water. He yelps as I gasp in air.

Clearing the water from my eyes, I shake out my hair, loving the feel of the cool water on my skin. The thrill of being outside. The adrenaline from the ride still coursing through my system.

His smile reveals the lone dimple as he sends a wave of water back at me as payback. “I should have known you’d play games.”

It’s more than a tease, or an innuendo; there’s a hint of accusation in that innocently phrased sentence. His gaze slowly dips to the lacy pink bra straps on my shoulders, but quickly snaps to my face. If this
is
his game, he’s good.

I shrug. “Gotta keep you on your toes, right? Boys can’t have all the fun.” I glide through the water and turn on my back. Float and look at the sky. “Why didn’t you mention you had a bobber? Most people…bikers…that’s the first thing to come up.”

I hear him moving through the water near me, swimming closer. “Because I’m not a biker.”

“Still.” I glance at him, the muffled sound of underwater muting my hearing in one ear. His gaze is roaming over my stretched out body. My chest, stomach, legs. A burst of heat erupts in my belly. I’d be one sorry liar if I claimed having this guy’s attention wasn’t a rush.

He runs his wet hands over his hair, slicking it back from his face. The white-blond strands darken to a deep yellow, the contrast transforming his hazel irises to a bright gold. “I don’t consider myself a hardcore biker,” he says. “I don’t travel the country, or run in a gang. I’m definitely not involved in drugs.” I hike my eyebrows, and he adds, “Anymore. So yeah, the gang thing isn’t for me. I’m more about customizing my rides, building something I can enjoy on my time. Besides, I’d actually have to leave Florida to join a gang. That’s not happening.”

My toes sink into the muddy floor of the lake as I gain my balance, stand and face Boone.

“Most MCs aren’t like that,” I say. “Well, maybe not
most.
But a lot of them aren’t. The misconceptions about drug couriers and mob activity has reached urban legend status. There’s quite a few gangs that are just about the lifestyle.” Even though Lone Breed does dabble in the outlawed trades…I leave my insider knowledge out of the debate. What I said is true. For the most part.

Boone rubs his shoulder, his head tilted, eyes studying me closely. “Uh…wow. You’re pretty passionate about bikers.” He bites his lip, looking like he wants to probe, but says instead, “MCs?”

“Outlaw motorcycle clubs. It sounds more taboo or illegal than it is.” I swim closer to him. “It’s just any biker club or gang that’s not endorsed by the AMA.”