Losing Track (21 page)

“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.”

“Method?”

She inhales deeply. “IV.”

“Amount?”

“At least an eighth a day.”

Holy shit. She’s no newb to blow—and how the hell can she afford…? I don’t want to know. Nothing good comes from discovering how a user obtains their fixes. I focus on the fact that her answers are coming quicker now, her voice not wobbling as much.

“But I didn’t shoot up all the time…” she amends, and shrugs. “I actually hadn’t IV’d for over a month before…before that night.”

That’s at least something. She’s not as self-destructive as she might think. “For how long?”

“What?” she shouts over the roar of the engine.

“How long did you use?”

Here, she hesitates. “Nine years.”

I try to respond quickly, thinking of something reassuring, but my mind is already doing the math. I don’t want her to question if I’m analyzing her like Doc Sid, so I say, “Think of the best day of your life. Could be anything. Nothing big had to happen, nothing amazing. Just a day that you remember being the happiest you’ve ever been.”

Luckily, she doesn’t come back with an immediate wisecrack. She’s trusting me, somewhat, to help her through this. Which leads me to believe she’s really out of her element and scared. While she’s considering my question, I can’t help but wonder how a thirteen-year-old got into the hard stuff so early on. What happened to little Melody? Nine years is a career junkie.

“I was sixteen, and me and Dar—my friend skipped school to go hang out with these guys.” She laughs as she thinks back on the memory. “We never met up with them. I can’t remember what happened, but somehow they ditched us or something, and we ended up at the gas station with no ride. We were so pissed, we blew all our money on candy and sodas and chocolate milk. Just bought the store out of every bit of sugar and caffeine to go off and have a vegging out day.”

She releases the handlebars and palms the gas tank, leaning her body forward. I try so desperately hard not to notice this action causes her ass to back against my crotch. Fuck, I’m such a guy, but dammit…focus. On her. Focus on Mel.

“Anyway,” she continues. “We took off to her house since her dad was at work. We spent the whole day watching bad daytime TV and eating our candy and shit. We laughed all day, jacked up on a sugar high…and even though we should’ve been pissed that those creeps took off with our blow—” she turns her head slightly toward me “—that’s why we were meeting up with them; they had the good shit. Anyway, we didn’t even think about it. Nothing special really happened. I just remember being so freaking giddy and happy spending the whole day with her, and just laughing. Best vegging out day of my life.”

I want to ask where this friend is now, but I don’t. That’s not the point of asking her to rekindle that moment. And there’s a chance that things didn’t continue on that way for Mel and her friend. Most of the time, it never does for anyone, just not users. That’s a question for another day, another reason.

“How do you feel right now?” I ask.

Mel pushes against the tank, pressing her back against me…and I squeeze my eyes closed as she leans into me. “Pretty damn good, duce. I have to admit. I feel freer.”

Loosing a shaky breath, I allow my arms to hold her closer. “Good. Now stay with that feeling and give the bike some gas.”

“All right,” she says, and sits forward. I’m straining not to run my hands along her waist, up her thighs, inching up toward…I block out the thought. I’m not facing my demons right now. This is about Mel. Keep it about Mel.

I lift my feet from the asphalt as she twists the throttle, and my Bonnie shoots forward.

She takes the curve like a pro, someone who has been riding bikes nearly her whole life, and I’m so ridiculously turned on I could shout a string of curses. But I’m proud of her, excited, and starting to calm down about her racing my bike on the track. She knows what she’s doing; she’s a biker.

But my poor libido is taking the beating of its life.

Torture.

It’s the one sure thing I have to look forward to with this girl.

Melody is all suited up in her tight-ass jeans and a leather jacket. Black boots laced up to her knees. Helmet already in place. And straddling my Bonnie at the start line.

My heart is in my throat.

I know she needs to win for the money, so she can buy another bike. It’s more than important to her—it’s a necessity. It’s her life. But after our practice ride, I think she’s just excited that she’s found her sweet spot again, the love of riding for the sheer joy of it.

Whatever she’s gone through to get here, she’s not through it yet. But as I watch her gaze out over the track, the finish line in her sight, I feel she’s on a sturdier path to getting there.

Honestly, though, I’m rooting for her to win. I want this win for her. And I have to admit, I’m completely turned on by her straddling my bike. That’s a huge bonus.

I never thought I’d hand the reins over. Not just to my bike, but everything. All of it. Having someone else be a part of my life—she’s in. She’s worked her way into my life and if she left tonight, never to be seen again, I’d feel the loss.

Jesse on the other hand is not as excited by her choice of racing machine. If I was an asshole, I’d give him an exuberant thumbs up. I do it anyway, and he shoots me a “fuck you” look. Hey, assholes have some perks. Like seeing the hot girl of your dreams beaming behind her visor as she revs the engine of a motorcycle. Just fucking hot.

I won’t let that douche ruin it for her, or for me. Maybe he’s not even a douche. Hell, if I were in his place, I’d probably be territorial as hell, too. But it’s more than a pissing match going on between us; I’m worried he’s the wrong kind of friend for her right now. His tats do a good job, like mine, of hiding the track marks. But not good enough. Since his are fresh, I can spot them. I know what to look for.

Mel has her own choices to make, and one of those is choosing her company and friends…and I’m not such a territorial, creepy douchebag that I’d even suggest her ditching her friends. Not like I had to. Each has to make their own choices, for their own lives. But I won’t lie and say that I’m not sickened by the thought of her going off with him after this. Whether to celebrate her win, or console her in her defeat.

My thoughts stop abruptly when Mel revs the engine loudly and then half walks, half rides, inching my bobber to the starting line. I decide I can’t be sidelined. Literally. And hop over the tape marking off the pit.

“For a foreign bike,” Jesse says, not looking at me but at Mel, “it’s not half bad. You do the mods yourself?”

Maybe he’s choosing to be civil because he realized he’s not outing me as easily as he’d like. Whatever the reason, I take the compliment. “Thanks, yeah. All custom. Worked my ass off to afford the headers.”

He chuckles. “Those are nice. Vance and Hines duals?”

“Yup.”

Another biker pulls up to the white line beside Mel, and my chest tightens. “How many races has she won?” I ask. I’m really wanting to know the number of times she’s actually raced. I hope the hitch in my voice doesn’t reveal my worry.