Losing Track (28 page)

“Whoa.” I turn toward her, painfully aware of the huge, wet wad in my boxers. “Trust me, you have nothing on me. I’d never say that. I just want…I don’t know. Shit. I really don’t think I’m allowed to want anything. And it’s torture.”

Her fingers lace with mine, and I can’t help but look down at them, and her bare thighs. I’m quickly getting turned on again, and really need to ask her to get dressed. But I don’t want her to. I want to carry her to the bedroom and crawl under the covers with her for the rest of the night.

“Darla was more than my best friend,” she says, erasing every thought from my mind. I’m suddenly attuned to her, waiting for her to give me any detail of herself. Wanting everything.

“She was my sister. Is my sister,” she continues. “Not blood related, or anything. But we were closer than that, even. And yes, I do blame myself for her death. Not directly. I’m smart enough to understand it was a fucked up accident. But—” she closes her hand, holding on to mine tighter “—one thing Doc Sid said stayed with me. Dominos. I watched out for her, and I should have protected her better. I’d looked out for her since the first day we met, threatened her piece of shit father, even hit piece of shit guys over the head with beer bottles for her…but I couldn’t protect her from the domino effect I’d started for our lives. She suffered because of me. She’s gone because I couldn’t…”

Turning toward her, I slip my free hand through her hair, my fingers pushing her red strands behind her ear. I need to see her face. Her eyes are glazed over, no tears falling. She’s holding it all in. “What could you have possibly done?” I ask.

She shakes her head a little, releasing a clear trail of tears down her cheek. “Nothing. I’m sure of that. I’m not a fucking psychic. But there were so many other courses of action I could have taken that night—like many nights before—that could’ve altered the outcome.”

“Mel, who looks out for you? Who’s responsible for your pain?”

Her dark eyes flick up, the question catching her so off guard I hear her slight gasp. “I want you to say something aloud. Even if you don’t mean it. Just speak the words.”

I lick my lips, stopping myself from kissing her. Instead, I nod. No questions asked. I’d do just about anything for her right now.

“Say, I’m not responsible for Hunter’s death.”

My brow furrows, and I shake my head. “No.” I’m not sure what she’s trying to do, but she’s asked one of a few things I can’t do. Not even for her.

She reaches up to run her hand over my cheek. In this intimate span of time, it’s possible the outside world doesn’t exist. It’s possible that, somehow, I’m not responsible. That maybe fate is a real force, and there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent his death. That Melody’s actions had nothing to do with what lead up to her friend’s death.

But beyond this bubble, there’s a very real world, one we can’t escape. Actions have consequences. Even if in your darkest dreams you could’ve never predicted the pain, the hurt, the loss—every action has an equal and opposite counter reaction. That’s the law of physics, but it’s also the words that thrum through me daily.

I don’t want any of my actions to cause Mel any more pain than she already has to endure.

I’m not…whole. I can’t offer her the life she needs in order to get out of this rut. To be sober, functioning. I thought I needed to steer clear of her for my own benefit. To keep me on the straight and narrow. But it’s evident now that it’s just the opposite.

She needs to get away from me.

“Let’s pick this up another time,” I say, and she gives me a questioning look. “I should really go…clean myself up.” I lower my gaze to my crotch.

With a knowing laugh, she says, “All right…” and bounds up, grabbing her underwear and quickly putting them on. “I need some alcohol to come down, anyway. Be right back.”

As she takes off toward the small kitchen, I release a heavy breath. I’ve given her more than anyone else; more of my story, of myself. But I’m still holding back.

If I can help it, I want to prevent seeing that appalling look on her face—the judgment in her gaze that not even Melody would be able to disguise if she ever discovered the truth.

Melody

For my longing overflows, bitter pain

I QUICKLY DOWN TWO shots of Jack. I had half a bottle stashed under my sink for emergency situations just like this. Thank, God.

Even though I was really, really trying not to use, truth is, there was no way to handle Jesse any other way. Our circumstance didn’t technically get “handled,” but it did get confronted. Well, most of it. Now the conflict is over, I can move on and try to enforce some damage control. Let him in on the fact that I have zero intentions of becoming his ol’ lady.

But that’s another day, another uncomfortable situation—not tonight.

For good measure, I take a swig right from the bottle before capping it and returning the liquor to its place under the sink. I just want to pass out and not think about today until the blistering morning sun awakens me for the ultimate hangover.

Today was one of the longest days
ever
.

As I enter the living room, I stop midway in. Boone’s chin rests on his hand, his elbow propping his head up. If he’s not asleep yet, he will be soon. Walking over to the bar, I look down at my phone and hit the button to light the screen: 2:37. Nice. He probably doesn’t have late nights like this anymore. And really, I’m sure he’s spent after earlier.

What guy doesn’t pass out afterward? Dudes, I think, shaking my head.

I love seeing him like this, though. All laid back, his usually tense and uppity self too worn out from a full day to compete with his dire need to be a savior. I wonder just who or how he was before shit went wrong in his life.

I wonder if I’ll ever get the full truth of his story.

Then I realize that I don’t even want that. Ugly pasts shouldn’t play a part for us.

My head is starting to spin with the rush of alcohol hitting my bloodstream, and I grab my phone and hedge for the couch. I settle down on the opposite end from Boone, trying not to wake him, and scroll through my messages.

The ones from Sam, and some new ones from Jesse.

My heart constricts as I read his desperate words. Pleading, begging, apologizing. Shit, how the hell did things get so fucked up between us? For the millionth time, I wish I could ask Dar what I should do.

In reality, if she were still here, I probably wouldn’t go to her for advice. I always thought I was so much smarter than her, that I was the brains of our duo. That I had everything figured out. But that was such bullshit. She saw through my crap and called me out on it, and I should’ve listened to her more.

Yeah she wasn’t on target with the whole me and Jesse thing. Actually, I still haven’t figured out why she even thought we’d hook up. But maybe it was for the same reason I wanted it for her—so she’d settle down with someone who’d take care of her. Maybe she saw me spiraling out of control and thought…and thought that someone like Jesse could look out for me.

I run my hand over my face, my skin buzzing with warmth from the liquor, and suddenly wish I was somewhere cool, up north, away from this heat.

Another text beeps from my phone in my lap, and I look down, peeking through my fingers.

Jesse:
I’m leaving tomorrow. Come with me.

Shit.

I drop the phone like it’s a snake ready to bite.

Jesse must’ve gotten news about his acquittal today—and he didn’t even tell me. Scratch that. I didn’t give him the chance to tell me. That’s what he wanted to talk about at the bar, in the bathroom, but I wasn’t hearing him in my anger.

I’m good with it, though. It’s what’s right, ultimately. Regardless of the shit that’s between us, he’s not to blame for Dar’s death. And he deserves to get his full patch. He’s earned it.

My whole being thrums to be on the road. Traveling, riding, being somewhere other than here. But I glance over to Boone, his mouth parted in sleep, his face so peacefully unaware. And I smile.

I don’t know what will happen if I see this probation thing through. If I stay in this city, stay with Boone. We might fight, but we might have some times, too. We won’t see clearly on everything. Hell, we’ll rarely see eye-to-eye on anything. But—

I don’t want to leave him. Not just yet. I want to see what might transpire if I stay. If what happened between us tonight could bloom into something real. It felt real. And for the first time in ever, I need something real.

With one last glance at Boone, I turn my attention back to my phone and pull up a text message to Tank.

Crap.
Crap crap
. I feel like smashed assholes.

I leap from the couch, the annoying tune I set for my wakeup call blaring from my phone. Rushing around my apartment, one leg in my jeans, I hop around my living room, trying to get dressed and make it to work on time. I’ve only been awake a total of one minute, the heavy reminder sinking past the fog in my hung-over brain that I actually have a day job.

A flipping, awake-at-the-crack-of-dawn morning job.

Coffee lovers, I loathe you.

With a startling clarity, the events of yesterday surface. The track, racing, getting wasted, getting
high
, Jesse…and Boone.

Boone.

I glance around the living room and stare at the couch, where I somehow fell asleep right next to him. Not there. But his boots are. A
thunk
in the kitchen snags my attention, and my heart judders awkwardly in my chest.

Pulling my jeans over my hips, I button them and ease myself into the kitchen. I finger comb my rat’s nest, open my mouth to say a hello—and stop.

Boone’s sitting at the bar with a nearly empty bottle of Jack. A tumbler with a splash of amber liquor before him. His head buried in his palms. Fingers speared through his blond hair.

In a panic, I dredge up the memory of what I did with the last of the crank I had in the bathroom. There was just dust leftover in the baggie…but I could not handle my shit if I had anything to do with Boone getting high. After he’s been sober for… I scrunch my face, realizing I’ve never actually asked him how long he’s been off the hard stuff.

But all my thoughts cease when he lifts his head and pins me with a sloppy glare.

With a mental nod, I remember that I did stuff the baggie way in the back of the bathroom cabinet. Either he didn’t find it or he didn’t go looking, because he’s too shitfaced drunk to be anything else.

I push my hands into my back pockets and walk toward him. “So it’s liquid breakfast this morning, huh?”

He grins and releases a light chuckle. At least he’s not a mean drunk. Or maybe he hasn’t drank enough yet. His tolerance is probably zilch, but he’s a big guy. A few tumblers of Jack won’t do him in.

“It’s not exactly breakfast time,” he says.

I look toward the three windows lining my living room wall. It’s still dark outside, but it is morning. And shit, I’m going to be late for work. But I can’t up and bail on him like this. Something changed from the moment we last spoke to this morning, and it has to be pretty effin big if sobriety hero Boone Randall is getting hammered first thing in the a.m.

And damn, my head is putting a hurt on me right now. A shot of Jack, a little hair of the dog, really would help at this point.