Losing Track (5 page)

An irritating voice inside my head says maybe I should ask
her
for some advice. That it couldn’t hurt. She lost her ex fiancé in some kind of car accident a while back, her parents forcing her go to all these psychiatrist meetings and shit. I remember her dancing by herself in a bar when I first met her, falling apart at the seams. Now, with Holden, she’s gotten herself back on track.

But this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve lost the most important person in my life once before—and I sucked it up then. I’ll suck it up now.

Besides, calling Sam and crying about it would be admitting defeat. I can get through this. All of it. The loss of my Harley. Rehab. Jesse’s incarceration—if that’s what it comes to. The half a year probation sentence where I’m stuck in fucking Florida and this goddamn sweltering hell pit of a climate.

The one thing, though, that I wish I could have gotten through—Darla’s funeral.

She was sent back to Hazard. Her asshole dad had to come down here and pick up “the body,” and take her back. I hate that that prick was the one who laid her to rest. In that crappy little town with those shitty little people. Darla should have been buried somewhere on the road, surrounded by her friends and her
real
family.

Instead, she was probably cheaply incinerated and her ashes stuck in a small urn. Likely sitting on that asshole’s floor in the trailer where she grew up. I know she hates that. Being trapped back there, no way out.

And me, stuck here and unable to leave this God forsaken state, can do nothing about it. Anger rises like bile to my throat.

My hand grips the paper, turning it into a ball before I hear the voice.

“Next.”

Glancing around, I realize that’s me. I step forward and un-wrinkle the paper. “I’m supposed to give this to you.”

The lady behind the glass stares down at the crinkly mess I’ve made and sighs. She pushes her thick black frames up her nose. “Let me get you the information.” Then she waddles to the back of her office and digs through more papers.

My foot taps impatiently, and I really don’t know why I’m so on edge. It’s not like I have somewhere
else
to be. I’m just over all the bullshit, I guess. Waiting here. Waiting there. All the rules and regulations. I’m about as far from a law-abiding citizen as you can get. And for the past three weeks, that’s exactly what I’ve had to become.

No bike—no riding. My Breakout was totaled in the wreck. Living out of a shitty motel room. One that, because I’ve recently ran out of my savings, I can no longer afford. No way to make any money. I had to leave my part-timer at Randy’s Bar due to ridiculous appointment times. Randy, the bar owner and close friend of Tank and the Lone Breed, was only doing me a solid till I was back on the road, anyway. Letting me work there to earn enough to get to Daytona. And, now that I
am
a law-abiding citizen, walking the straight and narrow—that means no
side
work either.

I only ever sold enough weed for pocket change, really. But still, it was nice to have that option.

I’m about ready to ram my head through the plate glass window when the office chick returns. “You can head on down to the mental awareness facility now.” She scrunches her nose, like she’s smelling the stench of that place on me. “You’re processing claims that you’re to be admitted to a rehabilitation center right away.”

I snag the papers from her. “Thanks.”

And now, I’m a committed, law-abiding citizen. Awesome.

With nothing but my clothes and a few personal items to pack, it didn’t take long to prepare for the twenty-day vaca from my life.

What things I was told at the mental awareness place that I couldn’t bring—my music, phone, Darla’s effects I couldn’t part with—the Stoney Creek rehab facility locked away in their safe-keeping room. I have to trust that it is safe; I have nowhere else to stash my stuff.

The only thing of Dar’s on me: a silver charm she got for her birthday. I found it in our hotel room. I can’t remember from where or who she got it—but I couldn’t imagine doing a stint at rehab without her. Her pink bandana is locked up with my stuff. I don’t trust whoever I’ll be rooming with not to go through my shit. Not chancing losing that. So I clipped her charm to my necklace. Just a bit of her with me at Stoney Creek.

And what the hell kind of name is
Stoney
Creek for a place full of…stoners?

Dumb.

I drum my fingers against the table, waiting. Again with the waiting. A person could go crazy just sitting around waiting. But it’s all I’ve been doing since my court hearing yesterday.

I didn’t go directly to the crack-job place like I was told. First, I had to try to see Jesse. To find out what happened to him. But no one would answer any of my questions at the courthouse. I’m not a relative. I’m not his
spouse
—I cringe just thinking the word. So I can’t even find out if he’s out on bail, still locked away, or what.

Since my PO called me right when I was trying to say my goodbyes to Randy and Tank, and a few members of Lone Breed who are sticking around until Jesse’s release, I didn’t get a very long send off to my twenty-day sentence.

Things work freakin’ fast in Florida. One day you’re cruising the road, the next you’re processed and checking into rehab. Fran-freaking-tastic.

If only their fucking streetlights operated at this stellar speed…

“Melody.” The nurse who ran a million tests, took a gazillion vials of my blood, walks into the small room. “Just to let you know, the staff at Stoney Creek is here to help. When withdrawal effects start, just ask for help.” Her gaze sharpens on me as she lowers her head.

I shrug. “I’m not an addict,” I say, gripping my hand into a fist on the table. “I’ve never suffered withdrawal a day in my life.” Her thin lips turn down at the edges, and I add, “But thanks,” trying to lighten my tone.

She nods, then takes the seat across from me at the little table. “Your tests show that you’ve used in the last twenty-four hours, and that you’ve used cocaine and other stimulates at least once a day for the past two weeks. Is that long-term use? How long have you been a daily cocaine user?”

I shrug. “I use a little here and there. Not a ton, I mean. Just to wake me up. Better than coffee.” I smile, but she doesn’t. Lame joke, I guess. Nonchalantly, I tug my sleeve below my elbow, covering the recent track marks.

She jots something down on her page. “You may suffer some unpleasant symptoms during your first few days here, just—” she looks up, drops her voice “—just let us help, okay?”

I huff out a breath. The sooner I let these people do their thing, the sooner I can get back to my life. Or what’s left of it. “All right.” I glance around the room as she fills in her reports.

The walls are covered with all kinds of helpful info. From the many toxins that are in our average cig, to the number of steps it takes to reach maximum sobriety, there’s a poster for it all. Damn. I’ve been smoking formaldehyde? Like embalming fluid?

Regardless of that less-than-appreciated knowledge (I could have done without that, really), my craving to light up hits me hard. I swing my gaze back to the nurse. “So…is this place like super strict? Can I smoke here?”

She pushes a hank of blond hair behind her ear and glances up from her paperwork. “Oh, yeah. It’s not that kind of facility, Melody. You can smoke, have caffeine. I don’t think I could survive without my three cups of coffee a day habit.” She laughs.

I smile awkwardly. Yeah, the coke and coffee jokes don’t really fuse. If this is her attempt to form some bond with me, like we’re in this together, one addict to the next—I’d rather punch myself. We’re nothing alike, me and this chick. She screams tight-ass. Control freak. Covered head-to-toe in intricately placed details, not even a stray hair out of place on her slick blond head.

I lick my lips and lean forward. “Can I also use a phone?” Her eyes widen, and I add before she can shoot me down, “I know not my cell. But can I make phone calls? I have a friend I need to check in with soon.”

“You can make calls once a week. So that’s no problem. Family only, though. Or someone you add to your contact list. But they have to sign a waiver if they’re not a relative before you or they can be contacted.”

Well, fuck. “This person wouldn’t be able to sign anything.” At least, I don’t think. I don’t know if Jesse’s made it out yet and I hate it. I hate not being able just to hop on my bike and ride wherever, to see whoever. I also hate that he’s the one being convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit.

I hope his pricey defense lawyer is better than mine.

I should have gotten out of this shit—no charge. No DUI on my driving record, no nothing. Because I was there at the scene, and ended up passing out and needing medical attention, I got tested for alcohol and drugs. I was a damn .02 over the legal limit for alcohol, and tested positive for narcotics later in the lock-up medical ward.

And even though I wasn’t behind the wheel when the police arrived, I left the keys in the ignition. They charged me on a technicality. What kind of shit is that?

The state of Florida is a tough bitch. Regardless that it’s my first offense, they find it their duty to make it my last. Getting me all the help they deem I need through their government issued programs.

Like if I checked myself into rehab I could afford it. Right.

But Jesse…he was the one driving the bike that got pulled under a truck. A truck whose driver blew past both our alcohol levels combined. A driver who registered the red light just a second too late.

That probably doesn’t matter for Jesse’s defense, however. He’s a tatted biker who was coked up at the time. Last I heard from him, the state was pressing charges against him in Darla’s defense. Involuntary Manslaughter.

At least he didn’t get too hurt. A fractured rib and some bruises. He was thrown from the bike on impact, out of the path of the truck. Not like Dar...who was sitting on her customized seat, and got trapped underneath.

I swallow the hard lump in my throat, forcing it down to the pit of my stomach with the rest of the pain. I don’t know if I’ve even processed it all just yet. That one of my best friends is being convicted of killing the other.

“Melody?”

The nurse’s voice pulls me out of my dark thoughts. I glance up at her.

“Did you hear me? I said that in case of an emergency, special communications can be made. Someone can contact your friend for a specific reason, if need be.” She smiles. “But just so you know, you
can
send them a letter. Most patients get therapeutic benefits out of writing letters…writing their thoughts down.” She smiles wanly again. Like she’s just imbued me with some great wisdom.

I smile wide, grudgingly curling my fingers into a tight ball.

Great. Snail mail to the rescue. By the time I get it written and then mailed, it’ll probably arrive just in time for my release. How the hell is that therapeutic?

“Okay. You’re all ready.” She leaps from her chair, excitement speeding her steps toward the door, like we’re two kids entering an amusement park. Maybe we are—the mad house.

She waves me along. “Just in time for your first meeting.”

A half-laugh, half-sob escapes my mouth in a huff. “Joy.”

Boone

Starve, and be redeemed