Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(13)
Two loser addicts reminiscing on the good ol’ times. Because once they’re gone, they’re gone.
And now, so am I.
Melody
For a prayer is not heard
WHAT A CROCK OF SHIT.
Stale cookies, pissy apple juice, and what looks like turd dip with tortilla chips spread around it in an array of off-yellows and browns. This is what thousands of dollars spent on rehab gets you? Come on. Somebody’s pockets are getting lined, because it certainly isn’t being spent on our cuisine. I’m just glad it’s not my non-existent money.
I pick through the remaining cookies on the tray, looking for anything with chocolate. That’s one craving I can’t deny while I’m holed up in here. And if I don’t get my chocolate fix soon, there will be murder.
“So you about killed me up there.”
My shoulders tense and the cookie in my hand drops. “Dammit. That was the only chocolate chip.” I fetch it from the pile again and quickly take a bite, savoring the whole two chips of chocolate in the dry, crumbly baked mess.
Turning my head to glimpse the guy who was just talking out his ass to the room, I nod once. “Nice tats,” I say around a mouthful. “You get them while in lock-up here? They tag you?” His face screws up into an adorable half-smile. Damn, he has a dimple—but of course he does. I look away. “Besides, I didn’t name you. You need to take that one up with the one who did.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch him shove his hands into his pockets. “Right. Well, this convo was over before it started, so I’ll let you get back to your cookie hunt.”
My words hit me. Smack in the face. “Shit.” Then I literally smack my head. “Look, sorry...I didn’t mean that the way…”
His forehead creases in confusion before he says, “It’s all right. No worries.” He’s excusing my asinine comment regarding his mother—the one he just finished explaining he lost to an OD—and I’m mentally surveying the quickest escape route. That was above my usual snark, a whole new level of bitch, even for me. “I didn’t take it personally,” he adds.
He turns to go, then pauses. Looks over his shoulder. “Nice bandanna, by the way. That your gang affiliation, Pink Lady?”
I smile inwardly. Nice way to fully let me off the hook, and really, he did have a quick comeback; that Rizzo shit almost made me laugh. But honestly, I’m just not in the mood to be hit on by some guy. In rehab. “If you must know, it’s a me and my girl thing.” That’s all I’m willing to say. Which is more than anyone else here will get after the day I’ve had.
The month.
Swiveling around just enough to almost face me, he says, “Ah. Well that’s cool. I mean…glad you found your other half and all.” He scratches the side of his chin. Which I notice has a hint of five o’clock shadow. And then what he’s saying…or having an awkward time not saying…sinks in.
“Not a lesbian thing, you duce. My BFF. Shit, why are guys so single-minded?” I chuck the Vanilla Wafer and brush my hands off on my jeans. “Peace out. Enjoy your freedom.” A bit harsh. But thinking about Dar, my mood suddenly takes a dive.
He catches my arm, stopping my quick retreat. “Hey. Sorry. There’s nothing wrong if you were gay—”
His hand is warm and it scalds where his skin touches mine. I shrug out of his hold. “Yeah, I know. Tell that to the million other idiots you call brothers, all right? Dumb f*cks.” I turn to leave, and again he stops me, stepping into my path. “What’s your damage, dude?”
“I know you’re pissed about being in here, Melody. But don’t take it out on a guy, okay?” He attempts a smile. It’s sweet, in that “I’m a poor little lost boy” way. Wow. He must have been a good drug seeker back in his glory days. Who could turn down that dimple?
Then the fact that he knows my name catches up to my dimple-delayed brain. “How the hell do you know my name already?”
He shrugs. “It’s a small place. You’re not the new kid here for long.” I notice his hazel eyes. Pupil’s normal size. He really is clean—maybe.
“So that shit you talked up there.” I nod my head toward the front of the room. “Truth? Or some work program you have to complete for your PO?”
For the first time, I see this guy’s face waver. His features pull into themselves, a shadow passing over. “Both, kind of. But it’s by my choice. I report to my PO and she likes to hear that I’m involved with the community.” He makes air quotes.
But that’s not really what I asked. And he knows it. Junkies…they’re all the same. You’ll never actually get the whole story. Some because they can’t own to it, others because it risks ratting someone else out. Whatever the reason, an addict’s story is usually always skewed.
“You told it well, duce. Maybe someday I’ll hear the real one, huh?” I step around him and yank the bandana from my head. I pull my hair up into a ponytail and wrap the band from my wrist around it, getting the heat I felt from his stare off my skin along with my hair.
“Hey, Melody,” he says, and I glance back. “Is that an invitation?”
I laugh. “Sure. Soon as you can spring me from this joint, you can tell me anything you want, guy.” Then I leave before I do something stupid—like check out that damn dimple again. I can feel his smile burning on my backside.