Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(16)
Inside the glass shower stall, near scalding water rains over me, washing all memories of the morning nightmare down the drain. I hear my phone beep, notifying me of a voicemail. I eye it on the bathroom counter. I know exactly who it is. My parole officer. She calls every morning on this day, too, just to check if I’m still coming in. That I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t let her down yet—I can’t forget.
During a Florida summer, it’s almost pointless to take a shower in the mornings. As soon as I step outside, the muggy air washes me in sweat, dampening my T-shirt and making my jeans stick to my thighs. But if I don’t get that shower, I don’t really feel awake, like the ritual can’t start until I’ve initiated the first step.
I cross the apartment complex parking lot to where my Triumph is parked. Popping my helmet over my head, I leave the straps undone and climb onto my seat. And for the millionth time since I saw her sullen face last week, the bandana girl enters my thoughts. An easy smile curls my lips as I squeeze the clutch and kick-start the engine. My bike growls to life, the rumble echoes off the concrete walling the lot, and I rev the engine before taking off.
I was hitting on Melody. After the meeting last week, I think I momentarily lost my mind, because that’s something I don’t do. Not anymore. I’ve been trying to convince myself I was just testing the waters, seeing how rusty I am—according to her response, pretty damn rusty. But it’s not like a hot girl walks into Stoney every day—hell, ever.
Honestly, I depend on that fact. It’s safe there, no temptations. I’m not knocking the patients, but Stoney isn’t exactly a high class, spa-like rehabilitation center that attracts starlets, or designer drug users. Melody caught me off guard.
I wanted her. Right then, she was the target, and I was the missile homing in. It felt good, too, natural…until later, when I realized I was acting on autopilot. The old Boone, who I killed and buried, was creeping back to life like a zombie. I should put a bullet in his head.
But damn, the fantasy can be fun. Even now, while scolding myself, I’m imagining the what if—her riding behind me, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist…and then I shake that vision from my head.
It’s all wrong. She doesn’t seem like the type to ride along; she’s the one steering, in control. I’m fine with that. As long as she has her own bike. I’ve never let anyone else drive mine, and no matter how hot the ass parked on my seat, that’s not changing.
A heavy mallet of guilt bats at my chest. These thoughts are dangerous.
It’s been a long time—three hundred and thirty-nine days, exactly—since I even considered the opposite sex as something more than sweet scenery. Jacquie, my PO/counselor, says that’s normal, expected. I wonder if I should tell her about Melody. It’s not like I don’t notice women; I do. Hell, I’m a guy. But there are too many consequences, too much baggage and fallout to justify getting involved with one just for some tail.
“Hey, *!”
I swerve and dodge the bumper of an oncoming car crossing the intersection. Fuck.
Getting back into the right lane, I tip my visor to the guy, who in turn flips me off. A surge of adrenaline rockets through my bloodstream, and I’m gunning my bike, heading his way. My heart knocks against my chest as I rev the engine, gaining speed over the asphalt.
Trailing his old, crusty Miata, I gas the engine and shoot up beside the driver’s side. “Pull the f*ck over, mother f*cker.”
His eyes widen in surprise for a split second before he gives me another bird. Rage tears through me. I coast closer to his car and kick the door. My bike swivels, and a blaring horn from an oncoming car crashes through the fog of anger casing my brain.
I hit the brakes and dart behind his car. Following closely, I let the fury simmer until he comes to a stop at a red light. Then I’m pulling my helmet from my head and marching toward him.
“Get the f*ck out, tough guy!” I bang my helmet against his—now—rolled up window. Which is about so damn funny. The car’s top is down. I lean over the window and stare down. “I said, get the f*ck out.”
He has a choice: ignore me and continue on to his shit job where he gets to tell a story to his co-workers about the “crazy dude on a bike.” Or man up and confront the crazy dude on a bike.
I guess his pride gets the better of him, because he yanks off his seatbelt and pulls the door handle. The door swings wide and nails me dead-on in the knees. Mother fu—
“You want a piece of this, you little shit.” He’s on me, jerking me up by my shirt collar. I didn’t realize how big he was, sitting in that tiny ass car. But dude is a Neanderthal.
Recovering quickly, I elbow his ribs and tussle out of his hold. His “oomph” follows him down as he smacks against the car.
Everything in me is taut and raring to go—but I’m not about to destroy this guy. It’s about pain. The physical kind that will deaden the endless loop of all-consuming emotional ache. This guy just happens to be the one…this day.
“You cocksucker—” His fist lands a hard punch to my jaw.
My only thought: I deserve this—right before contact.
Pain explodes across my face. Travels down my neck. It’s white-hot, and the flicker of lights black out my vision for a second. I blink back the water in my eyes, my nose on fire. The tangy, metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, but my tongue is too numb to feel for a missing tooth.