Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(17)

Before he’s able to get a second good punch in, a whoop whoop buzzes through the whooshing and ringing in my ears. A cop car pulls up beside us.

Hell. Jacquie’s not going to be happy about this one.



“Over three months.” My parole officer leans back in her chair. “I haven’t had to bail you out for fighting in over three months. Mind telling me what the heck happened this morning to change that?”

I set the icepack down on the floor, hiding my smile. Jacquie rarely curses. Never, actually. The fact that she’s upset enough to use “heck” says something. She’s pissed.

Covering my smile further with a cough, I sit back in the red cushioned chair and catch her gaze, then shrug. My shoulder twinges with pain. That guy really nailed me good. “Road rage?”

Her delicate features screw up, and her nostrils flare. She smooths back her already perfectly slicked ponytail and says in a measured tone, “I can talk to the public defender about getting you Judge Matthews. Maybe. I’ll put in a request. But, Boone, no promises this time. We’ve used up any trips to Stoney already…twice. That won’t get you out of jail time this go around.”

My parole officer/counselor/keep-my-ass-out-of-jail guardian, Jacquie, has taken on a lot with my case. I owe her more than I can ever repay. A muscle ticks in my jaw as I grit my teeth. Shame wipes away the rest of my cocky smile.

The fight wouldn’t have happened had I not missed my “meeting” last night. The secret kind. The only kind I’ve found that helps. I was starting to feel too assured, getting too comfortable—I won’t let it happen again.

I run a hand through my hair and nod. “I know, and thanks. I’ll do some extra community service—”

“You’ll do a lot more than that.” She sits forward. “That rehab facility you love so much? You’re going to volunteer there. Full time.”

My mouth pops open. “But my job…”

“In-between work. After work. Whenever you’re not working.” She raises a blond eyebrow. “I have a counselor friend there. A real counselor,” she stresses. I want to tell her she’s been more of a counselor to me than any of the rest, but I keep my mouth shut. She’s really fuming. “You can take the anger management class offered there, too. Judge Matthews will like that. And honestly, I should have had you in there from the start. I can’t give you the help you truly need, Boone.”

The help I truly need. I huff out a long breath. “I didn’t touch that guy, Jacquie. I didn’t lay a hand on him.”

“No, because that wouldn’t do it for you, would it?” Her gaze sharpens on me. “If you keep looking for the punishment you feel you deserve, you’re going to find it.” Her thin mouth turns down. “Eventually, you’ll find what you’re seeking, and you won’t walk away that time.”

I feel like I’ve been hit all over again. Jacquie may not be violent, or raise her voice, or even utter a foul word…but she doesn’t hold her punches, either. She nails you right where it hurts. The truth.

I want to assure her that I’m not seeking this. That I don’t believe I deserve to die. But we both know that’d be a lie. It’s the reason why I dropped my “real” counselor, and instead continued to meet with my parole officer each week, even after I was released to once a month check-ins. I got tired of hearing it—of never being able to escape the reality.

Jacquie, at least, let’s me be. She knows that I’m not ready. I’m not one of those people who are blinded by denial; I choose it willingly.

She manages to call me out on that fact when she says, “So, during your speech this evening, why don’t you try telling the real story, Boone?”

A sliver of fear skitters up my spine. I dodge her disarming stare and look at the tile floor. “It is the real story,” I say. At least, it’s somebody’s real story.

She puffs out a quick breath. “You know what I mean. Try telling your story. Why you ended up where you did, and what drove you there.” She dips her head to snag my gaze. “Eventually, you’re going to have to let someone in. And you’re going to have to accept that there was nothing you could—”

There’s my cue. I stand and make for the door. “Thanks for everything…again. I’ll see you next week.”

Not even Jacquie has been able to draw that out of me. She knows the deal, has read my file. But the facts have never come from me. And today’s not the day for change.

I race down the stairway toward the rest of my day. Toward the routine that will keep all the bad suppressed where it belongs.





Melody

Screaming in the void of our decay



ONE WEEK IN—AND I’m seriously about to lose my shit.

Scooping up a soggy spoonful of mashed potatoes, I turn to say something about them to Dar...

And reality slams me full-on in the gut.

I keep doing that. Forgetting.

Damn it to hell.

I don’t know how to do this. Darla and I have been nearly inseparable since the seventh grade. We’d known each other before then, had gone to grade school together, had the same classes, recesses, but she’d been this shy little thing. While I was hanging out with the boys, beating the shit out of most and secretly crushing on the rest, she was a wallflower. Her nose always in a journal.