Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(23)
I move and talk and eat; I exist—but I’ve stopped living. I’ve been in a holding pattern, waiting for the next part to start. Unsure what that would be, or who I’d be. Everything that once mattered is gone. Nothing could wake up my deadened senses.
Until now.
The wind whips my cheeks, my hair blows in tangled ribbons behind me. The rumble beneath my thighs, the vibration traveling through my body, exhilarates me, and it’s like waking from of a coma. A bed-ridden patient seeing the sky again for the first time. Tasting chocolate after nothing but pea soup for years.
Fuck. I don’t even know if that’s what coma patients really eat. I probably saw it on a soap opera when I was a kid. One of those my mom devoured every day, drunk, yelling at the screen. But I don’t care; I laugh at myself. I open my mouth and actually hear my full volume laugh over the roar of the engine.
Boone glances over his shoulder. “Like it?”
“Hells yeah.”
He twists the throttle, and we zoom over the asphalt. Coasting down highway A-1 toward an unknown destination. And I don’t want to know where. If he takes me all the way to the bottom of the world down in Key West and we never return, I’d be all too happy.
We swerve around cars, pass brig trucks, sail through lights. The road ours.
Then he slows to take a turn down a dirt road. I tighten my hold around his waist. We lean together as the bike tilts…and it’s like coming home. I’m itching to drive. To get behind the handlebars and rev the engine.
Too soon, the bike is coming to a stop. I look around and say, “Where are we?”
Boone allows me to slide off first before he kicks down the side stand. He sits back on the seat and rests his hands on his jean-clad thighs, his gaze wondering over the gray lake. “One of my favorite escapes to beat the heat.” He cocks his head toward the sandy bank and then he hops off. “Thought some cooling off and solitude could do us both some good.”
I smirk while trailing his lead, linking my hands behind my back. “Solitude. Right. Because I haven’t gotten enough of that lately.”
He kicks a rock out of his path. “What? You’ve been around nothing but people. You’re not cramped with roommates, counselors, and nurses all up in your business?”
I half-smile and shrug a shoulder. “It’s different. Those people…they’re not really—” I try to find the right word “—there. They’re like window-dressing. Props in a very bad movie. Like a Twilight Zone version of my own. I’m still waiting for the credits to role, for all this to be over.”
Boone stops and turns to look at me, his hazel eyes squint in contemplation of my voiced thoughts. I realize I’m toeing that invisible line, giving him a bit more insight into myself than he probably wants.
Dumb or not, that rule’s in place for a good purpose. The only reason someone doesn’t ask you about yourself is usually because they don’t want to be asked the same. I’m not in a rule breaking mood, so I let the silence consume the moment.
But I can’t help wondering now. What happened back there for him to lose his cool like that? I don’t know the guy, but I do know he’s trying pretty damn hard to suppress some major rage. A lot has been omitted from that story he tells.
He doesn’t say anything, and instead starts toward the water. Right. No questions, no answers. No chance I’ll demand anything from him. I’ve been around enough hot-headed guys to understand one thing: I probably don’t want to know.
He let his guise slip, and that should have sent up a red flag, waving frantically toward the side exit of the stage. But I sideline that concern for the moment. Anyone who has the patience to customize their own bobber gets a second chance.
Even if it’s not American.
I’ll rag him on that later, when he’s in a better mood. I smile to myself.
Finding a sandy seat on the bank, I watch the small ripples of dark lake water lap toward my flip-flops. I decide this is enough. I’m unwilling to talk about what got me into Stoney, to hash up painful memories, and he’s unwilling to reveal his demons. It’s enough to know we’re full of crap, and we want to leave it at that.
He further proves his need for avoidance when he says, “Want to swim?”
A forced laugh tumbles from my mouth. “In this?” I look over my attire: leggings, well-worn Ramones T-shirt, and my bandana. “I’m good.” Before Rehab Mel wouldn’t have thought twice about stripping down and jumping into a body of water with a hot guy. But that was Not Sober Mel.
Days upon days of straight sobriety and boredom has left me feeling not as adventurous—fun is too much effort. As much as that pains me to admit, it’s the sobering truth. Pun intended.
“You’re not as daring as I thought.” Boone gives me a challenging smile to match his words, then reaches behind his back and yanks his shirt over his head.
Damn. Too bad I’ve already decided not to get involved with the guy. His toned and beautifully sculpted body makes me yearn with regret. But gorgeous or not, cute dimple or not, I’m not in the mood to be reckless.
Shit. That’s a first.
He unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans, and I feel like I’m sixteen all over again, about to get my first glimpse of male perfection. My insides flutter like an innocent school girl. When his pants drop around his ankles, I longingly take in his black and blue boxers and the full package they’re concealing. There is no shame in my game.