Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(25)

This question might edge close to breaking our silent agreement, but he’s the one who offered the first shred of information on himself. It was hanging out there, and I can’t help but snag the thread.

He wades closer to me, a foot between us now. I can almost feel his body heat rippling toward me. The water is colder because of it. “Commitments,” he says simply. “The kind I have to see through.”

I nod. I have some of those myself. “Well, commitments aside, if you could jump on your bike and go anywhere, where would that be?”

He gives a short chuckle and shakes his head, like he’s never considered the possibility. A sinking feeling, like homesickness, settles in my stomach. The thought of being bound to one place makes me queasy.

I squint. “Is that an outrageous question?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, isn’t everywhere pretty much the same?” He lowers himself into the water, submerging his shoulders. His lips rest just above the surface. I have an innate feeling he’s using the water to shield himself from my invasiveness.

It’s so transparent—like something a kid would do.

“Not at all,” I say. “And the awesome thing about going somewhere new, seeing things you’ve never seen before, is it’s impossible to stay the same. Every place changes you a little. Some more than others. You have to be a real stubborn ass to travel the world and keep toting around the same baggage.”

His golden gaze holds mine for an almost unnerving amount of time before he blinks and looks away. I release a clipped breath, chilled by him and the cool water.

I don’t like this. With any guy, anywhere, I’m always in control. I call the shots. Something is off in a major way, and I feel the instinctive need to flee. Get out before the trap springs.

“South Dakota,” he finally says. “Sturgis. I guess I’d go there. They got this—”

“Biker rally,” I say, my lips spreading into a wide smile.

He laughs. “Of course. I forgot you were the expert. You probably researched all about it for your project.”

“Yeah, well, I did a little bit more than research. I’ve gone before.” Numerous times. And it was Lone Breed’s next destination right after Daytona for this year’s rally. Which is now over, and I missed it, since I was in rehab. This is a sore reminder.

“You’ve actually gone before?” He shakes his head, then says, “I don’t know whether to be jealous, impressed, or intimidated.”

“All of the above?” I offer with a grin. Was that flirtatious?

When he smiles, his body inching closer to mine, I decide it was. I need to stop.

“Well, I think it happens in early August,” he says, either not noticing my discomfort or purposely avoiding it. “I missed it this year, regardless. Probation prohibits you from leaving the state.”

“Right. So I’ve heard.” I lift my feet from the slippery bottom and tread water, putting some distance between us.

He nods. Then looks around, maybe seeking a topic change that doesn’t require any more questions.

“How much longer are you trapped here?” I blurt.

His eyes find mine quickly. “I’m not trapped. Why are you so judgmental?”

“Whoa, guy. I just meant to ask when your probation was up. That’s the commitment keeping you here, right? Maybe heading to South Dakota or somewhere else for a while would...” I trail off, stopping myself before I dig too deep. “Look, I don’t know your deal, don’t want to, but traveling has always helped me—I know it’s unwanted advice. Do whatever. But I think the druggies would survive without your motivational speeches. Maybe do something for yourself.”

A slow smile hikes the side of his face. “You don’t get it, do you?” He moves even closer, the water a thin barrier between us. “You’re new to the program, and right now, you don’t plan to stop using. You’re biding your time, doing what you have to, to get out. Then you’re going back to whatever life got you in there to begin with. You don’t know what it takes to stay clean, Mel. You can’t just hop on a bike and go. You can’t just turn your back on…” He clamps his lips closed. Gives his head a hard jerk.

My defenses shoot up. “Who’s the judgmental ass now?” I splash the water out of my way as I start toward the bank, like I’m clearing a path for my dramatic storm off. Hard to do in water. “You don’t know anything about my life. I can’t stand people like you; hardcore straightedgers. Sobriety peddlers. You’re worse than religious freaks.”

He grabs my arm, halting my retreat. “You’re right.”

I stare down at his hand, his skin hot on mine. Then look up into his face. “Ya know, you can be sober. I’m all for whatever works for you. I don’t care either way. But don’t push your beliefs on others as a way to keep yourself clean. Do it for your damn self.” I jerk my arm and slip out of his hold. “Because it’s more than rude. It’s creepy. Do you know that?”

His tightly pressed lips tip up into a slight smile. “I have been selling it a bit hard, and you nailed it, it keeps me in line. Reminds me every day not to slip. But if you ever try to quit, just walk away from the whole scene, you might find out why some join the sober loser occult. At least for a while.”