Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(29)

“Really?”

“You have been out of the game for a while. The gay best friend? Shit. A girl’s true challenge is turning the hot gay guy.”

“Bullshit,” I say and crank the engine. I can feel Melody laughing against me.

As I pull out onto the highway, I’m slightly relieved, and slightly in fear for my life. I managed to put the smile back on her face, save any hurt feelings from being rejected. Which may salvage any future chance I may have with her, maybe.

But I probably just put a hurt on myself that I won’t survive.





Melody

Of glass and ice



I REALLY KNOW HOW to pick ‘em.

One glimpse of dude’s ripped abs and bulging package, and I’m tossing my convictions out the window. But at least I’m honest. Hell, what girl could catch site of a hot guy totally hard for her and simply walk away? Too much temptation to have some fun with that one.

It’s better this way, though. I admit, in all honesty, when Boone put on the brakes, I did get pissy. For a split second the rejection stung. But today, I’m relieved. It’s one less complicated mess in my long list of complications that I have to deal with.

I like him. Not a shit ton, because of the whole holy-roller, anti-drug thing. But I like effin with him. He has a wild side buried in there, and I’m a good judge of character. I think there’s a whole personality hidden somewhere below, too.

And while I’m stuck at Stoney, it would be fun to have a project to keep my mind busy. To keep me from going crazy. Helping Boone break out of his cocoon seems like as good as any.

These lame thoughts swirl my head as I make my way to Doc Sid’s office. I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll be reprimanded for leaving Stoney yesterday. Nurse Bridge caught me coming in through the fence and took me straight to the ward to be tested for alcohol and drugs.

When she concluded I was sober, she sent me to my room for the rest of the night. Just like a pissed off parent. I actually thought she was going to make me pack my bags, kick me out. For a brief moment, I feared I wouldn’t complete the program and I’d be stuck in Florida forever.

I’m still here, though. For now.

Doc Sid’s door is open, and he waves me inside before I can take a seat on the waiting bench. “Shut the door behind you, please,” he says.

All right. I do as requested and seat myself in the chair across from him. His office is bare. No pictures or paintings. No signs of life outside of this place. There’s a couple of plaques indicating he’s qualified for his job, but otherwise, it’s a pretty depressing, sterile room.

This is my fourth time seeing him. I go twice a week, so by my bad math, I’ll have eight meetings with him before I’m released. Just how the state or judge figures I’ll get any help with eight meetings boggles the mind. I think it’s all a money conspiracy. The more people they send to treatment, the more they get paid. Some kind of government pyramid scheme.

Had I been convicted in just about any other state, I’d have been sent off with a slap on the wrist. Maybe a suspended license. Fucking Florida.

“So Nurse Bridge tells me you had your first outing.” He looks up from the open file on his desk. Over his circular spectacles. I wait for him to elaborate, for him to actually present a question to be answered, but he just sits there. All judgy.

I shrug. “Yup. I went out into the world for a whole corrupting two hours.”

No smile. “How was it?”

I cross my ankles. Make my face blank. “I went swimming.”

“With Boone.” He says it as a statement, not a question. There’s some kind of underlying criticism there. Maybe only the women of Stoney are Boone Randall fangirls.

“Yup,” I say again, nodding my head slowly. “He has a bike.” I’m five years old, telling my dad about the cool kid next door with the awesome toy. It’s so demeaning.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes, he does. And how was it? Being on a bike again?”

Really? Is this guy serious? “It was good. I had fun. Is there a point—?”

“Since your best friend lost her life on one, I thought maybe there would be some hesitancy for you.” His beady eyes drill through his lenses at me. “A moment of panic, maybe.”

My whole body locks up. Well, there wasn’t until you said something, asshat. Shitty counselors and their shitty tactics. I glimpse an image of me ripping his little gray eyes out before I say, “Nope. It’s just like riding a bike. You don’t forget how.” I smile. It’s so forced I can almost hear my teeth cracking under the pressure.

But at least he didn’t say her name. No one gets to say her name. They don’t know a damn thing about her. Most people didn’t give a shit about my girl. They don’t get to use her death as a way to get something from me.

“And she didn’t die because of a bike,” I add. “A truck crashed into her and the road smashed her head in. It wasn’t her or the bike’s or Jessie’s fault.” My hands clench into fists. “It was the drunk * driving the truck that hit them’s fault.”

His brows pinch together, a curious look forms on his face. “You don’t—” He breaks off, looks down at the file, and I have a fleeting second of satisfaction that I tripped him up. He finds what he’s searching for and meets my gaze again. “You don’t think Jesse’s drug use had anything to do with the accident?”