Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(37)
My lips go numb, and my tongue thickens, my stomach rocky like I’m going to be sick as a memory surfaces of the last time I was with him. I try to raise my head, but someone is holding it firmly in place. Suzie. She’s laughing.
Panic floods me. My whole body locks up, and I don’t understand why, or what I’m feeling. The sudden need to flee. All these emotions rush me and seem to last forever in the brief time it actually takes Jesse to tip the bottle to my mouth.
The warm, amber liquid hits my closed lips, runs down my cheeks. The smell of alcohol engulfs my senses, and my mouth waters.
“Open up, Mel! You can do it! It’s like riding a bike,” Suzie says. The crowd around us is chanting and encouraging me on, laughing, like I’ve simply forgotten how to take a shot. No one notices the fear seizing my limbs and mind. Not even Jesse, who’s still smiling as he tips the bottle again for another bourbon bath.
On instinct, I open my mouth and push my tongue to the back of my throat, so I don’t choke. When the hollow of my mouth is full, I gulp down the warm liquor. I repeat this action five times, hearing the room whoosh in and out of my ears, growing louder with claps of praise.
Finally, I kick my foot, tapping out.
I’m pulled up by my hands as Jesse helps me sit forward. The bar spins, and I blink a few times, trying to stop the dim lights from swirling. Tracers flash before my vision. I swat them away.
“Damn, Mel. I thought you were going to choke there for a second.” Jesse rubs my back, laughing as I shake my head. “What did they do to you in there?”
Annoyed, I shove his hand away and hop off the bar. “I need to go to the bathroom.” I glance back to see the disappointed look on his face, but he doesn’t say anything as I take off through the crowd.
I head for the exit, bypassing the restroom, and push open the door. The muggy air blasts me in the face, making my stomach feel queasy. As the door closes behind me, muffling the sounds from inside, I inhale a full, clean breath.
The bite of alcohol stings the back of my throat. I exhale a hot breath, tasting the bourbon on my tongue. It’s already clouding my thoughts. Dulling my senses. I should relish this feeling, begging the numb to finish dulling the ache—but I’m frightened. It’s so stupid, and I can’t for the life of me understand why.
Maybe because it’s the first time in a long while that I’ve drank without Dar. Maybe I’m scared to do anything without her. But no, I don’t think that’s the problem. It’s the guilt that I’m here and she’s not—that I shouldn’t be here, partying and having a good time, when she’ll never get to again. And as I continue to contemplate the many, mounting reasons, my head grows foggy and lightheaded, and I smile. I want another shot. That’s all I crave, just to finish the job and empty my head completely.
“When your daddy died, I stayed on a straight drunk for a week.”
I whip my head around, quickly wishing that I hadn’t as I stumble a bit on my feet.
“Whoa,” Tank says, a smile lighting his weathered face. “Take it easy, lightweight. No need to prove nothing to no one. You should pace yourself, ya know.”
Scoffing, I roll my eyes. “This wasn’t my idea.” I realize my bandana has slipped from my hair, so I yank it off and start to wrap it around my neck.
Tank nods as he leans his back against the brick wall of the bar. “I know, girl. Jesse’s not doing such a good job conveying his…apologies.” I raise an eyebrow. “Look, he’s like a son to me. I’m his mentor, but I’ll be the first to admit he doesn’t have the first clue when it comes to, uh, expressing his feelings.” He says this last part like it tastes bad in his mouth, and I laugh.
“Please don’t tell me the MC is in group therapy or some shit,” I say. “I don’t think I could handle you guys being down with the times.”
He chuckles, long and deep. I’ve missed his laugh. It reminds me of when he and my dad would hang out in the dining room all night, playing cards and telling raunchy jokes. My heart pangs with so much loss.
“Hey, we’re trying,” he says, nudging me. “All I’m saying, Little Rider”—he winks at me, and the use of my father’s nickname almost brings on the tears—“is you have to give the man a break. He’s been in a black funk since that night, and he’s counting on you to help get him through this. He needs you. Every man needs a good woman, and I know you’re hurting, baby…but your daddy would want to see you settled with a good man. The two of you, you and Jess, could come out of this together and on top.” He places a hand on my shoulder, but I’m so shocked about the words leaving his mouth, I don’t even acknowledge the touch. “Take some time, then do what’s right by yourself. Don’t let your girl’s death ruin two lives.”
With that, he gives me a quick one-armed hug, pats my shoulder again, and nods his head. “I’ve got a lot more drinking to do before the track tomorrow. You going?”
And like that, the topic of my future prospects is over. I clear my throat and nod. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t have a bike. I might need to—”
“Use Jesse’s. It’s the least he can do. And he’ll help you replace your Breakout.”
He says this like it’s final. No arguing. So I say, “Sure. Sounds like a plan.” But my stomach is churning, and I’m wishing I had a ride right this minute. To get out of here and try to think through what’s happening.