Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(41)
The pain throbbing beneath my skin explodes into a roaring fire. I’m off the mat, storming through the mass of people chanting Hunter’s name, ignoring their congratulations for making them money, and on my way to Turner’s house in seconds flat.
That word should be imprinted on my soul by now, a part of me; it shouldn’t have any effect—but I let it tear me down in one unguarded moment. I’m not prepared to deal with this shit while I’m trying to figure out what to say to Mel. If I should even bother saying anything.
Someone hurriedly steps aside so I can enter the house. I head straight to the small room with the fish tank, where my clothes and stuff to clean up are stashed. I’m almost to the door when I hear her deep, throaty voice.
“The Hunter?”
The air leaps from my chest. My lungs expand and contract as I concentrate on breathing. Giving myself time before I have to face her. I wrap my shame around me like a security blanket, guarding myself from the judgment I know I’ll see in her deep brown eyes, then turn. “It’s a stage name.”
Her arms are tightly crossed over her chest. She’s wearing a skimpy tank top and jean shorts that are rolled just above her knee-high boots. It’s hotter than hell outside, even in the evening, and her hair is tied up into a loose ponytail with her pink bandana. I take all this in, admiring every inch of her, slowly working my way to her face—trying to avoid her gaze.
But when I finally meet her eyes, it’s not anger or resentment there; it’s confusion. Maybe some hurt. “I never lied to you,” I say quickly, attempting to quash the hurt. “This isn’t something I like to brag about. Hell, tell anyone about. It’s—” I break off, not knowing how to explain, since I can’t really admit to my own damn self what I’m doing here.
Melody nods, repeatedly. “You never owed me the truth. As I remember, we went out of our way not to talk about real shit. So it’s all good, Hunter.”
That searing pain fires a bolt of lightning into my chest. She thinks I lied to her about my real name. Only the realization of that comes a little too slowly, and my defenses shoot up before I can reel in my anger. “Don’t call me that.”
More confusion spreads across her face, flushing her skin. “Anyway,” she says. “I just wanted to thank you. You just made me a shit load of money.”
I release a heavy breath. Notice we’re starting to attract too much attention. “Come on.” I open the door and move into the room, hoping Melody follows. For whatever reason, I worry about what she thinks of me. I want the chance to explain—to not be the guy who misled her.
She hovers in the doorway, her gaze scanning the room, the fish tank, me. Then with a forced show of bravado, she steps inside. I close the door behind her and nod to one of the two chairs backed against the wall.
“No thanks,” she says, choosing instead to anchor one booted foot to the wall and lean there, not touching the griminess of this place. I don’t blame her. “Haven’t had a tetanus shot in a good ten years. Plus, I’m not a fan of other people’s blood—not that kind of junkie.” She cuts her eyes at me.
Ignoring the slight against her, and me, for that matter, I nod. I’ve earned some of her wrath, and really, I don’t even notice the blood anymore. The patches where guys have lain and bled out. I sit in the metal chair and unwrap the tape from my right hand, then toss the bloody, balled heap into the waste basket in the corner, my knuckles dripping and adding their own swirled design to the stained carpet.
Mel pushes off the wall. “Shit, Boone. You’re a wreck.” She looks around, and her gaze lands on the first-aid kit near the tank. Quickly grabbing it, she marches over and kneels before me.
“Mel, you don’t have—”
“Shut it, duce.” She opens the kit and then grabs a rag near the water bucket. “This water clean?”
I nod. I’d just filled it before the fight for this specific reason. She dunks the rag and wrings it out.
When her hands take mine, she’s not hesitant or wary. Blood doesn’t seem to make her squeamish, despite her initial repulsion toward this room. Or maybe that was toward me—but it’s like she’s done this before. She’s sure, but also gentle. My throat thickens as she wipes away the blood, delicately, tenderly. Then, as she looks up, her gaze meets mine.
“Close your eyes,” she whispers. I do, and feel the cool cloth smooth over my brow, cleaning the cut above my eye. It stings, but that small pain is dull compared to the sharp, rising ache in my chest at the feel of her soft hands as she holds my head in place to examine the damage. She wipes my cheeks, my jaw. Then my lips. I open my eyes.
She pauses, and I watch as her throat bobs with a hard swallow. She blinks and lays the rag aside. Then gathers the bandage. “Is it for the money?”
“Yes,” I answer, readjusting my position so she can wrap my knuckles. “And no.”
A heavy sigh escapes her pursed lips. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But—”
“Wait.” Suddenly—and it may be because I’m dazed from the fight but—I want her to know everything. Except I don’t want to go through the process of having to actually tell her. I just want her to already know. She’s still on her knees before me, looking up at me with those deep brown eyes, waiting.
“Addicts have to replace using with something else,” I finally say. Her eyebrows hike. “For me, it’s all about balance.”