Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(43)

This guy is my height, and I give him credit for squaring his shoulders and standing toe-to-toe with me. But I also know he just witnessed what I did to the guy in the ring. Maybe he feels I’m taxed after one brutal fight, but I’m far from out.

I lift my chin higher, challenging. “If that was true,” I say slowly. “Then you wouldn’t need to spell it out for me now, would you?”

His whole face contorts with anger. He takes a step back, then another, and I wait for him to make another threat, but he doesn’t. I guess there was something in his first warning that should have been made clear, but I’m not accustomed to MC rules. Their lifestyle. As far as I’m concerned, every woman should be free to make her own choices.

And from what I remember Melody telling me, she’s not in an MC. Her father was. So whatever claim this guy is trying to stake on her isn’t his right. Then again, he just watched me beat the shit out of someone. He could be trying to look out for her, which I understand. But his method is all wrong. He comes across all wrong.

He leaves without another word or trading blows, and I sink into the chair. I have got to stop letting other people rile me up. Although I felt like this was one case that was justified.

As I’m slipping my shirt over my head, I hear my cell beep. I reach for my pack and dig out my phone.

Unknown sender: You shared one of your secrets, I feel obligated by the rules of our agreement to share one of mine. Parker’s Dragway. Tomorrow at 6. Come find out.

A smile curls my lips, and I wince at the quick jab of pain from the cut on my mouth. I program Melody’s name to the unknown number and hit save.

Affable just bumped up a notch.





Melody

An undercurrent in my sea of waves, crashing



ALMOST A WEEK SINCE I was released from Stoney and I’m still sober—for the most part.

I got a part-time gig at a coffee shop a few blocks down from my apartment. Which is a completely different clientele than I’m used to making drinks for. Although Randy offered me full time hours at the bar, I had to reject that sympathetic handout. Doesn’t mean I don’t drop in for a beer myself, but I make sure it’s a time when the MC aren’t around, like when Jesse’s working at the mechanic shop with Tank.

There’s a small group of the Lone Breed staying in town until Jesse’s acquitted of all charges. Which his fancy lawyer believes will be really soon. And I am relieved, honestly. Regardless of how I turned on him yesterday at that backyard brawl thing, what I said…I do know in my heart the wreck wasn’t Jesse’s fault. And I do think it’s best if he leaves here. Leaves me.

Being around Jesse more and more…it’s getting difficult not to think of doing a line, or taking a hit, of letting go, getting one last high... I know he’s always got a bag of something on him.

So for now, I dull the cravings with beer, and stay away from the hard stuff. I attend group meetings. Never talking, just listening, but I’m there. Then I head to my mostly empty, cavernous apartment alone.

That’s the hardest thing I’ve faced so far; living alone. All of my stuff fits into one corner of the bedroom. I have no cooking supplies. No TV. No real furniture. The apartment came furnished with the bare essentials; bed, couch, a small bar connected to the kitchen with two stools. But it’s the littlest, saddest, most depressing apartment in the world.

Darla filled any space with her large presence. Without her, the place is a hollow shell. I try to spend as little time there as possible. Though I did buy a home warming present for myself: a calendar. It hangs on the fridge, and every morning before work I cross out another day. My probation hearing just under five months away circled in thick red marker.

I’ve never had to do anything by a schedule, ever. Now, that’s my life. Everything scheduled down to the hour. Group meetings. PO appointments. Bill payments. Like electric and water. Things I’ve never had to keep up with before.

A wave of unease washes over me as I start to think about all the things I have to keep track of. And I wonder, not for the first time, if Nurse Bridge can be coaxed into recommending me to a doctor where I can score some anxiety meds.

But then there’s all the hassle I’d have to go through. Approval from my PO; statements sent to my counselors at group about my medication so my drug tests don’t pop. It’s not worth the effort. I’ll stick with beer.

The irony in all this: I was always the responsible one out of the Dar and me duo. The one who looked out for her, who made the plans on the road, who found us work gigs and places to crash. Who kept her safe, like a big sister, who took care of us…and I’m realizing for the first time in my life that I don’t have a f*cking clue how to be a grown up. Not the real kind. I was so full of shit.

I take a sip of lukewarm beer and gaze out over Parker’s Dragway. The race track.

I’m always jacked before a race. My adrenaline amped. My nerves revved. I’m so wired and I haven’t even done any blow. The thought kicks my pulse. Before every race, I always took a good luck hit. Got myself right, focused. The craving is hitting hard right now.

It’s like that learned memory shit or whatever Doc Sid always ranted about. Something about how your body and mind recalls things in an inebriated state, and can’t do them or enjoy doing them without the high it’s used to getting as a reward. Some other shit about dopamine—I can’t remember it all. But suddenly, I’m freaked that I won’t be able to race.