Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(46)
Instead, I palm his large hand between both of my small ones. “I’m going to hear so much shit for racing a Triumph.”
Boone
Above the trees, soar the sky, touch the stars
MELODY ISN’T SUFFERING DT’S, I can tell. But the sweat glistening on her forehead isn’t due to the late August afternoon heat, either. She’s suffering from something nearly worse than the sharp, sudden pain that comes from withdrawal; she’s craving. Hard.
If racing has always been in her life, like riding motorcycles has, like traveling has—then I’m guessing she’s done so high. Probably for the most part, anyway. It’s an eye-opening realization when a user comprehends for the first time they cannot function—or do the simple things they love—sober. Like for Mel, who is now cracking her knuckles and anxiously running her hands through her sweat-slicked hair. Over and over, repeating her nervous tells.
“Just relax,” I say, lightly placing my hands on either side of her hips.
I hear her soft, nervous laugh over the rumble of my bike. “This is so freaking embarrassing. I’ve never—I should be schooling you on riding your own bike, dude. I got this.”
A smile breaks across my face, and I scoot up closer to her from behind. “I’m not letting you take my baby out there until you’ve at least given it a test run.”
“I get that,” she says, readjusting her grip on the handlebars. “But do you really have to ride along like I’m some newbie?” She releases the handle again to crack her knuckles. Or to try to crack them. She’s fiending, and if she wasn’t trying to figure out what’s wrong, she’d have already taken off by now, if nothing else then to shut me up. This is how I know she’s fiending. She’s trying not to think about the rush she loves tying together with the rush her body needs; the drug.
I wish I could take this part for her, but she’s going to have to face it in order to learn to ride again. Not learn the basics, like she’s a recovering crash victim who has to learn to walk again. But it’s similar. She has to learn how to simply exist in her world sober. It’s just as disabling until you conquer it.
There’s no not talking about the proverbial elephant in the room, since it’s hard on her mind. Might as well get to it and face the monster. Wrapping my forearms around her waist, I say, “Drug of choice?” I already think I know this, since she admitted to having blow in her system before she was sent off to Stoney.
I feel her quake beneath my hold. A hard shiver. “Coke.”
“Method?”
She inhales deeply. “IV.”
“Amount?”
“At least an eighth a day.”
Holy shit. She’s no newb to blow—and how the hell can she afford…? I don’t want to know. Nothing good comes from discovering how a user obtains their fixes. I focus on the fact that her answers are coming quicker now, her voice not wobbling as much.
“But I didn’t shoot up all the time…” she amends, and shrugs. “I actually hadn’t IV’d for over a month before…before that night.”
That’s at least something. She’s not as self-destructive as she might think. “For how long?”
“What?” she shouts over the roar of the engine.
“How long did you use?”
Here, she hesitates. “Nine years.”
I try to respond quickly, thinking of something reassuring, but my mind is already doing the math. I don’t want her to question if I’m analyzing her like Doc Sid, so I say, “Think of the best day of your life. Could be anything. Nothing big had to happen, nothing amazing. Just a day that you remember being the happiest you’ve ever been.”
Luckily, she doesn’t come back with an immediate wisecrack. She’s trusting me, somewhat, to help her through this. Which leads me to believe she’s really out of her element and scared. While she’s considering my question, I can’t help but wonder how a thirteen-year-old got into the hard stuff so early on. What happened to little Melody? Nine years is a career junkie.
“I was sixteen, and me and Dar—my friend skipped school to go hang out with these guys.” She laughs as she thinks back on the memory. “We never met up with them. I can’t remember what happened, but somehow they ditched us or something, and we ended up at the gas station with no ride. We were so pissed, we blew all our money on candy and sodas and chocolate milk. Just bought the store out of every bit of sugar and caffeine to go off and have a vegging out day.”
She releases the handlebars and palms the gas tank, leaning her body forward. I try so desperately hard not to notice this action causes her ass to back against my crotch. Fuck, I’m such a guy, but dammit…focus. On her. Focus on Mel.
“Anyway,” she continues. “We took off to her house since her dad was at work. We spent the whole day watching bad daytime TV and eating our candy and shit. We laughed all day, jacked up on a sugar high…and even though we should’ve been pissed that those creeps took off with our blow—” she turns her head slightly toward me “—that’s why we were meeting up with them; they had the good shit. Anyway, we didn’t even think about it. Nothing special really happened. I just remember being so freaking giddy and happy spending the whole day with her, and just laughing. Best vegging out day of my life.”