Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(47)

I want to ask where this friend is now, but I don’t. That’s not the point of asking her to rekindle that moment. And there’s a chance that things didn’t continue on that way for Mel and her friend. Most of the time, it never does for anyone, just not users. That’s a question for another day, another reason.

“How do you feel right now?” I ask.

Mel pushes against the tank, pressing her back against me…and I squeeze my eyes closed as she leans into me. “Pretty damn good, duce. I have to admit. I feel freer.”

Loosing a shaky breath, I allow my arms to hold her closer. “Good. Now stay with that feeling and give the bike some gas.”

“All right,” she says, and sits forward. I’m straining not to run my hands along her waist, up her thighs, inching up toward…I block out the thought. I’m not facing my demons right now. This is about Mel. Keep it about Mel.

I lift my feet from the asphalt as she twists the throttle, and my Bonnie shoots forward.

She takes the curve like a pro, someone who has been riding bikes nearly her whole life, and I’m so ridiculously turned on I could shout a string of curses. But I’m proud of her, excited, and starting to calm down about her racing my bike on the track. She knows what she’s doing; she’s a biker.

But my poor libido is taking the beating of its life.

Torture.

It’s the one sure thing I have to look forward to with this girl.



Melody is all suited up in her tight-ass jeans and a leather jacket. Black boots laced up to her knees. Helmet already in place. And straddling my Bonnie at the start line.

My heart is in my throat.

I know she needs to win for the money, so she can buy another bike. It’s more than important to her—it’s a necessity. It’s her life. But after our practice ride, I think she’s just excited that she’s found her sweet spot again, the love of riding for the sheer joy of it.

Whatever she’s gone through to get here, she’s not through it yet. But as I watch her gaze out over the track, the finish line in her sight, I feel she’s on a sturdier path to getting there.

Honestly, though, I’m rooting for her to win. I want this win for her. And I have to admit, I’m completely turned on by her straddling my bike. That’s a huge bonus.

I never thought I’d hand the reins over. Not just to my bike, but everything. All of it. Having someone else be a part of my life—she’s in. She’s worked her way into my life and if she left tonight, never to be seen again, I’d feel the loss.

Jesse on the other hand is not as excited by her choice of racing machine. If I was an *, I’d give him an exuberant thumbs up. I do it anyway, and he shoots me a “f*ck you” look. Hey, *s have some perks. Like seeing the hot girl of your dreams beaming behind her visor as she revs the engine of a motorcycle. Just f*cking hot.

I won’t let that douche ruin it for her, or for me. Maybe he’s not even a douche. Hell, if I were in his place, I’d probably be territorial as hell, too. But it’s more than a pissing match going on between us; I’m worried he’s the wrong kind of friend for her right now. His tats do a good job, like mine, of hiding the track marks. But not good enough. Since his are fresh, I can spot them. I know what to look for.

Mel has her own choices to make, and one of those is choosing her company and friends…and I’m not such a territorial, creepy douchebag that I’d even suggest her ditching her friends. Not like I had to. Each has to make their own choices, for their own lives. But I won’t lie and say that I’m not sickened by the thought of her going off with him after this. Whether to celebrate her win, or console her in her defeat.

My thoughts stop abruptly when Mel revs the engine loudly and then half walks, half rides, inching my bobber to the starting line. I decide I can’t be sidelined. Literally. And hop over the tape marking off the pit.

“For a foreign bike,” Jesse says, not looking at me but at Mel, “it’s not half bad. You do the mods yourself?”

Maybe he’s choosing to be civil because he realized he’s not outing me as easily as he’d like. Whatever the reason, I take the compliment. “Thanks, yeah. All custom. Worked my ass off to afford the headers.”

He chuckles. “Those are nice. Vance and Hines duals?”

“Yup.”

Another biker pulls up to the white line beside Mel, and my chest tightens. “How many races has she won?” I ask. I’m really wanting to know the number of times she’s actually raced. I hope the hitch in my voice doesn’t reveal my worry.

Jesse looks cool. Like it hasn’t even crossed his mind that she could get hurt. “Dunno,” he says. “Enough to make a pretty good living at it if she wanted. Don’t sweat it, man. She knows what she’s doing. She’s a big girl.”

There’s some hint of a threat in that, but I’m not sure what. I’m certain Melody has told him where she met me. That I’m some sobriety occult leader or some shit. His assumption is probably that I’m straight-laced in every aspect—but that’s far from true.

“Your bike’s safe, man,” he continues. Then smirks at me sideways, cutting his eyes my way.

For a split second, the thought of ramming my fist through his cocky face seizes me. But I cage the rage. It occurs to me that he might be f*cking with me, trying to ease my nerves by making a joke. A poor one at that.