Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(48)

I’m not concerned about my bike; I’m worried about Mel getting hurt.

I don’t have time to respond to the asinine comment as a horn blares, snagging my full attention. The group of bikers I’m standing with all rush to the front of the pit. I follow. The bikes peel away from the starting line, smoke rising from the back tires. A ruckus of cheers engulfs the dragway, but only for a second before the rumble of the bikes echoing off the asphalt and cement wall bounces back to drown them out.

My heart jumps from my throat to the f*cking ground, I swear.

My Bonnie speeds up the track, its engine growling, Mel handling her beautifully—but I can’t breathe. It’s a straight shot to the finish line. I’m not even paying attention to the other biker, all attention focused on her, my knuckles aching as I grip the bar before me.





Melody

Their fire devours, but no need for air



SHIT. I HIT A DIVOT in the track and the bike nearly gets away from me. I feel her tip and zig to the left. I down shift and right the wheel, which feels wobbly—looser than my Breakout. The guy beside me guns it and shoots up ahead of me, getting out of my stupid way.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

All I’m thinking about is not crashing Boone’s bike. Not hitting the asphalt and skidding down the pavement. Not losing track.

Don’t lose track.

I can feel the bike beneath me seeking purchase, so I ease off the gas. My heart pulses in my ears, a hollow thump thump eating my chest. It hurts, the burn. The empty scald from failing. Because I’ve never once thought while racing. My thoughts are out of control.

I just did. I just rode. I just f*cking ride as hard and as fast as I can, no time for thoughts. The rush taking me to the finish line. Adrenaline screaming in my veins. This is all wrong. I’m so wrong. As the thoughts continue to bleed out of my brain, flooding me with panic, I’m losing even more track. The guy is a good two bike distances ahead of me.

Fuck!

The front tire hits another bump, and I’m about to pull over…then something so clear and sure washes over me, I startle.

This moment. It’s the moment that will forever define me—or haunt me. I will never get this moment back, no do overs. No repeats. If I let the fear take me down, I won’t just lose this race, I’ll lose myself.

I try to grasp that one true feeling of bliss I had with Dar back in high school. The one Boone—cheesily, but sweetly—made me recall, when I didn’t let the jones for a high suck me under, when I knew exactly who I was and what I loved. I latch on to it. Everything went wrong that day, and I should have been pissed. Angry that I got played and didn’t get Dar and me the buzz we wanted. But instead, all the wrong turned out to be so right. And she said, “We should always do this.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“This,” she repeated, wrapping a skinny arm around my neck. “Just be us.”

She was right. I was weak, she was strong. I thought I was the one looking out for her, but she had the answers. I wish she had been confident enough in herself to tell me that I was f*cked up. That I didn’t need to get high, that she loved me more sober, that it wasn’t as much a part of me as I thought.

That I’m not my dad—I don’t have to live his life.

The risers and people and track all whoosh past. I’m no longer thinking of the race as my thumb bumps the gear, and I pick up speed. It’s such a short distance, this stretch of asphalt. But time is relative. Even though it’s only been seconds, I’ve been on this track for a lifetime.

My tire is neck-and-neck with the bike next to me. Inching up and back, taking the lead and losing it. When I cross that finish line, whether in first or last, there’s no going back. I cross it. Period. New chapter.

The roar of the engine engulfs my senses, and I lean forward, chin to handlebars. I’m racing against myself.

The white and black checkered flag waves as I fly past. I rise up and squeeze the brake. Dropping my foot to the ground, I grind to a stop, the smell of burning rubber hitting my nose. I’m thankful Boone rides a bobber. Jesse’s Forty-Eight probably would have sent me tumbling down the dragway. I’d been a skid mark on the pavement.

I’ve come to a full stop a few feet away from the finish line. I’m shaking. The rumble of the bike beneath me drowns out the commotion of the dragway, and I idle there, just taking in the moment before I turn and look back.

Jesse and Boone are running up the strip. The biker right behind me pulls his helmet off and bangs it against his thigh.

I won.

“Baby! You’re amazing!” Jesse shouts as he meets me on the track. His arms circle my waist and pull me from the seat. I’m laughing as he spins me around, giddy from the sheer surge of adrenaline, dizzy from the twirling and the win.

“And I won a hell-of-a-lot, too,” I say, even though I’m realizing how much the money was not the point of this race.

“Yeah, you did,” Jesse says, placing me back on my feet. “You going again?”

I nod. “Hell yeah.” Then I quickly look at Boone. “I mean, if that’s cool with the owner of the bike.”

He’s standing beside Tank, his hands in his pockets, a proud expression lighting his face. “Yeah, of course. You tore that track up. I didn’t know my bike was that bad ass until you.” He winks at me.