Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(49)

A stupid smile spreads across my face, and I swear I’m blushing. I could kick those dumb butterflies attacking my stomach, cheesy little sprites. But it’s the whole thing: the high from winning; the power I feel from defeating my panic; Boone looking at me like I’m the brightest star in his sky.

I feel Jesse’s arm slide across my neck, and I lean into him. We’re going to have to have that unpleasant, uncomfortable talk soon—the one where I clarify I’ll never be his ol’ lady. No matter what his mentor thinks. But for right now, I bask in this moment with my friend. Soon as Jesse’s used to Boone, maybe even thinking of him as a hangaround, he’ll ease up. But yeah, we’re long overdue for a talk. About everything.

Tank shrugs over and ruffles my hair. “That a girl. And look what I got here.” He flips open a wad of cash and starts thumbing through. “Couple more, and I think you’ll have enough for your bike, baby girl.”

I accept the cash, then head back to the pit with them. Boone walks his bike along beside me and Tank. There’s a crackle in the air, a tension. Beneath the celebratory atmosphere, a high pressure is building.

The calm settling over me, wrapping me, suddenly feels fragile, fleeting. Like the cliché eye of a storm. I shake the unease away, trying to stay in the now. In this rare, non-chemical high, where everything feels safe.

As I gear up to race again, watching the bikers ahead of me speed down the drag strip, I think of Dar, wishing she could give me a hint as to what I’m feeling. She always just knew. Sometimes before I did. I miss having that backup. My counterpart.

I reach up and slip her charm under the collar of my shirt before I slide on the helmet.

Safe is no more than a concept.

Two races later, I’ve lost more than my winning streak.



“Son of a bitch.” I slam my back against the chain fence and run a hand through my sweat-slicked hair. The humidity is suffocating, and the lights of the dragway glare down on me, exposing. Like spotlights.

“Those two were practically undefeated, Mel,” Jesse says. He picks up a couple stray tools from the pit ground and drops them into a toolbox. “Look, don’t sweat it. Don’t freak. You’ll get your stride back.”

I huff out a harsh laugh. “I’ll get,” I repeat, my tone bitter. Since when have I ever needed to try to get anywhere? Try so damn hard. I’m struggling to hang on to that initial feeling of perseverance I had after the first race. Right then, it felt like I could coast through all this. That I had more than a handle on my path. A plan.

But being beaten so badly during the last two races…damn. I feel like shit. As high as I was before, I’m down in the trenches now. A sharp contrast. I just dropped off the side of a cliff. Free f*cking fall.

“Here.” Jesse hands me a bottle of Jack. “Don’t sulk. It’s not hot.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Thanks.” I take the bottle and tip it to my lips. Feel the burn in the back of my throat. Taste the bitter sting of warm alcohol and setback.

Those too races were more money than ten altogether. Yeah those guys were top dogs. Yeah I probably had little chance in beating them even before I lost my Breakout. Yeah I shouldn’t be such a sore loser; content to have won the money in my pocket, and to be back riding again. Period.

I know all this. I’m self-aware enough to see it from all perspectives. But that doesn’t mean it makes it any easier to accept. I just…I wanted that rush. I wanted that ultimate moment where the stars aligned to tell me everything was going to be right from here on out. Maybe not perfect, but on to the next part. Where I’d find my new life. The one after Dar and me. Like when I lost my dad, and everything changed. But I was on to the next phase.

This all feels stuck. Motionless. Stagnate. And I hate standing still.

Taking another swig of liquor, I let the hard bite drown out the commotion in my head.

Boone wanders over, hands tucked under the hard muscles of his biceps. He left to park his bike, and I’m glad he didn’t witness my semi meltdown.

He tilts his head, inspecting me closely. “You need a ride home?”

Normally, after a night of racing, we’d head to Randy’s or whatever local bar we were occupying in whatever town. But I look down at the bottle in my hand and shrug. “I probably should go home. Yeah.”

Jesse braces his arm above my head, his finger linked to the chain fence. “You’re not riding with me to Randy’s?” he asks. “Come on. It’s tradition or some shit. You can’t go to bed all whooped up on by a couple bad races.” He widens his eyes, imploring. “It’s the rules, Mel.”

It is the rules. And despite my deflated mood, I know I shouldn’t let tonight end like this. It was never a question before; race, party. Win, lose…there was always an after. But a vital piece of the group is missing, that’s what’s throwing me. I’m not sure if it could or should be the same without Dar. Maybe I just need to go home.

That thought is backed up by the look in Boone’s eyes, the serious furrow of his brow. “I don’t mind dropping you off, Mel.”

I can feel the tension radiating off Jesse at hearing Boone call me by my nickname. Before they get into another pissing match, I hold up my hand. “I’m tired, not whooped, though those last two races got me good.” I look between them. “But I don’t want to just go home and sulk. One drink, then I’ll head home.”