Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(53)

“She needed to forget this shit for a while. I just needed her to hear me…” He runs a hand through his slick hair. “Just to listen. Mel.” He weaves his head, trying to gain her attention. “Tell him how we are together. How we reach that plateau, baby.”

Mel struggles to right her head and look at Jesse. “How we were,” she slurs. Then shakes her head. “It’s all shit without Dar. You know that.”

Jessie’s head jerks back like he’s been slapped. “I loved Darla. You know that what happened…it was an accident, Mel. You have no idea how shitty I f*cking feel, baby.”

The picture about what happened to land Melody in rehab is starting to become clearer. But I’m not sure I want the whole story. My stomach is sinking with each admission between these two, and a wave of sickness crashes over me. Like shitty history repeating itself.

“I told you no,” Mel mumbles. She’s staring at the ground, her gaze unfocused. “I told you no. If you would’ve listened, then that night wouldn’t have happened.” She shakes her head again. “No, if I wouldn’t have even been with you, it wouldn’t have happened. Dominoes. Dominoes.”

As she continues to mutter to herself, I’m eyeing Jesse with a new kind of hatred. “What the f*ck is she talking about?”

That snaps Mel out of her trance, and she turns her head toward me, waving her hand. “Wait. It’s not like that—”

But I’m asking Jesse again. “What is she saying?”

Regaining his composure, Jesse rolls his shoulders. Cocks his chin. “It’s none of your business.” He reaches for Mel, grasping her arm. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Come on.”

She pulls away, closer into me. “I’m not that f*cked up! I know what happened that night, and so do you.” Though she’s wavering, she focuses a hard glare on Jesse that makes him back up a step.

My blood is lava. Anger is rippling through my veins, heating my insides, boiling over. If not for the half-lucid girl in my arms, I’d already be throwing down on Jesse. I can read between the lines—what Mel is trying to voice. And as that knowledge splits the seams of my brain, I’m moving her toward the sidewalk.

I try to set her down, but she places a hand on my chest. Looks up into my eyes. “Let’s just go.”

I grind my back teeth. My jaw aches from the pressure. Try to suppress the explosion getting ready to erupt, the rage triggering the need to connect flesh with flesh, inflict pain—feel pain. To make the noise stop.

My gaze steady on hers, I bite it back. She needs to get somewhere safe to come down. Focus on her. I turn us toward my bike and start walking.

“What the f*ck,” Jesse says. “Really? All right, Mel. Christ, I’m sorry. I f*cked up.”

Melody’s still stumbling alongside me, ignoring Jesse’s admission. I’m bottling my rage best I can.

“This is bullshit,” he shouts. “Fine. Go off and f*ck him. Just another douchebag I have to wait out until you’re through with, huh?”

I feel Melody tense in my arms. I keep us moving.

“Maybe I should’ve f*cked Darla that night!” Jesse says.

And Mel hurls around, breaking free of my arms. Her face is pinched and red, and I just grasp her around the waist, stopping her attack. But her words try to assault anyway. She’s seething threats and insults, but they’re muffled below her fight.

I groan, and before she says or does something she’ll regret, I step in for her and take the lead.

Her last recognizable words: “Oh, shit,” before I’m on top of Jesse. Dropping fists.





Melody

Shiny metallic, tangy and wet



“OH, SHIT.”

My knees are wobbly, my legs liquid. I try to reach for Boone as he quickly deposits me on the pavement, my butt hitting the ground hard on my own account, but he’s taking off toward Jesse before I can get a firm grasp.

The streetlamps streak across my vision, multicolored tracers leaving a blur of trails. I swat at the air, trying to move them out of my line of sight. I can’t let this happen; Boone and Jesse fighting. It’s my fight, not Boone’s.

But I’m suspended, unable to move. My stomach bottoms out as I hear the sick crunch of fist meeting face.

I shake my head. More tracers. Crawling on my hands and knees, I focus on Boone’s black boots stomping the ground, follow his lead. Slowly. I can tell the gravel is grinding into my knees, my palms, but it’s such a distant sensation, like it’s happening to someone else. I’m feeling their residual pain.

Two bodies connect. A thud, a smack. The figures are two dark objects colliding. I squint. Boone has Jesse by the vest collar. He’s backing him up against the brick building. Shouting.

Jesse asked Tank to “let him handle it”—but Tank could change his mind any second. The MC tearing into Boone to protect their own. My anxiety ramps.

We need to leave.

Working my voice up through my chest, I hear a low buzz in my vocal chords. Then, “Stop!” I think it’s loud enough. And suddenly the nausea pulls me under.

I roll onto my side, tears sliding down my cheeks. I haven’t done crank in ages. Like a year or more. I can’t remember ever feeling this horrible. But I wasn’t ever this drunk when I did, and I was always happy…before. You can’t do this shit when you’re already off. When you’re thinking too much about bad shit. It f*cks with you.