Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(54)

Jesse offered the hit; one small line. And I put my head to the bathroom counter and snorted. Like old times—just to try to find that connection with him; that blissful moment when Dar was still alive, and we were all together. But it went wrong. Jesse groping me, wanting to be with me, trying to move past that one second when everything changed. Make me forget. It won’t work, though. Ever. Him losing himself in me won’t erase her.

“Mel.”

The voice is a distorted echoing of sounds. But it’s my name. I blink my eyes open. Center my doubling vision on Boone’s concern-etched face.

“I’m ready,” I mumble, hoping he understands. I want to leave. Get him away from here. Just get out of here and into my bed. Funny, that I have a bed I call mine. My head starts to drift, other thoughts clouding and fuzzy, as Boone picks me up. His arms cradle me to his chest.

Inching my chin upward, I lay it on his shoulder and peek back at Jesse. He’s sitting on the sidewalk, his hands fisted in his hair, head aimed down between his parted knees. The ache takes over my whole body, stemming from my chest and radiating out to every limb. A blind ache, disorienting.

I know, I know. Damn, do I know, that what happened to Dar that night—it wasn’t his fault. But this f*cking pain has to have an outlet. Jesse triggered all the rage when he touched me, like nothing had changed between us. But everything has changed.

It won’t ever be the same.



By the time Boone’s bobber rumbles into my apartment parking lot, the crank has dropped. It’s no longer the early sketchy phase, where I want to tear at my hair, scratch at my skin. Usually, that part doesn’t last long, because I know the deal, it passes quickly. The anticipation for the ultimate high makes it just the build-up to the next phase.

But I know in my muddled brain that the sheer amount of alcohol I consumed first did not mix well, and that first half hour was like something out of a bad trip. Now, alcohol burning out of my system, the line of crank traveling through my bloodstream, the euphoria is finally taking effect.

There’s a tiny niggle of guilt, some worry, that I’m going to pop on my next drug test. That I could be sent back to Stoney, or worse. But I push that thought so far back in my mind, it’s only a tiny, annoying whisper. I don’t want to think about it now—to waste this fleeting moment of happiness.

Boone lowers the kickstand and sets his bike on its side, then runs his hands along my arms. He made me sit in front of him, like a freaking kid. Because he didn’t think I could manage on my own. Like really, I’ve never ridden on a bike f*cked up before. This is not my first rodeo. But whatever. If it got me to my apartment where I could relax, so be it.

“You feel okay?” he asks.

I bob my head. “Oh, yeah.” I push my back into his hard chest, loving the feel of his toned muscles pressing against me.

I feel him tense, but then he’s swinging his leg behind the seat and slipping off the bike. Damn, he is so uptight. A thought spikes my brain with the next wave of heat that flushes my skin. Boone needs to decompress. As in, he needs a good f*ck. He doesn’t even drink. He has no outlet for all his pent-up bullshit.

I wriggle myself off the bike. Stand and look up at the night sky. Millions of fiery stars blaze against the black backdrop like a sea of embers. It makes my breath stutter in my chest. I could stand here and stare, writing lines of poetry in my head all night.

Awareness trickles over me. I can feel Boone watching me, and then I realize, or remember, that his outlet is brawling. Fighting. He’s such a guy. All testosterone and balls.

Sliding my fingers into my back pockets, I lower my gaze to him. Just standing there, his tatted arms all crossed across his chest like a scolding parent. I have no idea why this guy chose to 86 his sex life along with drugs in order to get and stay sober. Maybe sex is a trigger for him. (Ha! Look, I learned some shit in rehab; triggers.) But a good round of hot, carnal, f*ck-up-against-the-wall sex would do him a world of good.

He really needs to let some steam out of the pot.

I hold my hand out to him. “Walk me up to my apartment?”

He glances down at it, his eyebrows pressing together, really contemplating whether or not he should.

“Christ, Boone. Not everything is a dire decision.” I take off toward the outside hallway and stairs leading to my place. Then I hear his audible groan not far behind me. I smile.

“You seem to be doing all right now,” he says as we reach my door. “I think I should go.”

Turning around, key in hand, I shrug. “You really think you’re not going to worry about me all night.” Just as I say this, I sway a little, completely not intending to. I’m still a little sloshed from all the shots. But luckily, I didn’t bail out of the bathroom before I scored a small baggie from Jesse. I’ll work the rest of the drunk out of my system in a minute.

Boone sighs heavily, his broad chest falling with his deep breath.

Pushing the key into the deadbolt, I say, “I’ll be fine. Just do you, okay? I got me covered.” Then I’m inside my apartment and hating the emptiness. I toss my keys and tote on the bar near the small, sad entryway. The echo reverberates through me, and I truly do not want to be here alone.

If Boone cuts out, I’ll call someone, anyone, to party with. One last blow out before I seriously commit to this sobriety program shit. At least for the next four and something months.