Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(7)

He’s right. I’m totally sketching out. That’s all it is. It’s been at least five weeks since I last IV’d. It’s just hitting me hard. What happened in the car…that was nothing. I’m just losing my shit.

I nod slowly, feeling my skin stretch and prickle with my movements. “Right. Go get Dar and let’s go.”



“She is not driving my bike!” I’m shouting, drawing attention to us in the parking lot.

At some point during my second wave, the high coming on full force, Jesse tried to talk me into letting Darla drive my bike back to the motel, and him drive me in his car. But f*ck that. “She’s wasted,” I say, pointing to Darla looking at me with one eye cocked open.

“I am not. I just got cigarette smoke in my eye.” She wipes sloppily at her eye, smearing mascara down her cheek.

I look at Jesse. Raise my eyebrows. “Fuck this shit.” I snag my keys from his hand and march toward my Breakout. “You take her. I’ll ride alone.”

Jesse plants his six-foot self in front of my path. “You’re a damn good rider, Mel. But these roads are slick, and you’re f*cked up.”

I glare at him. “You’re f*cked up, too, Jess. What the hell?”

He tilts his head, defiant. “Look at me. Do I look f*cked up? Really? I think we both know I’m good to go. Don’t pull this shit, Mel.”

Dammit. I wrap my arms around my stomach and glance back at Darla. She’d be safer with him. Compared to how much shit Jesse usually does at any given time, he’s not too high.

Before I can concede though, he says, “If you’re going to be a bitch about this”—I grit my teeth, stopping myself from calling him out on the dickish shit he just pulled—“then take the car. It’s safer than the bike.”

“Stop telling me what to do! I’m not your ol’ lady, damn.”

His head jerks back like I slapped him. “Right. Yeah. I know.” Jesse looks down to zip his vest, diverting his attention away from me.

My stomach churns, and I feel like if we don’t get out of here soon, we’ll both end up saying things we can’t take back.

I’m too on edge to argue about this much longer, anyway. I want a bath. Screw that, a hot shower. And I want to crawl into bed and bury my head under the covers. I feel like something really messed up has gone down tonight, but I still can’t put my finger on it. I’m too jacked up to sort through my rampaging emotions.

“All right, fine. I’ll drive your car.” I hold out my hand and he drops his car keys in my palm.

“I want to ride the bike.” Darla stumbles as she kicks off her boots. “I hate that car. It smells like toe jam and fast food. I want to feel the wind in my hair, and—”

“You mean your freshly f*cked rat’s nest?” I say. My stomach immediately cringes; I have room to talk. Her hands go right to her head as she attempts to smooth down the teased knots.

“Whatever,” I say. “I’m out. Fuck you two lame asses.” I head around to the driver’s side of Jesse’s car and wrench open the door. “Just don’t let her talk you into milkshakes.” I frown at Darla, who always insists on a chocolate milkshake when she’s messed up, then always passes out before she takes one sip. “I want my ride parked in my presence in less than ten.”

Jesse nods, and his mouth parts. I pause before getting in the car. Wait for him to say what’s on his mind—which makes me want to lose my stomach all over again for some inane reason. Our gazes meet, and he closes his mouth. His jaw ticks as a muscle jumps.

I shake my head and fall into the seat. As I turn the engine, I look up and watch Darla climb onto my bike behind Jesse. She twists around and waves, then blows me a kiss. I can’t help it. Through the coke amping my senses and anger over getting the shaft driving Jesse’s POS, I let a laugh slip. That’s my girl. She’s the only one who knows how to loosen the kinks that bind me tightly.

I blow a kiss back to her. She smiles, then turns and latches on to Jesse’s waist. Jesse’s back rises as he jumps and his foot slams down the kick starter. An angry growl from my Harley, and then they speed off.

The fading rumble of my bike resonates under my skin. A fierce shiver wracks my body.

The tail lights twinkle out into oblivion.





Melody

Break for her



FLASHING LIGHTS. SIRENS. RISING screams. My screams, hitting my ears on impact.

Impact.

The scene swims before my vision. Rippling like waves of heat steaming off the pavement in August. The gravel presses into my skin. Scrapes my knees. My hands—coated with blood and hair.

I run my fingers through her hair. It still has two large, teased knots. I swipe my thumb over her cheek, under her eye, clearing away the black makeup smudge. To make her look pretty. Because she wouldn’t want to look like— “Miss?”

A thick male voice bleeds into my ears, distorted and distant.

“Miss, you need to move back now.”

Hands grip me under my arms and wrench me away. My fingers snag her pink bandana, and I ball it in my hand. Grip it tightly until my fingers ache. My gaze is steady on her as I’m forced behind yellow tape.

Too many noises and flashing lights. Static from radios and beeping bangs against my eardrums. Blinking red and blue lights spin, flashing in and out. I close my eyes, can feel their heat on my lids. My head expands. Shrinks. Expands. Shrinks.