Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(75)

Cleansing.

Rolling to my side, I block his next kick with my arms, then push away from him with my feet. I inch toward the edge of the mat and reach for the rope, pull myself up. Fuelling my limbs with the bitter aftertaste of resentment, I crave that blackness now, for the void to swallow me.

The guy shakes his head, as if I’m some crazy motherf*cker for wanting more. I suppose I am. Because right this second, I’m barreling toward him, fists locked and loaded.

My fists descend, two quick jabs to his stomach. His oomph speeds the next round of blows to his ribs. He stumbles, sidesteps, and catches his balance, before I’m on him again. He mirrors my stance, dancing in time as I land punch after punch, his arms blocking. My frustration mounts, needing one more, good round of blows before I tap out.

I haul back and bring it home. But this time, I’m met with an expert dive and fire.

Right to my gut.

As I’m dropped to a hunched position, he throws a dirty punch to my throat. The air vacates my lungs, my eyes bulge, and the hard point of his elbow to my back takes me down. This time, I’m too fixated on the need to breathe, the panic seizing my lungs shut, to block his attack.

My ribs take a righteous beating.

Somewhere in the thick haze surrounding my brain, a sweet voice bleeds into my ears. I’m sure I’m about gone, not getting back up. Not living through this…because Melody’s voice is all I hear.

It’s the one sound that makes this okay. That makes ending it right here just fine.

I close my eyes, let the sound cocoon me. A kind of inevitable tranquility.

I wish I could’ve told her I’ve fallen for her. Just once.

Blackness is all that’s left as I fade.





Melody

Until you see me



THE HUMID FLORIDA NIGHT is made even warmer by the press of too many bodies vying for a good viewing position of the ring. I muscle my way through the crowded house, my goal so close.

The plane touched down a little over half an hour ago, a two and a half hour non-stop flight. When Sam and Holden make it down here, I owe them a huge wad of cash for that. It wasn’t cheap.

But right now, my only thought is Boone. The whole cab ride here, my stomach was knotted, my sixth sense tying me up inside, just knowing something is wrong. Please, let me have made it in time.

I bounce up, trying to get a glimpse of the ring in the center of the backyard of Nickle’s. I’m actually praying that I don’t see Boone anywhere near here—that he’s at his apartment, watching boring TV. Or at Stoney, finding obsessive, constructive projects to fill his sober time.

But those hopes are shattered the moment I spot the ring.

Boone’s near the edge of the rope, buckled over. And oh, my God, the guy he’s fighting is a Neanderthal.

Attempting to block the attack, Boone brings his arms up, but too slowly. I watch the punch in slow motion, seeing the huge fist connect to his throat, and my stomach bottoms out.

Boone drops to the mat.

I’m shouting now, pleas and threats to the people around me to move. My voice being ripped from me as I try to reach Boone.

The ring swarms with people, all surrounding Boone and blocking my view. I’m barreling through the crowd, my chest tight and my heart hammering. I’m unsure if I should stop now and call 911—if it will be too late by the time I reach him. If I should just get him help.

People are bent over and kneeling in the ring. My heart beats in time with the ache pounding my head, and I shout over the crowd, demanding them to let me through.

I drop my tote to the mat and reach for the rope. Pulling myself into the ring, I don’t ask for permission, I crawl right through legs toward Boone. Someone’s hand tries to force me back, and I’m tempted to bite it, my sole focus on an unconscious Boone lying on his back, eyes closed, not breathing.

No. No. No.

Some kind of paramedic is leaning over him, checking his vitals. “Stay back,” he tells me.

“Are you licensed?” I ask, my voice shaky. I lay my hand on Boone’s arm. He’s drenched in sweat, his skin too cool. My eyes scan the many bruises covering his face and body.

The paramedic doesn’t answer my question. He reaches into his bag and takes out some kind of breathing tube with a faceplate. He places it over Boone’s mouth and nose, then pumps the device, forcing air into Boone’s lungs.

My gut is on fire, demanding I call for real help. I look back at my pack, ready to leap for my phone, when a hard gasp snaps me back. Boone’s chest flinches as he coughs, his eyes blink and then stay open.

“Boone! Can you hear me? I’m here.” I rest my hand on the side of his face as the paramedic pulls the device away, then rests his fingers on Boone’s wrist, taking his pulse rate.

Everyone surrounding us—all the ruckus, shouts, questions—disappear when his swollen eyes find me. In this one moment, I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want Boone to be okay. To walk away from this and never return.

Even if I’m not with him. Just let him live and leave, God.

Then his hand reaches up to find mine. His fingers link our hands together. “You’re in so much trouble with Jacquie.” His lips stretch into a slight smile. It looks painful.

Lips trembling, my mouth attempts to smile back, but I’m just too relieved. “I’m sure I’m going to catch hell,” I say, tightening my fingers around his. I bring his hand to my lips, kiss his battered knuckles. “I need to call for an ambulance. I’ll be right back.”