Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(9)
A searing anger rises into my throat, almost choking me. I cough and blink the mist from my eyes.
What a f*cking waste.
I click the photo album off and see a red icon over my inbox. There’s not many people who use my email to contact me, so I already have a good idea who it is. When I open my inbox, I’m nervous. I’m all okay with handing out somewhat sound advice, coming off like I’m smarter than I am, and trying to help poor lost souls find their way—wisdom from the well-traveled biker—but for whatever reason, Sam really got under my skin.
I’ve kept in touch with her—one of the few chicks that I consider a friend—and we talk at least twice a week. Usually about her college junk, and Holden, and their combined love fest shit. It’s cool. I’m always happy to hear that something is working out for someone I care about.
But today…right now…I’m not in the mood.
An irritating voice inside my head says maybe I should ask her for some advice. That it couldn’t hurt. She lost her ex fiancé in some kind of car accident a while back, her parents forcing her go to all these psychiatrist meetings and shit. I remember her dancing by herself in a bar when I first met her, falling apart at the seams. Now, with Holden, she’s gotten herself back on track.
But this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve lost the most important person in my life once before—and I sucked it up then. I’ll suck it up now.
Besides, calling Sam and crying about it would be admitting defeat. I can get through this. All of it. The loss of my Harley. Rehab. Jesse’s incarceration—if that’s what it comes to. The half a year probation sentence where I’m stuck in f*cking Florida and this goddamn sweltering hell pit of a climate.
The one thing, though, that I wish I could have gotten through—Darla’s funeral.
She was sent back to Hazard. Her * dad had to come down here and pick up “the body,” and take her back. I hate that that prick was the one who laid her to rest. In that crappy little town with those shitty little people. Darla should have been buried somewhere on the road, surrounded by her friends and her real family.
Instead, she was probably cheaply incinerated and her ashes stuck in a small urn. Likely sitting on that *’s floor in the trailer where she grew up. I know she hates that. Being trapped back there, no way out.
And me, stuck here and unable to leave this God forsaken state, can do nothing about it. Anger rises like bile to my throat.
My hand grips the paper, turning it into a ball before I hear the voice.
“Next.”
Glancing around, I realize that’s me. I step forward and un-wrinkle the paper. “I’m supposed to give this to you.”
The lady behind the glass stares down at the crinkly mess I’ve made and sighs. She pushes her thick black frames up her nose. “Let me get you the information.” Then she waddles to the back of her office and digs through more papers.
My foot taps impatiently, and I really don’t know why I’m so on edge. It’s not like I have somewhere else to be. I’m just over all the bullshit, I guess. Waiting here. Waiting there. All the rules and regulations. I’m about as far from a law-abiding citizen as you can get. And for the past three weeks, that’s exactly what I’ve had to become.
No bike—no riding. My Breakout was totaled in the wreck. Living out of a shitty motel room. One that, because I’ve recently ran out of my savings, I can no longer afford. No way to make any money. I had to leave my part-timer at Randy’s Bar due to ridiculous appointment times. Randy, the bar owner and close friend of Tank and the Lone Breed, was only doing me a solid till I was back on the road, anyway. Letting me work there to earn enough to get to Daytona. And, now that I am a law-abiding citizen, walking the straight and narrow—that means no side work either.
I only ever sold enough weed for pocket change, really. But still, it was nice to have that option.
I’m about ready to ram my head through the plate glass window when the office chick returns. “You can head on down to the mental awareness facility now.” She scrunches her nose, like she’s smelling the stench of that place on me. “You’re processing claims that you’re to be admitted to a rehabilitation center right away.”
I snag the papers from her. “Thanks.”
And now, I’m a committed, law-abiding citizen. Awesome.
With nothing but my clothes and a few personal items to pack, it didn’t take long to prepare for the twenty-day vaca from my life.
What things I was told at the mental awareness place that I couldn’t bring—my music, phone, Darla’s effects I couldn’t part with—the Stoney Creek rehab facility locked away in their safe-keeping room. I have to trust that it is safe; I have nowhere else to stash my stuff.
The only thing of Dar’s on me: a silver charm she got for her birthday. I found it in our hotel room. I can’t remember from where or who she got it—but I couldn’t imagine doing a stint at rehab without her. Her pink bandana is locked up with my stuff. I don’t trust whoever I’ll be rooming with not to go through my shit. Not chancing losing that. So I clipped her charm to my necklace. Just a bit of her with me at Stoney Creek.
And what the hell kind of name is Stoney Creek for a place full of…stoners?
Dumb.
I drum my fingers against the table, waiting. Again with the waiting. A person could go crazy just sitting around waiting. But it’s all I’ve been doing since my court hearing yesterday.