Losing Track (4 page)

“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 fuck 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 fucked up.”

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

He tilts his head, defiant. “Look at me. Do I look fucked 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 fucked 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.

“Miss, are you all right?”

Everything blacks out as I hit the ground.

Melody

Ascend, and be salvation

“WILL THE DEFENDANT PLEASE rise?”

My pro-bono lawyer touches my arm and we both stand. The judge’s gaze shifts between me and the sheet of paper before him. He doesn’t look anything like the judges you see on TV. No white hair. No bald spot. No wrinkly, furrowed brow as he scowls at me. He looks too young, and too happy.

“By the state of Florida, I hereby sentence you to six months of probation, in which you, Melody Lachlan, will report to your designated parole officer.” His gaze flicks to my face. “After which, upon a full evaluation conducted by the Mental Awareness Center of St. John’s County, you will, successfully, complete twenty days of rehabilitation in the recommended facility of their choice.”

My stomach drops—free fucking fall. I start to open my mouth, but my lawyer’s foot taps my shin. She’s well aware of my outbursts, and reminded me three times before we entered the courtroom to “keep your mouth shut.”

I swallow my rebuttal.

The judge clears his throat. “Once completed, and tested free of all illegal substances for the pre-determined probation of six months, your case will be reevaluated and considered for dismissal.” He lowers the papers to his judge desk—whatever the proper name for those hulking things are where they stare down at you all judgy—and cocks his head. “Do you understand that you are not to leave the state of Florida during your length of probation?”

My lawyer nudges me. “Yes, sir,” I respond.

“Do you understand the length of your probation can and will be extended if you do not successfully complete rehabilitation or do not meet your assigned probation officer’s requirements in this time?”

I bite my bottom lip. Forcing my head high, I say, “Yes, sir.”

He nods once.

The gavel slams.

The harsh
boom
echoes through the courtroom, sealing my fate. It’s so fucking cliché, I want to laugh. Or cry.

“I told you,” my lawyer, Stephanie, says. She collects the few pages on the desk and shuffles them before slipping them into her briefcase. “That’s the minimum. I told you you’d get the minimum. It could have been much worse…considering.”

She’s smart. She won’t say
it
. She made that mistake once, and nearly got her pretty blue eye all blacked.

I follow her out of the courtroom as the next person is called forward. My eyes scan the lobby, looking for Jesse. His hearing date is the same as mine. I know this, because I just visited him in county lock up last night. His case, though—I’m told—won’t go as smoothly as mine.

But Tank has gotten him the best lawyer money can buy. So I have some faith; the Lone Breed will take care of the legal issues.

Tank offered the same to me, but I prefer to handle my mess on my own. Out of respect for my dad, they still look out for me, making sure I get jobs on the road, or a place to crash if I need it. But I never ask for favors.

Those are debts.

Nothing, nothing is free—everything comes with a price.

Stephanie sticks out her hand for me to shake. I stare at it, and she pulls it back to her side. Runs her hand over her purple pantsuit.
Purple
. How tacky. I hate fucking Florida.

“All right. That’s it,” she says. “Oh.” She reaches into her case and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Take this to the filing office in the building across the street. They will give you all the information. Where to go, who to see. They’ll get it all set up for you.” She smiles.

I grin, my teeth gritted tight. Then I accept the paper from her bony hands and head out to find the filing office. Like the good girl that I am.

The smell of this place is musty and old. Humid—like everything in Florida. It clings to you. No amount of air-conditioning can blow the sticky stench off. I fan the form as I walk, waving it in front of my face to feel what little breeze I can.

Finally, after traversing the many mazes of halls and elevators, I find the right office area for filing court case info. And awesome. There’s a long ass line. Settling against the wall for the wait, I take out my iPhone. I had to give it to the rent-a-cops at the courthouse to hold during my case. So at least now I can check my messages.

Nothing.

Pfft. Not surprising, since everyone I consider close to me, who would reach out to me on a day like this, is either dead or locked up. Mom’s busy with her new husband, Jack “Mad Dog,” another member of Lone Breed. We’ve had little to do with each other since my father’s death. Tank, who’s pretty much like an uncle, would’ve been here, only I told him not to come. One thing I agreed with my lawyer on: his biker attire probably wouldn’t have gone over well in court. And the MC don’t or
won’t
convert to the public’s rules.

Best if I just fill him in later.

I flip through my most recent pics, and a deep pang tears at my chest. An image displays of me and Dar at Randy’s Bar the night before the last night… The night it all went to hell.

Her lips are painted red, stretched in an O as she makes a dumb face. My arm around her shoulders, my head leaning against hers as I make a similar stupid face. We weren’t even hammered, not yet. Just kicking the night off with our first drinks and waiting for the local band to come on stage.

A searing anger rises into my throat, almost choking me. I cough and blink the mist from my eyes.

What a fucking 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.