Losing Track (8 page)

Boone

But a whisper felt, oh, soft caress of death

A ROAR LODGES IN MY throat. I’m on the outside, looking in—I can see myself just as clearly as if I’m staring in a mirror. Mouth open, eyes bulging, my hands fisted in my hair. A muted silence consumes this frozen-in-time scene. It sucks the air right from my lungs, and as hard as I try to move, to wake from it, I’m forever suspended in this horrifying moment.

I shoot straight up in bed. My back rigid, muscles tense. I’m soaked in sweat. The sheets are bunched in my hands. I toss them aside, thankful for the ability to move. Clearing my throat, just to hear my voice, I shove my feet over the edge of the bed and bury my head in my hands.

“Fucking hell.” Wiping my palms down my face, I force out a breath.

Dim light bleeds into my bedroom from between the slats of the blinds, bathing the lavender walls in first light. It’s a gloomy color—one that matches my waking nightmares every morning. I’m used to it, but the initial realization that the dream is true…that I can’t change it…always sends me into a panic.

I release another heavy breath and push off the bed to head for the bathroom, trying to ignore the bare walls and haunting outlines of the framed pictures that once hung there. After I splash my face with water, I take a piss and then crank the shower knob.

Today is Wednesday.
Again
. I keep telling myself if I repeat the story enough times that, one day, I’ll be able to bury everything where it belongs. Move on. Until then, I perform the same damn routine.

Inside the glass shower stall, near scalding water rains over me, washing all memories of the morning nightmare down the drain. I hear my phone beep, notifying me of a voicemail. I eye it on the bathroom counter. I know exactly who it is. My parole officer. She calls every morning on this day, too, just to check if I’m still coming in. That I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t let her down yet—I can’t forget.

During a Florida summer, it’s almost pointless to take a shower in the mornings. As soon as I step outside, the muggy air washes me in sweat, dampening my T-shirt and making my jeans stick to my thighs. But if I don’t get that shower, I don’t really feel awake, like the ritual can’t start until I’ve initiated the first step.

I cross the apartment complex parking lot to where my Triumph is parked. Popping my helmet over my head, I leave the straps undone and climb onto my seat. And for the millionth time since I saw her sullen face last week, the bandana girl enters my thoughts. An easy smile curls my lips as I squeeze the clutch and kick-start the engine. My bike growls to life, the rumble echoes off the concrete walling the lot, and I rev the engine before taking off.

I was hitting on Melody. After the meeting last week, I think I momentarily lost my mind, because that’s something I don’t do. Not anymore. I’ve been trying to convince myself I was just testing the waters, seeing how rusty I am—according to her response, pretty damn rusty. But it’s not like a hot girl walks into Stoney every day—hell, ever.

Honestly, I depend on that fact. It’s safe there, no temptations. I’m not knocking the patients, but Stoney isn’t exactly a high class, spa-like rehabilitation center that attracts starlets, or designer drug users. Melody caught me off guard.

I wanted her. Right then, she was the target, and I was the missile homing in. It felt good, too, natural…until later, when I realized I was acting on autopilot. The old Boone, who I killed and buried, was creeping back to life like a zombie. I should put a bullet in his head.

But damn, the fantasy can be fun. Even now, while scolding myself, I’m imagining the
what if
—her riding behind me, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist…and then I shake that vision from my head.

It’s all wrong. She doesn’t seem like the type to ride along; she’s the one steering, in control. I’m fine with that. As long as she has her own bike. I’ve never let anyone else drive mine, and no matter how hot the ass parked on my seat, that’s not changing.

A heavy mallet of guilt bats at my chest. These thoughts are dangerous.

It’s been a long time—three hundred and thirty-nine days, exactly—since I even considered the opposite sex as something more than sweet scenery. Jacquie, my PO/counselor, says that’s normal, expected. I wonder if I should tell her about Melody. It’s not like I don’t notice women; I do. Hell, I’m a guy. But there are too many consequences, too much baggage and fallout to justify getting involved with one just for some tail.

“Hey, asshole!”

I swerve and dodge the bumper of an oncoming car crossing the intersection. Fuck.

Getting back into the right lane, I tip my visor to the guy, who in turn flips me off. A surge of adrenaline rockets through my bloodstream, and I’m gunning my bike, heading his way. My heart knocks against my chest as I rev the engine, gaining speed over the asphalt.

Trailing his old, crusty Miata, I gas the engine and shoot up beside the driver’s side. “Pull the fuck over, mother fucker.”

His eyes widen in surprise for a split second before he gives me another bird. Rage tears through me. I coast closer to his car and kick the door. My bike swivels, and a blaring horn from an oncoming car crashes through the fog of anger casing my brain.

I hit the brakes and dart behind his car. Following closely, I let the fury simmer until he comes to a stop at a red light. Then I’m pulling my helmet from my head and marching toward him.

“Get the fuck out, tough guy!” I bang my helmet against his—now—rolled up window. Which is about so damn funny. The car’s top is down. I lean over the window and stare down. “I said, get the fuck out.”

He has a choice: ignore me and continue on to his shit job where he gets to tell a story to his co-workers about the “crazy dude on a bike.” Or man up and confront the crazy dude on a bike.

I guess his pride gets the better of him, because he yanks off his seatbelt and pulls the door handle. The door swings wide and nails me dead-on in the knees.
Mother fu
—

“You want a piece of this, you little shit.” He’s on me, jerking me up by my shirt collar. I didn’t realize how big he was, sitting in that tiny ass car. But dude is a Neanderthal.

Recovering quickly, I elbow his ribs and tussle out of his hold. His “oomph” follows him down as he smacks against the car.

Everything in me is taut and raring to go—but I’m not about to destroy this guy. It’s about pain. The physical kind that will deaden the endless loop of all-consuming emotional ache. This guy just happens to be the one…this day.

“You cocksucker—” His fist lands a hard punch to my jaw.

My only thought:
I deserve this
—right before contact.

Pain explodes across my face. Travels down my neck. It’s white-hot, and the flicker of lights black out my vision for a second. I blink back the water in my eyes, my nose on fire. The tangy, metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, but my tongue is too numb to feel for a missing tooth.

Before he’s able to get a second good punch in, a
whoop whoop
buzzes through the whooshing and ringing in my ears. A cop car pulls up beside us.

Hell. Jacquie’s not going to be happy about this one.

“Over three months.” My parole officer leans back in her chair. “I haven’t had to bail you out for fighting in over three months. Mind telling me what the heck happened this morning to change that?”

I set the icepack down on the floor, hiding my smile. Jacquie rarely curses. Never, actually. The fact that she’s upset enough to use “heck” says something. She’s pissed.

Covering my smile further with a cough, I sit back in the red cushioned chair and catch her gaze, then shrug. My shoulder twinges with pain. That guy really nailed me good. “Road rage?”

Her delicate features screw up, and her nostrils flare. She smooths back her already perfectly slicked ponytail and says in a measured tone, “I can talk to the public defender about getting you Judge Matthews. Maybe. I’ll put in a request. But, Boone, no promises this time. We’ve used up any trips to Stoney already…twice. That won’t get you out of jail time this go around.”

My parole officer/counselor/keep-my-ass-out-of-jail guardian, Jacquie, has taken on a lot with my case. I owe her more than I can ever repay. A muscle ticks in my jaw as I grit my teeth. Shame wipes away the rest of my cocky smile.

The fight wouldn’t have happened had I not missed my “meeting” last night. The secret kind. The only kind I’ve found that helps. I was starting to feel too assured, getting too comfortable—I won’t let it happen again.

I run a hand through my hair and nod. “I know, and thanks. I’ll do some extra community service—”

“You’ll do a lot more than that.” She sits forward. “That rehab facility you love so much? You’re going to volunteer there. Full time.”

My mouth pops open. “But my job…”

“In-between work. After work. Whenever you’re not working.” She raises a blond eyebrow. “I have a counselor friend there. A
real
counselor,” she stresses. I want to tell her she’s been more of a counselor to me than any of the rest, but I keep my mouth shut. She’s really fuming. “You can take the anger management class offered there, too. Judge Matthews will like that. And honestly, I should have had you in there from the start. I can’t give you the help you truly need, Boone.”

The help I truly need
. I huff out a long breath. “I didn’t touch that guy, Jacquie. I didn’t lay a hand on him.”

“No, because that wouldn’t do it for you, would it?” Her gaze sharpens on me. “If you keep looking for the punishment you feel you deserve, you’re going to find it.” Her thin mouth turns down. “Eventually, you’ll find what you’re seeking, and you won’t walk away that time.”

I feel like I’ve been hit all over again. Jacquie may not be violent, or raise her voice, or even utter a foul word…but she doesn’t hold her punches, either. She nails you right where it hurts. The truth.

I want to assure her that I’m
not
seeking this. That I don’t believe I deserve to die. But we both know that’d be a lie. It’s the reason why I dropped my “real” counselor, and instead continued to meet with my parole officer each week, even after I was released to once a month check-ins. I got tired of hearing it—of never being able to escape the reality.

Jacquie, at least, let’s me be. She knows that I’m not ready. I’m not one of those people who are blinded by denial; I choose it willingly.

She manages to call me out on that fact when she says, “So, during your speech this evening, why don’t you try telling the real story, Boone?”

A sliver of fear skitters up my spine. I dodge her disarming stare and look at the tile floor. “It is the real story,” I say. At least, it’s somebody’s real story.

She puffs out a quick breath. “You know what I mean. Try telling
your
story. Why you ended up where you did, and what drove you there.” She dips her head to snag my gaze. “Eventually, you’re going to have to let someone in. And you’re going to have to accept that there was nothing you could—”

There’s my cue. I stand and make for the door. “Thanks for everything…again. I’ll see you next week.”

Not even Jacquie has been able to draw that out of me. She knows the deal, has read my file. But the facts have never come from me. And today’s not the day for change.

I race down the stairway toward the rest of my day. Toward the routine that will keep all the bad suppressed where it belongs.