Read Losing Track Online

Authors: Trisha Wolfe

Tags: #Romance

Losing Track

 

formatted by
E.M.Tippetts Book Designs

Living Heartwood Series

The Darkest Part
: Living Heartwood Book 1

Losing Track
: Living Heartwood Book 2

Untitled
: Living Heartwood Book 3 (coming soon)

 

The Goddess Wars Series

Of Silver and Beasts
: The Goddess Wars (Book 1)

Of Darkness and Crowns
: The Goddess Wars (Book 2)

 

Kythan Guardians Series

Destiny’s Fire
: Kythan Guardians (Book 1)

Astarte’s Wrath
: Kythan Guardians (Book 2)

 

Fireblood Series

Fireblood
: Fireblood Book 1

Unveiled
: Fireblood Novella

 

 

 

 

 

To someone, with hope.

 

 

 

 

Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted
.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

Melody

To yield is forgiveness; follow me down, my friend

 

THE BURN RACES UP my nose. Hits the back of my throat. Drops down as I swallow. The taste of bitter baking soda giving way to numbness.
Numb
.

I savor the first numbing effect.

Like I’ve been long lost and finally coming home. It’s familiar and comforting. Sweat prickles across my forehead, chills dance down my back, and my skin hums.

Swiping my finger across the little mirror, I lick my lips and then rub the white-tipped pad across my front teeth, along my gums. Just to help speed the buzz along.

“Mel, freakin’ give it up.” Darla sits beside me in the old, tiny Honda. She makes grabby hands, waiting for me to hand her the straw and mirror. “I want to get inside already.”

“He’ll wait,” I say, taking another quick numby before passing her the mirror. “Your vagina isn’t going to spontaneously combust if you don’t throw a dick in it in the next five seconds.”

Holding her recently dyed platinum blond hair aside with one hand, she leans over the mirror balanced on her knees. Her pink bandana slips past her bangs. She peeks up at me and says, “Fuck yeah it will.” Then snorts the last line of coke.

I laugh. She’s right; if Darla doesn’t get laid at least twice a day, she goes into DTs. And it’s not pretty.

She flips her head back and sniffs, pinching her nose open and closed to get the last of the blow into her system. Then she blinks a few times while shaking her head. “Woo. That’s nice, but I really miss—”

“Don’t. Say. It,” I warn. Giving her a hard glare, I reach for my bag.

Darla presses her red-hot lips into a thin line and mimics zipping them closed. “I’m off,” she says, completely ignoring the fact that she just zipped her mouth. I roll my eyes and smile. “If I see him talking to that ho bag tonight, I might just go all gangsta. A bitch is gonna get cut.” Then she readjusts the bandana on her head, flings the door open, and tramps off toward Randy’s Bar. Her four-inch heeled boots wobbling her legs as she hikes up her jean skirt.

I have no fear of Darla
cutting a bitch
. She’s about as hard as a cheerleader. Well, probably less so. I could see some of those chicks getting rowdy—not Dar. She’s all pink and sparkles, like a princess…on Percs. And just as loopy.

But damn. Why’d she have to say anything? It’s been weeks since I IV’d, and just hearing anyone
almost
mention it gives me the shakes. I’m doing good, though. Not that I have a problem that needs to be compared with
bad
. I just don’t want to end up like Jesse. All strung out and three trips a year to the ER. I’m more in control than him, but still. There’s always a chance. And I’ve been close before. Five weeks ago, close. That’s when I decided to take a break from the needle.

Darla isn’t in it for the rush, only the inclusion; she doesn’t like being left out—she’ll snort, shoot, smoke, whatever’s handy at the time—but I don’t need her bringing it up.

Digging through my side tote, I pull out my favorite cover up and unscrew the cap. Even as high as I am now, I miss that intense feeling—that first, ultimate rush when it hits your bloodstream. I know I could reach that euphoric moment if I shoot a gram…instead of sniffing one. Releasing a heavy breath, savoring the scent of metallic aftertaste, I apply another coat of fairly nude to the dark track marks lining my inner elbow.

I might enjoy my blow, but I don’t broadcast it. Hell, even wasted meth heads get all judgy on IV’ers.

Tossing my makeup in my bag, I buckle the latch and then scrub my nails into my fringe, teasing out my bangs. One last hard sniff to clear my sinuses, a tug to adjust the pink bandana around my neck, then I reach for the door handle.

This piece of shit belongs to Jesse. His hog got totaled during his last drag race, and he’s since been tagging the Lone Breed’s trail through Florida in his mom’s old Honda. What a dork, but you gotta’ love him. He’s bent on getting a new one at the biker rally in Daytona tomorrow.

My ride—the love of my life—is parked just ahead of Jesse’s POS.

Running my fingers along the sleek seat as I walk, I could wet my panties. My baby, my Harley CVO Breakout, might be viewed by some a “chick” bike—but it’s bad as hell. Only another Breakout rider would get that. I’m not against bobber boys and their toys, but my cruiser could rival their fierce devotion with its 1800ccs, regardless of its weight…only they’d never own up to it. Pussies.

Doesn’t matter. As I lay my arm over the gas tank, hugging my all black and chrome beast machine, I nuzzle my head against the handlebars. Dar and I have one difference: I happen to prefer the vibration of a mean bike between my legs over a sorry-ass guy. “Who loves you, baby?” I whisper.

“Mel!”

My head whips up. Darla waves her hands frantically at the front door of the bar. “Get your ass in here,” she shouts.

Giving my ride one last pat, I push myself up and head toward the bar. When I reach Darla, she’s lighting a cigarette. “What the hell, Dar? What has your thong in a twist?”

“First, I’m not wearing any underwear.” She smirks and exhales a hard puff, the smoke swirling above her head as she cocks her chin. “Second, Crank’s with that bitch again.” She runs her tongue over her top lip, pausing at the corner as she thinks. “I don’t want to go in alone.”

For the love of… “When are you going to get the fuck over him?” I shake my head. “He’s so not worth it, Dar. Not at all. He rides a freakin’
scooter
, for Christ’s sake.”

Her black-rimmed eyes glower at me. “It’s not a scooter.”

“Ninja. Same diff.” I shrug.

She shifts her weight. “Anyway, I’m not a hog snob….like you.” She ticks her head. “Come
on
. He’s
Crank
,” she whines, hopping on her toes.

“Yeah,” I say, snagging the cigarette from her and taking a drag. “And last week it was so and so. Next week it will be some other loser. We were supposed to be spending your birthday week partying—just us, remember?” She puckers her lips into a pout, and I sigh. Then, “Hey, what about Jesse?”

Her mouth twists and her nose scrunches. “He’s like my brother. And besides, he’s always had a thing for you.” She shrugs one shoulder.

“Whatever.” I glance through the bar window. It’s too dark to make anything out, but the thump of a kick drum beats in sync with my rising heartbeat, beckoning me inside. I look into Darla’s frosty blue eyes. “Listen, Jesse’s my big bro, too. Yeah we’ve had some times…but he’s not my type. You know I don’t date anyone from the MC. He is a good guy, though. He’d treat you so much better than the turd droppings you’re always falling to your knees for.”

Her mouth opens, but I press on before she retorts. “And, I’m over this shit, Dar. I came here to listen to the band, not watch you mope all night, and then hook up with another lamer. Just for once, can we be like old times?” Now that the blow has worked its way into my bloodstream, I’m feeling more loving and forgiving. Nostalgic. Wanting Dar and me to reminisce and bring back the two girls who first hit the road five years ago, seeking adventure.

At least, that’s the way we tell it—purposely omitting why we really bailed the hell out of Dodge. It makes a much better story than running away from Darla’s dad—the ever pervert who couldn’t keep his drunk ass away from my friend—when we finally turned seventeen.

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