Losing Track (19 page)

Boone

For who should feel the swift assault

SON OF A BITCH.

I duck under the rope, then half sit, half fall to the edge of the mat. After flexing my hand, I peel away the tape. Back propped against the corner post, I swear under my breath. My knuckles are a bloody mess. Some of it mine—most of it the other guy’s in the ring.

I reach for the towel draped over the chair next to Turner and wipe my face and hands, then toss it over my bare shoulder.

How the hell did Melody wind up here?

“I haven’t seen you lay someone down like that in weeks, man. What was that?” Turner asks, chuckling. He hands me a water bottle, and I nod my thanks.

“Don’t know,” I say, shrugging and immediately wincing as white pain slices through my shoulder blade. Duregger got a few good hits in. “Just didn’t feel like dragging it out.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Well next time, do try to add a little show, man. I’m going to have to round up Jacob quicker than I thought and toss him in the ring before the crowd eats me alive.” Then he’s off. But before he disappears into the crowd, he calls back, “Killer!”

The pain throbbing beneath my skin explodes into a roaring fire. I’m off the mat, storming through the mass of people chanting Hunter’s name, ignoring their congratulations for making them money, and on my way to Turner’s house in seconds flat.

That word should be imprinted on my soul by now, a part of me; it shouldn’t have any effect—but I let it tear me down in one unguarded moment. I’m not prepared to deal with this shit while I’m trying to figure out what to say to Mel. If I should even bother saying anything.

Someone hurriedly steps aside so I can enter the house. I head straight to the small room with the fish tank, where my clothes and stuff to clean up are stashed. I’m almost to the door when I hear her deep, throaty voice.

“The Hunter?”

The air leaps from my chest. My lungs expand and contract as I concentrate on breathing. Giving myself time before I have to face her. I wrap my shame around me like a security blanket, guarding myself from the judgment I know I’ll see in her deep brown eyes, then turn. “It’s a stage name.”

Her arms are tightly crossed over her chest. She’s wearing a skimpy tank top and jean shorts that are rolled just above her knee-high boots. It’s hotter than hell outside, even in the evening, and her hair is tied up into a loose ponytail with her pink bandana. I take all this in, admiring every inch of her, slowly working my way to her face—trying to avoid her gaze.

But when I finally meet her eyes, it’s not anger or resentment there; it’s confusion. Maybe some hurt. “I never lied to you,” I say quickly, attempting to quash the hurt. “This isn’t something I like to brag about. Hell, tell anyone about. It’s—” I break off, not knowing how to explain, since I can’t really admit to my own damn self what I’m doing here.

Melody nods, repeatedly. “You never owed me the truth. As I remember, we went out of our way
not
to talk about real shit. So it’s all good, Hunter.”

That searing pain fires a bolt of lightning into my chest. She thinks I lied to her about my real name. Only the realization of that comes a little too slowly, and my defenses shoot up before I can reel in my anger. “Don’t call me that.”

More confusion spreads across her face, flushing her skin. “Anyway,” she says. “I just wanted to thank you. You just made me a shit load of money.”

I release a heavy breath. Notice we’re starting to attract too much attention. “Come on.” I open the door and move into the room, hoping Melody follows. For whatever reason, I worry about what she thinks of me. I want the chance to explain—to
not
be the guy who misled her.

She hovers in the doorway, her gaze scanning the room, the fish tank, me. Then with a forced show of bravado, she steps inside. I close the door behind her and nod to one of the two chairs backed against the wall.

“No thanks,” she says, choosing instead to anchor one booted foot to the wall and lean there, not touching the griminess of this place. I don’t blame her. “Haven’t had a tetanus shot in a good ten years. Plus, I’m not a fan of other people’s blood—not that kind of junkie.” She cuts her eyes at me.

Ignoring the slight against her, and
me
, for that matter, I nod. I’ve earned some of her wrath, and really, I don’t even notice the blood anymore. The patches where guys have lain and bled out. I sit in the metal chair and unwrap the tape from my right hand, then toss the bloody, balled heap into the waste basket in the corner, my knuckles dripping and adding their own swirled design to the stained carpet.

Mel pushes off the wall. “Shit, Boone. You’re a wreck.” She looks around, and her gaze lands on the first-aid kit near the tank. Quickly grabbing it, she marches over and kneels before me.

“Mel, you don’t have—”

“Shut it, duce.” She opens the kit and then grabs a rag near the water bucket. “This water clean?”

I nod. I’d just filled it before the fight for this specific reason. She dunks the rag and wrings it out.

When her hands take mine, she’s not hesitant or wary. Blood doesn’t seem to make her squeamish, despite her initial repulsion toward this room. Or maybe that was toward me—but it’s like she’s done this before. She’s sure, but also gentle. My throat thickens as she wipes away the blood, delicately, tenderly. Then, as she looks up, her gaze meets mine.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers. I do, and feel the cool cloth smooth over my brow, cleaning the cut above my eye. It stings, but that small pain is dull compared to the sharp, rising ache in my chest at the feel of her soft hands as she holds my head in place to examine the damage. She wipes my cheeks, my jaw. Then my lips. I open my eyes.

She pauses, and I watch as her throat bobs with a hard swallow. She blinks and lays the rag aside. Then gathers the bandage. “Is it for the money?”

“Yes,” I answer, readjusting my position so she can wrap my knuckles. “And no.”

A heavy sigh escapes her pursed lips. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But—”

“Wait.” Suddenly—and it may be because I’m dazed from the fight but—I want her to know everything. Except I don’t want to go through the process of having to actually tell her. I just want her to already know. She’s still on her knees before me, looking up at me with those deep brown eyes, waiting.

“Addicts have to replace using with something else,” I finally say. Her eyebrows hike. “For me, it’s all about balance.”

She shakes her head and mock laughs once. “Don’t start this shit, dude. Honestly. Not after what I saw you do out there. Just…don’t.” Her eyes level me with a knowing glare.

I push back in the chair, press my freshly bandaged palms to my thighs. Meet her gaze, and decide it’s time to let someone—
partially
—in. It might as well be Mel. “I lost someone. And it was my fault.”

Mel’s features fall, and she swipes at a loose strand of hair near her eye. “You know it was your fault for sure, or you just feel guilty?”

“I
know
. Because had I been there, he never would have died. I was selfish, thinking only about getting my fix and…” I don’t really know how to explain the rest, so I leave it at that. “I was pretty damn selfish. But this—” I motion around the room, indicating the brawl “—is how I atone. It makes me
feel
, even if the only thing to feel is pain. It’s the only thing I deserve. I’m alive, I’m here, and he’s not.”

Before Melody is able to process my words, I lean forward and snag her tank strap. She pulls back at first, caught off guard. But I don’t let her get away. I pull the strap and her toward me, then push it slowly aside, revealing her tattoo. I skim my thumb over her flesh, along the word
pain
.

“From pain comes strength,” I say. “You understand a little of what I’m saying.”

She licks her lips, her eyes flick to my face. “I’m not saying that I don’t, Boone. But how is getting beaten to a bloody pulp atoning for anything?”

Still caressing her skin, I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know. But it feels right. And it keeps me sober. Isn’t that enough?”

We lock eyes. Stay in this close position for what feels like an eternity. I’m scared to move, scared that once I release her she’ll walk out that door and I’ll never find her again. Then I’ll never find this feeling again, the one that makes it almost okay to want to exist.

Her lips part, but before she’s able to voice anything, a beep breaks the silence of the room. She blinks and looks down, then snakes her phone from her pocket. I’m still holding on, to her and this moment, as she types something on the screen.

“I need to go,” she says, looking up.

“Right.” My hand pulls back. I run it through my sweaty hair. “You came here with people, not alone, right?”

She nods.

“Good. Not that I think you can’t take care of yourself, but there’s some pretty shady people here.”

She cranes an eyebrow. “Really?”

A smile twitches at my lips. “I deserve that.”

Before she’s on her feet, I snag the phone from her hand. I quickly enter my number, and in a couple seconds, my own cell rings from my pack. “Now I have your number.”

I look up to gauge how much I just pissed her off, and the door swings open. A guy in a black leather vest and tats covering his arms enters. He sees Mel, then he sees me. His attention turns back to Mel.

“Are you okay—what are you doing here?” he says as he stalks up to Mel. He asks both so quickly, and so irately, I see the stunned look on Mel’s face as she wavers about answering either.

His hands latch on to her shoulders, and a blaze rockets through my chest. I’m on my feet before she can respond. “She’s fine. Was helping me get bandaged up.”

The guy’s gaze snaps to me, his dark eyes looking me over before they settle on my face. “I wasn’t asking you.”

I pull my shoulders back. “Well, I’m answering.”

“Hey,” Mel interrupts. “Both of you put your pricks away. Chill.” She stands between us, hands up, and turns toward the guy. “I know him. He’s a friend…sort of.”

“You know him? From where?”

I really don’t like how this guy is talking to her. Like a possessive older brother. Or a possessive shithead boyfriend. And I don’t like that she feels she has to answer for herself. Who is this douchebag? The hand not holding Mel’s phone balls into a fist.

“What does it matter, Jesse? Damn.” Mel reaches over to me and takes her phone, and I watch Jesse’s gaze closely follow her movements. His mouth hardens into a thin line.

“Take care of yourself,” she says to me. “Try not to lose too much blood next time.” She winks, and that one action deflates the rage brimming inside me.

Jesse pulls her aside. “You can’t just run off like that. Not here. I was freaking out.”

She shrugs out of his hold. “You’re the one who brought me here.
You’re
idea. What, it’s not safe?”

His mouth falls open. “Don’t do this shit.” His gaze slides to me, and he adds, “Not now, all right?”

Something unsaid and tense passes between them, then, “Fine,” Mel says, and heads to the door. She gives me a quick look, crooks a smile, and walks out of the room.

The Jesse guy follows, but sends me a look of his own. One that says
stay the fuck away from her
. I give him a head nod, cocking my chin out. He doesn’t like that at all. He closes the door to a crack and then takes a couple steps toward me.

“Mel is MC property,” he says. When my face registers my confusion, and revulsion at hearing her be anyone’s property, he states, “She’s off limits.”

This guy is my height, and I give him credit for squaring his shoulders and standing toe-to-toe with me. But I also know he just witnessed what I did to the guy in the ring. Maybe he feels I’m taxed after one brutal fight, but I’m far from out.

I lift my chin higher, challenging. “If that was true,” I say slowly. “Then you wouldn’t need to spell it out for me now, would you?”

His whole face contorts with anger. He takes a step back, then another, and I wait for him to make another threat, but he doesn’t. I guess there was something in his first warning that should have been made clear, but I’m not accustomed to MC rules. Their lifestyle. As far as I’m concerned, every woman should be free to make her own choices.

And from what I remember Melody telling me, she’s not in an MC. Her father was. So whatever claim this guy is trying to stake on her isn’t his right. Then again, he just watched me beat the shit out of someone. He could be trying to look out for her, which I understand. But his method is all wrong.
He
comes across all wrong.

He leaves without another word or trading blows, and I sink into the chair. I have got to stop letting other people rile me up. Although I felt like this was one case that was justified.

As I’m slipping my shirt over my head, I hear my cell beep. I reach for my pack and dig out my phone.

Unknown sender:
You shared one of your secrets, I feel obligated by the rules of our agreement to share one of mine. Parker’s Dragway. Tomorrow at 6. Come find out.