Losing Track (22 page)

Jesse looks cool. Like it hasn’t even crossed his mind that she could get hurt. “Dunno,” he says. “Enough to make a pretty good living at it if she wanted. Don’t sweat it, man. She knows what she’s doing. She’s a big girl.”

There’s some hint of a threat in that, but I’m not sure what. I’m certain Melody has told him where she met me. That I’m some sobriety occult leader or some shit. His assumption is probably that I’m straight-laced in every aspect—but that’s far from true.

“Your bike’s safe, man,” he continues. Then smirks at me sideways, cutting his eyes my way.

For a split second, the thought of ramming my fist through his cocky face seizes me. But I cage the rage. It occurs to me that he might be fucking with me, trying to ease my nerves by making a joke. A poor one at that.

I’m not concerned about my bike; I’m worried about Mel getting hurt.

I don’t have time to respond to the asinine comment as a horn blares, snagging my full attention. The group of bikers I’m standing with all rush to the front of the pit. I follow. The bikes peel away from the starting line, smoke rising from the back tires. A ruckus of cheers engulfs the dragway, but only for a second before the rumble of the bikes echoing off the asphalt and cement wall bounces back to drown them out.

My heart jumps from my throat to the fucking ground, I swear.

My Bonnie speeds up the track, its engine growling, Mel handling her beautifully—but I can’t breathe. It’s a straight shot to the finish line. I’m not even paying attention to the other biker, all attention focused on her, my knuckles aching as I grip the bar before me.

Melody

Their fire devours, but no need for air

SHIT. I HIT A DIVOT in the track and the bike nearly gets away from me. I feel her tip and zig to the left. I down shift and right the wheel, which feels wobbly—looser than my Breakout. The guy beside me guns it and shoots up ahead of me, getting out of my stupid way.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

All I’m thinking about is not crashing Boone’s bike. Not hitting the asphalt and skidding down the pavement. Not losing track.

Don’t lose track.

I can feel the bike beneath me seeking purchase, so I ease off the gas. My heart pulses in my ears, a hollow
thump thump
eating my chest. It hurts, the burn. The empty scald from failing. Because I’ve never once thought while racing. My thoughts are out of control.

I just
did
. I just
rode
. I just fucking ride as hard and as fast as I can, no time for thoughts. The rush taking me to the finish line. Adrenaline screaming in my veins. This is all wrong. I’m so wrong. As the thoughts continue to bleed out of my brain, flooding me with panic, I’m losing even more track. The guy is a good two bike distances ahead of me.

Fuck!

The front tire hits another bump, and I’m about to pull over…then something so clear and sure washes over me, I startle.

This moment. It’s the moment that will forever define me—or haunt me. I will never get this moment back, no do overs. No repeats. If I let the fear take me down, I won’t just lose this race, I’ll lose myself.

I try to grasp that one true feeling of bliss I had with Dar back in high school. The one Boone—cheesily, but sweetly—made me recall, when I didn’t let the jones for a high suck me under, when I knew exactly who I was and what I loved. I latch on to it. Everything went wrong that day, and I should have been pissed. Angry that I got played and didn’t get Dar and me the buzz we wanted. But instead, all the wrong turned out to be so right. And she said, “We should always do this.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“This,” she repeated, wrapping a skinny arm around my neck. “Just be us.”

She was right. I was weak, she was strong. I thought I was the one looking out for her, but she had the answers. I wish she had been confident enough in herself to tell me that I was fucked up. That I didn’t need to get high, that she loved me more sober, that it wasn’t as much a part of me as I thought.

That I’m not my dad—I don’t have to live his life.

The risers and people and track all whoosh past. I’m no longer thinking of the race as my thumb bumps the gear, and I pick up speed. It’s such a short distance, this stretch of asphalt. But time is relative. Even though it’s only been seconds, I’ve been on this track for a lifetime.

My tire is neck-and-neck with the bike next to me. Inching up and back, taking the lead and losing it. When I cross that finish line, whether in first or last, there’s no going back. I cross it. Period. New chapter.

The roar of the engine engulfs my senses, and I lean forward, chin to handlebars. I’m racing against myself.

The white and black checkered flag waves as I fly past. I rise up and squeeze the brake. Dropping my foot to the ground, I grind to a stop, the smell of burning rubber hitting my nose. I’m thankful Boone rides a bobber. Jesse’s Forty-Eight probably would have sent me tumbling down the dragway. I’d been a skid mark on the pavement.

I’ve come to a full stop a few feet away from the finish line. I’m shaking. The rumble of the bike beneath me drowns out the commotion of the dragway, and I idle there, just taking in the moment before I turn and look back.

Jesse and Boone are running up the strip. The biker right behind me pulls his helmet off and bangs it against his thigh.

I won.

“Baby! You’re amazing!” Jesse shouts as he meets me on the track. His arms circle my waist and pull me from the seat. I’m laughing as he spins me around, giddy from the sheer surge of adrenaline, dizzy from the twirling and the
win
.

“And I won a hell-of-a-lot, too,” I say, even though I’m realizing how much the money was not the point of this race.

“Yeah, you did,” Jesse says, placing me back on my feet. “You going again?”

I nod. “Hell yeah.” Then I quickly look at Boone. “I mean, if that’s cool with the owner of the bike.”

He’s standing beside Tank, his hands in his pockets, a proud expression lighting his face. “Yeah, of course. You tore that track up. I didn’t know my bike was that bad ass until you.” He winks at me.

A stupid smile spreads across my face, and I swear I’m blushing. I could kick those dumb butterflies attacking my stomach, cheesy little sprites. But it’s the whole thing: the high from winning; the power I feel from defeating my panic; Boone looking at me like I’m the brightest star in his sky.

I feel Jesse’s arm slide across my neck, and I lean into him. We’re going to have to have that unpleasant, uncomfortable talk soon—the one where I clarify I’ll never be his ol’ lady. No matter what his mentor thinks. But for right now, I bask in this moment with my friend. Soon as Jesse’s used to Boone, maybe even thinking of him as a hangaround, he’ll ease up. But yeah, we’re long overdue for a talk. About everything.

Tank shrugs over and ruffles my hair. “That a girl. And look what I got here.” He flips open a wad of cash and starts thumbing through. “Couple more, and I think you’ll have enough for your bike, baby girl.”

I accept the cash, then head back to the pit with them. Boone walks his bike along beside me and Tank. There’s a crackle in the air, a tension. Beneath the celebratory atmosphere, a high pressure is building.

The calm settling over me, wrapping me, suddenly feels fragile, fleeting. Like the cliché eye of a storm. I shake the unease away, trying to stay in the now. In this rare, non-chemical high, where everything feels safe.

As I gear up to race again, watching the bikers ahead of me speed down the drag strip, I think of Dar, wishing she could give me a hint as to what I’m feeling. She always just knew. Sometimes before I did. I miss having that backup. My counterpart.

I reach up and slip her charm under the collar of my shirt before I slide on the helmet.

Safe is no more than a concept.

Two races later, I’ve lost more than my winning streak.

“Son of a bitch.” I slam my back against the chain fence and run a hand through my sweat-slicked hair. The humidity is suffocating, and the lights of the dragway glare down on me, exposing. Like spotlights.

“Those two were practically undefeated, Mel,” Jesse says. He picks up a couple stray tools from the pit ground and drops them into a toolbox. “Look, don’t sweat it. Don’t freak. You’ll get your stride back.”

I huff out a harsh laugh. “I’ll
get
,” I repeat, my tone bitter. Since when have I ever needed to try to
get
anywhere? Try so damn hard. I’m struggling to hang on to that initial feeling of perseverance I had after the first race. Right then, it felt like I could coast through all this. That I had more than a handle on my path. A plan.

But being beaten so badly during the last two races…damn. I feel like shit. As high as I was before, I’m down in the trenches now. A sharp contrast. I just dropped off the side of a cliff. Free fucking fall.

“Here.” Jesse hands me a bottle of Jack. “Don’t sulk. It’s not hot.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Thanks.” I take the bottle and tip it to my lips. Feel the burn in the back of my throat. Taste the bitter sting of warm alcohol and setback.

Those too races were more money than ten altogether. Yeah those guys were top dogs. Yeah I probably had little chance in beating them even before I lost my Breakout. Yeah I shouldn’t be such a sore loser; content to have won the money in my pocket, and to be back riding again. Period.

I know all this. I’m self-aware enough to see it from all perspectives. But that doesn’t mean it makes it any easier to accept. I just…I wanted that rush. I wanted that ultimate moment where the stars aligned to tell me everything was going to be right from here on out. Maybe not perfect, but on to the next part. Where I’d find my new life. The one after Dar and me. Like when I lost my dad, and everything changed. But I was on to the next phase.

This all feels stuck. Motionless. Stagnate. And I hate standing still.

Taking another swig of liquor, I let the hard bite drown out the commotion in my head.

Boone wanders over, hands tucked under the hard muscles of his biceps. He left to park his bike, and I’m glad he didn’t witness my semi meltdown.

He tilts his head, inspecting me closely. “You need a ride home?”

Normally, after a night of racing, we’d head to Randy’s or whatever local bar we were occupying in whatever town. But I look down at the bottle in my hand and shrug. “I probably should go home. Yeah.”

Jesse braces his arm above my head, his finger linked to the chain fence. “You’re not riding with me to Randy’s?” he asks. “Come on. It’s tradition or some shit. You can’t go to bed all whooped up on by a couple bad races.” He widens his eyes, imploring. “It’s the rules, Mel.”

It is the rules. And despite my deflated mood, I know I shouldn’t let tonight end like this. It was never a question before; race, party. Win, lose…there was always an after. But a vital piece of the group is missing, that’s what’s throwing me. I’m not sure if it could or
should
be the same without Dar. Maybe I just need to go home.

That thought is backed up by the look in Boone’s eyes, the serious furrow of his brow. “I don’t mind dropping you off, Mel.”

I can feel the tension radiating off Jesse at hearing Boone call me by my nickname. Before they get into another pissing match, I hold up my hand. “I’m tired, not whooped, though those last two races got me good.” I look between them. “But I don’t want to just go home and sulk. One drink, then I’ll head home.”