Losing Track (34 page)

I’m frozen in place. The pain a splintering web of white-hot fury traveling my veins. Then, the rage catches a whiff of defeat, and I spring forward. Leaving the pain crumpled and bleeding on the mat.

My fists take action. One, one two. Temple, jab. Rib, uppercut. I’m a machine without thought process. But instead of numbers and binary code racing across my screen, my vision focuses in on the meaty flesh of my opponent, demolishing. Raging. Destroying.

The cheers
whoosh
in and out of my hearing, fading farther into the scenery, as my line of sight zeros in on the beefy fighter. His face tight with frustration as he bobs and weaves, trying to evade my blows. Seeking the perfect strike to back me off.

And when he finds it, he digs in. Hard.

His fist meets the already tender spot just under my left rib cage.
Twice
. Two quick succession, back-to-back punches send me reeling. A grunt escapes my mouth in a harsh curse that follows me to the ground.

He sends his foot to the same place, knocking the rest of the air from my lungs. I gasp, sucking in fire-hot air, trying not to black out. But I’m not through yet. The rage won’t let it end like this—I’ll take my beating. Shit, I welcome it. Only first, I’m going to release all the fucked up warping my brain in a violent, purging eruption.

Cleansing.

Rolling to my side, I block his next kick with my arms, then push away from him with my feet. I inch toward the edge of the mat and reach for the rope, pull myself up. Fuelling my limbs with the bitter aftertaste of resentment, I crave that blackness now, for the void to swallow me.

The guy shakes his head, as if I’m some crazy motherfucker for wanting more. I suppose I am. Because right this second, I’m barreling toward him, fists locked and loaded.

My fists descend, two quick jabs to his stomach. His
oomph
speeds the next round of blows to his ribs. He stumbles, sidesteps, and catches his balance, before I’m on him again. He mirrors my stance, dancing in time as I land punch after punch, his arms blocking. My frustration mounts, needing one more, good round of blows before I tap out.

I haul back and bring it home. But this time, I’m met with an expert dive and fire.

Right to my gut.

As I’m dropped to a hunched position, he throws a dirty punch to my throat. The air vacates my lungs, my eyes bulge, and the hard point of his elbow to my back takes me down. This time, I’m too fixated on the need to breathe, the panic seizing my lungs shut, to block his attack.

My ribs take a righteous beating.

Somewhere in the thick haze surrounding my brain, a sweet voice bleeds into my ears. I’m sure I’m about gone, not getting back up. Not living through this…because Melody’s voice is all I hear.

It’s the one sound that makes this okay. That makes ending it right here just fine.

I close my eyes, let the sound cocoon me. A kind of inevitable tranquility.

I wish I could’ve told her I’ve fallen for her. Just once.

Blackness is all that’s left as I fade.

Melody

Until you see me

THE HUMID FLORIDA NIGHT is made even warmer by the press of too many bodies vying for a good viewing position of the ring. I muscle my way through the crowded house, my goal so close.

The plane touched down a little over half an hour ago, a two and a half hour non-stop flight. When Sam and Holden make it down here, I owe them a huge wad of cash for that. It wasn’t cheap.

But right now, my only thought is Boone. The whole cab ride here, my stomach was knotted, my sixth sense tying me up inside, just knowing something is wrong.
Please, let me have made it in time.

I bounce up, trying to get a glimpse of the ring in the center of the backyard of Nickle’s. I’m actually praying that I don’t see Boone anywhere near here—that he’s at his apartment, watching boring TV. Or at Stoney, finding obsessive, constructive projects to fill his sober time.

But those hopes are shattered the moment I spot the ring.

Boone’s near the edge of the rope, buckled over. And oh, my God, the guy he’s fighting is a Neanderthal.

Attempting to block the attack, Boone brings his arms up, but too slowly. I watch the punch in slow motion, seeing the huge fist connect to his throat, and my stomach bottoms out.

Boone drops to the mat.

I’m shouting now, pleas and threats to the people around me to move. My voice being ripped from me as I try to reach Boone.

The ring swarms with people, all surrounding Boone and blocking my view. I’m barreling through the crowd, my chest tight and my heart hammering. I’m unsure if I should stop now and call 911—if it will be too late by the time I reach him. If I should just get him help.

People are bent over and kneeling in the ring. My heart beats in time with the ache pounding my head, and I shout over the crowd, demanding them to let me through.

I drop my tote to the mat and reach for the rope. Pulling myself into the ring, I don’t ask for permission, I crawl right through legs toward Boone. Someone’s hand tries to force me back, and I’m tempted to bite it, my sole focus on an unconscious Boone lying on his back, eyes closed, not breathing.

No. No.
No
.

Some kind of paramedic is leaning over him, checking his vitals. “Stay back,” he tells me.

“Are you licensed?” I ask, my voice shaky. I lay my hand on Boone’s arm. He’s drenched in sweat, his skin too cool. My eyes scan the many bruises covering his face and body.

The paramedic doesn’t answer my question. He reaches into his bag and takes out some kind of breathing tube with a faceplate. He places it over Boone’s mouth and nose, then pumps the device, forcing air into Boone’s lungs.

My gut is on fire, demanding I call for real help. I look back at my pack, ready to leap for my phone, when a hard gasp snaps me back. Boone’s chest flinches as he coughs, his eyes blink and then stay open.

“Boone! Can you hear me? I’m here.” I rest my hand on the side of his face as the paramedic pulls the device away, then rests his fingers on Boone’s wrist, taking his pulse rate.

Everyone surrounding us—all the ruckus, shouts, questions—disappear when his swollen eyes find me. In this one moment, I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want Boone to be okay. To walk away from this and never return.

Even if I’m not with him. Just let him live and leave, God.

Then his hand reaches up to find mine. His fingers link our hands together. “You’re in so much trouble with Jacquie.” His lips stretch into a slight smile. It looks painful.

Lips trembling, my mouth attempts to smile back, but I’m just too relieved. “I’m sure I’m going to catch hell,” I say, tightening my fingers around his. I bring his hand to my lips, kiss his battered knuckles. “I need to call for an ambulance. I’ll be right back.”

“No, I’m fine,” he says, then coughs as the paramedic places his hand under Boone’s neck to lift his head.

“You need to be moved to a room,” the guy says.

My head jerks up. “Moved? Isn’t that what you’re
not
supposed to do with an injured person?”

The paramedic—though I now seriously doubt he’s for real—ignores me again as he begins to bring Boone forward.

“Hey, asshole! I’m talking to you.”

I hear Boone’s raspy laugh and look down. “Don’t piss her off, man. She’s a fucking feisty one.”

Against my distress and the need to assault the paramedic, I feel a small smile twist my lips. “Yeah, well, you should talk. Honestly, we need to get you to a hospital. You need a professional.” I say this last part loud and glance up to glare at the paramedic.

He shakes his head, and finally says to me, “Miss, he’s okay. Just got the shit beat out of him. He’ll live.”

I hike an eyebrow. “And that’s your
professional
opinion?” I look at Boone.

He’s sitting up, arms draped over his knees. “Someone just get me to the back room.”

Then I’m physically removed from his side as two guys slide Boone’s arms around their necks and lift him. My instinct says he really needs to be looked at, but all I can do is follow behind them as they take him out of the ring and through the crowd.

People cheer Hunter’s name, and I shake my head. I actually want to put my fist through a few faces. This man almost died…could’ve been injured so badly he’d never walk again…and these fuckers think they saw a good show.

But Boone’s struggle to make it to the house steals my attention. I slip my side tote over my head and follow behind them, shouldering people out of my way. My only concern that he get somewhere safe and quiet. Away from all this crazy.

Once inside, they walk Boone to the same small room where I once bandaged his cuts. I swallow hard, thinking about how I should’ve said something then. Should have dropped my hard façade and begged him not to fight, not to hurt himself.

I knew then something was really off, and now it’s just more guilt mounting the heap of all my bad decisions of late.

“Guys, I’m good,” Boone says. He settles on the floor, pressing his back up against the wall. Someone whispers in his ear and he nods. “I’ll take care of it.”

Then they leave the room. Quiet settles between us, thickening into a barrier, keeping me from him. My feet are cemented to the floor. My whole body wanting to rush to him, but immobilized by the fear of what happens next.

“Tell me the truth,” I say. “Are you hurt?”

He chuckles. Wiping the back of his taped hand across his forehead, he says, “Yeah, Mel. I don’t feel like running a marathon, but it’s not hospital worthy. A couple fractured ribs, maybe. My throat will probably close up at some point with swelling…but I’m not dying.”

Then my feet come unglued. I’m across the room and kneeling in front of him, my hands on his thighs, just to connect us together. “I’m a fucking bitch and I’m sorry.” My gaze captures his, then slowly, his eyes trace the contours of my face. Seeking the truth in my words.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks. He begins to peel the tape away from his hands, and I reach up and take one.

He allows me to remove the tape and inspect the damage. His knuckles are almost black. I taste the bile rising to my throat and swallow it back down. “I cannot understand why you do this to yourself. You have to stop.”

His fingers grasp my chin, lift my face to his. “You know why.”

A shaky breath slips from my lips. “I’m sorry I didn’t stick around, Boone. I freaked. And I can’t change it, and even if I could, it wouldn’t matter. We have some serious shit going on here.” I press my cheek into his palm, close my eyes, feel him. “I’ll do whatever it takes, but you have to promise to do the same. No more bullshit. No more half-assed speeches, and especially no more brawls, and I’ll…”

I open my eyes to see his forehead furrowed in thought. “And you’ll what? Ditch your MC family? Settle down in one place?” He smiles. “You really think if we tried, seriously tried, that we wouldn’t end up hating and blaming each other in the end?”

“I think you’re worth the challenge.”

His hazel eyes flick over my face, taking me in, then his hand moves to my hair. His fingers clasp the back of my neck, and he pulls me to him. Our lips connect. He kisses me with the desire of a man starved for love. Despite the swelling split I feel along his lip, he ignores whatever pain he’s feeling and hungrily devours me, his tongue stroking mine possessively, until I’m breathless, meeting each motion with equal passion.

My body sinks into him, and then I’m sliding onto his lap, my arms finding their place around his neck. He releases a hiss against my lips, and I pull back.

“Shit. Did I hurt you?”

He licks his lips, eyes trapping mine. “In the best way.” Then he palms both of my thighs. His fingers grip my jeans and yank me closer to him.

I smile and kiss him. Like my lips, my body, my soul have always belonged in his possession. I was just waiting for the right moment for us to click into place. To find home.