“Method?”
She inhales deeply. “IV.”
“Amount?”
“At least an eighth a day.”
Holy shit. She’s no newb to blow—and how the hell can she afford…? I don’t want to know. Nothing good comes from discovering how a user obtains their fixes. I focus on the fact
that her answers are coming quicker now, her voice not wobbling as much.
“But I didn’t shoot up all the time…” she amends, and shrugs. “I actually hadn’t IV’d for over a month before…before that night.”
That’s at least something. She’s not as self-destructive as she might think. “For how long?”
“What?” she shouts over the roar of the engine.
“How long did you use?”
Here, she hesitates. “Nine years.”
I try to respond quickly, thinking of something reassuring, but my mind is already doing the math. I don’t want her to question if I’m analyzing her like Doc Sid, so I say, “Think of the best day of your life. Could be anything. Nothing big had to happen, nothing amazing. Just a day that you remember being the happiest you’ve ever been.”
Luckily, she doesn’t come back with an immediate wisecrack. She’s trusting me, somewhat, to help her through this. Which leads me to believe she’s really out of her element and scared. While she’s considering my question, I can’t help but wonder how a thirteen-year-old got into the hard stuff so early on. What happened to little Melody? Nine years is a career junkie.
“I was sixteen, and me and Dar—my friend skipped school to go hang out with these guys.” She laughs as she thinks back on the memory. “We never met up with them. I can’t remember what happened, but somehow they ditched us or something, and we ended up at the gas station with no ride. We were so pissed, we blew all our money on candy and sodas and chocolate milk. Just bought the store out of every bit of sugar and caffeine to go off and have a vegging out day.”
She releases the handlebars and palms the gas tank, leaning her body forward. I try so desperately hard not to notice this action causes her ass to back against my crotch. Fuck, I’m such a guy, but dammit…focus. On her. Focus on Mel.
“Anyway,” she continues. “We took off to her house since her dad was at work. We spent the whole day watching bad daytime TV and eating our candy and shit. We laughed all day, jacked up on a sugar high…and even though we should’ve been pissed that those creeps took off with our blow—” she turns her head slightly toward me “—that’s why we were meeting up with them; they had the good shit. Anyway, we didn’t even think about it. Nothing special really happened. I just remember being so freaking giddy and happy spending the whole day with her, and just laughing. Best vegging out day of my life.”
I want to ask where this friend is now, but I don’t. That’s not the point of asking her to rekindle that moment. And there’s a chance that things didn’t continue on that way for Mel and her friend. Most of the time, it never does for anyone, just not users. That’s a question for another day, another reason.
“How do you feel right now?” I ask.
Mel pushes against the tank, pressing her back against me…and I squeeze my eyes closed as she leans into me. “Pretty damn good, duce. I have to admit. I feel freer.”
Loosing a shaky breath, I allow my arms to hold her closer. “Good. Now stay with that feeling and give the bike some gas.”
“All right,” she says, and sits forward. I’m straining not to run my hands along her waist, up her thighs, inching up toward…I block out the thought. I’m not facing my demons right now. This is about Mel. Keep it about Mel.
I lift my feet from the asphalt as she twists the throttle, and my Bonnie shoots forward.
She takes the curve like a pro, someone who has been riding bikes nearly her whole life, and I’m so ridiculously turned on I could shout a string of curses. But I’m proud of her, excited, and starting to calm down about her racing my bike on the track. She knows what she’s doing; she’s a biker.
But my poor libido is taking the beating of its life.
Torture.
It’s the one sure thing I have to look forward to with this girl.
Melody is all suited up in her tight-ass jeans and a leather jacket. Black boots laced up to her knees. Helmet already in place. And straddling my Bonnie at the start line.
My heart is in my throat.
I know she needs to win for the money, so she can buy another bike. It’s more than important to her—it’s a necessity. It’s her life. But after our practice ride, I think she’s just excited that she’s found her sweet spot again, the love of riding for the sheer joy of it.
Whatever she’s gone through to get here, she’s not through it yet. But as I watch her gaze out over the track, the finish line in her sight, I feel she’s on a sturdier path to getting there.