Page 113 of Catcher's Lock
Josha opens his mouth like he’s going to start up about the beer again, so I loop my fingers through his belt and tug him toward the back of the bar.
I already know my sweet spot for pool is three-to-five drinks in—too sober, and I overthink every shot. Too drunk, and my hand-eye coordination goes to shit. Josha has always been better at the game, but that’s never stopped us from enjoying the competition, and my pride is only a little at stake with Echo watching.
“What are we betting?” I ask while I chalk my cue and Joshastarts to rack.
“Blow jobs,” Echo suggests, sliding into a high table against the wall and sloshing beer across it as he sets the three drinks down. “That way, no matter who sinks the most balls, you both win.”
“Is he always like this?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Echo laughs gleefully in the background as my eyes meet Josha’s, and warmth blooms in my chest at the sight of his easy smile.
Maybe normal is whatever we want it to be. Maybe all that matters is us.
As expected, sober Gem sucks at pool. After losing the first game, I’m more than content to watch the muscles play over Josha’s back and shift in his thick thighs while he runs the table by himself. It’s not the first time I’ve spent half the night checking out his ass every time he bends over, but it’s the first time I haven’t tried to hide it.
Nursing his third beer, Echo draws me into a conversation about his duo rope act with Byrd, and how they’ve been playing around with some pole moves, trying to convert them to their apparatus. Before I know it, he’s convinced me to take him back to the tent to help him workshop his flag. After sharing the plan with Josha, Echo drags me to the bar to pay our tab.
“He still throwing knives?” he asks, tossing a card on the bar and jerking his chin to where Josha is studiously lining the balls up by number in their tray to return.
“Yep.”
“Does it make your dick hard?”
“Yep.”
He signs the receipt with a careless flourish, and I think I might have made a new friend.
And I didn’t even have to get drunk.
38
Trust
Gemiah
Age 24 (Now)
When we get to the tent, the doubts start creeping in, lapping up and over the satisfaction of making it through a night at Dick’s without giving in to my baser temptations.
Josha throws on a few of the lights, while Echo hops up on the stage to circle the Chinese pole. I haven’t touched the apparatus since returning to Mendo. Partly because I don’t want to step on Ellis’s toes—although the thing’s stilltechnicallymine—and partly because my relationship with it has changed drastically in the last year. Pole dancing uses a lot of the same skills, but I can’t pretend there’s not a difference between shaking my ass for horny drunks and honoring my family legacy.
Not that there was muchhonoringhappening the last time I was around.
And neither of those lives fit me anymore.I hope.
I’ve been spending my days in the tent helping Josha and my dad with the tech, talking storylines and symbolismwith Oscar and my mom, and offering feedback to the performers when anyone asks for my opinion. If I’m honest, I’ve enjoyed being on the other side more than I ever imagined I would.
When I agreed to this little late-night adventure, I thought we’d rig up one of the ropes, and I’d watch Echo show me where he’s at with the trick and offer a few pointers. I wasn’t expecting him to want to tackle a completely new apparatus or ask me to demo how it’s done and open the door to a whole slew of memories I’ve been avoiding.
I should have known better.
But before I tanked my budding career so pathetically, and before I started subconsciously using my failures to get back at my mom, I was a boy who loved to climb. Who thrilled at the challenge of pitting my body against the rough grip and unyielding solidarity of the pole while discovering all the ways I could bend and flip and fall.
A boy who felt like a hero in the eyes of his best friend.
Besides, who am I to pass up the chance to lord my skills over the guy everyone talks about like he’s some sort of aerialist second coming.
