Page 124 of Catcher's Lock
When I shake my head, Shilo blows out an exasperated sigh. “I knew this was a bad idea. I knew he wasn’t ready.”
The implied accusation is too much. How many times have we absolved ourselves when maybe all he needed was a little faith? Excused our own complicity with the distractions of duty?
“You barely gave him a chance,” I tell her. “He let himself trust you, becauseyoutold him you’d try harder. That you’d be better. And then you went right back to treating him like he wasn’t good enough.”
She blanches, and I know I’ve crossed a line. It’s not fair to blame her—I can’t expect Shilo to sacrifice all the other people who depend on her for the shaky proposition of her son’s survival when he spent years cultivating himself as a lost cause. But this was supposed to be his chance at redemption, and my own guilt is too fresh and tangled not to spread around.
“I needed yourhelp, Shilo. I can’t carry all of this”—I sweep my arm in a gesture that encompasses the tent and circle of trailers—“and him too.”
“Josha,” she says gently. “You’re not supposed to carry him. That’s not what he wants. He’s trying to stand on his own.”
“Then why didn’t you let him? Why did you have to shove him back into the corner? If I lose him again, I willneverforgive you.”
“If you lose him again, I will never forgive myself.”
“Enough.” Cheyenne steps out of the shadows to nudge her wife’s arm. Before I can turn my fury on her, sheholds up a placating palm. “This isn’t helping find him. That’s what you both want, isn’t it? Put aside your guilt and your blame and use your heads. He hasn’t been gone that long.” Turning to me, she asks: “You must have some idea where he went.”
“He went to the laundromat, but he should have been back an hour ago, even if he took the time to fold all the damn socks.”
The corner of her mouth twitches and, against my will, some of the tension riding me loosens its claws.
“Why don’t you start there,” she suggests. “Maybe someone saw where he went or who he left with.”
Who he left with?
I break into a run, heading for the bike.Please let the keys still be in the seat. I’m halfway across the lot when my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I stumble to a stop, my heart soaring into my throat.
“Quill?” My voice is a cracked sob of relief.
Hisvoice is bruise and burn and a thousand tender secrets, waiting to be shared.
“Hey, Rocket. I could really use some help.”
He’s waiting for me in the parking lot outside one of the two bars in downtown Cloverdale, hunched under a flickering halogen light. The truck is nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t even twitch when I park the bike and throw my leg over the seat, and I hesitate, studying his silhouette.
His hair is growing out. In another week or two, it will be long enough to weave my fingers through when I tug his mouth to mine—or drag him down my dick. One of his gray Henleys hugs his chest, its frayed cuffs brushing tattooed knuckles wherethey disappear into the pockets of his jeans. My jeans.
I still haven’t told him he’s beautiful.
I should have done it the day we met.
He lifts his chin at my approach, the light from the lamp above cutting sharp across his face. The shadows of his lashes streak his cheeks like inky tears. When we’re barely a foot apart, I stop, fists clenching at my sides to keep from grabbing him.
“You came.” His eyes are haunted but clear, and no taint of alcohol wafts from his breath.
Would I even care?
“I’ll always come for you. I’ve given up hating myself for it.”
His throat bobs, a fraction of razor-wire tension easing from his shoulders.
“Here.” He tugs my wrist toward him and drops something into my palm, then snatches his hand back as I curl my fingers around the telltale shape of the small plastic bag. “I didn’t do any of it.”
A shuddering breath punches free of my lungs as my heart clenches painfully.
“That’s good, Gem.” I catch the side of his face before he can turn away. “That’sgood. It means you were strong enough to stop yourself.”
“I didn’t drink either,” he whispers, turning his lips into my wrist. “I didn’t even go inside. I’ve been standing here for the last twenty minutes, fighting with myself.”
