Page 17 of Catcher's Lock
Right.
Damned if I’m going to let him think I’m unsettled at the thought of touching him, though. I cross the room and open the kit. Fishing out the box of KT tape, I gesture for him to sit on the bed.
“Hold your shirt up.” It’d be easier if he took it off entirely, but nope, not giving him the satisfaction of flashing his no-doubt-tattooed pecs and shoulders as well as his abs. I can only take so much torture.
I wish I could remember a time when I wasn’t affected by his body.
I wish hating him was enough.
Unfortunately, I’m right about the tats. Sea anemones and jellyfish and manta rays and octopuses crawl over his torso like the dips and ridges of muscle and bone are a poisonous coral reef. When taken with the twin kraken wrapped around his forearms, it’s hard to miss the theme.
“What’s with all the sea monsters?” I ask—mainly to keep from fixating on the French words woven through the menagerie or how smooth his skin feels under my fingertips, and not because I actually care.
“My creatures from the deep?”
My palm flattens against his side before I can stop it, and my breath stalls in my chest.
“You always teased me for listening to Jason Isbell. What happened to ‘that sad, hipster country crap’?”
“Turns out, he might’ve been on to something.”
“Really.” I’m going for flat and skeptical, but it comes out a little breathless, and I finish securing the last piece of tape with enough force to make him grunt.
“And it reminds me of you.”
The music or the tattoos or the part about the past being a scary movie full of deep-sea nightmares?I close my eyes and shove away from him before he can do something fatal like touch me again.
“Is that everything?” I gesture to the pitiful pile of clothes, determined not to feel bad about how small it looks. No one asked him to leave everything behind.
“More or less.” He collects his phone and charger from the nightstand, then stands to shove his feet in a pair of worn biker boots. “There’s some stuff in the bathroom.”
“I’ll get it.” I toss the saddlebags over to the bed. “Hurry up. I’m not spending any more time in this shithole than I have to.”
In the parking lot, his steps stall when we reach my truck, and he traces his fingers over the Big River Big Top decal on the passenger side.
It’s not the same truck. It’s a newer sport model, for one, with only enough towing capacity to haul the ticket booth that’s doubled as my sleeping quarters for the last couple of tours. It’s black, while all the other Big Top vehicles are white, from the box trucks to the 350 with the bench seat that disappeared with Gem. Better than all of that, it’smine, bought with my share of the life insurance money after my dad died. The bucket seats are silky gray leather, not faded beige upholstery stained with coffee spills and road dust.
And yet…
As soon as he slides into the passenger seat, the normally spacious quad cab closes in around me. Sweat prickles from my pores, and my hands tremble as I fumble the key into the ignition. Seven hours. Eight at the most, and I can drop him at Big Top and…sleep. Forget what it means to have him back in my space for a night and deal with the fallout tomorrow. Mindful of his injuries, I take his bags and toss them in the back seat.
“Thanks.” He won’t stop looking at me with that vaguely reverent, annoyingly hopeful expression.
“Don’t read too much into it. I’m only trying to return you in one piece. More or less. It doesn’t mean anything.” Okaaay, I might be overselling the protest. “Stop that,” I add when he threatens to smile.
“Sure.” He bites his lower lip instead, which is possibly worse than the damn smile. Smothering a groan, I shift into reverse and try to ignore him.
He punches the address of the impound lot into the navigation system as I maneuver out of the parking lot, then runs his hand over the dash, shakes the wintergreen Tic Tacs in the cup holder, flips the visor down and then back up.
I forgot howtactilehe is.
Liar.You haven’t forgotten shit.
This was a terrible fucking idea.
The streets get more suburban as I drive, and the silence stretches between us until it frays. Like the seams in the old truck. Like an inhale held to the point of bursting over taut flesh.
Like a promise worn long past its expiration date.
