Page 111 of Catcher's Lock

Me:

OK. We’re in for Dick’s.

I get back a string of emojis I don’t even try to decipher and a short reply:

Echo:

cu at 9. No flannel

I almost wear one anyway, in protest, but then Gem slipsinto a slinky semi-sheer, short-sleeved black button-up, and he looks so scorchingly droolworthy that I change my mind. I opt for a tight sleeveless tee and a pair of ripped, faded jeans instead. If I’m going to stand next tothatall night, I better look the part.

Gem takes one look at me and announces that we’re taking the bike, whichItake as a sign of approval.

“I think I could get used to this whole ‘designated driver’ thing,” he says, giving me a thorough eye-fucking as he tosses me my helmet. “I should have made you wear the plug.”

I let him have the win, and not only because of the semi I’m sporting as I climb on behind him.

The lot isn’t exactly a sober environment, and he hasn’t slipped up yet—as far as I know. But everyone on the Big Top crew knows he’s in early recovery, and they do their best to keep their partying to their own trailers when Gem’s around. He hasn’t been tested by a scene like Dick’s. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

But I’m glad I’ve been practicing on the Bonneville.

37

Echo

Gemiah

Age 24 (Now)

Echo is…not as annoying as I remember.

He’s still way too pretty—if jet-black hair and weirdly blue eyes are your thing—and he’s still cocky as hell, but the incessant need to treat every interaction as a challenge for top dog has disappeared. He seems settled in his skin.

Or maybe that’s me.

“You a Coke or a soda-water-with-lime guy?” Echo asks me, leaning casually onto the bar to order the first round.

“Definitely coke,” I say drily, then flush when Josha catches my eye. “Too soon?”

He gives me a tight smile and rests his hand on the small of my back. I’m sure it’s meant to be reassuring, but his tension is palpable in the set of his shoulders and the way his thumb rubs restlessly over my hip.

Am I alreadyfucking this up?

Dick’s is about as close to a dive bar as it gets in a kitschy, overpriced tourist town like Mendocino. At this time of year, the crowd is only about half locals, and I unfortunately notice plenty of regulars. Studiously avoiding eye contact, I pray that the haircut and the tats keep anyone from recognizing me and trying to make conversation. Or worse, buying me a drink. A quick, surreptitious scan of the corners doesn’t reveal any of my old dealers, at least, so that’s one bullet dodged. For now.

But stronger than the vague shame-flavored unease is a low thrum of excitement. Josha looks hot as fuck, and if I can get him to relax enough to enjoy himself, another piece of our future will click into place. I want to be able to take him out and show him off. I want to get him shirtless on a dance floor and grind up against him under sweeping lights.

I don’t want us to miss out on any of the fun of being young and beautiful and in love because I can’t get my shit together.

“How about you, Josha? Stella on tap?”

“Coke is fine for me too.”

Both Echo and I fix him with unnervingly identical flat stares.

“Is this because of your dad or because of me?” I ask softly. “Because one isn’t here to haunt you, and the other thinks you should do what you want. I’m not gonna freak out and relapse because you have one beer in front of me.”

“Listen to your man, Josha. He’s a big boy. I’m thinking he can handle himself,” Echo chimes in, and I send him a silent thanks.