Page 122 of Catcher's Lock

He scrubs a hand through his already tousled hair, obviously distracted, but because he’s Josha, he turns to slip his arms around my waist. “I’m sorry. I really wanted to get out of here with you for a while. I can’t figure out why the bass amp keeps going offline. Your dad is on his way back with another new audio jack, and we probably need to rewire the whole fucking line.”

Once upon a time, I would have cajoled him into skipping out with me.

Sometimes, being a grown-up fucking sucks.

“Don’t worry about it.” I push up to plant a swift kiss on his mouth. “I’ll make sure we have clean sheets to dirty later.” When I go to pull away, he catches my hand and reels me back for another, deeper kiss.

“Maybe we can grab a few minutes before your ticket booth shift if you get back in time.”

“Sounds like permission to skip the folding.”

“Like you need an excuse. Not everyone likes digging through a pile of T-shirts to find a matching pair of socks, you know.”

“For ten minutes and a blow job, I’ll fold your socks tomorrow,” I promise. “But I better leave now if we’re gonna get that ten minutes.”

When it happens, it takes me like an avalanche.

“Farrel, you motherfucker. Where the hell have you been?”

I glance up from where I’m pulling warm clothes out of the dryer to see a vaguely familiar guy in an AC/DC T-shirt with a paintbrush ponytail that does little to disguise his thinning hairline. I search for a name to go with the face, but all I come up with is the image of an old contact in my phone—first name: snowman emoji; last name: CD. For the town of Cloverdale, rather than his initials.

“Seriously, man,” he continues, following me as I push the basket cart over to one of the long counters. “I haven’t seen you in ages.” His hand lands heavily on my shoulder, and sweat breaks out over my palms.

“Two years,” I mutter, shrugging him off.

“Yeah, right. Two fucking years. Too long, dude. It’s good to have you back.”

Like we’re friends. Or anything other than a dealer and junkie who occasionally partied together in his shithole apartment when I blew through town.

Darren. The name pops into my head, but I’m not sure if it belongs to this guy or his northern counterpart, Snowman UK, and I want out of this conversation anyway, so I keep my mouth shut.

He doesn’t take the hint.

“You should swing by later.” He eyes the pile of laundry as I dump it out onto the counter, then jerks his head toward the doors with a nasty flash of teeth. “When you’re done with your chores. I’m still in the same place, and Bernie’ll be there. You remember her? She still fucking talks about you all the time.”

“I have a boyfriend,” I tell him, with something like relief.Call me a slur and leave in disgust. Don’t give me your apartment number. Don’t ask if I want to step out to your car.

Instead, he laughs—a crow’s caw through nicotine-stained lips. “Bring him over. Bernie won’t mind. She’s into sharing.”

“He’s—” A hysterical giggle bubbles in my throat at the thought of Josha’s reaction if I invited him to a threesome at my old dealer’s. “No thanks. Not our scene.”

Our scene wassupposedto be blow jobs in the loft. But I already got the apology text explaining how the audio jack didn’t fix the problem, and Josha needed to run back out with my dad for another part, and…

Now I’m stuck folding laundry like a sitting duck for maybe-Darren with clammy hands and an itch in my gut.

“He doesn’t party, huh? Bummer.” The hand hits my shoulder again, a weighted trap with too many tacky silver rings. I’m gonna have a goddamn bruise if he keeps this up.

Or a breakdown.

“Well,” he says when I don’t reply. “The offer stands for you, if you want it. The boyfriend doesn’t have to know.” With a wink and another flash of teeth, he finally leaves me alone.

The boyfriend doesn’t have to know.

Fuck.

I fold a long-sleeved T-shirt—sleeves back, faded logo facing out so Josha can easily pick it out of a pile.

He doesn’t have to know.