Page 131 of Catcher's Lock

I could float away on kisses like these.

And for a while, we do.

Eventually, we disentangle. I lean against the truck with my eyes closed and my face tipped to the sky, while he digs two T-shirts from his duffle. When I pull the one he offers me over my head, his scent envelops me—more than a decade of loving him stitched into faded cotton and worn seams.

My ass aches pleasantly as I lower myself into the passenger seat, and he tosses me a knowing look before shifting into gear.

“Need a pillow? There’s one in my bag.”

“Fuck off,” I say without malice. “I wanted to feel you for the rest of the day, remember? I’m not gonna start bitching because you gave me exactly what I asked for.”

“I just meant you’re not a pro at taking dick the way I am. No shame in needing a little extra aftercare.”

“Maybe if you weren’t such adick glutton, I’d have more chances to practice.”

“Pretty sure you were the dick glutton. I was the dick whore.”

“If the butt plug fits…”

We both dissolve into giggles.

“You know,” he says, growing serious as we pull back onto thehighway. “You are allowed to bitch sometimes. I might not want to be a therapist, but I’m here if you need someone to help carryyourshit. I told you I’m ready to hold up my end, whenever you need a break from being the hero.”

“I like being your hero. And you know you’ve always been mine.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be strong all the time. You can fuck up or be selfish or let yourself be carried when life gets heavy. You’re the one who taught me those things don’t make you unworthy of love.”

I stare at his profile, my heart suddenly too big for my chest.

“I’m an addict,” he continues, catching my eye with a wry twist of his lips. “I’ll be dealing with that for the rest of my life, but I’m done letting it define me. I can be other things too—a hot-as-fuck pole dancer, a circus director, a cat dad. And I plan to be a damn good boyfriend. Maybe even a husband someday.”

“Are you proposing to me, Quill?” The words come out breathless.

He scoffs. “Not yet. I’m afraid you’ll kill me if I don’t give you the chance to do it first. I bet you’ve been planning it since ninth grade.”

“Imayhave a Pinterest board or two.”

“Venues or flower arrangements?”

“Mostly rings,” I admit. “I went through a brushed platinum phase.”

“Rings? Fuck no. We’re getting tattoos.” He reaches across to circle his thumb between my knuckles. “Right here.”

“Why no rings?” I ask, bemused. “Too cheesy for a biker bad boy, or because they aren’t practical on the pole?”

“Because I’m not marking our marriage with something that comes off. You’re stuck with me forever.”

I lace my fingers with his. “I’m good with forever.”

“You better be.” His smile is still staggering. “I’m giving you your happy ending, Rocket, and it starts right now.”

Epilogue

Gemiah

Age 29 (Four years later)

According to Josha—and let’s be real, he’s the only one who matters—our wedding is a smashing success.