Page 16 of Catcher's Lock

Watch me, love me, give me everything, Rocket.

But I tried foryears, and it was never enough. The drinking and the drugs and the never-ending stream of women proved that. He can pull the kicked-puppy act all he wants—I’mnot falling for that shit anymore.

I don’t care what his face looks like or that he’s hugging his left side like it hurts. If I don’t get some fucking distance right this second, I might hit him again.Or…something worse.

Turning abruptly on my heel, I yank the door open and bolt down the concrete stairs.

“Rocket,” he calls after me, and the shiver between my shoulder blades tells me he’s watching as I rummage in the truck for the first aid kit buried in the center console.

When I shut the door without climbing in, he retreats into the motel room, and I lean my forehead against the truck’s roof and close my eyes. All my self-preservation instincts are telling me to bail. To climb behind the wheel and drive north and never look back.

But Shilo will be home next week, and if I bring her son back to her, I might be able to look her in the eye for the first time in two years. I might not want to crawl into a pit of self-loathing when Hals claps me on the shoulder and calls me “son.”

Gem is on his phone when I return to the room, but he drops it to catch the first aid kit I toss him and gives me a quick, searching look.

“Clean yourself up,” I tell him as I stomp to the bathroom—calmly—and close the door. Also calmly.

The blood on my knuckles is ugly and stark under the fluorescents. I clean it away with harsh satisfaction, the sting and the remembered feel of his lips splitting against his teeth banishing the memory of…other things his lips did.

I refuse to feel like the asshole. He’s clearly been letting others use him as a punching bag. Those bruises on his face didn’t come from wrecking his bike. Even Gem was never stupid enough to ride without a helmet. And he said he’d been robbed. The baggies and the gas station shooter bottles on the dresserpaint a pretty clear picture of how he’s been spending his days. Not surprising that his self-destruction still includes picking fights and getting his ass beat.

He did it for you.

Nope. That wasonetime. Whatever mess landed him at this latest rock bottom has absolutely nothing to do with me.

There are more mini liquor bottles scattered around the sink; Jack Daniels and some type of flavored vodka. Without letting myself check for leftover liquid, I sweep the whole mess into the trash can.

I can do this.

One step at a time and stay focused on the task at hand. I’ve conquered a hundred crises more critical than this—like the grease fire in the concessions wagon and the time I took Jeremy to the ER for stitches before I even had my learner’s permit.

Get Gem’s shit packed up.

Leave a generous tip for the housekeeping staff and load him into the truck.

Grab his bike from the impound lot and hit the road.

My eyes are grainy and my body is screaming for sleep, but I don’t dare stop moving. If I close my eyes, who knows what monsters—or angels—will come creeping from the depths. Besides, if I can drive the flatbed up the 1 in a rainstorm, I can handle the 5 on Red Bull and fumes. If it gets too bad, I can let Gem drive the last leg over the 20 to the coast. Whatever he might be on now, he’ll be sober by then, and if I’m asleep, I won’t have to listen to his dangerous voice.

When I reenter the room, Gem is tossing wrinkled T-shirts and ripped jeans and—is that a turquoise jockstrap?—into a pile on the bed. One handed.

“What happened to your side?” I ask, and try not to flinch at the hope that pours off him to drench me when he turns myway.

“Pretty sure I bruised a rib.”

“You did? Or someone did it for you?”

That quicksilver grin of his flashes. “Take your pick.”

“You should tape it.” I nod to the kit he’s left on the pillow.

“It’s fine.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

Hurt darts across his features at the word, and I don’t even try to smother my sharp surge of satisfaction.

“It’s not exactly a solo task,” he reminds me.