Page 20 of Catcher's Lock

“Being a shit? Pretty sure you never stopped.”

“You giving me shit for being a shit.”

“You hated when I called you out as a kid.”

“Because you were always right. It was annoying as fuck.” He rolls his head against the seat to study the side of my face. “It took me a while to realize it meant you cared.”

“Let’s get something straight. I don’tcareanymore, Gem. I’m not here for me, and I’m sure as shit not here for you. I’m here because your family deserves to know you’re still alive—and the chance to help you pull yourself together if you’re serious about it.”

“Ourfamily.” He’s out of the truck before I can formulate a response, but I hear the rest as he slams the door shut: “They were always more yours than mine.”

After five seconds of debating whether keeping him out of whatever trouble he’s planning is worth following him into said trouble, I hurry to catch up. He bypasses the liquor store and pulls open the blacked-out door to the club, slapping a flyer on the window before he slips inside.

Ladies’ Night—Every 3rd Saturday. Bakersfield’s Only All-Male Revue!

“You’re not serious,” I hiss, as I follow him into a red-carpeted hallway with chipped gilt wainscoting and heavy gold curtains blocking the far doorway. A tired-looking woman in a tight T-shirt with the words “Tippy’s Tail Feathers” blazoned overher gravity-defying breasts glances up from behind a counter at our approach.

“Better or worse than dealing drugs and robbing liquor stores?” Gem asks with a quirk of his brow, way too fucking amused.

“These places hire people off the street?”

“Most of them. As long as you can show you’ve got the goods.”

“Your goods are looking pretty rough right now,” I remind him, gesturing at his bruises. He brushes it off.

“This is nothing. I won’t be able to invert or do anything fancy on the pole, but my ass is as fine as ever, and I know how to shake mytail feathers.” He winks at the woman. “Besides, I’ve danced in worse shape before.”

I don’t want to know. I don’t want to picture him shaking hisanythingfor a crowd of hungry women—and at least a few men—at all. Before I can drag his “fine” ass out of here, however, he leans on the counter to offer a megawatt smile.

“Got a manager I can talk to, sweetheart?” he asks.

Sweetheart?Ugh. How have I forgotten what it’s like to watch him lay on the trademark Gem charm? I bet she doesn’t even notice his split lip over the blinding glare of his teeth and the sparkle of the barbell in his tongue.

Also, her name tag clearly states “Brandi.”

“Your friend there isn’t exactly lying about your goods, sugar,” Brandi says, eyeing Gem’s face and immediately improving my opinion of her by several notches. “Maybe he’s the one who should be talking to the boss.” She gives me an appreciative once-over while Gem makes absolutely no effort to hide his grin.

It’s a fucking conspiracy.

“I’m going to wait in the truck. You’ve got fifteen minutes before I dump your ass and head home.”

The last thing I hear as I flee back into the sunshine is Brandi’s cheerful voice.

“Your boyfriend’s a shy one, isn’t he, sugar?”

8

Fathers

Gemiah

Age 16 (Then)

It’s raining. Again.

After two and a half winters in Mendocino, I’m still not used to the constant deluge that soaks the coast and turns our forest playground into mud and soggy redwood needles from November to April every year.

“It’s almost six. Soccer practice ended at five thirty.” Josha pushes off the side of the bookstore, reproach clear on his face as Cassidy and I stumble up.