Page 36 of Catcher's Lock

Josha lays down a firm “no getting stoned while using the welder or the metal saw” rule, but after the first day of mild withdrawal, I don’t even notice. I’ve had to be relatively sober on tour, anyway. A lot of the cast and crew party, but only within parameters that allow them to handle the grueling schedule. Privacy is also practically nonexistent when we’re all living on top of each other and spending every waking minute either setting up, tearing down, performing, or jumping to the next gig. And it turns out I’m not a big enough asshole to completely sabotage the whole show.

We have the entire lot to ourselves, and if it’s weird to be there when it’s empty of trailers, there’s something magical and primitive about it too. Even better, I have Josha completely to myself, and all the chaotic tension that normally follows me around ebbs away as the days pass.

It might be the best week of my life.

It’s that fleeting, perfect time of year on the coast where it cools off enough inland for the fog to lift, but the rains haven’t yet started, and the days are warm and uncharacteristically brilliant. We end up pulling the box truck out of the shop to do the repairs in the sunshine. Josha does the majority of the actual work. I mostly watch and hand him stuff and call him “Rocket” every chance I get.

I let him blast his singer-songwriter music because I like listening to him sing along. He has a scary goodvoice—throaty and mournful—and he sings like he’s tapped into the deeper meaning underneath the words. Some of them are sad, hetero love songs, which I don’t get why he’s into, but a lot of them are about battling addiction and inner demons, which I totally do.

In Josha’s voice, they’re disturbingly relatable, but it’s not uncomfortable enough for me to ask him to stop.

On the last night before the rest of the crew is supposed to return, we get drunk.

For once, it’s not my fault. It starts when Josha returns from another town run with a walnut-sized lump on his left eyebrow and a bottle of vodka.

“What the hell happened to you?” I ask, eyeing him with concern. No way was he driving drunk, let alone with an open container. The idea doesn’t fit into any version of reality I can imagine. Ignoring the bottle for now, I reach up to touch his swollen face. He jerks his head back and takes a swig.

“My fucking dad hit me coming out of our driveway.”

“Your dadhityou?” Rage explodes through my bloodstream like lava.

“Not like that.” He prods at the blooming bruise with trembling fingers. “He put a dent in the door of Hals’s truck. This is from my head smacking the window. We got into a screaming match on the side of the road when I tried to call the cops. I stole his vodka and took off.” Vibrating like a live wire, he slumps against the hood of the truck. “I called my mom on the way back here, so my cover’s blown now.”

“We were supposed to be back tomorrow, anyway. It’s only a day early.”

Closing his eyes, he takes another pull from the bottle. “I can’t believe I fucked up another truck. Hals is gonna be so pissed at me.”

“First of all,Ifucked up the first truck.” I pluck the bottlefrom his hand and take my own swig. “And second of all, this wasn’t your fault. No one’s gonna be pissed at you. You’re on the Big Top insurance, anyway.”

“At least it’s only the door and not the rocker panel too. I can probably beat the dent out with a hair dryer and one of the soft mallets.”

“Okay,Rocket.” Leaning against the hood beside him, I bump his shoulder with mine and pass the bottle back. “Can it wait till tomorrow?”

He studies my outstretched hand before accepting the vodka. His body is steady and solid against mine, the last of his adrenaline drained away.

“Yeah.” He sighs. “Let’s get shit-faced.”

Hours later, we end up back in the hammock, Josha rocking us gently with one foot while I contemplate the stroke of symmetry. My cheeks hurt from laughing, and I watch the redwood canopy swirl like a lazy galaxy above while he hums quietly in my ear. Eventually, the sway of the hammock slows, and he falls silent, lids drooping closed.

The world slowly stops spinning. My blood beats a drugged and drowsy thunder in my ears, and there’s enough light from the waxing moon to watch the shadow of his pulse flicker in his throat like a minnow caught in a net.

Before I can wrangle a warning out of my addled brain, I reach up and press my fingers over the fluttering flesh. It leaps under my touch, and my contrary cock twitches in response as the throb settles lower in my veins.

I did that.I make his pulse race.

“What are you thinking about, Rocket?”If you tell me the truth, maybe mine will unlock.

“Nothing.” He’s so still—a ghost in the sylvan darkness, kept alive only by myhand at his neck.

“Not Jesse?” The words float out of me, unanchored.

“No.” He stirs to life with a slow rush of breath. “What areyouthinking about?”

Something shapeshifting, just out of reach.

Something vital, hot under my hands.

Something dangerous.