Page 5 of Catcher's Lock

“If I get Jeremy fed and my dad’s in an okay mood, we have time to watch the first one in my room.”On my bed.

“Sure. Can I get one of those tuna sandwiches too?”

“Your mom said it’s okay? She doesn’t care that it’s a school night?”

“Nope.” He stands above me and punches both fists into the air. “Homeschooled, baby. That’s what happens when you have a crazy family of circus freaks.”

And then he launches himself into a backflip.

Up until now, I haven’t beentotallysure. I’ve told myself it’s normal curiosity, this fascination with watching the bodies of the boys around me sprout hair and muscles while mine remains stubbornly smooth and slender. That maybe the strange, squirmy feeling in my belly at the husky rasp of voices grown deeper seemingly overnight is simple jealousy.

But watching this dark, graceful boy land grinning and dauntless in the dust before me, I’m transfixed by the impossible perfection of him, abruptly certain for the first time in my life.

I’m definitely,definitelygay.

And I’m pretty sure I just met the love of my life.

3

Penance

Gemiah

Age 24 (Now)

My dick has a long memory, and it’s trying to get me killed.

It’d be easy to blame it on the alcohol, on the pills and the pretty white powders, but those are the symptoms. The root of the issue—pun fully intended—is my asshole dick.

The Chili’s knock-off in Bakersfield is the perfect hunting ground, full of frat boys with a Central Valley redneck sheen. For a while, I thought I’d be wasting a perfectly good coke high, but then the kitchen closed, and the place stopped trying to appear family friendly. Now one of the bartenders is drunk, the other is showing signs of his own coke habit, and the college crowd is full of slightly manic energy. The last hurrah of those about to be returned to their sleepy hometowns, grasping at their last chance at freedom.

I’m too old, too worn and dirty to blend in, but I let the curiosity and vague testosterone-fueled hostility roll off me. Idon’t care about them.

My sharklike focus is all for the douchebag du jour.

Tonight’s target is sprawled in a booth across from the U-shaped bar, chugging his fourth Coors Light from a bottle with the label torn off. Previous casualties litter the table amid the cold onion rings and spent ketchup packets.Shredding beer labels is a classic sign of sexual frustration, dickhead.

His cronies are neck-deep in bimbos—labels pristinely intact—but this guy’s gaze keeps flitting to the bar, and I can read the desperate hunger on his face as easily as looking in a mirror.

The kid he can’t take his eyes off sits two stools down from me, fiddling with the cherry in the rum and Coke he looks barely old enough to be drinking. His hair is the wrong color—a washed-out brown—but he’s got the dusting of freckles across his cheekbones and the faded flannel that first caught my attention, with the sleeves pushed up past the elbows. And the shy yet defiant set to his shoulders sends a familiar prickle over my skin.

Neither of them have noticed me skulking at the corner of the bar, even with my shaved head and full-sleeve tattoos. Bad for them. Good for me.

Frat boy finally gets up the courage to approach, squeezing in next to Freckles-in-Flannel a little too closely to be casual.

“I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I’ll take unoriginal pickup lines for two hundred, Alex.” I snort, not bothering to keep my voice down.Nowthey notice me. Douche-du-Jour frowns, leaning into the bar to peer at me suspiciously.

“How’d you know my name?” he asks.

Whiskey burns my nose as I choke out a disbelieving laugh. The kid tosses me a look but does a better job hiding his own smile.

“I’m a mind reader.” I let hostility bleed into my stare.I knowwhat you’re after. “And he’s not interested.”

The kid fidgets on his stool, while Alex turns faintly red.

“Just making conversation while I grab the next round for my crew, man.” He glances at the boy. “And maybe you should let him speak for himself.”