Page 63 of Catcher's Lock

“Fuck. Rocket.” The words are short and panicked, flipping the switch like a cut circuit. His hands go frantic in my hair—not guiding me toward his cock, but tugging me up and away as he scrambles back out of reach. “Stop.”

21

Perfect

Gemiah

Age 22 (Then)

Inever made it to the second step in rehab.

The first one was easy—“powerless” is only a slippery slide from “useless,” after all, and my life had been unmanageable for as long as I could remember. But the second step—that a power greater than myself could restore my sanity—was a different story.

Harmony Home outside of Bolinas was as progressive as the rest of California in the twenty-first century. No one pushed a traditional “god,” even though his name was all over the Big Book. From what I could tell, that was pretty standard for the modern twelve-step program, old hippies and trust-fund burnouts notwithstanding.

But you had to picksomethingto believe in, which was where I balked. Not so much because I didn’t think the universe was bigger than the tragic human experience, but because if therewas a higher power out there, I sure as hell didn’t trust it to give a shit about me.

Probably had something to do with my abandonment issues.

Plus, the only thing I was good at surrendering to was my own self-destruction.

After all, I’d spent the last year ignoring my family, Josha, and anyone else who might have tried to beat some sense into me. When I couldn’t avoid them, I picked fights. I spent more time fucked up than sober because it was easier to be high or drunk or, better yet, unconscious than it was to deal with the myriad faces of disappointment.

I didn’t understand my brain anymore, but I knew it hated me. It only made sense for god to hate me too.

So when I bring the truck to a skidding stop on the side of the two-lane blacktop to stare at Josha’s trembling frame, both of us unharmed and undaunted, there’s no reason for my first thought to be a fervent prayer of gratitude.

And there’s no reason for the first words out of my mouth to be a fuckingconfession. The truth of my failure hangs between us, itchy and unguarded, while the moon slants through the windshield and the night comes alive. Holding my breath, I wait for his judgment, and when he throws himself across the seat to press his lips to mine instead, my whole world somersaults.

There’s stubble, rough and virile, that wasn’t there when we were fifteen. There’s a tenuous confidence in the way his tongue brushes over the seam of my lips, begging entrance, that has me thinkingfinallywith a jealous sort of pride.

And there’s a hum reverberating through his chest that drowns out the alarm bells ringing in my head until all I can do is suck the sound from him and delve into his eager mouth for more.

When his hand leaves my hair to seek bare skin at my waist, my better brain tries to kick in, and I say, “Wait.”

But he says “don’t think,” and he says “pretend,” and aren’t those my fucking specialty?

And then he says “please,” and we’re both fucked.

Because he’sJosha, who’s looked at me like I was everything since the day I met him, even when he’s peering down from the edge of my abyss.

And holy shit. I really,reallywant him to suck my dick right now. Possibly more than I’ve ever wanted a mouth on my dick before.

Does he know what he’s doing to me? With his pleading eyes and his little gasps andohfuckohfuckohfuck—his fuckingtongue?

My brain is reeling, washed away in an overload of lust and amphetamines, and my fingers trace over his skull, tangled in the waves of his hair, cradling him like something precious.

Was this inevitable?

As inevitable as him lying to cover for me.

As inevitable as getting him drunk when I know he’s terrified of turning into his dad.

As inevitable as him throwing away years of waiting for the right guy the minute I open my fucking pants.

It doesn’t matter that he’s the one who did the actual unbuttoning.

A line from one of his songs traces a frenetic path through my mind—something about heaven being wasted on the already dead—and guilt slams through me like a sneaker wave, prickling my skin with sudden sweat.