Page 68 of Catcher's Lock

23

Pretend

Josha

Age 24 (Now)

“It’s never been about whatIwanted, Gem. And we were never perfect. That part was always pretend.”

He’s not buying it this time.

“Bullshit,” he snaps. “Don’t tell me there was never anything real between us. I get that you’re scared. You have every reason to be. I’m so fucking scared, I can’t see straight. I’m terrified of being back here, of getting sober, of facing my family. But I’m not scared ofthis.” His fingers flex at my waist, sending goosebumps straight to my delusional dick, even as his voice cracks with strain. “What do I have to do to convince you I’m done fucking this up? You want to hit me? Fuck me? Put me on my knees in the dirt and make me suck you off?”

My dick jolts with each careless offer—all of the above.

Why can’t he see that I am notallowedto want him? Every time I’ve let this desire free, it’s been my ruin. I’ve trusted the lust in those aquamarine eyes before and drowned in theundertow.

But the hard ridge of his erection sears along my thigh, capturing the anger in my chest and dragging it someplace lower and infinitely more dangerous until I am arageof want. A maelstrom.

My limbs are saturated with it.

I peel back from his vortex, releasing his shirt to create some desperately needed distance. He lets me go with a rough exhalation, resignation already writing its story in the slump of his shoulders and the way he drops his head back on the roof of the truck.

“You’re still talking aboutme, Gem,” I tell him. “And it’s the same fucking cop-out. You say you’re not scared of this? Then tell me what ‘this’ is. Tell me whatyoufucking want.”

“I wantallof it,” he says, and his voice iswrecked. His eyes find mine, and a shudder runs over his body, ricocheting through the invisible cords connecting us and begging me to believe. “All you have to say is yes.”

I am not ashamed enough to resist him.

And my body is tired of making sacrifices to protect my heart.

Two years ago, I was urgent and selfishly eager, and I bulldozed through his hidden doubts, even though I knew they were there. I won’t make that mistake again. I won’t choose for him, no matter what lures he plays at dangling.

This time, I need him to be sure.

“If I say yes—if I touch you—you’re not going to change your mind and tell me to stop?”

“No. Fuck no. Never again.”

This version of him is beaten and bruised, rough-hewn and raw—the lines of his face made lethal by the loss of his sable curls. The tentacles of his tattoos climb over his arms and peek from his collar, tracing sinew and lean muscle, and dark,two-day stubble coats his jaw. He could be a stranger.

But he’s always been dangerous in ways it took me years to unstitch.

And his Neptune eyes are the same as the boy on the surfboard. The boy who backflipped off my chicken coop and brought me soup and spent a thousand nights with his hip pressed to mine on a narrow twin bed while the glow from my laptop painted superhero shadows over his face.

Quill.

I still want him.

I’ve never really been able to say no.

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank fuck.” Closing the distance between us, he sinks his hands into my hair and stretches up on his toes to bring his mouth to mine.

The kiss is tires on gravel and fiberglass on the sea. It’s hotel sheets and hammocks and snowmelt in the Sierra Mountain sun.

He still tastes like destiny.