Page 72 of Catcher's Lock

Gemiah

Age 24 (Now)

Holy shit. I sucked Josha’s dick.

It feelspowerful.

Not because I had an orgasm worthy of a superhero, or because I got to hear my name on Josha’s lips when he came, although both of those things definitely help.

I did something right.

Somethingimportant. And I didn’t fuck it up.

So of course my fucking stepmother has to ruin my high.

Josha convinces me not to hide out in the shower by promising to join me if I wait until after Cheyenne leaves. I can’t tell if it’s to make me face my own shit or because he wants the backup, but he insists I suffer through the coming encounter at his side. Judging by the look on his face as he types out a hasty reply on his phone, he’s no more eager to talk to her than I am. But I also know that dealing with my family is one of hisconditions for letting me stay here, and I’m not fucking that up now that he’s finally let me into his pants.

Even Cheyenne’s unwelcome appearance can’ttotallyerase my triumph. I swear I’m still fizzing from the aftershock as I throw on a pair of sweatpants and pull my Henley over my still-definitely-sex-stained chest.

It’s better than cocaine.

The rumble of the ATV approaching down the driveway has Josha giving up on finding his other boot and throwing me a look that’s half warning, half panic.

“Not a word about this,” he says, gesturing between us. Like he doesn’t look freshly fucked with his cheeks all glowing and his hair all mussed.

“You want me to be your dirty little secret? That’s kinda kinky, Rocket.”

“I’m serious. No dropping hints disguised as jokes. No ‘accidental’ slipups. Whatever Ellis already told her is bad enough.”

“Okay, Jesus. I get it. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your golden-boy reputation by admitting you’ve been slumming it with the family fuckup.” Spying his boot under the corner of the bed, I kick it in his direction.

“What? No. Shit, Gem. That’s not—”

The front door bangs open.

“Josha, you little shithead, get your ass out here and explain yourself right this minute.”

He flinches, head whipping toward the hall, and my hurt feelings wither as Paul Garrity’s voice rings in my memory.

“Josha, get your ass in here and explain this fucking mess before I have to drag you out of that room.”

Pushing past him, I stride into the kitchen.

“We’re right here, Cheyenne. Chill the fuck out.”

Obviously, I don’t have the greatest relationshipwith my mom’s partner. She’s never made a secret of the fact that she has little patience for my shit, and in exchange, I’ve never given her a reason to change her mind about me. But I’ve also never actively thought about smacking her until Josha slinks in behind me, scrubbing a nervous hand through his hair and studying the cracked linoleum like a dog in a thunderstorm.

Cheyenne leans against the table with her arms crossed over her chest, a tiny blond terror in combat boots and a pixie cut, and all my old resentment flares like a struck match.

“So, the prodigal fuckup finally decided to crawl out from under his rock,” she drawls, dismissing me to level a meaningful look at Josha. “Imagine my surprise when my lovely wife called to say that not only had she talked to her missing son, but that he called her fromyourphone. I could’ve sworn you told me you were dipping out on show prep less than a month before opening weekend to pay Diane a belated Mother’s Day visit. Funny how you didn’t mention anything about collecting wayward junkies while you were gone. I thought Shilo must be bullshitting me, because surely the Josha I know wouldn’t have lied to me about something like thisagain. But then Ellis shows up talking about the ‘biker bad boy’ you brought home, and I had to come see for myself.”

“For fuck’s sake. Cut the shit, Cheyenne, and give him a break. I’m the one who asked Josha not to tell you.”

She continues to ignore me. “Is he even sober?”

I think about the dab pen in my pocket and the gas station tequila and the Vicodin and can’t meet Josha’s eyes.

“No,” he says. “But he’s working on it. Right, Gem?”