Page 8 of Catcher's Lock

Rolling over with a groan, I try to remember how far it is to the motel. I think I’m paid up for the next two nights, but after that, I’ll be sleeping rough unless I can score a gig. Not that I’m in any shape to dance with a fucked-up rib and a strained shoulder. And not like anyone would give me a shift with my face looking the way it’s bound to for the next few days.

For the first time, I regret selling the truck.

Well. Not thefirsttime, exactly. I have memories in thattruck. Memories that make me hate myself, sure, but also make me hard.

Silky auburn hair between my fingers. Shy breath teasing my cock.

Fuck.

Using my good arm, I fumble my phone out of my pocket.

“Are you sure?”

Am Isure?

I’m sure.

I make the call.

4

Rocket

Gemiah

Age 14 (Then)

“Gemiah Lincoln Farrel, get your ass off the silks right now. Your sister wants to do a last run before we start pulling the rigging.”

It’s at least the third time my mom’s yelled at me, but I pretend I can’t hear her over my dad’s classic rock playlist blasting Cream over the Bluetooth. Plus, Josha is finally here, and he’s already climbing onto the stage.

I pop my leg straight, releasing the top of the silks, and whip through the three rotations with my limbs spread-eagle and my core tight. Not as fast as a pencil drop, but the tail makes an impressively wide spiral as I spin, and I land perfectly, looking up into Josha’s admiring face.

“Hey, Rocket.”

“Stop calling me that. You know I’m taller than you.” His ears go pink, but they do that when he’s pleased as well as when he’s annoyed. And with me it’s usually the former, so I kind of likeit. It’s nice to have an effect on someone.

“It’s not about size.” I flip upright, and because I’m still a few feet off the ground, I get to smirkdownat him. “It’s about how you stole Cheyenne’s fake leg last week.”

“You mean her acro stilt? I wasfixingit.”

“Which makes you a mechanical genius, exactly like Rocket. With a fetish for synthetic body parts.”

“I do not have a fetish for—whatever. Dax.”

“No way am I Dax. He’s bald and tattooed.” I shake my full mop of curls as I kick my legs free of the fabric before sliding the remaining distance to the stage.

“Fine. Groot, then.”

“I’m obviously Quill. Didn’t you see my moves just now? Stardrop. Star-Lord.”

“I’m not calling you ‘Star-Lord.’”

“Whatever you say,Rocket.”

“Gem,” my mom calls. “I’m not gonna ask you again. If you and Josha need something to do, you can start taking down the sidewalls.”

Josha perks up, becauseheprobably thinks fucking around with heavy laces and canvas is a fun way to spend an afternoon, and being helpful is like crack to my boy. But no way am I wasting our last day together doing chores.