Page 87 of Catcher's Lock

Mine.

Please.

Stay.

“What are you planning to do with yourself today?” I ask, trying not to sound suspicious—or too needy. I’m sitting on the bed, watching him dress after his shower, unable to make myself leave, even though I should have been at Big Top an hour ago. “Jeremy took the Xbox when he left.”

“Coming with you.” He says it like it’s obvious, throwing me a surprised look as he zips himself into a pair of tight black jeans.

“To the lot? I thought the whole point of wanting to stay with me was to avoid that place for as long as possible.”

“The whole point of staying here was to get in your pants. Since I’ve already done that…” He flashes a cocky grin and tugs a plain V-neck tee over his head. When his head pops free, I arch an eyebrow, pretending not to ogle the way the white cotton hugs his chest and biceps.

“You really want to come? Cheyenne will be there. And Ellis and probably Oscar.”

Snagging his boots—five states worth of road dust worn into the creased leather—he plops himself down beside me on the edge of the bed.

“I want to be where you are.”

Or you’re telling me what you think I want to hear.

When I tilt my head at him, he sighs. “And I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t trust my brain. I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave me here alone all day with nothing to do.”

“You could work on your bike.” I have no idea why I’m trying to talk him out of joining me when I want nothing more than to glue him to my side. But I also don’t know how he’ll react to being home again, and if he gets triggered by something, or if Cheyenne sets him off, I’m afraid I’ll be too busy to stop it in time.

“You left the vodka on the porch,” he says, and though it’s not an accusation, I can read the warning when he meets my gaze.

“I’ll dump it on the way out. Sorry.”

Shaking his head, he stands to stomp his heels into his boots. “Don’t apologize. I’m…admitting I’ve been thinking about it. You told me to stop leaving you behind. Now I’m asking for the same. I can handle the lot and the crew, I swear.” Backing toward the door, he spreads his arms, exposing a tantalizing strip of inked abdomen where the T-shirt doesn’t quite meet the low-slung waistband of his jeans. “So let’s fucking go.”

His armor is back, and fuck if it doesn’t look good on him when it’s not me he’s trying to keep out.

Despite his bold claims, he sucks nervously on his dab pen the whole five-minute drive to the tent. When I cut my eyes at him, he lifts one shoulder and mutters “California sober,” and I let it go. I grew up in Cannabis country, where almost everyone over the age of twelve is some type of stoner, and it’s not the hillI’m willing to die on.

“How do you want to play this?” he asks as we climb out of the truck beside the barn-sized shop. “Am I still your dirty little secret?”

“Am I still yours?”

He blinks at me, confused, and I bite back a sigh, wishing I hadn’t brought it up.

“Ignore me,” I say. “We can play it however you want.”

“My choice, huh? Then I’ll tell you how I want toplay.” Closing his fingers around my wrist, he tugs me back, then cages me against the hood. I catch the slow smile on his lips before he brings them to my ear and whispers: “I’ve decided to let you fuck me first.”

Satisfied by my startled intake of breath, he turns with an exaggerated wiggle of his ass and leaves me reeling in the dust.

Wait.

First?

29

Research

Gemiah

Age 24 (Now)