Catcher’s Lock (Broken Boys of Cirque #3)

Chapter 1

Asshole

Josha

When I was nine years old, I fell off the edge of the world.

I wasn’t the first. It happened sometimes on the headlands outside of our little coastal California town—the sandy cliffs crumbling beneath the feet of some tourist and pitching them into the merciless sea below.

Only a year before, my sister had told me about a woman who went over while chasing the family dog. The dog survived. The woman did not.

But it was a tragedy that happened to other people. People from the city—like the tourists who drowned off the rocks while abalone diving. Or the college kids up for the trim season, who drove their car into Dark Gulch on their way back from a beach party.

It wasn’t supposed to happen to local boys who’d been roaming the bluffs as long as memory. Whose bare feet were calloused from climbing over rock castles and cold sand. Who flew like the gulls on the high edge above the waves.

I remember the sharp note of panic in my sister’s voice and the way my stomach clenched before it leaped up to lodge in my throat as the ground dropped away with a shock of betrayal.

The fall didn’t even last long enough for my trapped scream to escape.

But the weightlessness went on forever.

I dropped and slid ten feet before fetching up against a stubborn patch of ice plant clinging to the cliffside.

The woman in the harness who was lowered down to retrieve me told me I was lucky I was small and light for my age, making a miracle of the parts of myself I was so desperate to leave behind.

She deposited me back in my sister’s arms with a sprained ankle and a new, wary respect for the force of gravity.

Ironic, then, that I chose to spend my life surrounded by people who can fly.

Currently, I’m flat on my back in the dirt under the Big Top stage, inspecting one of the anchor points built into the decking. The headlamp’s beam shows surprisingly little dust and no obvious damage, but I test each of the bolts anyway.

“How’s it looking, Boss?” Ellis crouches at the edge of the stage, holding the skirt back with one hand and peering into the gloom.

He’s the first Chinese pole performer Shilo’s hired since he left, and the reason all the old rigging needs a safety check.

He’s not the reason for my shitty mood, so I swallow my sigh as I roll over to army crawl to the next point.

“I’m not the boss, Ellis. You don’t have to keep calling me that.”

“You don’t like ‘Boss.’ You already said no to ‘Daddy.’ What am I supposed to call you?”

I shoot him a look that he probably can’t see with the headlamp shining in his eyes.

Ellis has been trying to get in my pants since he arrived ten days ago.

If I had any brains or self-preservation, I’d let him.

He’s got the right look—dark haired, blue eyed, and lithely muscled—if a little short.

He’s funny and charming, and I suspect Shilo might have hired him, at least partly, so she could throw us together for the summer.

“You deserve a little fun, Josha. I want to see you happy with someone at least once before you leave us for the wider world.”

As if I’m leaving by choice instead of because she’s decided it’s time to retire Big River Big Top, and I’m out of a job as well as a family.

“Just ‘Josha’ is fine, Ellis. I’m not really a nickname guy.” Except when I was.

“Okay, ‘Just Josha.’ Am I safe to mount the pole? Give it a little test drive?” The innuendo is so obvious I can’t help but snort.

“One more anchor to check. Keep it in your pants a little longer.”

His laugh is delighted and husky enough that I wonder idly if maybe Shilo was right. Maybe I could have fun with Ellis. Maybe for once, my body would do what I want it to instead of fixating on toxic shit it can never have. It’s been almost two years since that last catastrophic mistake.

He could be dead now, for all we know.

My fingers curl into the dirt as I fight to banish the hot wave of panic that clutches my chest every time my mind trips down that hole.

I tell myself the fear is for Shilo and Hals and their pain, and not for the asshole who deserves to burn in hell with my memories, but even I’m not stupid enough to believe that lie.

“Your phone is going off up here, Just Josha. Want me to toss it to you?”

“I’m almost done. Let them leave a message.

It’s probably a junk call, anyway.” At this hour of the night, it’s most likely my sister Hannah, the only person who actually calls anymore in the age of text and IMs. But I’m too sober to talk about her twin Rachael’s current drama, or how we should bail our little brother Jeremy out of his latest scrape.

Or, god forbid, my mom. I’ll call her back tomorrow after I’ve had a couple hours of sleep. Maybe.

“The screen says ‘Asshole.’”

I sit up so fast I knock my head against a beam, and the headlamp goes flying. For an eternal moment, all I can see is blue sky and sea, and my stomach swoops to the screaming of gulls.

“Jesus, you okay?” Ellis’s voice echoes from a thousand miles away, and his startled face peers under the edge of the stage. “Here.”

My phone lands in the dust at my side, dark and still.

Wake up, Josha. You’ve had this dream.

I pick it up with numb fingers and almost drop it again when it buzzes in my hand, the screen lighting up with a name from another lifetime.

“Gem?” My voice is a barely recognizable husk.

His voice is rust and ash and a thousand whispered secrets buried in the vivid past.

“Hey, Rocket. I could use a little help.”