Chapter 7 Creatures
Creatures
Josha
Ineed out.
I can’t stand another minute in this room with his tattoos and his toxic waste and his fucking tongue piercing. My brain stutters over the last, shying violently away from the memory of his tongue questing for mine. No part of me is allowed to think about that little mindfuck.
He’s watching me right now with that same old quirk to his lips—like he’s waiting for something he doesn’t know if he wants. Like he doesn’t care if finding the answer destroys me. And underneath it, that wavering pulse of uncertainty, his eternal need for approval.
Watch me, love me, give me everything, Rocket.
But I tried for years, and it was never enough. The drinking and the drugs and the never-ending stream of women proved that. He can pull the kicked-puppy act all he wants—I’m not falling for that shit anymore.
I don’t care what his face looks like or that he’s hugging his left side like it hurts. If I don’t get some fucking distance right this second, I might hit him again. Or…something worse.
Turning abruptly on my heel, I yank the door open and bolt down the concrete stairs.
“Rocket,” he calls after me, and the shiver between my shoulder blades tells me he’s watching as I rummage in the truck for the first aid kit buried in the center console.
When I shut the door without climbing in, he retreats into the motel room, and I lean my forehead against the truck’s roof and close my eyes. All my self-preservation instincts are telling me to bail. To climb behind the wheel and drive north and never look back.
But Shilo will be home next week, and if I bring her son back to her, I might be able to look her in the eye for the first time in two years. I might not want to crawl into a pit of self-loathing when Hals claps me on the shoulder and calls me “son.”
Gem is on his phone when I return to the room, but he drops it to catch the first aid kit I toss him and gives me a quick, searching look.
“Clean yourself up,” I tell him as I stomp to the bathroom—calmly—and close the door. Also calmly.
The blood on my knuckles is ugly and stark under the fluorescents. I clean it away with harsh satisfaction, the sting and the remembered feel of his lips splitting against his teeth banishing the memory of…other things his lips did.
I refuse to feel like the asshole. He’s clearly been letting others use him as a punching bag.
Those bruises on his face didn’t come from wrecking his bike.
Even Gem was never stupid enough to ride without a helmet.
And he said he’d been robbed. The baggies and the gas station shooter bottles on the dresser paint a pretty clear picture of how he’s been spending his days.
Not surprising that his self-destruction still includes picking fights and getting his ass beat.
He did it for you.
Nope. That was one time. Whatever mess landed him at this latest rock bottom has absolutely nothing to do with me.
There are more mini liquor bottles scattered around the sink; Jack Daniels and some type of flavored vodka. Without letting myself check for leftover liquid, I sweep the whole mess into the trash can.
I can do this.
One step at a time and stay focused on the task at hand. I’ve conquered a hundred crises more critical than this—like the grease fire in the concessions wagon and the time I took Jeremy to the ER for stitches before I even had my learner’s permit.
Get Gem’s shit packed up.
Leave a generous tip for the housekeeping staff and load him into the truck.
Grab his bike from the impound lot and hit the road.
My eyes are grainy and my body is screaming for sleep, but I don’t dare stop moving.
If I close my eyes, who knows what monsters—or angels—will come creeping from the depths.
Besides, if I can drive the flatbed up the 1 in a rainstorm, I can handle the 5 on Red Bull and fumes.
If it gets too bad, I can let Gem drive the last leg over the 20 to the coast. Whatever he might be on now, he’ll be sober by then, and if I’m asleep, I won’t have to listen to his dangerous voice.
When I reenter the room, Gem is tossing wrinkled T-shirts and ripped jeans and—is that a turquoise jockstrap?—into a pile on the bed. One handed.
“What happened to your side?” I ask, and try not to flinch at the hope that pours off him to drench me when he turns my way.
“Pretty sure I bruised a rib.”
“You did? Or someone did it for you?”
That quicksilver grin of his flashes. “Take your pick.”
“You should tape it.” I nod to the kit he’s left on the pillow.
“It’s fine.”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
Hurt darts across his features at the word, and I don’t even try to smother my sharp surge of satisfaction.
“It’s not exactly a solo task,” he reminds me.
Right.
Damned if I’m going to let him think I’m unsettled at the thought of touching him, though. I cross the room and open the kit. Fishing out the box of KT tape, I gesture for him to sit on the bed.
“Hold your shirt up.” It’d be easier if he took it off entirely, but nope, not giving him the satisfaction of flashing his no-doubt-tattooed pecs and shoulders as well as his abs. I can only take so much torture.
I wish I could remember a time when I wasn’t affected by his body.
I wish hating him was enough.
Unfortunately, I’m right about the tats. Sea anemones and jellyfish and manta rays and octopuses crawl over his torso like the dips and ridges of muscle and bone are a poisonous coral reef. When taken with the twin kraken wrapped around his forearms, it’s hard to miss the theme.
“What’s with all the sea monsters?” I ask—mainly to keep from fixating on the French words woven through the menagerie or how smooth his skin feels under my fingertips, and not because I actually care.
“My creatures from the deep?”
My palm flattens against his side before I can stop it, and my breath stalls in my chest.
“You always teased me for listening to Jason Isbell. What happened to ‘that sad, hipster country crap’?”
“Turns out, he might’ve been on to something.”
“Really.” I’m going for flat and skeptical, but it comes out a little breathless, and I finish securing the last piece of tape with enough force to make him grunt.
“And it reminds me of you.”
The music or the tattoos or the part about the past being a scary movie full of deep-sea nightmares? I close my eyes and shove away from him before he can do something fatal like touch me again.
“Is that everything?” I gesture to the pitiful pile of clothes, determined not to feel bad about how small it looks. No one asked him to leave everything behind.
“More or less.” He collects his phone and charger from the nightstand, then stands to shove his feet in a pair of worn biker boots. “There’s some stuff in the bathroom.”
“I’ll get it.” I toss the saddlebags over to the bed. “Hurry up. I’m not spending any more time in this shithole than I have to.”
In the parking lot, his steps stall when we reach my truck, and he traces his fingers over the Big River Big Top decal on the passenger side.
It’s not the same truck. It’s a newer sport model, for one, with only enough towing capacity to haul the ticket booth that’s doubled as my sleeping quarters for the last couple of tours.
It’s black, while all the other Big Top vehicles are white, from the box trucks to the 350 with the bench seat that disappeared with Gem.
Better than all of that, it’s mine, bought with my share of the life insurance money after my dad died.
The bucket seats are silky gray leather, not faded beige upholstery stained with coffee spills and road dust.
And yet…
As soon as he slides into the passenger seat, the normally spacious quad cab closes in around me.
Sweat prickles from my pores, and my hands tremble as I fumble the key into the ignition.
Seven hours. Eight at the most, and I can drop him at Big Top and…
sleep. Forget what it means to have him back in my space for a night and deal with the fallout tomorrow.
Mindful of his injuries, I take his bags and toss them in the back seat.
“Thanks.” He won’t stop looking at me with that vaguely reverent, annoyingly hopeful expression.
“Don’t read too much into it. I’m only trying to return you in one piece. More or less. It doesn’t mean anything.” Okaaay, I might be overselling the protest. “Stop that,” I add when he threatens to smile.
“Sure.” He bites his lower lip instead, which is possibly worse than the damn smile. Smothering a groan, I shift into reverse and try to ignore him.
He punches the address of the impound lot into the navigation system as I maneuver out of the parking lot, then runs his hand over the dash, shakes the wintergreen Tic Tacs in the cup holder, flips the visor down and then back up.
I forgot how tactile he is.
Liar. You haven’t forgotten shit.
This was a terrible fucking idea.
The streets get more suburban as I drive, and the silence stretches between us until it frays. Like the seams in the old truck. Like an inhale held to the point of bursting over taut flesh.
Like a promise worn long past its expiration date.
He breaks first, popping a few of my wintergreen Tic Tacs in his mouth and making a face before leaning his head against the window and turning to face me.
“Tell me about the new show. What did the folks come up with this year?”
At least this wound is fresh, not festering beneath tender scars.
“It’s called ‘Apothecurious.’”
“Like, apothecary?”
“Yeah. Very mad scientist meets Alice in Wonderland. It’s kind of dark.” I risk a glance his way. “Shilo was in a mood when she came up with it.”
“And let me guess—Milla is the Alice. Some shining star of purity amid the Frankenstein monsters.”