Chapter 11
Stripping (is better than jail)
Josha
“You sure you’re not coming in?” Gem asks as we sit in the truck outside the entrance to Tippy’s. “I could sneak you in the back, and you might see something you like.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Still a virgin, Rocket? Afraid to get too close to a hot dick?”
“Fuck you. I’ve been to a gay strip club before.”
“Really?” His obvious skepticism has me bristling as much as the “virgin” comment. God, I hate that cocky smirk.
“Sure. Echo and I used to go all the time.” Chew on that, dickhead.
All the time is an exaggeration. It was three times. And Rachael tagged along for the last two, but Gem doesn’t need to know my sister got in on the “let’s teach Josha how to be a good gay boy” experiment.
As my best gay male friend, Echo spent a good portion of the first summer after Gem disappeared trying to distract me with all the experiences he decided I was missing.
It wasn’t so bad until Rachael got involved, but no amount of awe for Echo’s flawless confidence could make having my sister tagging along any less awkward.
And it didn’t help that they instantly adored each other.
Byrd and I would end up at the corner of the bar while the two of them took over the dance floor or showered some guy in a fireman’s hat and a G-string with dollar bills.
Luckily, Echo’s boyfriend is one of the hottest men known to god, so he made a pretty good shield for absorbing unwanted attention.
Eventually, Cheyenne pulled me aside and told me that just because it wasn’t a word Echo was used to hearing, didn’t mean I wasn’t allowed to say “no.”
“No one else gets to tell you how to be gay, Josha. I live less than a hundred yards from my wife’s ex-husband.
You think my lesbian friends back home don’t give me shit about that?
But it’s my life, and it works for me. For us.
You need to figure out what works for you.
And it doesn’t have to look the same as it does for Echo. ”
I didn’t tell her that sometimes I got tired of feeling like I was only gay on the inside.
It was hard not to wish I were more like Echo, his identity shouting from every vibrant move and cocky comment.
It was hard not to envy the way he captured Byrd so completely, bulldozing through every obstacle between them.
But Cheyenne’s words were also a revelation. Being gay wasn’t a decision, but what that meant to me, and what I made of it, was.
“For the record,” I say, and this time I don’t help as Gem twists painfully to retrieve his bag from the back seat, “I think this is a terrible idea.”
“Noted.”
“You look like shit.” Lie. “And you’re still hurt.” Truth. Although I’m not sure why I care. He ignores me, climbing out of the truck and swinging the backpack over his shoulder.
“If you’re heading back to the house, I can snag a ride home after,” he offers, leaning on the roof with a grin that tells me he knows exactly how good he looks, bruises, cuts, and all.
With some stripper? A customer?
No wonder he keeps getting his ass beat.
“I’ll pick you up.”
“Aww. You gonna wait up for me?” He sounds way too happy about the idea, so I reach across to yank his door shut and peel out of the parking lot without responding. Maybe if I clip a toe, he’ll have to sit in the dressing room all night.
Since his shift won’t end until at least 2 a.m., I have six hours to kill. Plenty of time to drive back to my mom’s, watch TV, even catch a couple hours of sleep if I want.
I drive around in circles until the images in my head get too loud for even the Saturday night traffic and my loudest playlist to drown out.
For another hour, I hide out in a deserted diner, drinking rot-gut coffee and debating calling Hannah to talk me off the ledge.
But my sister is an unreliable narrator when it comes to me and Gem, irrationally optimistic for reasons I don’t understand and haven’t totally forgiven.
Rachael is better at rage and revenge, but she’s also less than three hundred miles away and completely capable of showing up on Mom’s doorstep tomorrow at the first whiff of drama.
Eventually, I give up and head back to the club.
Unlike the tired, vaguely apologetic vibe of yesterday afternoon’s hallway, the main room is lavish with crude luxury and surprisingly packed.
The crowd is mostly women—at least three that I can see wearing bachelorette sashes and tiaras—but there are men too.
Most of them are older, tucked in corner tables, but I spot a brightly colored group of six or seven closer to my age, glittering with confidence and eager lust.
Gem is nowhere to be seen, and my gut clenches over what that might mean. Maybe he hasn’t gone on yet. Maybe there’s some back room where he’s entertaining a high-end customer.
Maybe it was all a front, and he’s halfway to Mexico with a pocket full of drugs.
Coming here was a mistake. No matter what I find, it’s going to hurt, and I promised myself I was done bleeding over him.
I find an empty seat at the long bar, and I’m halfway through my second beer when the MC announces Gem’s name.
His real one, of course—because why would he need a stripper alias when he’s already named after something precious and coveted?
I ruthlessly smother the small triumphant part of me that’s glad he didn’t use “Quill.”
Don’t. Look.
The slow opening beat of “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac pours from the speakers, and something sharp twists in my belly.
I don’t know how he guessed I’d be here, but the message is unmistakably clear.
As the hook in my gut drags me around to face the main stage, I can almost see his eyes glowing with reflected light from the movie screen that first night in Fort Bragg.
I remember the visceral thrill of his fingers brushing mine, slippery with butter in the popcorn tub, and his words whispered into my ear: “This is totally epic.”
Then the stage lights come up, and there he is, with his back to the crowd and his wrists in a pair of cheap plastic handcuffs.
The pole cuts a line of Aurora-hued silver down his spine—an adornment rather than an obstacle.
His short-sleeved shirt is a convict orange that no one should look that good in, and his legs are bare, like he’s ready to start a prison riot.
More tattoos trail over his left hip and down his leg.
Even from across the room, I can tell that he’s shaved smooth, and saliva floods my mouth as my gaze trails up to the barely concealed crease of his ass.
As the first lyrics croon over the sound system, his head falls to the side as he arches his back, cradling the pole obscenely between his ass cheeks. Sweat prickles from my hairline and trickles down my collar, and I shift in my seat, captured and caged by my own helpless desire.
When he tilts dangerously, catching the pole behind his knee in an attitude pose and tossing a brazen look over his shoulder, the audience goes feral. He grins, and I swear his gaze locks with mine over the crowd as he flicks his hands free of the cuffs and begins to dance.
The song builds slow and heavy, the perfect soundtrack for seduction.
At the first chorus, he rips open his shirt, leaving himself clothed in only swaths of iridescent ink and a black jockstrap that cups his cock and frames his ass with cruel perfection.
He works the crowd and the pole with half-lidded eyes and rolling hips, and no matter how much more I know he’d be capable of without the hidden bruises and torn muscles, there’s no denying his magic.
This is not the frenetic kid I first met, monkeying up and down the pole in the corner of his parents’ tent. Nor do I spot any evidence of the desperate drive to prove himself that colored his teenage years and sapped all the joy from the art during his time at ENC.
This is smoldering charisma and innate talent, lazily embraced. Smooth and graceful, he moves like he’s underwater—my siren selkie, all grown-up.
Not only is it unfairly devastating, but for the first time in years, he looks like he’s having fun.
By the time the song ends, I’m achingly hard and furious. The elastic straps of his jock are full of bills, handfuls more litter the stage, and at least a dozen women are calling for his attention. I down the rest of my forgotten drink and weave my way to the door, dirty and done.
Despite my resolve, I find myself back in the parking lot a few hours later, watching him climb into the cab of my truck.
“Didn’t think you’d be back.” He rolls his head to meet my gaze. “I saw you leave after my first set.”
It was torture to watch you, but it would be worse to leave you behind.
“You’re high,” I say instead. It’s obvious in his languid limbs and the smoky slur of his voice.
“Vicodin.” He doesn’t even try to dissemble. “Only way I was gonna make it through the shift.”
“How many did you take?” I ask.
“Not enough to kill me.” He slumps further into the seat, and his eyes drift closed. “So, what did you think?”
How am I supposed to answer that? I opt for the most brutal truth I can muster. “I hated it.” You were incredible.
“Because of what I did, or because of how it made you feel?”
Jesus. Has he always been able to see through me this clearly?
Yes. Only he used to be better at hiding it.
Or more wary of what it meant.
“All of it,” I reply, because what’s the point of lying if he’s going to call me out anyway. He sighs, but I catch the smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Think there’s room in the show for me this year?” he asks. “At home, I mean. I’m in a lot better shape than the last time I was in Mendo. Or I will be in a couple weeks when the ribs heal.”
Regardless of what I think about what kind of shape he’s in, is he seriously imagining he can waltz back onto the lot like he didn’t burn every bridge behind him when he disappeared? After he’d slapped down every olive branch, every appeal, until I was the only one foolish enough to keep trying?
I know Shilo and Hals would bend over backward to give him another chance if he wanted it, but the audacity to assume they wouldn’t make him work for it?
That he could have it all back by simply showing up after nearly two years of radio silence?
Even if they hadn’t already booked a pole act, I’m damn sure they wouldn’t risk the tour by counting on Gem now, no matter how happy and relieved they’ll be to see him.
For some reason, I don’t tell him about Ellis.
Mistaking my silence—or maybe reading it perfectly—he scrubs a hand over his head. “Yeah. Maybe I can try next year.”
“Not at Big Top, you won’t.”
“They’re that pissed, huh? Or…is it your call?”
Fucking Christ. He still thinks his parents would choose me.
When all I ever wanted was for him to choose me.
When half the reason I stayed in Mendo all this time was to try to fill the void he left, and it still wasn’t enough.
“There isn’t going to be a Big Top next year,” I tell him. “It’s done. Shilo and Hals already have a buyer for the tent.”
“Shit.” Some of his stoned lethargy falls away as he sits up straight to stare at me. “Seriously?”
“I wouldn’t bullshit you about something like that.” Not when I could hurt you with it instead.
“I never thought—”
“You’re gone. Milla’s leaving. Can’t have a family circus without a family.”
“You’re there.”
“You never get it, do you? It’s not the same.”
And we all got tired of pretending.
By the time I get him back to the condo, he can barely walk, and when I try to deposit him on the couch, he clings to me and shakes his head.
“I need a shower. I reek of bridesmaids and cheap cologne. Smell me.”
“I’m not smelling you.” I push him off me, a little too late.
Underneath the lingering miasma of strangers’ lust, he carries the scent of wind and water and adolescent dreams, and I’ve already spent enough time submerged in that fable tonight.
The days when I could have spent a lifetime smelling his skin are over.
“But I’ll get you to the shower if you promise not to pass out and drown. ”
“I always knew Rocket was the real hero of the story,” he murmurs as I sling an arm around his waist.
“You’re a fucking mess.”
“But not a broke one anymore.” Pulling a wad of folded bills from the pocket of his jeans, he giggles as half of them flutter to the floor.
“Leave it,” I say, when he almost topples over reaching for them. “I’ll get them later. C’mon.”
Fighting the sucking vertigo of déjà vu, I drag him into the small bathroom. After a brief internal struggle, I decide not to punish him with cold water, even if it means subjecting myself to the torture of checking on him every five minutes to make sure the heat doesn’t drag him under.
Clutching the sink for support, he shimmies out of his jeans and shrugs off the orange button-up.
Acres of skin.
Oceans of skin.
In the enclosed space, his near-nakedness rocks me to the core—made a thousand times more intimate by proximity and privacy.
“Help me, Rocket,” he singsongs, close enough to dazzle my vision with azure eyes and galaxies of technicolor flesh. When he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jockstrap, I grab his wrists.
As soon as our skin makes contact, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.
When did wrists become so erotic? A marvel of small bones and shifting tendons and delicate, pulsing skin.
He flexes slightly in my grip, testing my commitment to these restraints, and I don’t recognize the sound that escapes me, halfway between a whimper and a growl.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Afraid you might like it?”
Like it? My dick is currently reminding me that it learned to come with his name on my lips.
“Or are you afraid I might like it, and that you’ll have to climb down off that high horse and find a new reason to hate me?”
“No,” I whisper, a rough denial that encompasses the whole heresy of the night. Peeling my fingers from the poison of his flesh, I stumble through the door.
“Being a dick to me isn’t going to work forever, you know,” he calls after me.
“I’ll take my chances.”