Chapter 12 #2
The trip to town starts out uneventful. We hit Sweetwater Spa first. The local bathhouse has two huge redwood hot tubs enclosed in a decked garden bordered by vine-covered trellising, as well as one rentable room with a private tub and an electric sauna.
There’s a regular sauna, too, and four showers—two in the dressing room area and two out on the deck.
A friend of Rachael’s is working the front desk, and she lets us use the outdoor showers for free since we brought our own towels and shampoo.
Once showered and dressed in clean clothes, we head to Mendoza’s for groceries we can cook on the camp stove in the shop, then raid the hardware store for the rest of the supplies on Josha’s list, tossing everything in the back of the old pickup truck that’s too unreliable to use on tour.
On the way back is when things get messy.
“What the fuck?” I slam my hand against the dash as Josha swerves onto the shoulder, spraying dust as we screech to a stop.
He jumps out of the truck without replying and disappears around the back.
I follow to find him crouched by the bumper, trying to coax a small, scraggly creature from the weeds.
“Is that supposed to be a cat?” I ask when he scoops it into his arms. The thing is filthy, black fur matted with dirt and burs, and it appears to be missing both an eye and half of its tail. “It looks like something out of Pet Semetary.”
“It’s a kitten. A tuxedo, I think.” Josha inspects the tiny front paws, which do seem to be tipped with white socks, although both are decidedly gray at the moment. The tiny cat hisses and nips at his fingers.
“What exactly are you going to do with it?” The missing eye socket is oozing greenish-yellow goo, and I can literally see the fleas crawling over the lighter patch on its chest. Josha is snuggling it against his shoulder and murmuring soothing nonsense under his breath, oblivious to its obvious flaws.
“We don’t have time to play nurse to a half-dead kitten.
We can take it to the shelter. They can decide if it’s worth the vet bills. ”
“He’s not half dead. He needs a bath and some antibiotics or something. We can’t just leave him here on the side of the road. He’ll get squished.”
“A quick death might be more merciful,” I mutter, but Josha ignores me and climbs back into the truck, clutching the kitten in one hand. As soon as I slide in the passenger side, he dumps it in my lap.
“I can’t hold him and drive,” he explains when I squawk in protest. “Stop being a squeamish dick.”
Reluctantly, I curl my hands over the cat, bracing for an onslaught of outraged claws. Instead, the little monster curls into a ball, pressing his disgusting face against my hip, and starts making a ratchety chirping noise. Josha glances over in surprise.
“I think he likes you,” he chuckles. “That’s the jankiest purr I’ve ever heard, though.”
“Whatever.” I scowl down at the vibrating bundle of fur. “Don’t get attached, you little zombie. I’m allergic to cats.”
I am not actually allergic to cats. Which is good, because Josha drives straight to the feed store in Fort Bragg, where he spends a ridiculous amount of time talking to the lady at the counter about flea shampoo and dewormer and if they have something to clean up the infection in the kitten’s nonexistent eye.
“She’s not a vet, Rocket. Let’s grab some food and some cat litter and get out of here.”
He dumps the mangy mongrel back into my arms and starts pulling things off the shelves.
We end up with a cart full of everything from two kinds of kitten food to a covered litter box to some antibiotic cream.
The kitten, who I am still calling “Zombie” in my head, sleeps through the whole ordeal, tucked in the crook of my elbow.
The only thing I pick out is one of those sparkly feather toys on a miniature plastic fishing pole.
“Your new daddy’s a bit of an overachiever,” I warn the little cat.
Josha lays down a firm “no getting stoned while using the welder or the metal saw” rule, but after the first day of mild withdrawal, I don’t even notice.
I’ve had to be relatively sober on tour, anyway.
A lot of the cast and crew party, but only within parameters that allow them to handle the grueling schedule.
Privacy is also practically nonexistent when we’re all living on top of each other and spending every waking minute either setting up, tearing down, performing, or jumping to the next gig.
And it turns out I’m not a big enough asshole to completely sabotage the whole show.
We have the entire lot to ourselves, and if it’s weird to be there when it’s empty of trailers, there’s something magical and primitive about it too. Even better, I have Josha completely to myself, and all the chaotic tension that normally follows me around ebbs away as the days pass.
It might be the best week of my life.
It’s that fleeting, perfect time of year on the coast where it cools off enough inland for the fog to lift, but the rains haven’t yet started, and the days are warm and uncharacteristically brilliant.
We end up pulling the box truck out of the shop to do the repairs in the sunshine.
Josha does the majority of the actual work.
I mostly watch and hand him stuff and call him “Rocket” every chance I get.
I let him blast his singer-songwriter music because I like listening to him sing along.
He has a scary good voice—throaty and mournful—and he sings like he’s tapped into the deeper meaning underneath the words.
Some of them are sad, hetero love songs, which I don’t get why he’s into, but a lot of them are about battling addiction and inner demons, which I totally do.
In Josha’s voice, they’re disturbingly relatable, but it’s not uncomfortable enough for me to ask him to stop.
On the last night before the rest of the crew is supposed to return, we get drunk.
For once, it’s not my fault. It starts when Josha returns from another town run with a walnut-sized lump on his left eyebrow and a bottle of vodka.
“What the hell happened to you?” I ask, eyeing him with concern. No way was he driving drunk, let alone with an open container. The idea doesn’t fit into any version of reality I can imagine. Ignoring the bottle for now, I reach up to touch his swollen face. He jerks his head back and takes a swig.
“My fucking dad hit me coming out of our driveway.”
“Your dad hit you?” Rage explodes through my bloodstream like lava.
“Not like that.” He prods at the blooming bruise with trembling fingers.
“He put a dent in the door of Hals’s truck.
This is from my head smacking the window.
We got into a screaming match on the side of the road when I tried to call the cops.
I stole his vodka and took off.” Vibrating like a live wire, he slumps against the hood of the truck.
“I called my mom on the way back here, so my cover’s blown now. ”
“We were supposed to be back tomorrow, anyway. It’s only a day early.”
Closing his eyes, he takes another pull from the bottle. “I can’t believe I fucked up another truck. Hals is gonna be so pissed at me.”
“First of all, I fucked up the first truck.” I pluck the bottle from his hand and take my own swig. “And second of all, this wasn’t your fault. No one’s gonna be pissed at you. You’re on the Big Top insurance, anyway.”
“At least it’s only the door and not the rocker panel too. I can probably beat the dent out with a hair dryer and one of the soft mallets.”
“Okay, Rocket.” Leaning against the hood beside him, I bump his shoulder with mine and pass the bottle back. “Can it wait till tomorrow?”
He studies my outstretched hand before accepting the vodka. His body is steady and solid against mine, the last of his adrenaline drained away.
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Let’s get shit-faced.”
Hours later, we end up back in the hammock, Josha rocking us gently with one foot while I contemplate the stroke of symmetry.
My cheeks hurt from laughing, and I watch the redwood canopy swirl like a lazy galaxy above while he hums quietly in my ear.
Eventually, the sway of the hammock slows, and he falls silent, lids drooping closed.
The world slowly stops spinning. My blood beats a drugged and drowsy thunder in my ears, and there’s enough light from the waxing moon to watch the shadow of his pulse flicker in his throat like a minnow caught in a net.
Before I can wrangle a warning out of my addled brain, I reach up and press my fingers over the fluttering flesh. It leaps under my touch, and my contrary cock twitches in response as the throb settles lower in my veins.
I did that. I make his pulse race.
“What are you thinking about, Rocket?” If you tell me the truth, maybe mine will unlock.
“Nothing.” He’s so still—a ghost in the sylvan darkness, kept alive only by my hand at his neck.
“Not Jesse?” The words float out of me, unanchored.
“No.” He stirs to life with a slow rush of breath. “What are you thinking about?”
Something shapeshifting, just out of reach.
Something vital, hot under my hands.
Something dangerous.
“Nothing.” I pull my fingers free and roll onto my back. “I’m too drunk for thoughts.”
“Rise and shine, knuckleheads.”
The world rocks appallingly as Josha bolts upright beside me.
I squint into the sudden glare to find my mom standing over us, an unreadable look on her face.
My stomach rebels against the wildly swinging hammock, and I lean over the edge, planting a hand on the ground to steady myself.
It helps a little—until Josha scrambles off the other side, and I pitch face-first into the dirt.
Zombie is already halfway into the trees.
“I’m awake. When did you guys get here? Shit. How were the final shows? We’re almost done with the truck. I can show you—”
“Josha.” My mom’s voice cuts through his rambling. “Take a breath. Get some coffee. There’s a fresh pot in the Airstream.”
“Is everyone back?” he asks, and I wince at the hopeful tone. Rolling over, I catch my mom’s knowing smile.
“Jesse’s getting started on the flatbed,” she says. Traitor. “I’m sure he could use your help.”
He ducks his head, ears flaming in a way that used to be only mine. But he glances my way, hesitating, and a wisp of satisfaction eases the clench in my hungover gut.
“I can help too.” I drag myself into a sitting position. “But definitely coffee first.”
“Just a minute,” my mom says. “Josha, you go ahead. I want a word with my son.”
I am in no condition to deal with whatever lecture she’s planning, but Josha abandons me without another look, so I don’t have much of a choice.
I wish he’d stand up to her every once in a while. It’s an unkind thought, small and selfish, and my head instantly punishes me with a new spike of pain. Even my hangover is on her side.
“Take a walk with me.” She offers a hand, and I begrudgingly let her pull me to my feet. “Looks like you two have been having fun. Where’d you get the cat?”
“That’s Zombie. Josha rescued him from the side of Little Lake by the middle school.”
“Sounds like something he would do.”
“I tried to talk him out of it.”
“Did you? Why?”
I shrug. Because apparently, I’m the type of sociopath who gets jealous of a kitten. “It didn’t look like he was gonna make it, and I didn’t want Josha to be bummed.” Which is also sort of true and makes me feel slightly less unhinged.
“You care about him deeply—not the cat,” she amends, when I open my mouth to make a snarky reply.
I absolutely hate that she can read my mind like that.
She studies my face in sidelong glances as we weave along the path.
The returned caravan of trucks and trailers fills the lot, visible through the trees, and I search instinctively for Josha’s auburn head in the small crowd around the flatbed.
“That’s what real best friends do.” It’s petty, but I can’t help myself.
She drags me to a stop, forcing me to meet her gaze.
“Do you remember that argument we had last spring, and what I told you when you asked about me and your father?”
“No,” I lie. “You said a lot of shit back then.” Tearing my arm free, I turn toward the relative safety of the clearing.
“I told you ‘best friends wasn’t enough.’”
I stumble over an exposed root, and my gorge rises, flooding my mouth with the sour burn of old vodka.
“I know Josha is your best friend,” she continues, merciless.
“But I think you know that that might not be enough for him. You need to be very careful about how you treat him, and that it reflects what you really want and what you’re willing to give.
Who is he to you, Gem? Do you think he could be more than a friend? ”
Giving up, I slump against the nearest trunk and close my eyes. “He’s Josha.”
The truth is, I don’t have a name for what I feel about him, if one even exists. Whatever it is, it’s certainly not clarity. Not when my life feels like it’s slipping further out of my control every day. If I ever had any control to begin with.
As if she can read my mind, my mom cups my cheek, her face softening with sympathy.
“No one expects you to have everything figured out at seventeen—lord knows I didn’t. But Josha…he deserves someone wide awake, Gem. Someone sure. Are you sure? Because if you can’t be that person, you need to let him find it somewhere else.”
The idea sends a spiral of panic up my spine, but underneath it—in the better core of myself that I’m an expert at ignoring—I know she’s right. I’m not sure of anything, and I hate it.
Because I can get possessive when it comes to him with other guys, but it’s pretty obvious that possessiveness stems from my own issues. Which means I can’t with any kind of conscience keep him to myself forever if I’m never gonna give him what he wants.
Fear of losing someone isn’t the same as attraction, and it’s not the kind of love my mom’s talking about.
My dick is just a drama queen.