Chapter 20 Owls
Owls
Josha
It ended with the owl.
It started with a lie.
“I’m heading out to meet Penny in Santa Rosa for a drink and a movie. I promise I’ll crash at her apartment if I’m not safe to drive back.”
Of course Shilo believed me. I was Josha—responsible, smart, trustworthy—and I never lied to her.
It never occurred to her that the phone call I received as we were rolling up the last of the sidewalls to load onto the flatbed was not from my old high school friend but from her wayward son. The son who should have been in rehab for another forty days.
Our Calistoga run had just ended, and it was my twenty-second birthday—an adult birthday, not an important one like ten or sixteen or twenty-one—but enough of an excuse to let me slip away.
Shilo sent me off with a distracted: “Have fun, be safe. Call if you get into trouble.” Followed by a laugh, because I’m Josha, and I never get into trouble.
Then it was me and Gem in a seedy bar, sitting too close together on the barstools.
It was knees overlapping and heads together and lips at my ear because the music was too loud for normal conversation.
It was the shiny burn of tequila in my throat and beach-blue eyes and warm fingers on the back of my neck.
I knew what it meant when he kept slipping away to the bathroom, but I let it slide because he was here, and he was mine, and he was bright with laughter and bad ideas, and I’d missed him.
And now it’s Sonoma County roads, winding through dark hills and darker trees. It’s snatches of starlit sky as the light pollution fades in the rear window of the truck—the old Big Top truck that Shilo and Hals let me rig with a camper top so I could have my own place to sleep this year on tour.
Gem is driving, because whatever powders he’s been snorting keep him wired, and I’m too drunk and too high and too giddy with the reckless, unmoored magic of the night.
The bird comes out of nowhere—a sudden flicker-flash of white feathers diving past the windshield.
Gem swerves, slamming on the brakes, and I clutch the oh-shit handle and brace against the dashboard as all the drunkenness gets swallowed by the sharp spike of adrenaline.
Tires spin on the gravel shoulder, and the back end fishtails when he overcorrects, one rear wheel dipping into the ditch before we grind to a stop.
Now we’re staring at each other on the dark side of an unnamed road as the engine ticks and cools and the trees whisper to the wind, and
we
are
alive.
He’s luminous. All wide eyes and elation, and he could be fifteen again—or thirteen and innocent—all the years of bullshit washed away like sand under the surf. I swear I can hear the staticky thunder of his heartbeat pounding in time with mine.
“Was that an owl?” I ask once I’ve gathered my voice.
“There was no dean’s daughter. I didn’t get kicked out of ENC for partying. I just…failed.”
The confession curls up between us, stripping time to its marrow, and in this liminal, lucid space, I somehow understand perfectly.
A truth for a truth.
So I launch myself across the bench seat and crash my mouth onto his.
His lips are warm and soft, parting effortlessly under my questing tongue, and he tastes like Tic Tacs and tequila, danger and desire.
He tastes like destiny.
I sink my hands into his curls as he lets me explore his mouth, and all the textures of him assault me. This, I think, this is what kissing is supposed to feel like, this carbonated crush of tongues and teeth and tiny gasps.
My dick aches, ruthless in too-tight jeans, and I need more, so I trail my hands clumsily down his neck and over his chest, fumbling with the hem of his T-shirt, seeking skin.
“Rocket,” he whispers against my lips. “Wait.”
Reluctantly, I drag myself back and settle on my heels. I leave one hand on his hip, though, because I can’t bear to relinquish the last point of contact.
“I’m tired of waiting,” I tell him, and the truth of it is enormous, beating in my blood. And the tequila is making me brave.
“Wait” isn’t the same as “stop.”
I spread my hand over the crease of his thigh, and my thumb brushes against his cock.
Which. Is. Hard.
His eyes flutter and dip to his lap as his breath leaves him in a soft rush. “I think—”
“Don’t think.” It’s something he’s good at—the not thinking—and tonight I’m willing to help.
I curl my fascinated fingers around his erection.
Even through the cotton twill of his shorts, I can roll a thumb over the ridge where his head flares from the shaft and feel the pulse of that thick vein under my palm.
And I know I’m treading dangerous waters. That we’re both too high, too close to almost dying, and that he’s too unsure. I know that taking this now could be the end of us.
But I also know him and what he’s really desperate for. And in this surreal, suspended moment, my bloodstream teeming with natural and unnatural chemicals, I’m not above using it to get what I need.
I brace my other hand on the dash and lean in, adding pressure on his cock.
“You want to help poor virgin Josha with his sex life? Be what I need tonight. Be the perfect guy with the perfect cock. Pretend with me. Just for a few minutes. Please.” My voice wobbles on the last word, betraying me, but his gaze is locked on my hand in his lap, and his face is slack with desire.
“A few minutes?” Glancing up, he cocks a brow, amusement tingeing the rasp in his voice. “I’m not the virgin here. I think you’re underestimating my stamina.”
I have him.
“Challenge accepted.” I shouldn’t be so cocky. I have no idea what I’m doing, only that my pulse is racing, and he doesn’t stop me when I unbutton his shorts, my fingers rushed and eager.
He doesn’t stop me when I pull him out and take him in my hand, groaning at the shock of satin skin and slippery precum, or when I start to stroke, leaning in to claim his mouth again.
Instead, he spreads his thighs and sucks on my tongue. His hand comes up to grasp my jaw, fingers biting into my cheek, and I can’t stifle the whimper that escapes me.
“Fuck,” he groans, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against mine. “You’re killing me with that mouth of yours.”
My mouth?
I roll my bottom lip between my teeth, humming, and he thrusts into my hand with a low, feral grunt.
“It can do better,” I say.
Shifting back on the seat, I push him against the door with a hand splayed on his abdomen, and he gasps: “Shit, shit, shit.”
But he doesn’t stop me.
His hands are featherlight in my hair, one thumb gently stroking the shell of my ear, but he’s breathing rough and fast, abs tight under my palm, and he doesn’t stop me.
I dip my head and ghost my lips over the sensitive spot beneath his crown before I can chicken out, and when his cock jolts at the light contact, my head swims with a rush of pride.
I tease the spot again, this time with the flat of my tongue, and his taste breaks over me like a wave, flooding my senses with salt and silk and urgent, primal lust.
This is happening. I’m going to take Gemiah Farrel’s cock into my mouth and suck it until he comes down my throat. And then I’m going to swallow every drop.
In the interest of not coming in my pants like the last time, I reach between my legs to free my throbbing dick. As soon as I have myself in hand, I squeeze hard, burying my face in the crease of his hip, fighting for control.
C’mon, Garrity. You can fucking multitask.
His cock twitches against my cheek, and I turn my head, gasping the next breath along its length. Lightning fizzes under my skin, coalescing along my spine—like I’ve been numb my whole life until this moment. Like every nerve ending has been asleep and is only now, finally, coming wide awake.
“Fuck. Rocket.” The words are short and panicked, flipping the switch like a cut circuit. His hands go frantic in my hair—not guiding me toward his cock, but tugging me up and away as he scrambles back out of reach. “Stop.”