Chapter 24 Secret
Secret
Gemiah
Holy shit. I sucked Josha’s dick .
It feels powerful.
Not because I had an orgasm worthy of a superhero, or because I got to hear my name on Josha’s lips when he came, although both of those things definitely help.
I did something right.
Something important. And I didn’t fuck it up.
So of course my fucking stepmother has to ruin my high.
Josha convinces me not to hide out in the shower by promising to join me if I wait until after Cheyenne leaves.
I can’t tell if it’s to make me face my own shit or because he wants the backup, but he insists I suffer through the coming encounter at his side.
Judging by the look on his face as he types out a hasty reply on his phone, he’s no more eager to talk to her than I am.
But I also know that dealing with my family is one of his conditions for letting me stay here, and I’m not fucking that up now that he’s finally let me into his pants.
Even Cheyenne’s unwelcome appearance can’t totally erase my triumph. I swear I’m still fizzing from the aftershock as I throw on a pair of sweatpants and pull my Henley over my still-definitely-sex-stained chest.
It’s better than cocaine.
The rumble of the ATV approaching down the driveway has Josha giving up on finding his other boot and throwing me a look that’s half warning, half panic.
“Not a word about this,” he says, gesturing between us. Like he doesn’t look freshly fucked with his cheeks all glowing and his hair all mussed.
“You want me to be your dirty little secret? That’s kinda kinky, Rocket.”
“I’m serious. No dropping hints disguised as jokes. No ‘accidental’ slipups. Whatever Ellis already told her is bad enough.”
“Okay, Jesus. I get it. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your golden-boy reputation by admitting you’ve been slumming it with the family fuckup.” Spying his boot under the corner of the bed, I kick it in his direction.
“What? No. Shit, Gem. That’s not—”
The front door bangs open.
“Josha, you little shithead, get your ass out here and explain yourself right this minute.”
He flinches, head whipping toward the hall, and my hurt feelings wither as Paul Garrity’s voice rings in my memory.
“Josha, get your ass in here and explain this fucking mess before I have to drag you out of that room.”
Pushing past him, I stride into the kitchen.
“We’re right here, Cheyenne. Chill the fuck out.”
Obviously, I don’t have the greatest relationship with my mom’s partner.
She’s never made a secret of the fact that she has little patience for my shit, and in exchange, I’ve never given her a reason to change her mind about me.
But I’ve also never actively thought about smacking her until Josha slinks in behind me, scrubbing a nervous hand through his hair and studying the cracked linoleum like a dog in a thunderstorm.
Cheyenne leans against the table with her arms crossed over her chest, a tiny blond terror in combat boots and a pixie cut, and all my old resentment flares like a struck match.
“So, the prodigal fuckup finally decided to crawl out from under his rock,” she drawls, dismissing me to level a meaningful look at Josha.
“Imagine my surprise when my lovely wife called to say that not only had she talked to her missing son, but that he called her from your phone. I could’ve sworn you told me you were dipping out on show prep less than a month before opening weekend to pay Diane a belated Mother’s Day visit.
Funny how you didn’t mention anything about collecting wayward junkies while you were gone.
I thought Shilo must be bullshitting me, because surely the Josha I know wouldn’t have lied to me about something like this again.
But then Ellis shows up talking about the ‘biker bad boy’ you brought home, and I had to come see for myself. ”
“For fuck’s sake. Cut the shit, Cheyenne, and give him a break. I’m the one who asked Josha not to tell you.”
She continues to ignore me. “Is he even sober?”
I think about the dab pen in my pocket and the gas station tequila and the Vicodin and can’t meet Josha’s eyes.
“No,” he says. “But he’s working on it. Right, Gem?”
We made a deal, after all. And he’s already more than held up his end.
“Right.” Totally worth it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before I left,” he continues, and fuck, I hate hearing him apologize to her because of me. “I didn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up until I knew what I was gonna find.”
“And what, exactly, did you find?” she asks with a skeptical arch of a cool brow. “Do I need to call my cousin?”
Yeah, sure. The old “helpful” connection who pulled strings to get me into Harmony Hell-Home two years ago, and fuck that shit right off.
“I’m not going back to rehab,” I state, as Josha says:
“I don’t think we’re there yet.”
They both turn to me, Cheyenne with undisguised disdain and Josha with an exasperation that borders on pleading.
“Meetings might be a good idea,” he says softly. Swallowing the itch that tries to crawl up my throat, I shrug.
“I did NA in Bernalillo. It wasn’t that bad.” Not that I had a choice. Or anything better to do while I was locked up. Of course, it didn’t stop me from falling off the wagon the minute I was back on the streets.
I’ve got a much better reason to stick it out this time, though.
Orgasms with Rocket are a hell of an incentive, and I doubt he’ll continue sharing them—or the rest of himself—with me if I keep fucking up.
I meet his hopeful gaze with a half smile that’s only partly forced and try not to think about how much more tolerable Cheyenne would be after a few drinks.
“Do you really think you can handle him?” she asks, still addressing Josha. Her eyes track over my low-slung sweats and bare feet before shifting toward the bedroom—rumpled bedsheets clearly visible through the half-open door at the end of the hall. “That this is a good idea?”
So much for secrecy. At least this secret wasn’t my idea. I might feel smug if Josha didn’t look so warily uncertain. And if Cheyenne wasn’t being her usual snarky self.
“I’m not Josha’s responsibility,” I inform her. “I’m a grown-ass man—even if I don’t always act like it—and I can answer for my own fucking mistakes. Stop acting like you’re in a position to judge anyone for the decisions they make for the people they love. You know all about collateral damage.”
“Gem.” Josha shakes his head in warning, but Cheyenne bristles with fury and finally takes the bait, stalking over to get in my face.
“You want to talk collateral damage, shithead? You want my position? I am fucking done letting your bullshit hurt the people I love. If you ever put your mother—or Milla or Hals or Josha—through anything like that again, I will hunt your sorry ass down and make it the last free thing you ever do. I will have you committed and throw away the fucking key. And I’ll make sure you’re pumped full of meds until you can’t think about taking a drink without puking your guts out and your dick doesn’t remember how to get hard. ”
Jesus. Note to self: Find out if Antabuse causes erectile dysfunction.
“I think he’s got it, Chey.” Stepping between us, Josha takes her by the arm and nudges her gently toward the door. “We’ve got it. He’ll be here when the family gets home on Friday, I promise.” He shoots me a warning look over his shoulder. “And he’ll be sober.”
“I can’t fucking wait,” I mutter, but I have the sense to keep it under my breath.
Remember the orgasms.
Neither of us say anything as we listen to the ATV fire up and fade away.
Trailer doors aren’t heavy enough to effectively slam, but they give up a good rattle if a six-two pissed-off hulk bangs a fist against them.
Josha has forgotten the orgasms.
“Told you we should have hidden out in the shower,” I quip, and immediately regret it when he turns his head to regard me through narrowed eyes. “Sorry I put you on the bitch’s shit list. You didn’t deserve that.”
“I’m a fucking idiot.” His voice is blisteringly calm.
“No you’re not.”
“I am. I’m an enabling idiot who lets himself be led around by his dick.”
“You’re not.”
“That’s what Cheyenne’s thinking right now.”
This is why he didn’t want her to know about us. My fucking issues make him look weak. I cross to the door and clasp his bicep so I can tug him around to face me.
“Fuck her,” I say, grasping his jaw and forcing him to face the entreaty in my eyes. “If she thinks that, then she doesn’t know you like I do, and who needs her fucking approval, anyway?”
“You have no fucking idea, do you?” Yanking himself free of my grip, he shoves me back, then stalks after me as I stumble in shock.
“You think we all just picked up and went on with our lives when you left? Like it was no big deal, or we were better off without you? You fucking vanished, Quill. You wouldn’t answer your phone.
No one in Mendo had seen you. The cops couldn’t find you.
It took them three weeks to track down the truck you stole and ditched.
“The next time we hear from you—months later—you’ve been arrested. So Hals drives all the way to Chico to bail you out, only to have you ditch him in a hotel room in the middle of the night and disappear again.”
My ass bumps up against the kitchen table, cutting off my retreat, and he plants a hand on either side of me, boxing me in with his vicious pain.