Chapter 28 Promise
Promise
Josha
I’m crashing.
I push back from Gem’s body, the high from my orgasm already leaking from my pores as my dick twitches out the last of my release and starts to go slack.
He slumps against the railing, panting soft, giddy chuckles into his crossed arms, and I want to cling to him, to the memory of how his hole went soft and pliant under my tongue and how eagerly it swallowed my fingers.
How a lifetime of fantasies didn’t prepare me for how scorching hot he’d be inside.
It scares me how easy it is to lose myself in him.
To let instinct and desire take control.
I could spend hours, years, exploring his body and all the intricate ways to make it come alive.
In a few short days, it’s become painfully obvious that I’ll forgive him anything, and I don’t know how to protect myself from what he’ll leave behind if I lose him again.
Because even like this—half naked and sated and sticky with cum—he’s not really mine. Not when the better pieces of him still belong to the drugs and the booze and the bitterness between him and Shilo.
“You owe me a new wetsuit,” he says, turning to gift me a rakish smile, before shimmying out of the cum-stained suit. “Or next time, I’m stealing yours.”
“Next time…” I sag against the trailer, tucking my dick back into my sweats and fighting the urge to sink to the ground and drag him into my lap. “Next time, you’re not going surfing by yourself.”
The vodka on an empty stomach has left me vaguely nauseous, with a headache forming behind my eyes.
“You know better than to hit the water alone,” I add.
One more way for him to disappear. The fact that he came back, that he’s sober, that we just had mind-blowing sex—again—should be making me feel better, but it only serves to highlight how deep my fears run.
I nudge the half-empty vodka bottle with my foot, and we both watch it roll to the edge of the porch before catching on the bottom rail.
“That bad, huh?” he asks softly, a self-deprecating twist to his lips. “Guess I fucked up again.”
It would be so easy to blame him.
He’s always assumed my aversion to drinking is because of my dad, which is partly true, but he also once told me he thought I didn’t like the lack of control, which is not.
With him, I loved riding that edge—chasing the sweet spot when his armor came off, leaving him flirty and affectionate before the dark turn to destruction.
Anyone who grows up with an alcoholic learns the word enabler, but having the vocabulary isn’t always enough to change the behavior.
I never used booze to escape until after he left, though. That was the first time I understood the call to obliteration. Ironic that I discovered empathy for my father just in time to lose him, but the skidding, sickening grief was probably what saved me in the end.
If I poke at why I reached for the bottle today, it only confirms what I already know—that it’s too late to hold Gem at arm’s length. To pretend I’m not as deep in this thing with him now as I was before.
Deeper, now that he’s let me into his body.
But I’m old enough now to know my fucked-up shit is all my own, so I shake my head.
“I think Zombie ate the note you left.” It’s all I can offer, but he takes it with a grateful grin.
“You know, getting off is supposed to make you drowsy and dopey, not put those lines on your face.” Closing the distance between us, he reaches up to trace a finger between my brows. “Don’t go getting all serious on me again.”
A flash of frustration heats my chest, but I squash it down because it’s not his weakness I’m angry with.
He’s right here. Let yourself enjoy it for five fucking minutes.
“You’re the one who didn’t sleep. How come you’re not drowsy?” I ask.
“I’m leaning into the ‘dopey’ part.” He bites his bottom lip, and when the movement snags my gaze, he waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. “I also have the refractory period of a twelve-year-old, so we can go again, if it’ll keep you out of your head for a little while longer.”
How about forever?
“You’re shameless,” I say, catching his wandering hand before it snakes into my pants. He is. Brash and beautiful in the hazy morning light. I almost believe I can keep him. “But I need to get to the tent. I have actual work to do today.”
He dims in front of me, and I want to snatch the words back, but I don’t know how to make them less true.
This, too, is necessary.
“You need to eat first. Vodka doesn’t count as breakfast. Trust me, I’ve tried.” His self-deprecating smile is back.
“Circus omelets?”
He laughs, a gorgeous sound that scatters the last of the lingering tension.
Gem’s “omelets” are hardly worthy of the name—halfway between a scramble and a frittata—but the first time he made me one, he insisted the abomination was a real thing.
Since Hals always played along, and because I loved watching Gem crash around the tiny Airstream kitchen, snatching mouthfuls of grated cheese and crunching dropped eggshells beneath his bare feet, I never argued with the concept.
Besides, the taste made up for the presentation.
My kitchen is predictably trashed when I emerge from the bedroom, showered and dressed in work jeans and a worn flannel. But it’s Gem standing at my stove, his lower back dimples winking at me above a pair of sinfully tight black boxer briefs, that renders me breathless.
Something pleased and possessive sinks tendriled roots into the spreading warmth behind my ribcage, whispering words like home and mine.
“You’re out of half-n-half, so it’s a little dry,” he informs me. “I figured you’d rather have the last of it in your coffee.” Jutting his chin toward the counter, he carries two plates to the table while I try to hide my smile.
I’ve never cared about the state of my coffee, preferring matés for my daily caffeine boost. He’s the one who likes his to taste like melted ice cream.
Sure enough, one of the waiting mugs is the barely past black color of dark chocolate, while the other is practically unrecognizable as the classic morning beverage.
I bring him his caffeinated dessert and take a seat in front of my plate, enjoying the way my knee brushes his bare thigh as I sit. Steam wafts from the messy wedge of golden eggs and melted cheese, carrying the scent of sautéed garlic and onions and making my mouth water.
How many times have I sat like this, stealing glances at the clean line of his clavicles and the shadow of his dark lashes, jealous of each bite that makes its way between his lips?
He catches me staring, and the corner of his mouth tips up in a knowing smirk.
What a marvel it is to meet his gaze—to bare my own slow smile in return.
Zombie jumps lightly onto the table, nosing at Gem’s half-empty plate. Scowling, Gem flicks the impudent beast’s ear.
“No eggs for you, you little shithead,” he says. “You already got me in enough trouble this morning.”
“Don’t blame the cat for your bad decisions. Who leaves a paper note these days?” I mean for it to come out teasing, but some of my residual fear leaks into the words, masked as irritation. His fingers tighten around his fork, curling it into his palm.
“The same idiot who goes surfing alone at dawn and picks fights he can’t win with closeted rednecks, I guess.” He cuts his eyes away, bitterness seeping through the forced lightness in his tone.
Shit.
I know I’m the only person in his life who never tore him down—who made him my hero even while he broke my heart again and again.
Why am I fucking it up now that I have a chance at everything I always wanted?
There’s no reason to make him feel shittier about himself when he’s trying to piece things back together.
But I am—scared—angry, and I can’t pretend his recklessness doesn’t make me want to handcuff him to me and keep him safe and close at my side.
“Gem,” I start, unsure of how to voice the whirlpool of worry and need churning in my gut.
“I don’t blame you,” he cuts me off, running a hand over his fuzzy scalp.
“For not trusting me. I don’t trust me either.
I’m probably—definitely—gonna fuck it up again.
I don’t want to, but I’m scared that I will, and I know it’s not fair to ask you to keep giving me chances, but I’m asking for them anyway. ”
My heart aches at the hopeless plea in his eyes.
“I don’t need you to get it right on the first try,” I tell him.
“I need you to talk to me when it gets dark. I can’t—I don’t know how to handle being terrified every time you’re out of my sight.
I’m so fucking sick of being scared for you all the fucking time.
” I swipe angrily at my tears while he stares at me, before he snatches his phone from the table and thumbs viciously at the screen.
Zombie startles and flees, a string of congealed cheddar hanging from his mouth, and a few seconds later, my own phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out and blink at the notification.
“Asshole” has shared their location with you.
“Does that help?” he asks, and he’s so fucking soft and unshielded, half naked in my kitchen and trying, that something vast and vital cracks open in my chest.
“Yes.”
“You can’t do this sobriety thing for me, Rocket,” he says. “Believe me, I wish you could. But we both know there are pieces I have to do on my own. Even if I suck at them.”
Still clutching my phone, I nod. How many times did I watch my mom try to bully or threaten my dad sober? How many ultimatums did I see fail because we weren’t enough?
“But, Rocket?” His hand falls open on the tabletop, palm up, and inches toward me. “I don’t think I can do it alone.”
I lace my fingers with his and squeeze as hard as I can.
“Then stop leaving me behind.”
“I swear I wasn’t running away this time. I was always planning to come back to you.”
Lifting my gaze from our clasped hands, I meet his eyes.
“So was my dad.”