Chapter 29 Research
Research
Gemiah
The first thing I notice when I enter the tent is the pole. My pole, anchored stage left in its usual spot like it’s been waiting for me to return.
The second thing I notice is Ellis making it his own.
He’s better than I want to admit, especially once I readjust my brain to look for technique and skill, rather than what will pull the most cash out of horny bachelorettes.
His smaller, lighter frame easily lends itself to dynamic moves, and his lines are clean.
“What do you think?” Josha asks, sidling up behind me in the entrance. His hand brushes the small of my back, and I lean into the featherlight touch, seeking anchor.
“He’s good,” I admit.
“Yeah.” His breath tickles my ear. “But he doesn’t make my dick hard.”
I turn around and press the low thrill his words elicit onto his mouth, relieved when he doesn’t shy away. No one’s watching, but it feels like a win.
“Are you gonna be okay?” he asks, bringing his hands up to cup my neck. “I have to go work on some set pieces in the shop. You can come with, if you want.” He looks so worried that I fight off my impulse to lie.
“I’m not sure.” Do I want to follow him around like a lost puppy?
Yes. But I also want to see if I can handle returning to the scene of so many crimes.
And despite my nerves, I can’t deny the underlying sense of coming home that’s settled somewhere in my chest. “But I’ll come find you if I start to spiral. Deal?”
He leans in for another swift kiss, and I hope the little shit on my pole is watching. Then he’s gone, leaving me with the ghost of his smile in the haunted haven of my childhood.
The last time I was here is a sodden fog.
It was the night I got shipped off to rehab, and all I remember is flashes of noise and blurred images—my mom’s anger; my dad standing in the corner with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and tears in his eyes; Cheyenne on the phone, her hand on my mom’s back.
And Josha peering down at me, freckles stark against his ghost-white face, asking:
“What did you take?”
Everything, of course. But also not nearly enough. Because I didn’t know they were planning a goddamn intervention, so I hadn’t had a chance to go trolling to replenish my stash, and all I’d had was a handful of Xanax.
Cold sweat prickles the back of my neck and seeps nastily down my spine. A couple of Xanax would fix that.
Sucking in a shaky breath, I shove the thought away and scramble for better memories.
Late nights in the tech booth with Josha, listening with half an ear while he explained filters and wattage settings like he had no doubts I’d understand.
Watching him conquer his early fear of heights through sheer force of will, balanced at the top of the extension ladder with his auburn head level with the truss, calling questions to my dad about carabiners and tri-swivels.
With sudden, vivid clarity, I remember lying on the stage one afternoon, bored and wheedling for him to come down and go adventuring with me.
And then looking up to catch a glimpse of the bulge in his white briefs through the leg of his loose cargo shorts, squirming while a ripple of heat shot through me.
God, I was a clueless idiot.
This tent may belong to my parents, but it’s full of Josha too. And wherever he is, he’s always made space for me to exist with him.
Pointedly ignoring Ellis, I wander through the shadows, noting the changes and the ways everything is exactly the same.
The scattered wrought-iron benches have been repainted a shamrock green that matches the tent’s stripes.
The concessions wagon sits dark against the west entrance; a counter piled with boxes and totes is visible through the cashier windows, and the faint scent of old popcorn and burnt sugar seeps from the corrugated walls.
The knife-throwing target is propped upstage opposite the pole, tricked out with a new border of steampunk-style wires and gears.
Cans of paint and brushes wrapped in cellophane line one side of the stage, and a stack of at least two-dozen hula hoops leans precariously against the backstage curtain, broadcasting my mom’s absence—Shilo would never invite such potential for clattering disaster, but Cheyenne has always courted a bit of chaos.
It might make me like the bitch better if it didn’t serve to remind me that she constantly gets away with what I never could.
She’s outside now, the crisp cadence of her voice muffled through the heavy walls, mingling with Josha’s low murmur. Tensing, I brace for her to push through the untied flap and deliver another scathing rebuke, but their voices fade, headed in the direction of the shop.
When I turn back toward the interior, a tall, wiry man with a cap of graying, close-cropped curls is heading my way.
“Hi, Oscar.”
“Gemiah.” He pulls me in with a dap, startling me with the uncomplicated welcome. “I heard you were back in town.”
I wait for the inevitable questions, but he only leans against the nearest side pole, folding his arms across his chest with a friendly smile.
Oscar has been a semi-regular fixture at Big Top since its inception, MCing three of the five shows I was around for.
He trained in improv in his twenties and worked as a stuntman in LA for eight years until an injury sent him in search of less hazardous work.
My parents love him because he’s reliable and great at crowd work, and they hire him whenever he’s available.
Last time I saw him, he was also thirteen years sober from a painkiller addiction, so maybe that’s why there’s no judgment on his face.
“How’s the show coming along?” I ask, curiosity outweighing my unease. “I like the steampunk vibe.”
“That was mostly Josha’s idea,” he tells me.
“Sounds about right. He’s always had a kink for the welder. I bet he’s going crazy on the set pieces.”
“It’s possible Shilo had to limit his budget, or we wouldn’t have room on the stage for the slack wire setup.”
“What about the script? Josha said it’s giving mad scientist meets Wonderland? I’m guessing you’re the scientist?”
“That’s the original idea, although we’re struggling with the ending.
I think everyone’s feeling the pressure of wrapping up the last show with a meaningful arc.
So far, we have Milla as the elusive unicorn, steeped in innate magic.
The other performers are the hunters, desperately trying to claim her for themselves.
And I, the Apothecary.” He offers me a theatrical bow.
“Purveyor of potions and gadgets that bestow remarkable powers to aid these poor souls in their hunt. Alas, I am not as altruistic as I seem, and while my gifts inspire miraculous feats of wonder, none are enough to lure the perfect creature from her hidden paths.”
“And of course,” I add wryly, my gaze drifting in the direction of the shop. “You can’t catch perfection with borrowed magic. The thing you’re chasing only stops running when you meet it as your true self.”
“Indeed.” He tilts his head, dark eyes thoughtful. “I’m glad you’re back, Gemiah.” With a final pat on my arm, he pushes off the post and goes to leave.
“Oscar,” I call before I can chicken out. “Do you ever go to meetings around here?”
Turning back, he slips his hands in his pockets, the casual gesture letting me know he’s not offended by the question.
“Sometimes. When we’re in town and your mom isn’t running me ragged.
There’s one at the community center, but I prefer the St. Michael’s group in Fort Bragg.
Better coffee.” He shakes his head as if to apologize for the joke. “You doing your ninety in ninety?”
The ninety meetings in ninety days is a big thing for the newly sober.
Something about extra support and forming new habits that I admit I never paid much attention to when I was at Harmony Home.
Since I couldn’t even last that long in treatment, it seemed impossible I’d ever have that level of discipline on my own.
It sounds like a shitload of days, and, as Oscar alluded, sticking to a schedule like that when we’re in a new town every week and spending a third of our time on the road would be an extra challenge.
And I definitely plan to weasel my way onto the tour with Josha, no matter what happens with my family. I’ll live in his truck if I have to.
So I shrug. “Thinking I’ll start with one.”
Again, his smile is free of censure.
“That’s where we all start,” he says. “Let me know if you want company. Or someone to listen. Not sure I’m the advice-giving type, but I’m here if you need me.”
“Do you miss it?” I blurt, then shove my hands in my pockets and avert my gaze, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“For a long time, I did,” he says, meeting my discomfort with honesty. “But not anymore.”
“How? I mean…I get that the physical cravings go away eventually, but how did you retrain your brain? The mental part, not the chemistry.”
He doesn’t try to argue that they’re one and the same.
“I realized that I wanted a life that didn’t revolve around chasing the next fix.
And then I started chasing that life instead.
Eventually, the idea of risking what I’d built for a temporary high lost the last of its appeal.
And now? The drugs aren’t part of who I am anymore.
My history, yes, and you damn well better believe I respect the damage they can do, but the person I was when I was on them? No, I don’t miss him.”
“Thank you,” I say, real hope kindling for the first time. I already know the life I’m chasing. Now all I need to do is make my leftover parts strong enough to catch it and keep him.
Step one: Go to my first voluntary AA meeting.
Will Josha trust me with his truck again after this morning if it’s for a good cause? Probably. I finger the phone in my pocket, broadcasting my location. A better question is: Do I trust myself loose in town with a handful of cash?
Probably not.
I could chase Oscar down, see if he was serious about chaperoning, but I’m already a little raw from our conversation, and it feels like a lot to ask when I haven’t seen him in three years—no matter how understanding he was.
Ellis has disappeared, and I idly consider climbing on stage and reacquainting myself with the Chinese pole.
My ribs are on the mend—they barely twinged when I was bent over Josha’s porch railing this morning.
Although that might have been because my body was distracted by other, more immediate sensations.
New first step: Research how to take a dick up the ass.
Settling onto a bench where I can keep an eye on the exit that faces the shop, I pull out my phone.
I’ve done anal before, albeit on the pitching end, so I’m not expecting the rabbit hole of warnings, advice, and how-tos—including videos—I end up falling down. Fifteen minutes in, I’m confused, mildly apprehensive, and more than a little hard.
“Are you watching porn?”
“Jesus.” I jump, flattening my phone against my chest and swiveling in my seat to find Ellis hovering behind me, a delighted grin on his face. “No.”
“No shame,” he says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “I can give you some good follow recs, if you want.”
“I bet.” Panic subsides to annoyance when he climbs over the back of the bench and makes himself comfortable beside me. “What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
“I don’t need help.” But I side-eye him thoughtfully. Now that Josha’s convinced me the guy isn’t a threat—“he doesn’t get my dick hard” is pretty compelling evidence—maybe he could be a resource. “Okay, so maybe I have a couple of questions.”
“I have all the answers,” he says blithely, and before I can stop him, he’s pried my phone off my chest to check out the screen.
Which shows a young blond guy in the shower, flirting with the camera over his bare shoulder, and a caption that declares “The Ultimate Bottom’s Guide to Anal Hygiene and Maintenance. ”
Kill me now.
Rather than laughing, Ellis claps his hands to his mouth and gives me wide anime eyes.
“You’re gonna bottom for my boy?” he asks way too loudly.
“He’s not your boy,” I hiss, snatching my phone back and regretting all of my life choices. Or at least the ones in the last five minutes that led to me having this conversation with Ellis.
“Oooh. Yes. Definitely lean into that whole growly, possessive thing. It’s giving total power bottom.”
“Power bottom?” I like the sound of that.
“Honey, we have sooo much to talk about. In fact,” he says, bouncing up from the bench with a wild gleam in his eyes. “We should go shopping.”
“Right now?”
He glances pointedly around the deserted tent. “You got something better to do?”
Well…maybe not?
“Okay.” Pocketing my phone, I get to my feet. “Let me go tell Josha.”
“You guys are so adorable. I can’t even be jealous. It’s like a rom-com with Sam Heughan and—” He gives me an appraising once-over. “Young Colin Farrell?”
“I don’t know who those people are,” I tell him. “And if you knew me, you wouldn’t be comparing my life to a rom-com.”
“Stop ruining my fantasy.”
In spite of myself, I burst out laughing.
Fair enough.
I’ve destroyed enough fantasies for one lifetime.