Page 11 of Catcher's Lock
“You came.”
He cuts his eyes to the ceiling and scrubs a hand over his face as if praying for patience. The gesture is so abruptly familiar my lungs ache, and I clutch at the wall to keep from keeling over.
How many times have we danced these steps? I fuck up, and he puts me back together, a million little rescues in bathrooms and back seats, all adding up to something monumental.
Heroic.
Until I scattered the pieces too messily and let the edges grow too sharp for even a hero to pick up.
It’s a fucking miracle he’s here.
Close enough to smell the loamy forest of my childhood under the sweat and coffee of seven hours on the road. Close enough to draw the cords of my wretched longing tight until they snap, sending me falling inevitably, idiotically, through the space between us.
Alarm rings from every line of his body, but I ignore itbecause he is my haunting, and I am the hungry grave, and—
He belongs—
I belong—
Here.
Here is his pulse under my palm as I wrap my hand around his neck.
Here are his lips parting under mine with a startled rush of breath.
Here is his tongue, his tongue,his tongue, and it is relief and reunion, and I am fuckingburied.
It’s hungry and hostile and the hottest, most apocalyptic kiss of my entire life.
Right up until he hauls back and punches me in my delusional mouth.
I stagger back, swiping at the fresh cut with the back of my wrist under the heat of his glare.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
I mean…obviously?
I will my trembling to subside, dragging the fractured, pitiful dregs of my armor back into place as I spit my mouthful of blood onto the already dismal carpet.
“Sorry about that,Garrity. Guess it was a slip of the tongue.”
“You’re not funny.” His rage rolls off him like a tangible thing, glass-sharp and wounding. Unblunted by the hurt and shame that coated him last time.
I am not forgiven.
“You know what? Fuck this. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He whirls to the open door, and I take an involuntary step toward him.
“Wait. Shit. I really do need”—you—“your help.”
His head thunks against the frame, shoulders stiff with tension, and the next words are quiet, almost pleading. “Why me?”
And isn’t that the million-dollar question.
Because it’s always been you. Because I wanted to see if you’d come.
But I’m not sure my face can take any more abuse today, so I wisely keep that nugget to myself and offer a gentler truth.
“Who else would I call?”
