Page 114 of Catcher's Lock
My calluses are crap, and I send the soles of my feet a quick apology as I shed my socks and boots. Josha’s gaze heats my back as I step up to the pole and swallow the butterflies past the sudden lump in my throat.
The first meeting of hand and stubbled rubber sends a muted shock running up my arm to kick-start my adrenaline, followed by the strong temptation to show off—to race to the top and stretch my wings. But Echo is hovering expectantly at my elbow, running his mouth in an unfortunately endearing monologue:
“…only lowered into it from an inversion, but it looks so much more badass when you lift into it—can you do it in a pencil? I think I better try a straddle first because my wrist still goes crappy under too much pressure sometimes, and…”
I flip my grip and anchor my other hand at hip height, both thumbs pointing down, and don’t bother to interrupt him. Shifting my weight back, I rotate my shoulders toward the roof and brace, then kick lightly off the ground into the inversion. Because he asked, I keep my legs tight and outstretched, even when my healing ribs twinge in protest. I hold the flag for a few seconds, then pike into a straddle and use the momentum to flip back to my feet.
“Nice,” Echo crows, but it’s Josha’s rushed intake of breath that has me preening.
“Your turn.”
“I’m not used to something this thick.” He flexes his hands around the rubber-wrapped post and then shakes his head. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“I won’t tell Byrd,” I assure him, biting back a smirk. “But yeah, it’s more about leverage than grip when you can’t close your fingers all the way around.”
Echo dissolves into giggles while I leer at Josha, who pretends not to be amused. He can’t hide the way he sucks his lower lip between his teeth, though, or the burnished glow in his gaze as he drags it over my frame.
“Okay, fucker. I guess I gotta show you how I handle a pole.” Without waiting for instruction, Echo mimics my hand placement and throws me a smirk.
It takes him three tries. Fuckingthree, when I trained the move for months as a young teen. Bastard.
But his elation is contagious—and stronger than my prickling pride—so I don’t protest when he asks me to show him a few ways into the trick from higher up the pole.
Once he’s satisfied with his progress, he insists on switching to the rope. Josha rigs it up while we catch our breath and talkabout the best positions to base each other from.
“Byrd and I have been moving away from the involved wraps,” he tells me. “Seatbelt is the classic that everybody starts with, but it takes half a song to get into. Hip keys are good, but you can’t base the tail without getting pulled out of it.”
“What about a catcher’s lock? It’s fast, and you can base both sides.”
“You can. It’s hell on the thigh pit with a flyer on the tail, though.”
“Afraid of a little pain?”
“Said no aerialist ever.” Punching me lightly on the shoulder, he unwinds from his cross-legged position and pushes to his feet. “You want to go first?”
“Sure,” I say, feigning confidence.If I can’t pull it off in under three tries, I’m gonna really wish I had a beer to blame it on.
The move is definitely different on the rope. For one, it’s awkward to stand on Echo’s hooked knee, no matter how solid he claims to be, so I wedge the stiff rope between my toes and embrace the pain.Like an aerialist. The thinner circumference is easier on my grip—similar to a dance pole—but even with the other man’s weight creating tension, the wobbly give is unfamiliar, and my bottom arm isn’t as useful. My top shoulder strains when I lift off, and my ribs flare in warning, but fuck if I’m gonna bail on the first try with both of them watching.
It’s not my most graceful trick ever, and I pike into the straddle almost immediately, but I make the invert, and once I’m through the transition, I’m pretty solid. Lowering back down is easier—thank you, gravity—and I risk extending my legs into the full flag. Josha wolf whistles when I hit the pose, and Echo must shift to see, because the rope vibrates, and I drop back to hanging before he shakes me loose.
My pulse pounds in my ears, euphoria quickly swampingthe short burst of fear as I hook a knee and move my hands to a more secure position. I’vemissedthis—the thrill of testing myself against a new challenge and the satisfaction of success on the far side.
“Do it again,” Echo says, and something in his voice tells me he knows exactly how I’m feeling.
For the next half hour, we take turns pushing each other to try increasingly outrageous variations, while Josha sits in the folding chair he’s dragged to the back of the stage, offering encouragement through a fond smile.
Echo crashes out before I do, and for the first time all night, I’m not jealous of the three beers he drank at Dick’s.
“Rocket,” I call, spinning in a lazy circle, my right knee hooked above me, with the rope’s tail snugged around my hips and over the crook of my other thigh. “Come play with me.”
“Not a chance.”
“Aww, don’t be scared,” I tease. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“I’m notscared,” he says, eyeing my dangling form. “I’m too heavy for you.”
Okay, ouch. I flex a bicep at him. “Try me.”
