Page 37 of Catcher

The tension stretches tighter.

She takes a small breath, steadying herself. And instead of backing off, she steps forward, just one step, but it’s enough to close the space I told myself I needed.

“Catcher…” she starts, quieter now, like she’s trying to reach me without pushing too hard. “I⁠—”

“Save it.” The words come out fast.

Her mouth closes. Whatever she was about to say dies right there.

I drag another breath in and lock my face down into something hard, because if I don’t, I’m gonna say something I can’t take back, something that ties her to me in a way I’ve got no right to.

My gaze flicks over her one more time. It’s quick and sharp, memorizing more than I should. “Watch where you’re goin’ next time,” I say, tone flat, dismissive.

It’s a cheap shot, and we both know it.

I don’t give Ruby a chance to respond. And I damn sure don’t give myself a chance to fix it. Instead, I turn and walk away.

I feel her eyes on my back, burning my skin while my hand curls into a fist at my side. Because the truth is, that energy and pull don’t go away. If anything, it becomes stronger.

And I hate it.

Because what I really want to do is grab her and finally say what’s been sitting under my skin since the moment I met her.

But I don’t.

I keep walking and don’t look back, not when the doors slide shut behind me, when the blast of air conditioning hits my face, or when every instinct in my body begs me to turn around and fix what I just broke. I swallow it hard and grab a cart to have something in my hands that isn’t her. Then I move fast through the aisles, grabbing what I need with clipped efficiency, barely seeing anyone. I pay, snatch the bags, and head back out into the heat before my mind can circle back to her again.

The ride back is quicker this time. I take sharper turns than I need to, the throttle twisting harder under my grip, and the engine roaring as if it’s got something to prove, like it can drown out the noise in my head if I just push it enough. By the time I pull into the alley behind the bar, the weight in my chest hasn’t lifted. It’s just settled deeper, deciding to stay whether I want it to or not.

I kill the engine and sit there for a second, hands still on the grips, staring at nothing while I try to rein it all in, like I can undo what’s already been done if I hold on tight enough.

By nightfall, Twisted Throttle is alive in that raw, electric way Bourbon Street does best—sin, noise, and heat. The bar is packed wall-to-wall with bodies pressing together, voices raising over the music, laughter spilling into arguments, and arguments bleeding into something else entirely, depending on how much liquor has been poured into the mix.

Fender is on stage, guitar slung low, fingers flying over the strings with a mind of their own, the sound ripping through the speakers and vibrating straight through the floorboards. Sweat drips down his neck under the lights, his voice rough and steady as he pulls the crowd in. For a moment, I let it take me back home to when music had a way of healing me.

The air is thick with beer, whiskey, and perfume that’s too sweet, smoke clinging to everything until it feels like you’re breathing through a dirty rag. It’s loud and chaotic, and I let it swallow the edge clawing under my skin because noise is easier than thinking.

I move through the bar as I always do, watching, my eyes cutting over faces and hands, shoulders and pockets, the little tells people swear they don’t have because in a place like this, you quickly learn that trouble doesn’t start with a punch, it starts with a look, a shift, a man getting too comfortable.

Wick is posted across the floor, one shoulder against the wall. His gaze tracks everything the same as mine, calm and sharp, nothing slipping past him. Nova is behind the bar serving drinks, and Riggs is in his usual spot, casually watching the night unfold.

I watch five new faces walk in, wearing cuts I don’t recognize. They move like they belong, pushing through the crowd without hesitation, claiming space instead of asking for it, boots heavy on the floor, laughter loud in a way that carries just enough edge to set something off in my gut.

They make their way toward the stage, grabbing a table like it’s already theirs, dragging chairs out without a glance at who they’re shoving aside.

One of them drops into a seat and pulls a woman onto his lap as if she weighs nothing. The chick is barely dressed, skin on display in a way that fits right into this place, but there’s something about the way these men carry themselves that doesn’t sit right.

I glance across the bar and give Wick a slight nod. That’s all it takes for him to know we need to keep our eyes on them.

I shift my position, angling myself where I’ve got a clear line of sight without making it obvious I’m watching.

Time passes. Drinks get poured, music gets louder, the crowd swells and shifts around them, and the bikers stay loud but don’t cross the line.

I’m starting to think maybe they’re all bark when I see it. The woman on his lap reaches up, fingers curling around a small vial hanging from a chain at her throat. The glass catches the stage lights when she lifts it. She twists the cap off like she’s done it a hundred times, dips her finger inside, and drags a thin, white line across her chest without a second thought, powder smearing against sweat-sheened skin like this bar is her bathroom mirror. The biker leans down as though it’s just another part of the show.

I move, not rushed, and stop at their table, standing over them and blocking out some of the light. They feel it. The biker looks up first, a lazy grin spreading across his face like he’s amused.

“Take that shit outside,” I say, voice low, carrying just enough to cut through the noise around us.