Catcher (The Kings of Retribution MC, Louisiana Chapter #7)

Chapter 1

CATCHER

Nightlife in New Orleans is loud and unapologetic.

Out here on Bourbon Street, it’s a different kind of heartbeat—drums pounding from a jazz club down the street, bass thumping from a strip joint across the way, voices layered in drunk laughter, shouts, and the occasional glass breaking on the pavement.

The air carries everything at once, along with spilled beer, sweat, fried food, the sweet burn of weed, and that wet, rotten smell that never really leaves the city.

I lean against the brick wall outside Twisted Throttle, arms crossed, watching the river of humanity stumble by. Neon lights splash the street in every color, and the music never stops. It’s as if the city refuses to let you quietly breathe, which is fine by me.

Because quiet is where ghosts slip in.

A couple of tourists stagger past, beads tangled around their necks, plastic cups sloshing with high-priced liquor.

One of them bumps into my shoulder. He spins, taking a good, long look at me, sizing me up, his gaze pausing on the cut stretched tight across my back.

He mumbles a slurred apology before scurrying on his way.

Smart man.

The door swings open behind me, spilling out Lynyrd Skynyrd and the warm haze of booze and smoke. Everest steps out, stretching his shoulders, cigarette pack in hand. Similar to me, he’s a mountain of a man, built as if he could bench press the street if it pissed him off.

“Crowd is thick tonight,” he says, shaking out a smoke and lighting it, then offering one to me.

I grunt, slide a smoke from the pack, and light it up. That’s about as talkative as I get, and Everest knows it.

He takes a drag, exhaling toward the sky, letting the smoke curl up past the glow of the bar sign. “You’re quiet even for you,” he says, side-eyeing me. “Somethin’ on your mind, brother?”

I shrug. Truth is, there’s always something on my mind. Always someone. But I don’t say it. My silence is answer enough.

Everest nods and leans back against the building beside me. We don’t need to speak because sometimes, our silence says more than words.

Across the street, a brass band picks up, horns cutting sharp through the night.

A group of girls in glitter heels shrieks and laughs as they stumble across the street in our direction.

One of them catches sight of me, slows her steps, and looks me up and down.

I give her a quick glance, taking in her curves and tits spilling out of her top.

For a second, I entertain the idea of her in my bed, but the thought is fleeting, and she continues on her way, giving me a last look over her shoulder before disappearing amongst the patrons.

The crowd surges again with drunken laughter as a few men push through it, bikers wearing leather vests with no colors.

Bourbon Street attracts all kinds of people, including drifters, bikers without a home, and men looking to start something. These fucking wannabes are no different.

Everest clocks them too. “You seein’ what I’m seein’?”

“Yeah.” I watch the group shove their way past patrons as though they own the fucking place. They cut across the street, heading for Twisted Throttle. I straighten off the wall, uncrossing my arms, my posture enough of a warning. Everest doesn’t move.

The first one grins, his yellow-stained teeth showing through his beard. The others behind him square their shoulders like they’re looking for a fight. The one in front moves to enter the bar. I lift my arm, blocking him and his men from entering. “Respect the house,” I tell him, voice flat.

He smirks but nods. I lower my arm, and his men follow him inside. My eyes track every step until the door swings shut behind them.

Everest takes another drag of his smoke. “Gonna be one of those nights?”

“Maybe,” I mumble, but my gut already knows better.

My job tonight is simple—make sure no one drags their bullshit inside, but it doesn’t mean the night will stay peaceful. Unfortunately, nights in New Orleans never are, and I’m pretty sure trouble just walked in.

I take a final drag from the cigarette, savoring the last bit of smoke, then flick it to the ground and snuff it out under the toe of my boot. I glance at Everest, adjust my cut, and walk inside.

Twisted Throttle is packed shoulder to shoulder.

Beer glasses are clinking, and music is pounding.

Then my eyes cut straight to the table where the bikers planted themselves.

The ugly motherfucker who grinned at me outside downs a couple of shots, slamming the glass down hard against the table’s surface while his men cheer him on.

I scan the room, clocking my brothers’ locations.

Riggs is stationed at his table near the back of the bar, keeping watch with that sharp-eyed calm of his, along with Wick.

Fender just finished his last set for the night and is at the bar downing a beer with Nova.

Kiwi is the only brother not here tonight.

For the next hour, I hang back near the bar’s entrance, watching and waiting.

Then the leader leans back in his chair and brings himself close to a woman standing at the bar.

She’s a local girl who is a regular and works at a diner down the block.

The biker attempts to gain her attention, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

The young lady turns and looks at him, her body language screaming she’s not interested, but the biker doesn’t give a damn.

His hand snakes around her thigh, trying to pull her in.

She jerks free, saying something to him, but it’s too loud for me to hear. He throws his head back in laughter. His men join in, clearly egging him on. The music covers most of it, but the tension of the situation cuts through.

I don’t think. I move.

Before I can make it across the room, the biker rises from his seat and attempts to touch her again, and the woman pushes his chest back with her palm. He grabs her wrist. And then—crack. Her hand flies across his face, snapping his head sideways.

Then his grin curdles into something darker.

And he slaps her back.

Hard.

Her head whips to the side, hair spilling across her face. She staggers, hand flying to her cheek.

The sound of it—the flat, sharp smack—lights a fuse in my chest. My vision narrows, and my pulse slams through my ears.

I grab the bastard by the back of the neck and drive his face into the table. The wood cracks under the impact, along with beer bottles shattering. Blood sprays, hot and fast, across the table’s surface. He goes limp for a second before groaning.

His men lunge. One swings a chair at my back, splintering it across my shoulders. Pain radiates, but I catch the next swing, wrenching the broken leg out of his hand, and drive my fist into his jaw, feeling bone crack against my knuckles.

The bar erupts. My brothers are in the thick of the chaos before I can blink as patrons scatter, shouting, with their drinks spilling as they shove for the door. Wick tosses one of the bikers over a table.

My senses sharpen.

I’ve got one target.

The bastard with blood dripping from his nose and teeth loose in his mouth, after I slammed his face into the table for putting his hands on a woman.

I grab his jacket, haul him up, and start swinging.

His face caves under each hit. My knuckles are covered in blood—his, mine, it doesn’t matter.

I keep feeding the darkness inside, saying, “Keep going.” The bastard wheezes, gurgling through blood, but I don’t stop.

The rage is too deep and sharp. Every punch to his face becomes another man’s face.

It’s one I’ll never forget, looming over my wife. Every hit is a scream I can’t let out.

Things crash behind me. Fists are flying, and glass is breaking.

I hear Riggs’ voice, a curse, and someone groaning in pain, but all I see is him.

All I’m focused on is the bastard in front of me.

I slam him against the wall, fist driving into his gut.

He folds, coughing blood, but I pin him there with my forearm, fist cocked back again.

“Catcher!” Riggs’ voice cuts through, sharp.

The bastard’s hand fumbles at his waistband.

He pulls something small, flashes of steel, but I’m faster.

I grab his wrist, twist until the bone pops, and the knife clatters to the floor.

Rage blinds me before I slam his head into the wall.

Then I do it again. Then, cold metal is pressed to my temple. I freeze, my breath harsh in my chest.

One of his men, eyes wild, has a gun jammed against my skull. “Back the fuck off,” he snarls.

The bar goes silent.

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of guns cocking, and the air goes thick.

The barrel digs harder into my skin. My heartbeat doesn’t spike.

It slows. Because this? This is nothing.

I’ve stared down death before. I wake to it every night.

My wife’s eyes are wide with fear, her blood soaking the floor.

My unborn daughter is gone before she ever had a chance to breathe.

I welcome death like an old friend.

I let loose of the bastard I used as a punching bag, and he crumbles to his knees. Then I slowly turn and lock eyes with the motherfucker holding the gun to my head, fists still dripping with blood, and my body coiled tight.

And I silently dare him.

Do it.

Pull the fucking trigger.

End it.

He sees it in my eyes. That lack of fear. That black void where most men keep their survival. And it makes him twitch.

The distant sound of sirens wails outside.

The leader staggers to his feet, shouting with jagged breaths, “Let’s go! Now!”

The one with the gun hesitates, then lowers it. I stand tall, chest heaving, fists still clenched. “This ain’t over,” he spits out a warning that doesn’t resonate with me. I stand unmoving, unfazed by his words as his buddies drag him toward the door while assisting their leader.

The sirens grow louder as they shove out into the street. Then, they’re gone.