Chapter 9
CATCHER
The first thing I hear is the city breathing slowly and wet, as if it’s got lungs of its own, and it’s exhaling straight into my window.
I open my eyes to the ceiling fan spinning above me, blades cutting lazy circles through thick New Orleans air that never feels clean.
The motor clicks every few turns—old, stubborn, still doing its job.
Sweat sticks to my ribs under the sheet.
Light leaks in through the edge of the curtains, just enough to paint the room in that muted blue that says morning is here, whether I’m ready for it or not.
I lie there for a second, staring up, listening, breathing, letting the noise outside tell me the world kept moving while I slept.
I push up with a grunt, swing my legs over, and plant my feet on the floor. It’s another day and sure to be different trouble.
I scrub a hand down my face and stand, rolling my shoulders until something in my neck pops.
I move through the morning ritual out of habit. Bathroom, some cold water on my face, and brush my teeth. My reflection in the mirror halfway through shows the same hard lines and tired eyes that don’t give much away unless you’re looking too damn close.
I finish up, rinse the sink, and head back out.
The air in the apartment is already warm. It’s that heavy Louisiana heat pressing in, even this early, making everything feel a little slower and thicker. So I knock the thermostat down a few degrees before throwing on clothes, dragging my cut over my shoulders, and lacing up my boots.
Everything feels routine and controlled, the only way it works.
In the kitchen, I pour black coffee and drink it at the counter, letting the bitterness settle.
My phone sits on the counter beside me when the screen lights up with a notification. I don’t have to pick it up to know what it is, but I do anyway.
Mom and Dad’s anniversary reminder.
I stare at the reminder a little too long, thumb hovering like I can press hard enough to make it disappear. The coffee suddenly tastes like ass. My chest goes tight in that familiar way, as if somebody cinched a strap around it and pulled.
I lock the phone and set it back down.
Home. That place. It’s not what it used to be, or maybe it is, and I’m the one who changed too damn much to fit back into it. Either way, going back isn’t simple. Nothing about it is.
My jaw tightens, and I push off the counter, grabbing my keys.
I don’t stand around thinking about shit I can’t change.
I finish the coffee in a few more swallows, rinse the mug, and leave it in the sink.
The apartment is quiet behind me as I head for the door.
I step out into the stairwell, the air cooler here, smelling of old wood, dust, and somebody’s stale cigarette.
The building groans when I move, each step creaks under my boots like it’s complaining about carrying me again.
The sound echoes in the narrow space, bouncing off painted walls, bringing me back into my body and the now.
By the time I hit the bottom, I’m already shifting gears. Whatever is in my head stays upstairs because down here, I’ve got a job to do.
I unlock the door and push into the bar. Twisted Throttle greets me the way it always does in the morning. It’s empty, still, and carrying the ghost of last night in every inch of it.
The odor hits first—beer soaked into wood and dried into the grain, bleach and lemon cleaner fighting a losing battle, old smoke clinging to curtains and corners where the light doesn’t reach, and whiskey lingers as though it never really left, sweet and sharp, like a memory you can’t scrub out.
I pause just inside the door and let it settle around me, remind me who I am down here, then reach over and flip on the lights.
One by one, the place comes alive, and just like that, it’s time to get to work with wipe-downs, stock check, trash lined, and back door secured. The front stays locked until later. It’s muscle memory at this point, my hands handling it while my head stays too damn loud for its own good.
That list Riggs left sits folded in my pocket. I grab my keys from behind the bar and head out the back.
The alley reeks of damp brick and old garbage, last night’s rain already baking off in the heat. Out front, Bourbon Street is picking up with louder voices and music drifting in broken pieces between buildings.
I swing a leg over my bike and settle in, the leather creaking.
The grips are cool for half a second before heat crawls into them.
When I hit the ignition, the engine answers low and deep, vibration running up my arms, shaking loose some of what’s been trying to climb my throat all morning.
A bike doesn’t care what you’re carrying. It just takes it with you.
I pull out into the street, easing into traffic. The morning crowd is a different breed—delivery trucks, early tourists already clutching drinks, locals moving with purpose. It’s less chaos and more momentum.
The quiet in my head doesn’t last. Thoughts crawl back in about going home tomorrow, my parents, the ghosts that sit in the back of your skull and wait for the stillness. My grip tightens on the handlebars until the leather bites.
I haven’t told them if I’m coming.
I haven’t told anyone.
Then there’s Ruby, slipping into my head like she owns the place, and my jaw locks. I twist the throttle harder than necessary and shove it down. I can’t go there.
I pull into the store lot, cut the engine, grab the folded list, and head for the entrance.
Automatic doors slide open with a soft hiss as people come and go, carts rattling, voices overlapping, that low hum of normal life.
I grip the list and run it through my head once.
I’m a step from the doorway when someone slams into me hard enough to rattle my insides.
Instinct kicks in before thought, my stance widens, boots planting, body bracing like I’ve done it a thousand times in darker places than a grocery store entrance.
She bounces off my chest, breath whooshing. Bags slip and plastic tears with a sharp snap. Something hits the pavement, thuds, then rolls. Her startled sound cuts quick and high.
My hands come up fast, catching her before she goes down, one arm around her waist, the other on her upper arm, and she collides with me again, soft where I’m hard, warm where I’m all edges. Her palms press to my chest as she finds her footing.
And then I look down, and time slows just enough to hit harder.
Ruby.
Her eyes go wide when she looks up at me, surprise still caught in them. It’s those same eyes I’ve been trying not to picture, and I’ve been failing. A strand of hair has come loose and stuck to her cheek in the heat, and my brain snags on it as it matters.
Something clamps down in my chest.
Too fast.
Too real.
I forget how to fucking breathe.
“Catcher…” My name leaves her softly, as if she didn’t expect to say it out loud.
My hand is still at her waist, and I become very aware of it, of her, of everything. I steady her, easing her back until her feet are solid beneath her. My grip lingers half a second too long before I let go.
She swallows, glancing down as she realizes her groceries are scattered across the ground. “Dammit,” she whispers, bending to grab them.
“I got it.” The words come out rough.
I crouch, scooping up apples, the eggs, thankfully intact, and the bread. My hands move quickly and sure while my head stays fixed on her, the weight of her gaze and all that unfinished air between us.
I shove everything back into the torn bags as best I can, then stand, arms full. “Where you parked?” I ask, keeping my tone even and controlled.
Ruby stares like she didn’t hear me. Her eyes search mine for something, an answer, an apology, a crack in my armor. Something I’m not about to give.
“Babe,” I say, sharper this time. “Car.”
She blinks, snapping out of it. “Right, uh… over there.” She gestures across the lot, a little flustered.
I nod once. “Lead the way.”
She heads for her car, and I follow, keeping a half step back. Each step feels heavier than it should. The sun beats down, heat rising off the pavement, and the smell of asphalt and exhaust is thick in the air. People move around us, cars pulling in and out, but it all feels distant.
Muted, because all I can feel is her.
She clicks the fob, and the trunk pops. I load the bags, then shut it with a firm push, the sound echoing in the space between us.
Ruby doesn’t move right away. Neither do I. The air between us feels thick and charged, like a storm deciding whether to break.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice careful, as if she’s not sure what version of me she’s about to get.
That should be it.
That’s where this needs to end.
But my feet don’t move. I stand there, looking at her. My first mistake. Because she’s looking at me, too, like she’s trying to read something I’ve spent years making sure nobody can.
Her eyes don’t waver or drop.
There’s something in them, something steady, something that doesn’t scare easily, and it hits me right in the chest like a fist. The energy is too damn strong for something that shouldn’t exist between us.
My jaw tightens, and my weight shifts, ready to close the distance between us. Words climb up my throat—the wrong ones, the dangerous ones, the kind that change everything if I let them out. I drag a breath in through my nose, slow and controlled, hauling my head back where it needs to be.
Her lips part as though she’s about to say something. Whatever it is—soft, honest, real—it’s exactly the kind of thing I don’t deserve to hear.
So, I shut it down hard.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” I say, voice edged with roughness.
The words land between us like a slap.
Ruby blinks, but she doesn’t step back or flinch. If anything, she looks more confused. “Like what?” she asks quietly.
And there it is again, that softness, the way she doesn’t push or get loud. It twists something in me I don’t want to name.
I shake my head once, sharper than necessary, as if I can physically knock the feeling loose.
The tension stretches tighter.