Chapter 9 #2
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.
He leans back in his chair, settling in, completely ignoring the weight behind my words.
“Relax,” he says, voice thick with arrogance.
“We’re just getting started.” His hand slides over the woman like I’m not even there.
Then he looks down at her and smirks. “Go on,” he mutters, loud enough for me to hear. “Show him how we do it.”
She shifts, sliding off his lap, dropping down in front of him like this is just another part of their night, her hands moving toward his belt…
That’s as far as it gets.
I don’t warn him again. My hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of his hair, and before he can even process what’s happening, I drive his face straight down into the table.
The crack of impact cuts through the music.
The table shudders under the force, glasses rattling, one tipping over and shattering as his nose meets wood with a sickening sound.
The room jumps back in a scrape of chairs and boots, space opening around us.
His boys are on their feet just as fast, hands moving, chairs kicking back behind them.
But they don’t get two steps before Wick is there, weapon up.
Kiwi and Fender flank him, steel and intent showing in the blink of an eye.
“Think real hard about your next move,” Wick warns the other men, voice calm but carrying an edge that cuts deeper than shouting ever could. “Because you won’t get another one.”
The room holds its breath as I haul the biker upright, his face already a mess of blood, eyes glassy, and trying to catch up.
The woman is still on her knees beside him.
A sharp sting bites my ass. I look down and see the blade in her hand—thin, narrow, meant to slip in and disappear.
Tequila moves in smoothly and fast, pressing cold metal against the side of the woman’s head. “Drop it,” she says, voice low and deadly.
The woman freezes, then the tiny knife clatters to the floor.
I tighten my hold on the biker and start moving, dragging him through the parted crowd, straight for the door.
The music kicks back up behind me as if nothing happened, but the tension sticks to the air. I shove the door open and haul him out into the street, the humid night slamming into us. Then I toss the motherfucker down. He hits, rolls, and lands in a fresh pile of horse shit.
His boys spill out behind him, but they stop short when they see what’s waiting a few feet away.
Mounted police, horses shifting under them, watching the scene with practiced calm. One of them looks at me. “Catcher,” he calls. “We got a problem?”
I don’t take my eyes off the man in the street as his buddies haul him up, covered in blood and filth. “Not tonight, boss,” I say evenly.
That seems to be enough of an answer. The officer nods once, reins shifting as they move the horses forward just enough to make it clear this is done.
I step closer to the group, my voice dropping low enough that it doesn’t carry past them. “Show your faces here again…” I say, each word measured, cold, “… and you won’t walk out next time.” I turn and head back inside.
Kiwi is already grinning when I get back. “You really just got stabbed in the ass by a chick, mate.”
I glare at him.
He laughs.
Wick steps in, already checking the spot as though it’s nothing more than a scrape.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not bleeding enough for me to argue,” he shoots back.
I start to protest because the last thing I need is to be alone with my thoughts, but he cuts me off with a look.
“Clean up, get some sleep. You’ve got a flight in the morning.
” I’d already told Riggs earlier that I was flying home, mostly because he needed to know I’d be out of pocket for at least twenty-four hours and where I was headed.
A weight settles back in my chest, but I keep my mouth shut and do as I’m told. The truth is, between tonight and the way Ruby is still sitting somewhere in the back of my head, I’m running on fumes.