Chapter 12 #2
Heat and sound swallow us the second the door opens.
The bar is heavy with the scent of beer, musk, and something smoky.
The place is packed. Bodies are shoulder to shoulder, laughter punching through the music, and Nova is behind the bar, moving effortlessly to fill orders.
He spots us immediately, and I watch as his eyes light up when he looks at Promise.
Everest is at the door checking IDs. He slaps London on the butt as we slip past him, making her giggle.
My eyes flicker through the crowded room, looking for one person.
Past Everest, the room opens up, to the right with bottles stacked on shelves, tables crowded together, a small dance floor that’s already claimed by a handful of fearless drunk girls, and the stage is tucked toward the back of the bar.
The smell of cigarette smoke is coupled with the sound of bass from the speakers, mixed with tourists who came for the legend and locals who came because it’s Saturday, and Twisted Throttle never disappoints.
The lights stay low except for the glow over the stage, leaving everybody partially shadowed.
Ice clinks in glasses. Someone cheers when a tray of shots makes it through without falling.
The air is thick with laughter and adrenaline.
Just then, my eyes land on the stage. Catcher stands under a warm amber light with a guitar strapped to him, as if it belongs there.
Fender is beside him, another guitar low on his hip, nodding to the beat like he’s keeping the world steady.
Catcher leans into the mic and sings—actually sings—and the sound is rough-edged and honest, like gravel soaked in honey.
The whole room seems to tilt toward him.
Promise freezes mid-step. Sadie’s mouth falls open. London stumbles as though the music physically shoved her.
“Holy hell,” London shouts over the murmurs of the crowd. “I didn’t know he could play.”
Promise presses a hand to her chest in awe. “Nobody told me.”
Sadie looks at me. “Ruby.”
I can’t answer because I can’t look away. Catcher’s fingers move with practiced ease, callused and sure over the guitar strings, the tune he is strumming filled with pain and sorrow. It hits me somewhere soft, where I’ve been trying to keep armored.
Because no matter how much I tell myself I’m over what happened between us, no matter how many times I rehearse my anger like it’s a speech I’m giving to an empty room, all it takes is one look at him, one sound, and every hurt feeling I buried deep inside me comes flooding back.
London grabs my hand, anchoring me and steers us through the crowd.
We snag a table as far from the stage area as possible.
Sadie keeps glancing between the stage and me like she’s watching a storm roll in.
Even Luna has a look of confusion mixed with concern.
We’re still settling in when movement behind the bar catches Promise’s attention.
She lifts her hand and whistles, sharp and practiced.
A second later, Nova looks up, and even from across the room, I see the grin that spreads across his face.
He’s wearing a black T-shirt that shows off inked arms, and he moves with that easy biker swagger like the bar is an extension of him.
He weaves through the crowd with a towel slung over his shoulder, pausing to bump fists with a couple of guys, and to slide a beer down their table without even breaking stride.
When he reaches us, he grips the back of Promise’s neck and plants a quick kiss on her lips as if it’s the most natural thing to do.
“Ladies.” Nova jerks his chin, voice pitched to carry over the noise. His eyes sweep over us, friendly yet alert.
London leans forward. “I want the usual.”
I cut in, “I’ll take some iced tea.”
Nova gives a two-finger salute. “I can do that.” He looks at Sadie. “You?”
Sadie smiles. “I’ll take my usual as well.”
“What about you, baby. You want your usual?”
Promise shakes her head. “Old Fashioned. Extra cherries.”
Nova’s attention lands on me again, a little more focused. “Just iced tea, Ruby?”
I hesitate because it’s not like me not to drink whenever we have a girls’ night. “Yeah, just the tea. I have an early morning, and I want to avoid a hangover.”
His expression shifts, just a flicker, seeming to catch the edge of something I’m trying to hide. “Copy that,” he says, and his voice drops a notch. “You girls yell if you need anything, yeah?”
Promise grins up at him.
Nova disappears back into the crowd, and I watch him for a second at how he moves as if he belongs, how people part for him without making a thing of it.
The girls keep rattling on about the crowd, the songs, and how Fender looks like he was born with a guitar in his hands, but it all blurs around me.
Like a moth to a flame, my attention is back on Catcher.
He plays beside Fender feeling every note, as if he’s confessing to the whole room, and I hate how it makes my heart ache for him. I don’t want to feel anything for him.
It’s stupid. A week ago, I was too busy worrying about Robby to give Catcher much headspace, and now here he is, on stage, taking up every inch of it. All of a sudden, I stand so abruptly that my chair scrapes. “Bathroom,” I blurt, already backing away.
London starts to push up, her eyes narrowed with that protective edge she gets when she thinks someone is about to break. “I’ll come—”
“No,” I cut in quickly, forcing a smile that probably looks more comparable to a grimace. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.”
I don’t wait for an argument, and slip into the current of bodies, letting the crowd carry me toward the hallway where the bathrooms are tucked away. The farther I get from the stage, the easier it is to breathe. The music dulls into a throb instead of a heartbeat.
The bathroom is small, a little quieter, and the air is cooler.
I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my pale reflection in the mirror.
My eyes look too tired for my age. My smile looks practiced.
I turn on the faucet and run cold water over my wrists, grounding myself.
Closing my eyes, I take several deep breaths.
Robby. Catcher. Two completely different kinds of trouble, and somehow, I’m stuck in the middle of both. One makes me afraid. The other makes me furious. Neither one gives me a break.
“Get it together,” I whisper to myself, because if I say it out loud, it might become true.
I blot at my under eyes with some tissue, wiping away a small trace of smeared mascara, then straighten my shoulders.
One night, I remind myself. I can do one night.
I’m determined to go back out there with a brave face and not let the sight of Catcher affect me.
When I step back into the hallway, the bass from the music hits me again, making my head throb.
The dim lights flicker as I pass by a couple making out against the wall.
I’m halfway to the main room when someone steps into my path.
He’s not someone I recognize. This guy is all sharp edges and wrong energy—tall, broad shoulders, more beefy than muscular, eyes flat and cold.
The kind of eyes that send chills down my spine when they lock on my face.
He wears a dark T-shirt, dark jeans, and a baseball hat that slicks back his greasy, stringy hair.
The stranger’s gaze slides over me like he’s taking inventory.
I slow, instincts prickling. “Excuse me,” I say, attempting to sidestep him.
He shifts with me, cutting off the hallway as if he owns it. Up close, I catch the faint scent of stale smoke and cheap cologne. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ruby,” my name slips off his tongue, like we’re old friends.
My blood goes cold.
“Do I know you?”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Your brother,” he says. “Robby. You seen him around lately?”
For a second, the hallway feels too narrow to hold the air I need—my heartbeat races.
“I-I don’t know,” I say, hating how my voice shakes.
“I haven’t seen him.” The lie slips out easily.
Robby might be an asshole, but he’s still my brother, and my instincts tell me to protect him no matter how stupid that might be.
The guy’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t appreciate my answer.
He takes one step forward, crowding me. I take one back until my body hits the wall.
“Don’t lie to me,” he sneers, and his hand shoots out.
His fingers clamp around my arm in a punishing grip, nails digging into skin.
Pain sparks, hot and immediate, and terror floods me.
I try a second time to jerk free. “I… don’t know anything, I swear.” The words come out choked.
The stranger bends down, his face level with mine. His hot, rank breath causes me to recoil. “You’re a lying little bitch, Ruby. You want to know how I know you’re lying?”
When I don’t speak, he continues, “I know because we have eyes on you. We know your brother paid you a little visit last week.”
We? Who is we? Terror I’ve never felt before sweeps through me. Someone has been watching me. And if they know Robby was with me, then they know where I live.