Chapter 1 #3
I think about my time in prison, remembering my first yard fight as if it was yesterday.
The guy swung, but I didn’t flinch. I caught his punch, snapped his wrist back, and twisted his arm.
His face hit the concrete before he knew what hit him.
Every man who tried to hit me after that?
I caught it every time and sent it back tenfold.
Fist for fist, pain for pain. That’s how I got the name, Catcher.
And I choose to use it now because Garret Carver is buried so deep inside me, I’m not sure he exists anymore.
I take another toke, feeling the burn and letting the effects of the weed take hold.
On the inside, I worked with my hands whenever I could—mechanics, welding, carpentry. The clang of tools, the scent of metal and grease dulled the ache that never left.
Nights were worse. I dreamed of Hannah, the nursery, the blood on the floor. I’d wake soaked, fists bloody from hitting walls, bedsheets tangled, heart hammering. Hollow, but alive. And I felt guilty that I was breathing, and they weren’t.
When I got out, my hometown felt too small, too heavy with eyes and whispers.
My house was gone, and the love from my family felt comparable to pity.
I couldn’t breathe there. Drifting became my only option.
Motels, my old Chevy, cheap beers, temporary work, and nameless women became my way of trying to outrun my pain.
Gasoline, tires, and anger kept me moving, but the ache never left.
Her face, the baby that never breathed, followed me. Always.
I watch a barge move slowly down the river as my thoughts continue to wander.
New Orleans pulled me in the moment I arrived. The Crescent City was chaotic and always moving. She’s a city loud enough to disappear in.
The first time I stepped into the Kings’ territory was the day I walked into their shop looking for work.
I told them everything. Legally, I had to disclose my record anyway.
It’s not something I’m ashamed of. I own my actions, and I paid for them.
Unfortunately, much of society doesn’t give two shits about giving someone a fresh start.
Most would have shut the door in my face.
Riggs didn’t. He gave me a chance—a hand in, not a hand out—and that’s all it took.
I worked. Anything that needed to be repaired or built, I did it.
The Kings never asked why my eyes were dark, spoke so little, and carried ghosts like luggage strapped to my back.
Instead, they gave me a job and a purpose.
When I started prospecting for the club, I worked even harder.
And when I was patched in, my name, Catcher, wasn’t just a prison tag anymore.
It was my identity, armor, and promise to the brotherhood.
The joint burns low as I lean back on the ledge, feeling the weight of my ghosts still lingering. The sunrise paints the river with streaks of gold. Still, the beauty feels hollow, as if the mighty Mississippi is swallowing the light.
The warm air brushes against my skin. I close my eyes and inhale again, breathing in the burn once more. I let it all settle—the fight, the ghosts, the weight of everything I carry, even if it’s temporary.
My thoughts drift back to her smile, the nursery, and the lost life that haunts me. I push it down, lock it in the deepest corner of my chest, numbing it just enough to breathe.
I shake my head, dragging my thoughts back to the present.
Demons don’t rest, but neither do I.
By the time the sun is halfway above the horizon, I drop the joint, grind the stub under my boot, and climb down.
Inside the clubhouse, the girls are moving around the kitchen, brewing coffee, and soft chatter fills the air.
“Coffee?” Payton asks, her voice gentle.
I shake my head. “Heading to the shop,” I mutter and stroll upstairs to grab my keys.
Outside, the early New Orleans air is thick and humid.
I walk past my Chevy, old but solid. She used to belong to my old man.
He passed it down to me when I got my driver’s license.
It’s not just an old, worn-out pickup. It holds too many memories to count.
My hands rest on the hood for a second as I think about my parents and my old hometown before strolling over and swinging my leg over my bike, a cherry red Shovelhead. The engine roars to life.
I leave the clubhouse behind and roll slowly onto the street, the city already alive.
The air is thick with the river’s brine, diesel exhaust, fried dough from some street cart, and the damp bite of wet concrete.
New Orleans doesn’t wake up quietly but comes at you loud, raw, and unapologetic.
Engines snarl in the distance, and horns blare.
The chaos builds until it’s just one steady hum pressing against me, filling the cracks where silence would let my head wander too far.
Street after street blurs past, the vibration of the bike rattling through my body. I lean into it, gripping the bars tighter, letting the throttle answer for me when words or thoughts can’t. The wind burns my face, and for a moment, I feel freedom.
New Orleans has her way of pulling you in and distracting you with her magic. For a few blocks, she makes me believe I’m just another man riding through her veins.
But I know better.
The past doesn’t let go.
It waits in the quiet, crawling out when the engine shuts off, and the streets go still.