Chapter 3
CATCHER
The clubhouse is coming alive.
It started early with the grills smoking out back, some of the women hauling in pans of food, the air thick with the scent of barbecue and spice, and music already blaring from the sound system. The clubhouse is precisely what it’s supposed to be right now—a pressure valve releasing.
No business.
No runs.
No trouble.
Just family.
The bass rattles the floorboards, making the beer bottles on the bar jump.
Laughter rings out from one corner where Tequila and Jo are mixing margaritas in a blender.
The sound of a cue ball cracking echoes from the pool table as Wick and Kiwi play a game, followed by groans and victory whoops as one of them sinks a ball.
Everyone is loose tonight. Unwinding. Exactly what we all need after a long-ass week.
I should feel at ease, but, as always, something inside has been wound too tight for too long.
Whiskey helps. Always does. I stand near the end of the bar, closest to the door, posted where I can see everything, downing another glass of whiskey until the burn in my throat starts to numb me out.
And that’s when I see her.
Ruby.
She slips in quietly behind London, as if she’s afraid she doesn’t belong.
I can see the hesitation being here in the way she hovers near the entry, shoulders drawn, clutching her purse as if it might shield her.
She’s small. Five-two, maybe. Her blonde curls bounce with every nervous step, catching the light so they look spun from gold. Then there are her big blue eyes.
I shouldn’t notice her or register the way her pink lips part when she takes in the room’s chaos as she tucks her hair behind her ear as if she wants to disappear. And I sure as fuck shouldn’t feel the way my heartbeat stumbles at the sight.
But I do.
And I hate myself for it.
I hold out my hand when they approach the bar, palm open, voice flat. “Keys.”
Ruby’s brows knit, confusion lighting her face. “What? Why?”
Before I can explain, London glides over. “Because tonight we’re all letting our hair down. That includes you too. Which means you’re not driving anywhere. We’ve already got a room ready for you.”
Ruby blinks, caught off guard. “A room?”
London laughs softly. “You’re stuck with us.” Her eyes dance between Ruby and me.
I don’t move or soften my stare, just wait silently. Ruby glances at London, then back at me, nerves flickering in her big blue eyes.
Her hand slips into her bag, fingers fumbling with something, until she finally pulls out her keys. She drops them into my palm, and in that split second, her skin brushes mine. It’s nothing, barely a touch, but it feels similar to a fucking live wire.
A jolt sparks up my arm, slamming into my chest, then sliding lower until my gut twists tight. Heat rushes under my skin before I can shut it down.
What. The. Fuck?
My hand closes around the keys, my jaw locking tight. I shouldn’t feel that from her. Not from anyone. One whisper of skin shouldn’t undo me, not after everything I buried six feet deep, and when every part of me still belongs to a ghost.
She mutters a quick, “Thanks,” then hurries off, with London guiding her toward Promise, Sadie, and Tequila, who are waving her over, her petite frame vanishing into their circle.
I watch her.
For too long.
Long enough to feel a pull gnawing at my insides.
I drop her keys into a bowl, along with the others, then reach for the nearby whiskey bottle, fill my glass halfway, and toss it back. The burn is sharp and punishing. I pour another, drowning my reaction to Ruby before it claws any deeper.
This isn’t me. Soft eyes, shy smiles, none of that rattles me. Nobody does.
The night unspools. Voices rise, music pounds harder, and laughter fills the air until it feels like it’s stitched into the walls themselves. The women dance, their hips swaying, heads thrown back as they enjoy their drinks.
We men sit around a table with stacks of cash, some with piles bigger than others, as we play another round of poker. But it’s not about the money tonight. Never is. Riggs made the call before the first hand is dealt—every bill goes straight to the food pantry a few blocks over.
That’s the Kings—we take care of this community.
The stakes of the game aren’t in the cash, though. They’re in the bets and dares.
And fuck, they’ve been creative tonight.
Kiwi is still sitting off to the side in a neon-pink feather boa from the last round, scowling like he wants to rip it off, but every time he moves, his woman threatens to take another picture.
Wick already lost once and had to sing karaoke in a falsetto so high that dogs probably howled on the next block.
And it looks as if Nova is lining up to lose again, and the gleam in Riggs’ eyes says the punishment is going to be brutal.
I lean back in my chair, whiskey glass heavy in my hand, watching the hand unfold. The clubhouse is alive and buzzing. It’s the kind of night that should feel freeing, but no matter how many jokes fly, no matter how much whiskey I drown myself in, my eyes keep straying…
To Ruby.
She’s dancing with the women, her shoulders easing little by little as London presses another drink into her hand.
Now and then, she laughs, soft, startled, almost if she didn’t mean for it to escape.
The sound slices straight through the haze of liquor clouding my head, cutting deeper than it should.
I drag my eyes back to the table, gripping my glass tighter.
I focus on the cards in my hand. Not because I care about winning, but because it gives me something to do besides stare like a fucking idiot at a woman I shouldn’t have any interest in.
Cards shuffle and snap against the table’s wooden surface. Fender is dealing, grinning wide like he knows he’s about to take everyone’s money. Riggs watches with a beer in hand, his eyes missing nothing, not even when he looks relaxed.
I toss some bills onto the center of the table.
“Loser’s wearing lipstick this round,” Fender says, slapping the deck down. “Full lips. None of that half-ass swipe of gloss shit.”
Tequila laughs from the couch. “Better pray it’s not you, baby. Your lips are too pretty already.”
Wick grins. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got this.”
Cards hit the table. Stakes are small in the grand scheme, but the tension builds anyway, fed by liquor and laughter. Every man here hates to lose, even when losing means entertainment.
Kiwi shifts in his seat, still wearing the boa, muttering under his breath.
Everest snorts. “You look good, brother. Own it.”
“Damn right.” Kiwi laughs, fluffing the pink feathers.
The hand plays out, and I fold.
“I’m out,” Riggs says.
“Same,” Kiwi lays his cards face down on the table.
Everest and Nova follow suit, leaving Wick and Fender to go head-to-head. When Fender slams down his cards with a victorious bark, Wick curses loud enough to shake the walls.
“Lipstick,” Fender crows, slapping the table. “Red and shiny. You’re wearing it all night.”
London’s laughter cuts through the music. “Oh, this I’ve got to see.”
Wick takes it like a champ, grumbling while Tequila digs through her bag and comes up with a tube of fire-engine red lipstick.
She paints it on her man’s lips while the rest of us hoot and holler, phones out, pictures snapping.
Wick flips us off, his lips shining brightly.
“I’m gonna haunt your fuckin’ dreams tonight, motherfuckers. ”
The laughter carries, bouncing around the walls, Ruby included.
I hear her. That soft laugh again. Barely audible under the roar, but I still pick it out, and my fucking gut twists.
I tell myself to keep my eyes on anything but her, but it doesn’t stick. My gaze strays straight to her anyway.
She’s tucked close to London and Promise, head tilted, eyes lit with something shy but warm.
The kind of warmth that doesn’t belong anywhere near me.
She sips from her glass. Her hair tumbles in soft curls around her face, and for half a second, I let myself imagine what it’d feel like to bury my hands in it.
I down another swallow of whiskey, hard enough to scorch that thought to ash.
“Catcher, you in on this hand?” Nova’s voice cuts through, sharp and amused.
I grunt, toss in some cash, not even looking at my cards because it doesn’t matter.
The hand plays out, more banter flying, but beneath the humor, conversation shifts.
Riggs’ voice lowers. “Any word on those assholes from the other night?”
The laughter dims a little, cards pausing midair.
Nova shakes his head. “Nothin’. Not a single sighting since.”
“Probably just passing through,” Wick offers.
“Could be.” Riggs takes a slow pull from his beer. “Doesn’t hurt to keep an eye out for the bastards. Just in case they wanna stir up more shit.”
I crack my knuckles. “They’ll regret it,” I declare, my voice low.
A beat of silence follows, only hanging in the air between us for a moment.
The game rolls on, the mood gradually lifting again as the dares pile higher.
Kiwi ends up wearing a tiara someone dug out of God knows where, along with his pink boa.
Nova gets roped into doing push-ups with Fender sitting on his back.
Everest loses one round and has to wash all our bikes tomorrow while wearing nothing but his cut and the shortest cut-off shorts I’ve ever seen.
I play, drink, and laugh when I’m supposed to, but through it all, my eyes keep drifting. My thoughts keep circling back to her.
Ruby.
Her shy smile. The way she hides behind her glass. She’s nothing like the women I’ve known. And yet the pull is there, clawing deeper no matter how much whiskey I drown it with.
It’s unwanted, unwelcome, and unstoppable.
The cards keep flying, and whiskey keeps pouring. Everest folds early when he sees shit cards. Riggs stays in to drive the bet higher, unreadable as always. Kiwi tries to bluff his way through, but Nova calls him out, slamming down a full house that wipes him clean.