Chapter 5
CATCHER
The door slams. Not hard enough to shake the walls. Still, it’s loud, ringing in my head long after she’s gone, as if the echo refuses to let go.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
Don’t even blink.
I stand there in the middle of my room like a statue, staring at the spot where she’d been seconds ago, and as if I look hard enough, she might still be there, and I can take back what I said. As if I can shove the words back down my throat before they ever make it out.
But she’s gone.
The silence she leaves behind is deafening, pressing in from all sides. Thick and suffocating, it settles into my chest until I can’t get a full breath.
My jaw tightens. I drag a hand down my face, fingers scraping over skin that suddenly feels too damn tight. The image of her won’t leave me—that tear sliding down her cheek or the way her voice cracked when she said she got me.
Jesus Christ.
I swallow hard, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps because I know exactly what I just did.
I hurt her.
Not accidentally.
Not carelessly.
Fucking deliberately.
Every word I said was sharp, meant to cut deep enough so she won’t come back, look at me again, or think for a second there was something worth holding onto here.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
That it was necessary.
That it was for her.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
Because even as the thought forms, I know it’s bullshit.
This wasn’t about protecting her.
It never is.
It’s about me.
I turn from the door and start pacing, as if I can outrun the heaviness in my chest. My eyes catch on the bed, and something in my gut twists so hard I have to look away.
I don’t remember falling asleep last night. It wasn’t the slow drift where your mind eases off the edge. This was a blackout, a hard drop, lights out, no warning.
But I remember waking up.
Waking was violent, like being dragged from a black river.
My lungs burned, my chest was tight, and my hands searched for something solid.
In that moment, I had no idea where the fuck I was.
My heart was pounding so hard, trying to break out of my ribcage.
Sweat cooled on my skin, chilling me as the nightmare clung to me.
Her scream.
Fuck.
It had still been there, bouncing around inside my skull.
I jolted awake from the nightmare, sitting up hard, elbows braced on my knees, hands hanging loose between them.
My fingers twitched like they didn’t belong to me.
My breathing was rough and uneven, as if I’d run miles instead of just lying in bed.
I remember dragging in a breath, trying to ground myself and shake the remnants of the nightmare loose.
And then, I remember when something shifted.
It was subtle.
I’d inhaled again, slower. My brow furrowed as I registered the difference. There was a scent, soft and sweet, not mine. Not the usual mix of soap, leather, and whiskey clinging to everything I own.
It had been lighter.
Warmer.
Feminine.
And my spine had gone rigid.
Fragments hit me, jagged and out of order, slamming into my head without warning. Blonde curls, blue eyes, a soft gasp. Warm skin under my hands.
My fingers flex now just remembering it.
“Fuck…” I mutter, my voice low and rough, as if dragged through broken glass.
Flashbacks hit me hard and quick—her body beneath me, how she’d felt wrapped around me, and the way she said my name made it seem like it mattered.
My stomach turns now just thinking about it.
Because I hadn’t remembered any of that when she was standing right in front of me.
I didn’t remember the way I touched her.
I didn’t remember the way she responded.
I didn’t remember the way she looked at me as if I was something worth wanting.
But my body knew.
And instead of stopping, instead of trying to understand why the hell she was in my room, why she looked at me like that, I’d gone straight for the jugular.
Accused her.
Cut her down.
Told her she didn’t exist to me.
My jaw clenches so tight it aches. “Fuck.” I sigh, the word barely making it past my lips.
Because now I know…
I know exactly what happened.
I know exactly what I did after.
I drag both hands through my hair, gripping hard at the roots as the realization sinks in deeper.
I took something from her.
Something she didn’t give lightly.
And then I made her feel as if it meant nothing.
Like she meant nothing.
The guilt hits hard, sharp enough to make my chest tighten, but the emotion doesn’t come alone.
Right behind it comes something darker.
Right behind it—where it’s been waiting—comes something darker.
Colder.
My wife.
Her face slams into my thoughts, vivid and unforgiving. Her laugh. Her smile. The way she used to look at me like I was everything, worth something, and hung the goddamn moon.
My stomach hollows out, and a deep, aching emptiness spreads through me.
“You piece of shit…” I mutter, voice low and rough.
Because that’s what this is…
A betrayal.
Doesn’t matter how long she’s been gone. Doesn’t matter that she’s buried and never coming back. She’s still mine. Always will be.
And I pause.
I let another woman into my bed.
Into my hands.
Into a place that should have stayed buried with her.
The weight in my chest grows. Grief and guilt twist together, choking me. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
I turn toward the bathroom before it can drag me under completely, needing something to break the spiral.
A shower.
Cold.
Punishing.
Exactly what I deserve.
I crank the faucet all the way over and step under it without hesitation. The icy water slams into me, stealing my breath, my body jerking from the shock as a harsh hiss tears from my lungs.
Good.
Let it hurt.
Let it freeze everything inside me solid, so I don’t have to feel any of this.
I brace my hands against the tile, head hanging forward as the water pounds against my neck, shoulders, and back.
But it doesn’t stop it.
Nothing does.
Because now the memories are clearer.
Sharper.
Her hands on my chest were small, soft, and trusting. The way she looked at me was like I wasn’t broken or already six feet under.
My fingers curl hard against the tile. Then my wife is there again, but it is not a memory this time. A ghost. Her face. Her voice. The life we were supposed to have. The life I lost, the life I buried, and now I’ve gone and tainted it.
“You piece of shit,” I repeat, louder this time, my fist slamming into the tile. Pain shoots up my arm, but it doesn’t even come close to touching what’s inside me.
Because the truth is…
It wasn’t just about Ruby.
It was about me.
About the emptiness.
The silence.
The constant, gnawing void I’ve been drowning in for years.
And for a few hours, Ruby filled it. And that realization hits like a gut punch. She didn’t deserve what I did to her. Didn’t deserve to be something I reached for in the dark to feel less alone. Didn’t deserve to be dragged into this mess.
My jaw tightens.
I growl, shaking my head under the freezing spray.
It meant nothing.
Because if it was, if there was anything real there…
No.
I straighten myself slowly, forcing my breathing to even out.
Not because I feel better, but because I’m shutting it down, locking it up, and burying it deep where it belongs.
Because that’s what I do and have always done.
I know exactly what I am—damaged, broken, a shell.
A walking reminder that nothing good lasts, that everything eventually gets taken.
I ruin things.
I destroy them.
Anyone close to me pays the price.
I won’t let that be her.
Ruby doesn’t belong in my darkness. She doesn’t belong anywhere near the shit I carry around every day. She’s too soft, too bright, too alive, and I’d drag her straight into the same nothingness I drown in.
So yeah, hurting her?
It was for her own good.
That’s what I tell myself.
That pushing Ruby away, cutting her down, and making sure she never looks at me like that again was the right thing.
My hands curl into fists again because I know the truth.
It isn’t about her.
It never is.
It’s about me.
Punishing myself.
I step out, dry off, and pull on my jeans, shirt, and boots like armor, putting layers between me and everything clawing at the surface.
When I step out of my room, the clubhouse is already alive.
Voices carry from the main room, low laughter mixed with the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation.
The rich, bitter aroma of coffee, along with the food being prepared, cuts through the lingering scent of last night’s whiskey.
Everything should feel grounded, but it doesn’t. Instead, it all presses in, too loud, full, and real for where my head is at.
I don’t stop, look, or acknowledge anyone. I move straight through like a ghost, cutting across the room and heading for the door as though something is chasing me.
Maybe it is.
The second I step outside, the air hits me, heavy and thick, wrapping around me with the force of a damp, dead hand.
New Orleans’ humidity clings to me instantly, settling into my skin and lungs, making every breath feel heavier than it should.
I drag it in anyway, letting it fill my chest. The air carries the scent of the river, brackish and alive, mixed with diesel from passing boats, hot pavement, and something old, worn, seen too much, and keeps going anyway.
Like me.
I move around back without thinking, boots hitting gravel, the familiar path etched into muscle memory. The ladder is there, so I grab it and climb, hands rough against metal, muscles working on instinct as I haul myself up.
Up top, it’s quieter.
Not silent.
It’s never silent in this city, but quieter in a way that lets me breathe a little easier.
The Mississippi stretches out in front of me, wide and restless, its surface churning as it slaps against the bank in uneven rhythms. A tugboat groans somewhere in the distance, dragging a massive barge behind it.
The low hum of its engine vibrates through the air, steady and constant, mimicking a heartbeat that doesn’t give a damn about anything else.