Chapter 11
CATCHER
The back alley behind Twisted Throttle reeks of spilled liquor, hot asphalt, and the kind of night that hasn’t happened yet but is already waiting, coiled up in the cracks between bricks and busted bottles.
It’s that in-between hour where the city stretches its limbs before it decides what kind of chaos it’s going to bring.
The sky still has a smear of daylight in it, but the streetlights are already buzzing, and the neon out front bleeds through the doorway cracks like a warning.
Somewhere on Bourbon Street, the first bass line of the night is starting to thump, a low, restless energy that crawls through plaster and pipe and settles in your body whether you want it to or not.
I lean against the brick beside the back door, cigarette burning slow between my fingers while heat rises off the pavement in waves. The brick is rough against my shoulder, grit catching in my shirt like the place is trying to mark me as its own.
Almost forty-eight hours back home, and somehow it feels like I lived ten damn years in two days, and every mile traveled scraped something raw off my bones and left me bleeding on the inside.
My old man’s garage, oil and metal, still has that familiar rattle of tools in a drawer, like the place never noticed I left.
My mother’s voice drifts through the kitchen, soft but sharp the way a woman gets when she’s loved you through hell and refuses to let you pretend you didn’t.
And my brother acts like I never disappeared in the first place, as if the years I spent gone were just a long-ass day shift that finally ended.
The ghosts are still there, hanging in corners, tucked behind family photographs, hiding in the quiet moments when nobody is talking, like they’d had nowhere else to go but into me.
Some things never stop waiting for you. They just sit patiently until you’re stupid enough to come back and look them in the eye. And that’s exactly what I did.
I drag smoke into my lungs and stare down the alley while the ache settles heavy behind my ribs again.
It’s the kind of ache you can’t stretch out or drink away.
You carry it like a pocketful of rocks. That old familiar feeling that whispers, maybe I should have died back then too.
Maybe the man I used to be already did, and I’m just what’s left walking around with his name.
Hannah.
Lily.
That house.
That life.
No matter what I do, it all comes back in flashes, my brain keeps digging up the same bones to make sure they still hurt.
But standing in that cemetery reminded me of something I don’t always want to admit.
The air was cold enough to bite, the grass too green for a place full of names, and the wind kept pressing at the back of my neck like it wanted me to turn around and pay attention, telling me I’m still here, still breathing.
I continue waking up every goddamn morning whether I want to or not, eyes gritty, jaw tight, heart doing its stubborn little thump like it’s got something to prove.
And maybe that’s the part I’ve been getting wrong all these years, thinking survival was supposed to feel like victory, as if crossing some invisible line where the pain finally stops chasing you.
Maybe surviving isn’t supposed to feel clean. Maybe it’s supposed to feel like blood under your nails you can’t scrub out.
Maybe carrying it is my punishment, waking up with the memories already loaded, dragging them from room to room like they pay rent.
Or maybe it’s the reminder that I don’t get to quit. That the dead don’t need me to join them, and the living sure as hell don’t need me acting as though I already have.
I scrub a hand over my face and look toward the glow spilling from the bar’s back windows.
Warm light, yellow and dirty, catches smoke in the air and turns it into something almost holy if you squint hard enough.
Inside are my brothers, the only people here besides my family who never ask me to be anything other than exactly what I am.
Broken.
Mean when I need to be—sharp edges, heavy hands—and loyal to the fucking grave.
But the trip home cracked something loose in me I can’t shove back down yet.
Like a knot I’ve kept cinched tight for years, I finally got a finger under it and started pulling.
Seeing my parents, feeling that unwavering love, and having my brother still trying to drag me back toward the living every chance he gets did something.
Truth is, maybe I do need to be better. Not for the world, or for some clean conscience, but because I’m tired of feeling like a ghost wearing my own skin.
Not softer.
Not fixed.
Just… better than this half-dead version of myself I’ve been dragging around for years.
Better for them, for the ones I got here in New Orleans too.
Because these people would bleed for me without hesitation, and somewhere along the line, that’s got to start meaning something bigger than just surviving long enough to return the favor.
I flick the cigarette to the ground and crush it beneath my boot, then walk over to the delivery truck.
With a crate braced against my shoulder, the glass bottles inside clink together when I haul it off the back of the delivery truck.
The wood digs into my collarbone through my shirt.
My boots hit the ground with a dull thud, gravel shifting under the soles.
Sweat sticks to my back before I’m even three steps in.
The driver barely looks at me. He knows the routine, knows we don’t need small talk or receipts signed with a smile.
His eyes stay on his clipboard, his hands move quickly, and his shoulders stay a little tense.
Folks deliver to Bourbon Street long enough, they learn what kind of places you don’t ask questions about.
We get our shit.
We handle our shit.
That’s it.
“Stack ’em inside, left wall,” Everest says, already grabbing another crate as if it weighs nothing.
I grunt in response, push through the back door with my shoulder, and set the crate down where it belongs, lining it up with the others, building a wall out of booze.
Cold air spills out of the bar and hits my sweat-damp skin, raising goose bumps on my arms. Inside, it’s quiet for now, lights low, music not loud yet.
It’s just the steady hum of the coolers and Bourbon Street bleeding through the walls.
There’s something about this part of the day I don’t mind.
The bar still belongs to us before the tourists, drunks, and the wannabes come in and make it theirs for a few hours.
No performances, smiling, or reading the room for threats.
Just the kind of work that shuts your head up because your hands are too busy.
No crowd.
No noise.
Just work.
Something simple.
Something I can control.
I head back out and grab another crate. This time, Everest falls into step beside me, moving with that same steady, no-wasted-motion rhythm he brings to everything.
We pass each other without speaking, trading empty space for full crates like it’s choreographed. He doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t need to, but I feel it coming.
“So, you went home?”
“Yeah.” The word sits flat, but it carries more weight than I let it show.
“How did that go?”
I shift the crate on my shoulder, jaw tightening just a fraction. The glass taps against itself inside the wooden slats, a soft warning sound, and I keep my eyes on the doorway like it can’t see through me if I don’t look back. “Good.”
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, letting me know he doesn’t buy that for a second, but he doesn’t push.
We get inside, set the crates down, and head back out again.
He glances at me. “You good?” It’s simple, a direct question.
I think about the graveyard. The daisy in my hand. The way something inside me didn’t feel as damn tight when I left, feeling as if I wasn’t choking on it for once. “Yeah,” I say.
It’s not a lie. Not entirely.
Because something shifted.
Not whole.
Not healed.
But… it’s looser.
Everest nods once and doesn’t push, letting it end there, and I respect that more than anything.
We finish unloading in silence, stacking everything neatly and tightly, and when the driver finally pulls off, the alley goes quiet again.
Inside, the bar slowly comes to life.
Nova is behind the counter, wiping down glasses, humming something under his breath that turns into a half-tuned chord when he taps the bar with his fingers.
Fender is crouched near the stage, messing with a cable, swearing under his breath when it doesn’t do what he wants.
Kiwi is leaning back in a chair, boots up, looking like he’s been there all day doing nothing.
Wick comes in from the office, eyes scanning the room out of habit before settling on us. “Everything good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Everest answers before I can.
Wick nods, already moving on, satisfied.
Riggs shows up a minute later, pushing through the door. He takes one look around. “All right. Let’s get a minute before this place fills up.”
That’s all the invitation needed. We gather around one of the tables near the back, bottles already open, whiskey poured, beers cracked.
The first swallow burns clean down my throat and settles warm in my gut, taking the edge off without dulling anything important.
The air back here is cooler, the shadows deeper, and the noise from the street is muffled.
The table we sit around is scarred from years of use, knife marks, burn rings, and dents from fists hitting it a little too hard when things got heated.
Same table we’ve sat at a hundred times before.
It feels… grounded. The kind of moment that doesn’t last long but matters anyway. I lean back in my chair, letting the edge of the day settle out of me while the guys fall into easy conversation.