Page 4 of Catcher

There’s no going back to sleep.

I toss the sheet from my naked body and stand. My muscles are tight, and my knuckles are still raw from last night’s fight.

I cross the room, my bare feet cold against the floor, and enter the bathroom. Then, I step into the shower and turn on the water, which hits my skin with a shocking intensity. It’s sharp and cold, like a thousand tiny needles rushing over me, shocking my nerves, rattling the remnants of the dream from my skull.

I let it run over me, soaking my hair, dripping down my back. The memory doesn’t leave. Won’t leave. Every drop is a reminder of my wife, my daughter, and what was taken from me and will never get back.

I close my eyes and press my palms against the tiles. Rage and grief mix in my chest, a poison I’ve carried for years. And tonight, like every night, it surfaces, demanding I face it.

But I don’t.

I bury it, letting my pain continue to fester.

Finally, I turn off the water and step out into the bathroom’s cool air. I dry off, throw on some clothes, and leave my room.

The clubhouse is dark and quiet as I move through the hallway and down the stairs. I head for the front door, step outside, and then walk around to the back of the building. The rooftop ladder rattles under my boots as I climb. Up top, the city sprawls out before me, jagged rooftops fading into the river. Mist rises off the Mississippi, thick in the pre-dawn air. The wind smells of oil mingling with the musty aroma of damp earth and decaying organic matter.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out a joint. I spark the lighter, the flame hits, and I inhale deeply. The smoke burns my lungs and scratches my throat. I welcome it. I exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl into the gray-blue sky, and my mind drifts as I stare down at my raw knuckles.

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.