Page 50 of Catcher

“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.

“Got a call from Jake earlier,” Riggs says, tipping his glass back before setting it down. That gets a few looks. Jake is the president of Kings of Retribution MC, Montana Chapter. “They’re talking about doing something big for Founder’s Day.”

That isn’t just a party. That’s celebrating legacy, everything this club was built on. It’s brotherhood. Blood.

“Where?” Kiwi asks, leaning forward now, interest piqued.

“That’s the question,” Riggs says. “He threw out Montana. I told him we could host here.”

Fender lets out a low whistle.