Page 54 of Catcher

London’s concern lasts exactly two seconds before her eyes light up, and she changes the subject, and I love her for it. “Let’s go, girls. I need to get drunk so I can go home, pick a fight with Kallum, and have hot, drunken, angry sex.”

Kallum, aka Everest, is London’s man. Those two had been dancing around each other for a few years before they finally got their crap together. I’ve never seen London so happy, and I’m honestly over the moon for her.

“Cain said there’s live music tonight,” Promise tells us as she slips on her heels. “Some local talent and, of course, Fender will play.”

Sadie gives me a look conveying she knows what I’m thinking. If Nova, Everest, and Fender are there, then there’s a good chance Catcher will be there. My stomach drops at the thought of being in the same room as Catcher, but staying home hasn’t helped. I can’t avoid the man forever. I also can’t avoid the fact that I eventually have to tell him I’m having his baby, but tonight is not the night.

“Fine,” I say, forcing more enthusiasm into the word than I feel. “One night. We go, we have fun, and then tomorrow I can go back to being an exhausted adult.”

The next ten minutes are a blur of last-minute hair touches before we all pile into London’s car.

New Orleans comes alive at night with music on every corner, street performers, the smell of delicious food, streetlights illuminating the passersby, and laughter drifting down the sidewalks. I watch it through the window and try to let the city’s pulse sync with mine as I let my mind drift away from reality.

Twisted Throttle announces itself when we pull up. The neon sign glows like a warning, and an invitation, the kind of light that makes your skin look warmer, and your choices look riskier. Motorcycles line the curb, chrome catching the streetlamps. The line at the door is long, and the rumble of voices hits us before we even step onto the sidewalk.

A couple of the guys lean against their bikes. As we approach, Riggs and Wick catch sight of us. Standing next to Wick is Tequila, and Riggs has his arm slung around Luna’s shoulder in a protective stance. A woman in ripped jeans and a leather vest lights a cigarette and walks by us to slip inside the bar. Bass from inside makes the windows vibrate. Even before we step in, I can feel the place in my soul.

“Ladies.” Riggs jerks his chin, but his eyes are laser-focused on me. Riggs is the most perceptive man I know, and he has a way of making you feel like he knows all your secrets, not in a weird way, but in a big-brother type of way. That’s probably one of the things that make him a great president. Finally, his focus shifts when Luna steps away from him to join our group. She offers a warm smile and a wave. She then turns back to Riggs and signs, “I’m heading in with the girls.”

Riggs steps forward, kisses Luna, and signs back, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Heat and sound swallow us the second the door opens. The bar is heavy with the scent of beer, musk, and something smoky. The place is packed. Bodies are shoulder to shoulder, laughter punching through the music, and Nova is behind the bar, moving effortlessly to fill orders. He spots us immediately, and I watch as his eyes light up when he looks at Promise. Everest is at the door checking IDs. He slaps London on the butt as we slip past him, making her giggle. My eyes flicker through the crowded room, looking for one person. Past Everest, the room opens up, to the right with bottles stacked on shelves, tables crowded together, a small dance floor that’s already claimed by a handful of fearless drunk girls, and the stage is tucked toward the back of the bar.

The smell of cigarette smoke is coupled with the sound of bass from the speakers, mixed with tourists who came for the legend and locals who came because it’s Saturday, and Twisted Throttle never disappoints. The lights stay low except for the glow over the stage, leaving everybody partially shadowed. Ice clinks in glasses. Someone cheers when a tray of shots makes it through without falling. The air is thick with laughter and adrenaline.

Just then, my eyes land on the stage. Catcher stands under a warm amber light with a guitar strapped to him, as if it belongs there. Fender is beside him, another guitar low on his hip, nodding to the beat like he’s keeping the world steady. Catcher leans into the mic and sings—actually sings—and the sound is rough-edged and honest, like gravel soaked in honey. The whole room seems to tilt toward him.

Promise freezes mid-step. Sadie’s mouth falls open. London stumbles as though the music physically shoved her.

“Holy hell,” London shouts over the murmurs of the crowd. “I didn’t know he could play.”

Promise presses a hand to her chest in awe. “Nobody told me.”

Sadie looks at me. “Ruby.”

I can’t answer because I can’t look away. Catcher’s fingers move with practiced ease, callused and sure over the guitar strings, the tune he is strumming filled with pain and sorrow. It hits me somewhere soft, where I’ve been trying to keep armored.

Because no matter how much I tell myself I’m over what happened between us, no matter how many times I rehearse my anger like it’s a speech I’m giving to an empty room, all it takes is one look at him, one sound, and every hurt feeling I buried deep inside me comes flooding back.

London grabs my hand, anchoring me and steers us through the crowd. We snag a table as far from the stage area as possible. Sadie keeps glancing between the stage and me like she’s watching a storm roll in. Even Luna has a look of confusion mixed with concern. We’re still settling in when movement behind the bar catches Promise’s attention. She lifts her hand and whistles, sharp and practiced. A second later, Nova looks up, and even from across the room, I see the grin that spreads across his face. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that shows off inked arms, and he moves with that easy biker swagger like the bar is an extension of him. He weaves through the crowd with a towel slung over his shoulder, pausing to bump fists with a couple of guys, and to slide a beer down their table without even breaking stride. When he reaches us, he grips the back of Promise’s neck and plants a quick kiss on her lips as if it’s the most natural thing to do.

“Ladies.” Nova jerks his chin, voice pitched to carry over the noise. His eyes sweep over us, friendly yet alert.

London leans forward. “I want the usual.”

I cut in, “I’ll take some iced tea.”

Nova gives a two-finger salute. “I can do that.” He looks at Sadie. “You?”

Sadie smiles. “I’ll take my usual as well.”

“What about you, baby. You want your usual?”

Promise shakes her head. “Old Fashioned. Extra cherries.”

Nova’s attention lands on me again, a little more focused. “Just iced tea, Ruby?”

I hesitate because it’s not like me not to drink whenever we have a girls’ night. “Yeah, just the tea. I have an early morning, and I want to avoid a hangover.”