Page 55 of Catcher

His expression shifts, just a flicker, seeming to catch the edge of something I’m trying to hide. “Copy that,” he says, and his voice drops a notch. “You girls yell if you need anything, yeah?”

Promise grins up at him.

Nova disappears back into the crowd, and I watch him for a second at how he moves as if he belongs, how people part for him without making a thing of it.

The girls keep rattling on about the crowd, the songs, and how Fender looks like he was born with a guitar in his hands, but it all blurs around me. Like a moth to a flame, my attention is back on Catcher. He plays beside Fender feeling every note, as if he’s confessing to the whole room, and I hate how it makes my heart ache for him. I don’t want to feel anything for him.

It’s stupid. A week ago, I was too busy worrying about Robby to give Catcher much headspace, and now here he is, on stage, taking up every inch of it. All of a sudden, I stand so abruptly that my chair scrapes. “Bathroom,” I blurt, already backing away.

London starts to push up, her eyes narrowed with that protective edge she gets when she thinks someone is about to break. “I’ll come⁠—”

“No,” I cut in quickly, forcing a smile that probably looks more comparable to a grimace. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

I don’t wait for an argument, and slip into the current of bodies, letting the crowd carry me toward the hallway where the bathrooms are tucked away. The farther I get from the stage, the easier it is to breathe. The music dulls into a throb instead of a heartbeat.

The bathroom is small, a little quieter, and the air is cooler. I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my pale reflection in the mirror. My eyes look too tired for my age. My smile looks practiced. I turn on the faucet and run cold water over my wrists, grounding myself. Closing my eyes, I take several deep breaths.

Robby. Catcher. Two completely different kinds of trouble, and somehow, I’m stuck in the middle of both. One makes me afraid. The other makes me furious. Neither one gives me a break.

“Get it together,” I whisper to myself, because if I say it out loud, it might become true. I blot at my under eyes with some tissue, wiping away a small trace of smeared mascara, then straighten my shoulders. One night, I remind myself. I can do one night. I’m determined to go back out there with a brave face and not let the sight of Catcher affect me.

When I step back into the hallway, the bass from the music hits me again, making my head throb. The dim lights flicker as I pass by a couple making out against the wall. I’m halfway to the main room when someone steps into my path. He’s not someone I recognize. This guy is all sharp edges and wrong energy—tall, broad shoulders, more beefy than muscular, eyes flat and cold. The kind of eyes that send chills down my spine when they lock on my face. He wears a dark T-shirt, dark jeans, and a baseball hat that slicks back his greasy, stringy hair. The stranger’s gaze slides over me like he’s taking inventory.

I slow, instincts prickling. “Excuse me,” I say, attempting to sidestep him.

He shifts with me, cutting off the hallway as if he owns it. Up close, I catch the faint scent of stale smoke and cheap cologne. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ruby,” my name slips off his tongue, like we’re old friends.

My blood goes cold.

“Do I know you?”

He tilts his head, studying me. “Your brother,” he says. “Robby. You seen him around lately?”

For a second, the hallway feels too narrow to hold the air I need—my heartbeat races. “I-I don’t know,” I say, hating how my voice shakes. “I haven’t seen him.” The lie slips out easily. Robby might be an asshole, but he’s still my brother, and my instincts tell me to protect him no matter how stupid that might be.

The guy’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t appreciate my answer. He takes one step forward, crowding me. I take one back until my body hits the wall. “Don’t lie to me,” he sneers, and his hand shoots out. His fingers clamp around my arm in a punishing grip, nails digging into skin. Pain sparks, hot and immediate, and terror floods me.

I try a second time to jerk free. “I… don’t know anything, I swear.” The words come out choked.

The stranger bends down, his face level with mine. His hot, rank breath causes me to recoil. “You’re a lying little bitch, Ruby. You want to know how I know you’re lying?”

When I don’t speak, he continues, “I know because we have eyes on you. We know your brother paid you a little visit last week.”

We? Who is we? Terror I’ve never felt before sweeps through me. Someone has been watching me. And if they know Robby was with me, then they know where I live.

13

CATCHER

Eyes closed, I don’t move, letting the pulse around me sit on my skin.

I set the guitar back against the wall, careful without making a show of it, then grab my beer and drink as if none of that happened.

My eyes go to find her without permission. They always do.

She was sitting beside London, but Ruby is not there now, so I glance around the bar. Bodies are packed shoulder to shoulder, and the air is thick with sweat and liquor. But I don’t see Ruby amongst the crowd. Fender gets back on stage, guitar strapped low, voice rough through the mic, dragging the crowd where he wants them. The floor vibrates under my boots as I slowly move through the bar, reading hands and posture more than faces. I’m halfway past the women’s table when London catches my attention, and she motions to the hallway.

The hallway to the bathrooms is dim and narrow, partly clogged by the crowd sliding in and out of the main room. A couple is tangled against the wall near the entrance, oblivious to everything but each other. Farther down, past them, I catch a man’s shoulders. He’s big, wearing a dark shirt, his body angled wrong, crowding someone.