Page 8 of Catcher

This isn’t me. Soft eyes, shy smiles, none of that rattles me. Nobody does.

The night unspools. Voices rise, music pounds harder, and laughter fills the air until it feels like it’s stitched into the walls themselves. The women dance, their hips swaying, heads thrown back as they enjoy their drinks.

We men sit around a table with stacks of cash, some with piles bigger than others, as we play another round of poker. But it’s not about the money tonight. Never is. Riggs made the call before the first hand is dealt—every bill goes straight to the food pantry a few blocks over.

That’s the Kings—we take care of this community.

The stakes of the game aren’t in the cash, though. They’re in the bets and dares.

And fuck, they’ve been creative tonight.

Kiwi is still sitting off to the side in a neon-pink feather boa from the last round, scowling like he wants to rip it off, but every time he moves, his woman threatens to take another picture. Wick already lost once and had to sing karaoke in a falsetto so high that dogs probably howled on the next block. And it looks as if Nova is lining up to lose again, and the gleam in Riggs’ eyes says the punishment is going to be brutal.

I lean back in my chair, whiskey glass heavy in my hand, watching the hand unfold. The clubhouse is alive and buzzing. It’s the kind of night that should feel freeing, but no matter how many jokes fly, no matter how much whiskey I drown myself in, my eyes keep straying…

To Ruby.

She’s dancing with the women, her shoulders easing little by little as London presses another drink into her hand. Now and then, she laughs, soft, startled, almost if she didn’t mean for it to escape. The sound slices straight through the haze of liquor clouding my head, cutting deeper than it should.

I drag my eyes back to the table, gripping my glass tighter.

I focus on the cards in my hand. Not because I care about winning, but because it gives me something to do besides stare like a fucking idiot at a woman I shouldn’t have any interest in.

Cards shuffle and snap against the table’s wooden surface. Fender is dealing, grinning wide like he knows he’s about to take everyone’s money. Riggs watches with a beer in hand, his eyes missing nothing, not even when he looks relaxed.

I toss some bills onto the center of the table.

“Loser’s wearing lipstick this round,” Fender says, slapping the deck down. “Full lips. None of that half-ass swipe of gloss shit.”

Tequila laughs from the couch. “Better pray it’s not you, baby. Your lips are too pretty already.”

Wick grins. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got this.”

Cards hit the table. Stakes are small in the grand scheme, but the tension builds anyway, fed by liquor and laughter. Every man here hates to lose, even when losing means entertainment.

Kiwi shifts in his seat, still wearing the boa, muttering under his breath.

Everest snorts. “You look good, brother. Own it.”

“Damn right.” Kiwi laughs, fluffing the pink feathers.

The hand plays out, and I fold.

“I’m out,” Riggs says.

“Same,” Kiwi lays his cards face down on the table.

Everest and Nova follow suit, leaving Wick and Fender to go head-to-head. When Fender slams down his cards with a victorious bark, Wick curses loud enough to shake the walls.

“Lipstick,” Fender crows, slapping the table. “Red and shiny. You’re wearing it all night.”

London’s laughter cuts through the music. “Oh, this I’ve got to see.”

Wick takes it like a champ, grumbling while Tequila digs through her bag and comes up with a tube of fire-engine red lipstick. She paints it on her man’s lips while the rest of us hoot and holler, phones out, pictures snapping. Wick flips us off, his lips shining brightly. “I’m gonna haunt your fuckin’ dreams tonight, motherfuckers.”

The laughter carries, bouncing around the walls, Ruby included.

I hear her. That soft laugh again. Barely audible under the roar, but I still pick it out, and my fucking gut twists.