Page 1 of Catcher

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CATCHER

Nightlife in New Orleans is loud and unapologetic. Out here on Bourbon Street, it’s a different kind of heartbeat—drums pounding from a jazz club down the street, bass thumping from a strip joint across the way, voices layered in drunk laughter, shouts, and the occasional glass breaking on the pavement. The air carries everything at once, along with spilled beer, sweat, fried food, the sweet burn of weed, and that wet, rotten smell that never really leaves the city.

I lean against the brick wall outside Twisted Throttle, arms crossed, watching the river of humanity stumble by. Neon lights splash the street in every color, and the music never stops. It’s as if the city refuses to let you quietly breathe, which is fine by me.

Because quiet is where ghosts slip in.

A couple of tourists stagger past, beads tangled around their necks, plastic cups sloshing with high-priced liquor. One of them bumps into my shoulder. He spins, taking a good, long look at me, sizing me up, his gaze pausing on the cut stretched tight across my back. He mumbles a slurred apology before scurrying on his way.

Smart man.

The door swings open behind me, spilling out Lynyrd Skynyrd and the warm haze of booze and smoke. Everest steps out, stretching his shoulders, cigarette pack in hand. Similar to me, he’s a mountain of a man, built as if he could bench press the street if it pissed him off.

“Crowd is thick tonight,” he says, shaking out a smoke and lighting it, then offering one to me.

I grunt, slide a smoke from the pack, and light it up. That’s about as talkative as I get, and Everest knows it.

He takes a drag, exhaling toward the sky, letting the smoke curl up past the glow of the bar sign. “You’re quiet even for you,” he says, side-eyeing me. “Somethin’ on your mind, brother?”

I shrug. Truth is, there’s always something on my mind. Always someone. But I don’t say it. My silence is answer enough.

Everest nods and leans back against the building beside me. We don’t need to speak because sometimes, our silence says more than words.

Across the street, a brass band picks up, horns cutting sharp through the night. A group of girls in glitter heels shrieks and laughs as they stumble across the street in our direction. One of them catches sight of me, slows her steps, and looks me up and down. I give her a quick glance, taking in her curves and tits spilling out of her top. For a second, I entertain the idea of her in my bed, but the thought is fleeting, and she continues on her way, giving me a last look over her shoulder before disappearing amongst the patrons.

The crowd surges again with drunken laughter as a few men push through it, bikers wearing leather vests with no colors.

Bourbon Street attracts all kinds of people, including drifters, bikers without a home, and men looking to start something. These fucking wannabes are no different.

Everest clocks them too. “You seein’ what I’m seein’?”

“Yeah.” I watch the group shove their way past patrons as though they own the fucking place. They cut across the street, heading for Twisted Throttle. I straighten off the wall, uncrossing my arms, my posture enough of a warning. Everest doesn’t move.

The first one grins, his yellow-stained teeth showing through his beard. The others behind him square their shoulders like they’re looking for a fight. The one in front moves to enter the bar. I lift my arm, blocking him and his men from entering. “Respect the house,” I tell him, voice flat.

He smirks but nods. I lower my arm, and his men follow him inside. My eyes track every step until the door swings shut behind them.

Everest takes another drag of his smoke. “Gonna be one of those nights?”

“Maybe,” I mumble, but my gut already knows better.

My job tonight is simple—make sure no one drags their bullshit inside, but it doesn’t mean the night will stay peaceful. Unfortunately, nights in New Orleans never are, and I’m pretty sure trouble just walked in.

I take a final drag from the cigarette, savoring the last bit of smoke, then flick it to the ground and snuff it out under the toe of my boot. I glance at Everest, adjust my cut, and walk inside.

Twisted Throttle is packed shoulder to shoulder. Beer glasses are clinking, and music is pounding. Then my eyes cut straight to the table where the bikers planted themselves. The ugly motherfucker who grinned at me outside downs a couple of shots, slamming the glass down hard against the table’s surface while his men cheer him on. I scan the room, clocking my brothers’ locations. Riggs is stationed at his table near the back of the bar, keeping watch with that sharp-eyed calm of his, along with Wick. Fender just finished his last set for the night and is at the bar downing a beer with Nova. Kiwi is the only brother not here tonight.

For the next hour, I hang back near the bar’s entrance, watching and waiting. Then the leader leans back in his chair and brings himself close to a woman standing at the bar. She’s a local girl who is a regular and works at a diner down the block. The biker attempts to gain her attention, tugging at the hem of her skirt. The young lady turns and looks at him, her body language screaming she’s not interested, but the biker doesn’t give a damn. His hand snakes around her thigh, trying to pull her in.

She jerks free, saying something to him, but it’s too loud for me to hear. He throws his head back in laughter. His men join in, clearly egging him on. The music covers most of it, but the tension of the situation cuts through.

I don’t think. I move.

Before I can make it across the room, the biker rises from his seat and attempts to touch her again, and the woman pushes his chest back with her palm. He grabs her wrist. And then—crack. Her hand flies across his face, snapping his head sideways.

Then his grin curdles into something darker.