Chapter 42: Cornered (Caleb POV)
Chapter 42: Cornered (Caleb POV)
I’m sitting on Ryan’s couch, shoulder pressed against his, the air sour with whiskey and sweat. It’s Monday night, rain tapping the cracked window, and my chest’s still tight from finding him passed out, bruised and cold. His breathing’s slow now, ragged but steady, and my hands rest on my knees, shaky from pulling him up. The room’s a mess—cans scattered, chair busted, glass glinting on the floor—and we’re quiet, just sitting, broke and together again. My throat’s dry, and I feel it, heavy and close, us against everything.
Then the door bangs—hard, loud, shaking the walls—and my head snaps up, heart jumping fast. Ryan stiffens beside me, eyes wide, and a voice growls, low and rough, “Time’s up, Delgado. Open it.” My stomach drops, cold and quick, and I know it—Torres, back like a storm. My hands clench, fists tight, and I stand, slow, boots crunching glass, stepping toward the door. “Stay there,” I mutter to Ryan, voice low, glancing back. He nods, slow, slumped, face pale under that bruise.
The knock comes again—louder, wood rattling—and I grab the knob, yanking it open fast. Torres fills the frame—big, leather jacket creaking, eyes hard like stone. Two guys stand behind him, shadows in the dim hall, boots scuffing the floor. My chest burns, hot and tight, and I step up, blocking the way, fists ready. “What do you want?” I say, loud, voice shaking a little, staring him down. The air shifts—cold rain smell mixing with his sweat—and my legs feel stiff, planted firm.
He shoves past me, hard, shoulder hitting mine, and storms in, boots stomping loud. “Money,” he says, growl cutting the quiet, turning slow to face us. “Miles says you owe—leftover debts, ten grand. Where is it?” His guys follow, spreading out, one by the window, one near the couch, eyes sharp. My throat’s tight, and I step forward, fast, fists clenching harder. Ryan’s still sitting, head low, hands gripping his knees, hungover and shaky.
“We don’t have it,” I say, loud, stepping closer. “Signed the bar over—debt’s done. Tell Miles he’s got enough.” My voice cracks, mad and raw, and I feel the room shake—boots heavy, Torres’s breath loud. The air’s thick—threats hanging, whiskey spilled on the floor, sour and wet—and my hands tremble, itching to swing. He laughs, short and mean, shaking his head slow, jacket creaking louder.
“Done?” he says, stepping up, face close, breath hot. “Miles pinned extras—fines, interest, crap you didn’t clear. Ten grand, now.” His hand flexes, knuckles scarred, and my chest burns hotter, seeing Ryan flinch behind me. The apartment’s trashed already—cans rolling, glass crunching—and I step forward again, close enough to feel his heat, voice rising.
“That’s a lie,” I yell, loud, shoving his chest, hard. “He set us up—fake records, all of it!” My hands push, but he barely moves—solid, smirking—and his guy by the couch grabs me, fast, twisting my arm back. Pain shoots up, sharp, and I twist, kicking free, boots slipping a little, glaring at Torres. Ryan stands, slow, swaying, voice slurring, “Leave him alone.”
Torres turns, quick, and grabs Ryan’s guitar—old, scratched, propped by the wall. My stomach sinks, cold, and I lunge, “No!” loud, but he swings it—hard, fast—smashing it on the floor, wood cracking loud, strings snapping. My chest stops, breath gone, and he kicks the pieces, shards skidding toward us. “Payment,” he says, growl low, stepping over it, boots grinding splinters. My hands shake, fists tight, and I want to hit him, bad, but his guys close in, watching.
He grabs a lamp next—cheap, wobbly, cord dangling—and hurls it, glass shattering loud by the couch. Ryan ducks, slow, hands up, and my throat’s tight, yelling, “Stop it!” My voice breaks, raw, and I shove forward, fists swinging, hitting air. Torres catches my arm, hard, twisting it back, pain biting deep, and he leans close, voice low, “Forty-eight hours—ten grand, or worse.” His grip’s iron, eyes cold, and he lets go, shoving me back, hard, into the wall.
My back hits, plaster cool, and I slide a little, breathing fast, staring at him. The room’s wrecked—guitar in bits, lamp glass shining, cans kicked everywhere—and Ryan’s slumped again, head in his hands, bruise dark on his face. Torres turns, slow, boots stomping, and his guys follow, shadows moving out. My chest heaves, hands shaking bad, and I step forward, slow, fists still clenched, watching him stop at the door.
“Two days,” he says, loud, kicking the broken guitar again, pieces bouncing at our feet. “Or I take it out of you.” His growl hangs, heavy, and he storms out, door banging shut, hall quiet after. My legs shake, and I drop to my knees, slow, staring at the wreckage—strings curled, wood snapped, glass glinting wet. Ryan’s quiet, breathing hard, and my throat’s thick, chest burning, looking at him, then the mess, broke and cornered tight.