Chapter 44: Half Measures (Caleb POV)
Chapter 44: Half Measures (Caleb POV)
I’m standing in a wet alley, Tuesday morning early, rain from last night still dripping off the walls. My boots splash in puddles, cold soaking through, and Ryan’s next to me, cap low, hands stuffed in his pockets. The guy from the diner’s here—big, jacket patched, breath fogging in the chill—leaning on Ryan’s truck, keys dangling in his grubby hand. My chest’s tight, 48 hours ticking down from Torres’s threat, and my stomach twists, needing this to work. The alley’s dark—puddles reflecting neon from a bar sign, air cold and sharp—and my hands shake, waiting for the cash.
“Five grand,” the guy says, voice rough, pulling a wad of bills from his coat, crumpled and thick. My throat’s dry, and I step forward, slow, boots scuffing wet concrete, reaching for it. Ryan’s quiet, too quiet, staring at the truck—old, scratched, his dad’s last piece—and my chest hurts, knowing what it means to him. The guy counts it quick—hundreds, fifties, thumbs dirty—and shoves it at me, nodding at the truck, “Runs good?”
“Yeah,” I say, loud, voice shaky, taking the cash, feeling it rough in my hands. “Gets you anywhere—just need the money fast.” My fingers grip the bills, cold and damp, and I glance at Ryan, slow, seeing him flinch, eyes on the tailgate, rusted but his. The guy grunts, low, tossing the keys up, catching them, and my stomach jumps, half the ten grand in my hand, half still out there with Torres waiting.
Ryan steps up, slow, voice low, “That’s it then.” His hands shake, pulling from his pockets, and he rubs his face, bruise dark under the cap, hungover still. My throat’s tight, and I nod, fast, stuffing the cash in my jacket, needing him with me. “We’ve got five,” I say, sharp, turning to him. “Busk with my guitar—hit the streets, make the rest.” My voice cracks, hopeful, and I feel the alley close in—walls wet, neon buzzing soft overhead.
“Busk?” he says, quiet, looking at me, eyes hollow. “Won’t work, Caleb—five grand in a day?” His voice shakes, rough, and he kicks a puddle, water splashing soft, doubt heavy in him. My chest burns, hot and fast, and I step closer, boots loud, grabbing his shoulder, firm. “It’ll work,” I say, loud, shaking him a little. “We’ve got no choice—play hard, people pay.” My hands tremble, cash crinkling in my pocket, and I need him to believe it, need us to move.
He stares, slow, then nods, barely there, hands dropping limp. “Fine,” he mutters, voice flat, stepping back, looking at the truck one last time. My stomach twists, relief mixing with hurt, and I turn to the guy, nodding quick, “Take it.” The guy smirks, small, climbing in, engine rumbling loud as it starts, tailpipe coughing black. My chest’s heavy, watching it roll away—tires splashing, neon fading on the hood—and Ryan’s still, cap hiding his eyes, hollow as it goes.
We’re left on foot, alley quiet now, just us and the cash, five grand in crumpled bills. My hands shake, pulling it out, counting slow—fifties, hundreds, some twenties—stuffing it back quick, safe in my jacket. “We’ve got this,” I say, loud, voice shaky, turning to Ryan. “Guitar’s at Diane’s—grab it, hit a corner, make it fast.” My throat’s tight, and I feel the clock—Torres’s 48 hours, half gone—and my legs itch to move, needing more.
Ryan shrugs, slow, boots scuffing, “If you say so.” His voice is low, tired, and my chest burns, mad at his doubt, pushing harder. “I do,” I say, sharp, stepping out of the alley, rain starting again, soft on my face. The street’s ahead—cars rolling, lights red and green—and my hands clench, cash heavy in my pocket, hope thin but there. “We’re not done,” I mutter, low, glancing at him, needing him in, needing us together.
He follows, slow, head down, and we walk, wet and cold, counting what we’ve got. My mind’s racing—guitar, streets, people tossing coins—and my stomach’s tight, knowing five grand’s not enough, knowing we’ve got to scrape the rest. The alley’s behind us—puddles still, neon dim—and my hands shake, holding the bills close, feeling Ryan beside me, shaky but here. My throat’s dry, and I swallow hard, pushing forward, hoping it’s enough, hoping we make it.
Then headlights cut the dark—bright, glaring, sweeping over us—and my chest stops, breath caught. A cop car rolls up, slow, tires hissing on wet pavement, stopping close, window down. My hands freeze, cash hidden, and the cop leans out, voice flat, “What’re you doing here?” My stomach sinks, cold, and I glance at Ryan—eyes wide, cap up—fines still haunting us, old debts biting back. “Just walking,” I say, loud, voice shaking, stepping forward, but he squints, not buying it, hand on his radio, waiting.