Chapter 47: Strings for Sale (Caleb POV)
Chapter 47: Strings for Sale (Caleb POV)
I’m standing in the rain, Tuesday afternoon fading, staring at the pawn shop across the street. The cop’s ticket—five hundred bucks—burns in my pocket, and the $200 we scraped is gone, snatched with my guitar case. My hands grip the guitar tight, wet and cold, last piece of The Static’s music, and my chest’s heavy, Torres’s deadline less than a day away. Ryan’s beside me, cap dripping, bruise dark on his face, and my stomach twists, needing cash, needing him with me. The pawn guy’s wave—I’ll buy cheap—echoes in my head, and I nod, slow, “Let’s go,” voice rough, stepping off the curb, boots splashing.
The shop’s dim inside—glass cases scratched, shelves dusty, air thick with old metal and smoke. My boots squeak on the tile, and Ryan follows, quiet, hands in his pockets, staying close. The clerk’s behind the counter—short, smirk sharp, eyes flicking to my guitar—and my throat’s tight, setting it down slow, wood thunking soft on the glass. “How much?” I say, loud, voice shaky, fingers lingering on the neck, scratched and worn from years. My chest hurts, sharp, feeling the strings under my hand, music we played gone with The Static.
He leans in, slow, squinting at it, hands grubby on the counter. “Three hundred,” he says, flat, tapping the glass, smirk widening a little. My stomach sinks, cold and fast, and my hands shake, pulling back slow, “That’s it? Worth more—played it for years.” My voice cracks, raw, and I see The Static—crowds loud, Ryan grinning—fading with it. He shrugs, slow, “Take it or leave it—looks beat.” My chest burns, hot, and I glance at Ryan, eyes tired, cap low, waiting.
“Take it,” Ryan says, quiet, voice cracking too, stepping up. “We need it, Caleb—keep going.” His hand brushes my arm, light, and my throat’s thick, nodding slow, pushing the guitar over, wood sliding cold on the glass. The clerk counts cash—hundreds, fifties, crumpled and old—and my hands shake, taking it, stuffing it in my jacket, $5,500 now, half Torres’s ten grand. My stomach twists, gutted, watching him grab it, tossing it on a shelf, strings glinting dim in the dark.
We step out, rain hitting my face, cold and sharp, and my chest’s hollow, guitar gone, last tie cut. Ryan’s close, shoulder brushing mine, and my throat’s dry, needing something, needing us. “Dinner,” he says, low, pointing at a diner down the street, neon buzzing weak. “Cheap—old times, you know.” My chest lifts, small and warm, and I nod, slow, “Yeah—let’s do it.” My hands shake, cash heavy in my pocket, and we walk, boots splashing, rain soaking us more.
The diner’s small—greasy air, seats cracked red, tables wobbly under my elbows. We slide in, close, knees touching under the table, and my stomach growls, empty too long. The waitress drops menus—plastic, sticky—and I order fries, a burger, coffee, keeping it cheap, Ryan nodding same. My hands rest on the table, shaky still, and I look at him—bruise fading, eyes soft—and my chest warms, old nights at The Static flashing back, us laughing, free. “Remember closing shifts?” I say, quiet, voice rough, smiling a little.
“Yeah,” he says, low, cracking a grin, small but there. “Spilling beer, counting tips—good times.” His hand brushes mine, quick, and my throat’s tight, feeling it, us again, even broke and down. The food comes—fries hot, burger greasy, coffee bitter—and we eat slow, quiet, knees pressed close, rain tapping the window soft. My chest’s light, just for now, and I sip the coffee, warm in my hands, holding onto this, needing it before Torres’s shadow hits again.
“Got to keep going,” Ryan says, quiet, wiping his mouth, voice stronger. “Borrow a car—odd jobs, make the rest.” My stomach jumps, relieved, and I nod, fast, “Benji’s got one—old beater, but it runs.” My hands clench, cash safe, and we finish, slow, paying with a ten, leaving coins on the table, warm and full, ready to move. The diner’s quiet—waitress wiping counters, rain steady—and my chest’s tight, dinner fading, Torres’s ten grand looming big.
We call Benji—phone booth outside, rain drumming the glass—and he says yes, car’s ours for the day, dropping it off quick. My throat’s dry, and we wait, leaning on the wall, wet and cold, $5,500 in my pocket, half there, half short. The car rolls up—old, blue, rattling loud, exhaust puffing—and my chest lifts, small hope, climbing in, Ryan driving slow. “Jobs—hauling, whatever,” I say, loud, voice shaky, hands on the dash, needing it to work, needing more.
We hit a warehouse first—load boxes, sweat soaking my shirt, $50 each, cash fast in my hand. My chest’s tight, counting quick—$5,600 now—and we drive again, car rattling hard, chasing more. Ryan’s quiet, hands steady on the wheel, and my stomach’s churning, day slipping, Torres’s clock loud in my head. We pull into a lot—delivery run, $75 promised—and my hands shake, unloading quick, rain starting again, light but cold. “Almost six,” I mutter, low, stuffing bills in, feeling the grind, pushing us on.
Then the car coughs—loud, rough, smoke pouring thick from the hood—and my chest stops, breath gone, slamming the dash hard. Ryan pulls over, fast, into an empty lot, tires crunching gravel, and it dies, rattling quiet, steam hissing out. My hands shake, popping the hood, smoke stinging my eyes, and my stomach sinks, cold and fast, stranded here, hours slipping away. “No,” I yell, loud, voice breaking, kicking the tire, hard, Torres’s deadline closing in, smoke thick, time running out.