Chapter 54: Hideout Deal (Caleb POV)
Chapter 54: Hideout Deal (Caleb POV)
I’m limping into Benji’s apartment, my arm under Ryan’s, helping him through the door. My chest’s tight, bruised from the collector, and my lip stings, blood flaking off as I move. Ryan’s heavy—ribs sore, coughing soft—and my stomach twists, Torres’s black truck circling outside, dawn deadline close, ten grand still out of reach. My boots thud on the floor—wood scratched, creaking loud—and my throat’s dry, pushing us in fast, needing safe, needing Benji’s plan to hold. The air hits me—stale beer, smoke thick—and my hands shake, shutting the door, chain rattling soft behind us.
Benji’s ahead—guitar leaning on the wall, tossing keys on a table—and my chest jumps, watching him turn, eyes flicking to Ryan, slumped against me. “Sit,” he says, quick, pointing at the couch, and my throat’s tight, helping Ryan down, cushions sinking deep under him. My jaw’s bruised, aching bad, and my stomach’s churning, sitting slow beside him, boots scuffing the rug, worn and sticky. The place is tight—amp cords coil across the floor, posters peeling off walls—and my hands clench, needing to talk, needing the gig to work.
“Shank’s Dive,” I say, loud, voice shaky, leaning forward, “Tell us—everything.” My chest burns, fierce and fast, and my throat’s dry, staring at Benji, needing it clear, needing cash before Torres finds us. He nods, slow, grabbing a chair—wobbly, scratched—pulling it close, sitting hard. “Biker joint—far edge of town, three grand split three ways,” he says, rough, hands rubbing his jeans, “Rough crowd, big pay—play tomorrow night, we’re good.” My stomach lifts, $1,000 each, and my hands shake, picturing it, needing it bad.
“Rough’s okay,” I say, sharp, voice cracking, “We’ve got nothing—need that grand.” My jaw’s set, bruised but firm, and my chest’s tense, glancing at Ryan—cap low, hands on his knees, shaky still. He nods, slow, voice low, “Yeah—if you say,” rough and tired, and my throat’s thick, glad he’s in, scared he’s fading. “Good,” Benji says, loud, leaning back, “But—catch.” My stomach twists, cold and quick, and my hands clench, “What catch?” My voice shakes, sharp, needing it straight, needing no tricks.
“Griff—owner,” Benji says, slow, voice dropping, “Wants trust—gear from you, debt I owe him.” My chest stops, breath caught, and my throat’s tight, “Gear? What gear?” My hands shake, leaning closer, jaw aching as I talk. He looks at Ryan—slow, eyes steady—“Harmonica—your dad’s old one, he knows you’ve got it.” My stomach sinks, cold and fast, and my head snaps to Ryan—eyes wide, hands shaking bad, cap up now. “No,” Ryan says, loud, voice cracking, “Not that—last thing I’ve got.”
My chest burns, hot and sharp, and my hands clench, “Ryan—we need this gig, no choice.” My voice shakes, fierce, pushing him, needing him to see, needing that $1,000. His hands shake more—fists tight, digging his pockets—and my throat’s dry, watching him pull it out—small, scratched, silver glinting dim. “Dad’s,” he says, rough, holding it close, “All I kept—can’t.” My stomach twists, hurt and mad, and my jaw’s set, “Torres’ll kill us—dawn’s coming, we’re broke.” My voice cracks, loud, leaning in, needing him to give it up.
“Benji owes it,” Ryan says, sharp, glaring at him, “Not me—why mine?” My chest tightens, and my hands shake, “Because we’re in it—together, need the gig.” My voice shakes, pushing hard, and my throat’s thick, seeing him waver, eyes wet, holding it tight. Benji strums—nervous, soft, strings buzzing—and my stomach’s churning, “Griff won’t trust us—Benji says it, we trade, we play.” My hands clench, fierce and sure, needing Ryan in, needing this to hold.
He stares—slow, cap hiding his eyes again—and my chest’s pounding, waiting, needing him to agree, needing that grand to fight Torres off. “Fine,” he says, low, voice breaking, “If it’s us—take it.” My stomach jumps, relief mixing hurt, and my throat’s tight, watching him set it down—slow, careful, silver catching light. “Good,” I say, quick, voice rough, nodding at Benji, “Tell Griff—deal’s on.” My hands shake, resting on my knees, and my jaw aches, bruised but steady, feeling the tension rise, air heavy now.
Benji nods—fast, grabbing a beer, popping it loud—“I’ll call, set it up, tomorrow night’s locked.” My chest lifts, small and fierce, and my throat’s dry, “We play hard—get that cash, dodge Torres.” My voice shakes, pushing it, and my hands clench, needing rest, needing this shot. The couch sinks—Ryan shifting, quiet now, hands empty—and my stomach twists, glad he’s in, mad he’s hurt, harmonica sitting there, cold and still. My jaw’s tight, and my chest burns, broke but fighting, gig our only way now.
Then Ryan stands—fast, hard, slamming the harmonica on the table, wood banging loud—and my chest stops, “Ryan!” I yell, sharp, reaching out, voice cracking. He walks—boots stomping, door swinging wide—and my stomach drops, cold and fast, calling after, “Wait—we’re in this!” My hands shake, half up, watching him go, cap low, shoulders stiff, out into the hall. Benji’s phone buzzes—loud, sharp, screen lighting up—and my throat’s tight, hearing him say, “Griff—gig’s on,” as Ryan’s steps fade, tension cutting us deep.