Chapter 55: Harmonica Trade (Caleb POV)
Chapter 55: Harmonica Trade (Caleb POV)
I’m sitting in Benji’s van, Wednesday afternoon fading fast, my hands gripping the seat, bruised and shaky. My lip’s still sore, blood flaking off, and my chest aches, tight from running, Torres’s dawn deadline past but his truck still out there. Ryan’s beside me—cap low, hands empty, harmonica gone from his pocket—and my stomach twists, feeling him mad, blaming me for last night. Benji drives—van rattling loud, exhaust puffing thick—and my throat’s dry, needing Shank’s Dive, needing that $1,000 gig to fight back. My jaw’s set, and my boots tap the floor, restless, pushing us toward the far edge of town.
The streets blur—houses thin out, road cracks wider—and my chest’s tense, watching Benji turn, slow, into a gravel lot. “There,” he says, rough, nodding ahead, and my stomach jumps, seeing Shank’s—low, gritty, neon buzzing dim. My hands shake, grabbing my guitar—scratched, heavy—and my throat’s tight, stepping out, boots crunching loud, Ryan slow behind me, quiet still. The air’s warm—beer and smoke drifting out, bikes lined up shiny—and my chest burns, fierce and sure, needing this, needing Griff to take the trade.
We walk in—door creaking, floors sticky under my boots—and my eyes squint, lights low, bikers glaring from tables. My jaw’s bruised, aching as I move, and my stomach twists, spotting Griff—big, grin crooked, leaning on the bar. “Benji’s boys,” he says, loud, voice rough, stepping close, eyes flicking to Ryan, “Got it?” My throat’s dry, and my hands clench, nodding quick, “Yeah—harmonica, like you want.” My voice shakes, sharp, and my chest’s tight, pushing Ryan forward, needing him to do it, needing the gig locked.
Ryan stops—slow, hands shaking bad, pulling it out—silver, scratched, glinting dim in the light. “Dad’s,” he says, low, voice cracking, holding it tight, and my stomach sinks, cold and fast, seeing him hurt, mad at me. “Give it,” I say, sharp, stepping closer, “We need this—Torres’ll kill us without it.” My voice shakes, fierce, and my throat’s thick, watching him waver, bikers staring, Griff’s grin widening slow. My hands clench, needing him in, needing that $1,000 bad, dawn gone but danger close.
He hands it over—slow, reluctant, fingers brushing Griff’s—and my chest lifts, relief mixing guilt, watching it glint as Griff takes it, tossing it behind the bar. “Good,” Griff says, loud, clapping hard, “Gig’s on—tonight, three grand split.” My stomach jumps, $1,000 each, and my throat’s dry, nodding fast, “We play hard—deal’s set.” My voice cracks, fierce, and my jaw’s set, bruised but steady, feeling Ryan’s eyes—bitter, cold—burning into me, blaming me for pushing him.
“Rehearse,” Griff says, rough, pointing at the stage—small, scuffed, lights flickering—and my chest’s tense, grabbing my guitar, heading up, Benji behind with sticks. My hands shake, setting it down, strings buzzing soft, and my throat’s tight, turning to Ryan, “Come on—we’ve got this.” My voice shakes, sharp, needing him with me, needing it smooth. He climbs up—slow, quiet, cap hiding his eyes—and my stomach twists, feeling him off, mad still, harmonica gone because of me.
I strum—hard, loud, guitar screeching rough—and my chest burns, starting a song, old one from The Static. My throat’s raw, singing hoarse, and my hands move—fast, shaky, strings biting my fingers. Benji drums—sticks thudding, off-beat a little—and my stomach’s churning, hearing Ryan—quiet, barely playing, just standing there. “Play,” I say, loud, voice cracking, glaring at him, needing him in, needing it tight. He nods—slow, weak, picking a chord, stiff and off-key—and my chest tightens, tense and wrong, bikers watching, muttering low.
Griff leans on the bar—grinning crooked, beer in hand—and my throat’s dry, pushing harder, guitar wailing loud, trying to fix it. My jaw aches, bruised and stiff, and my stomach twists, feeling Ryan fade, bitter and far, not with me. “Sounds like crap,” a biker yells, rough, laughing loud, and my chest burns, hot and mad, strumming faster, needing it good, needing that cash. Benji drums harder—sweat dripping, sticks flying—and my hands shake, song dragging, off and stiff, Ryan’s fault, my fault, harmonica gone.
Then Griff walks over—slow, boots loud, grin tempting—and my stomach jumps, watching him stop by Ryan, voice low, “Extra cash—delivery, boxes tonight, five hundred bucks.” My chest stops, cold washing fast, and my hands freeze—strings buzzing quiet—staring at him, “What?” My voice cracks, sharp, stepping closer, needing to hear, needing no trouble. Ryan looks up—slow, eyes tired but sharp—and my throat’s tight, seeing him think, consider it, harmonica traded and now this.
“Easy run—warehouse, quick,” Griff says, rough, pulling a note from his pocket, handing it to Ryan, “You’re in or not?” My stomach sinks, cold and hard, and my hands shake, lunging fast, “No—give me that!” My voice yells, loud, grabbing the note—paper crumpling, tearing it fast—ripping it up, pieces falling slow. “We’re not doing shady crap!” My chest burns, fierce and mad, and my throat’s tight, staring at Ryan—cap up, eyes hard—shoving me back, hard, hands on my chest, pushing me off the stage.