Chapter 59: Bar Ties (Caleb POV)
Chapter 59: Bar Ties (Caleb POV)
My boots grind gravel in the lot, and my fists flex tight. My breath puffs short and hot, and my chest aches from old bruises. I yank my phone from my pocket and jab Ryan's name with my thumb. The screen glows dim, and the call buzzes loud. My throat scratches raw, still hoarse from yelling, and my jaw throbs, stiff under the swollen lip. I wait for him to pick up, needing him to answer after Griff blocked me. The line hums once, twice, five times, then clicks dead. The voicemail kicks in, and my stomach twists cold and hard. I slam the phone back, the screen smacking my palm.
I spin fast, and gravel spits under my heels as I march to Benji's van. The door creaks as I rip it open and climb inside. I slam my hands on the wheel. The plastic is cold and rattling loose. The engine sputters alive, growling rough, and tires crunch as I peel out. Shank's neon shrinks in the mirror. My chest heaves, mad and hurt. I picture Ryan with Griff, running another delivery, skipping me again, choosing that over us. Sweat beads on my neck, and I crank the window down. The wind whistles sharp. I need Benji, need his place, need something to fight with.
The road blurs. Streetlights streak yellow, and tires hum on cracked pavement. I jerk the wheel, pulling into Benji's lot. Gravel pops loud beneath me. I kick the door open, the metal banging wide, and jump out. My boots thud hard, and stairs clang under my weight as I climb fast. My hands brush the cold rail. My throat tightens, dry and sore, and I shove his door wide. The wood scrapes the frame as I step in. The air hits me, thick with smoke and stale coffee. Benji hunches over the table. Papers stack high, and his pencil scratches fast. My chest jumps as I drop onto the couch. The springs groan loud under me.
"He's not answering," I growl, my voice cracking rough. My elbows dig into my knees, and my hands rake through my sweaty, tangled hair. My fists shake, and I slam them on the table. The wood wobbles, and papers slide. "Running for Griff again. Screw him." Benji looks up, his eyes steady, and his pencil pauses. He slides a stack toward me. The pages rustle soft. "Miles's tax records," he says. "Evasion, big numbers. Got 'em today." My breath catches, sharp and quick, and I grab the sheets. The ink is smudged, and numbers sprawl. I scan fast, hope cutting through the haze.
I flip pages, my fingers trembling. The paper crinkles loud. "He dodged taxes?" I ask. "How much?" My voice breaks, hoarse and fierce, and my jaw clicks sore as I lean closer. I need this to hit Miles hard. "Thousands," Benji mutters. He taps a line, and his pencil smudges ink. "Twenty grand at least. Faked debts too. Proof's stacking." My chest lifts, hot and fast, and I slap the table. Papers flutter. "Good," I say. "Keep digging. Bury him." My throat burns, dry as dust, and I clench the records. I need this win. I need Ryan here for it. I'm mad he's not.
My boots scuff the rug as I push myself up, pacing tight. My stomach churns. "He's with Griff," I say. "Another run, $800 this time probably." My voice shakes, rough and mad, and I kick the couch. Dust puffs up. I picture him, his boots kicking dust, hauling boxes for Griff, laughing like I'm gone. Benji nods slowly, stacking more papers. "Garage last time, dock before," he says. "Quick cash. He's in deep." My throat closes, and cold washes over me. I punch the wall. The plaster dents soft. "Told him no," I growl. "Shady crap. He didn't listen." My chest heaves, hurt slicing deep. I need him back. I need us together.
I grab the keys. The metal bites my palm and jingles loud. I stride to the door, and the wood bangs wide as I step out. "Going back," I say. "Make him talk." My voice cracks, fierce and raw, and I pound down the stairs. Metal rattles, cold under my boots. I climb into the van, and the engine roars awake, shaking my frame. My hands twist the wheel hard, and tires spin gravel. I gun it back to Shank's, my chest burning mad. Sweat drips down my spine. I need him out of there. I need him with me.
The lot glows ahead. Neon hums red, and bottles clink faint through the walls. I brake sharp, and gravel sprays. The engine cuts rough as I leap out. My boots slam the ground. My throat tightens as I spot Griff's truck. It's dusty, parked tight. Ryan steps out, his cap tilted, grinning big. Dust swirls around his boots. My chest stops, and my breath hitches. I watch him, imagining him hauling crates earlier, $800 in his pocket now. Griff's arm slings over his shoulder, pulling him close. They laugh loud. My jaw locks, and my teeth grind sore. My fists shake as I see him nod, happy there, not here.
I charge forward. My boots pound gravel, and my hands flex. My stomach twists, cold and sick, as I hear Griff's voice boom. "Good run," he says. "My crew now, kid." My throat burns, dry and raw, and I slam my fist on the door. The wood shudders loud. "Ryan!" I yell. "Come out!" My voice breaks, fierce and hot. I need him back. I need this to stop. Ryan laughs, loud and sharp, echoing inside. I watch through the glass as Griff locks the door. The bolt clicks shut. Ryan grins with them, his cap bobbing, cutting me out. My hands snatch a rock, cold and rough. I hurl it hard. The window cracks loud, spiderwebbing fast. I shout his name. "Ryan!" We are split wide open now.