Chapter 43: Scramble (Caleb POV)
Chapter 43: Scramble (Caleb POV)
I’m hauling Ryan out of his apartment, arm around his back, his weight heavy against me. It’s Monday night, late, rain soaking us both as we stumble down the stairs, my boots slipping a little on wet metal. Torres’s growl—two days or I take it out of you—rings in my head, and my chest’s tight, pushing me to move. The broken guitar’s still on the floor up there, strings curled, wood smashed, and my stomach twists, mad and scared, needing to get us out of this. Ryan’s quiet, hungover, steps slow, bruise dark on his face, and I grip him tighter, pulling him along.
“Got to sober you up,” I say, loud, voice rough, heading for my truck parked crooked across the street. The rain’s cold, dripping off my jacket, and my hands shake, unlocking the door, shoving him in. He slumps in the seat, head back, eyes half-shut, and I climb in, fast, starting the engine, wipers slapping quick against the wet glass. My throat’s dry, and I glance at him, breathing hard, needing him sharp, needing us together.
The diner’s a few blocks away—neon sign buzzing weak, windows fogged—and I pull in, tires crunching gravel, rain tapping steady on the roof. “Come on,” I say, quiet, grabbing his arm, pulling him out. He stumbles, slow, boots splashing puddles, and I lead him inside, door jingling loud behind us. The place is greasy—air thick with fry oil, seats torn red vinyl, tables sticky under my hands. My chest’s still tight, and I shove him into a booth, sliding in across, watching him slump, cap low over his eyes.
The waitress comes over—short hair, apron stained, pen tapping her pad. “Coffee,” I say, sharp, nodding at Ryan, “and water.” She nods, slow, eyeing us—my soaked jacket, his bruised face—and walks off, shoes squeaking on the tile. My hands rest on the table, shaky, and I lean forward, voice low, “We’ve got 48 hours—ten grand—or Torres comes back worse.” My throat’s tight, and I see the guitar again, smashed, kicking at our feet, making me push harder.
Ryan looks up, slow, eyes bleary, red from drinking. “Ten grand?” he mutters, voice slurring a little, hands flat on the table, trembling. “We’re broke, Caleb—nothing left.” His cap shifts, showing that bruise, purple and swollen, and my stomach sinks, cold, hearing him give up. The diner’s warm—coffee stale in the air, rain tapping the window—but my chest burns, hot and fast, needing him with me.
“We’ll find it,” I say, loud, leaning closer. “Sell stuff—your truck, my gear—whatever we’ve got.” My voice shakes, sharp, and my hands clench, nails digging my palms, thinking fast. The waitress drops the coffee, mug clinking loud, and water, glass sweating, and I push it at him, “Drink—clear your head.” He stares, slow, then grabs the water, sipping weak, hands shaky on the glass.
“My truck?” he says, quiet, setting it down, voice rough. “Last thing I’ve got—dad’s old ride.” His eyes drop, staring at the table, scratched and sticky, and my chest hurts, sharp, knowing what it means to him. The rain’s louder—hitting the glass hard, streaking down—and my throat’s thick, pushing past his hold on it, needing him to see.
“We’ve got no choice,” I say, low, voice cracking. “Torres’ll take more than a truck—he’ll break us, Ryan.” My hands shake, resting flat, and I lean in, close, staring at him. “It’s us—together—or nothing. Sell it, my amp, whatever, we hit ten grand.” My breath’s fast, chest tight, and I see him waver, eyes wet, fighting it, clinging to that last piece.
He rubs his face, slow, hands rough on his stubble, and nods, barely there, voice low, “Okay.” My stomach twists, relief mixing with hurt, and I sit back, slow, coffee mug warm under my fingers. The diner’s quiet—jukebox off, a guy at the counter slurping soup, rain drumming steady—and my head’s spinning, planning quick, needing it to work. “Good,” I say, quiet, sipping the coffee, stale and bitter, watching him drink more water, slow, waking up.
“We start tomorrow,” I say, loud, setting the mug down, clinking soft. “Truck first—then my stuff. We’ve got 48 hours, we move fast.” My voice shakes, pushing it, and my hands clench, restless, feeling the clock tick. Ryan nods again, slow, cap hiding his eyes, and my chest’s heavy, glad he’s in, scared it’s not enough. The waitress hovers—watching us, pen tapping—and I ignore her, staring at him, needing him to hold on.
The guy at the counter shifts—big, jacket patched, spoon clattering loud—and looks over, slow, eyes sharp. My stomach tightens, and I glance at him, quick, then back to Ryan, voice low, “We’ll make it—got to.” My hands shake, lifting the mug again, and he overhears, sliding off his stool, boots scuffing, walking over slow. My chest stops, breath caught, and he stops by our table, voice rough, “Selling a truck?”
I look up, fast, hands still, and nod, slow, “Yeah—need cash quick.” My throat’s tight, and he leans in, close, smelling like smoke and grease, eyes flicking between us. “Got five grand,” he says, quiet, patting his pocket, “if it runs.” My stomach jumps, cold and fast, and I glance at Ryan—eyes wide, cap up now—knowing it’s half, only half, of what Torres wants.
“Five?” I say, loud, voice shaking, leaning forward. “Need more—ten total.” My hands clench, coffee sloshing a little, and he shrugs, slow, stepping back, boots loud on the tile. “Take it or leave it,” he says, flat, turning away, heading for the door. My chest burns, and I watch him go—rain swallowing his shape outside—leaving us stuck, five short, with a choice to chase or sit, 48 hours ticking down fast.