Chapter 46: Busted Notes (Caleb POV)
Chapter 46: Busted Notes (Caleb POV)
I’m standing on the wet corner, guitar still in my hands, staring at the cop car’s flashing lights cutting through the rain. Tuesday afternoon’s fading fast, and my chest’s pounding, hard and loud, Torres’s clock ticking down to tomorrow morning. The store owner’s yelling—phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp, “Get them out of here!”—and my stomach twists, cold and tight, watching two cops step out, boots splashing puddles, coming straight for us. Ryan’s beside me, cap dripping, hands in his pockets, slumped and quiet, and my throat’s dry, needing that $200 in my pocket, needing it bad.
The first cop stops close—tall, badge glinting wet, rain soaking his hat—and his voice is flat, loud over the wind, “No permit, no vending. Pack it up.” My hands shake, gripping the guitar neck, blood still sticky on the strings from playing, and my chest burns, hot and fast, stepping forward. “We’re just playing,” I say, loud, voice shaking a little, pointing at the case by my feet, coins and bills wet inside. “Not hurting anyone—need the cash.” My boots slip a bit, concrete slick, and I feel the crowd scatter—people running off, umbrellas up, leaving the street bare.
He doesn’t blink—eyes hard, hand on his belt, pulling out a pad—and my stomach sinks, seeing him write, pen scratching loud. “City code,” he says, stern, flipping the pad open, rain dotting the page. “Unpermitted vending—case and money’s confiscated.” My chest stops, breath gone, and I step closer, fast, voice rising, “What? No—you can’t take it!” My hands shake harder, guitar heavy, and I point at the cash—two hundred bucks, soaked and crumpled, all we’ve got besides the five grand in my jacket.
The second cop moves—shorter, coat shiny with rain—and grabs the case, quick, snapping it shut, coins jingling loud. My throat’s tight, and I lunge, “That’s ours!” loud, reaching for it, but he pulls back, fast, holding it high. “Back off,” he says, sharp, voice cutting through, and my fists clench, shaking bad, wanting to swing, needing that money. Ryan grabs my arm, slow, grip weak but there, pulling me back, voice low, “Caleb, stop—don’t make it worse.” His cap’s low, bruise dark underneath, and my chest hurts, mad and trapped, glaring at the cops.
“Worse?” I yell, loud, twisting free, stepping up again. “They’re taking everything—we’ve got nothing left!” My voice breaks, raw, and my hands shake, fists tight, rain stinging my face. The first cop looks up, slow, pad still out, and his voice stays flat, “Should’ve got a permit. Case is evidence—money too.” He nods at his partner, and the guy tucks the case under his arm, coins rattling soft, walking back to the car, boots loud on the wet street. My stomach twists, cold and sick, watching it go, two hundred gone, Torres’s ten grand farther off.
I step forward, fast, voice loud, “That’s stealing—you’ve got no right!” My hands shake, pointing at them, and my chest’s heaving, breath fast, rain soaking my shirt, cold on my skin. The first cop turns, slow, badge shining, and pulls a ticket from his pad, ripping it off, loud in the quiet. “Here’s your right,” he says, stern, holding it out, “Five hundred bucks—public disturbance, no permit. Pay it or court.” My throat closes, breath stuck, and I stare at the paper—wet, ink smudging—five hundred more, sinking us deeper.
Ryan takes it, slow, hand shaky, voice low, “Caleb, let it go.” His cap drips, eyes tired, and he slumps against me, heavy, pulling me back again. My chest burns, hot and sharp, and my fists shake, wanting to fight, wanting it back, but I stop, slow, boots still, rain pouring hard now. The cop tucks his pad away, firm, and nods at his partner, “Load it up,” loud, walking off, boots splashing, leaving us with nothing. My hands drop, limp, guitar cold in my grip, and my stomach’s hollow, watching the car door slam, case inside, cash gone.
The street’s empty—wind biting, cars honking far off, concrete wet and bare under my feet. My throat’s thick, and I turn to Ryan, slow, voice rough, “Five hundred more—Torres’ll kill us.” My hands shake, guitar heavy, and he nods, slow, cap hiding his face, quiet and tired. The rain’s loud—hitting my jacket, soaking through—and my chest’s tight, feeling the clock, less than a day left, five grand short now, plus a fine we can’t touch. My fingers ache, blood dried on them, and I sling the guitar back, slow, needing a plan, needing something.
Ryan kicks a puddle, soft, water splashing, and his voice is low, “We’re done, man—can’t keep up.” My stomach twists, hearing him fade, and my chest burns, mad and scared, stepping close, “No—we’re not. We’ve got the five, we find more.” My voice shakes, pushing it, and my hands clench, rain dripping off my chin, needing him to hold on. He shrugs, slow, slumped still, and my throat’s dry, watching him, feeling us sink, Torres’s growl loud in my head—two days or worse.
Then a voice cuts through—rough, loud, across the street, “Hey!” My head snaps up, fast, and a guy waves—short, coat torn, standing by a pawn shop, sign flickering weak. My chest jumps, breath quick, and he yells again, “Guitar for sale? I’ll buy—cheap!” My stomach flips, cold and fast, and I glance at Ryan—eyes wide, cap up—last chance to scrape cash, Torres’s clock ticking closer, and the guy waits, hand out, rain soaking him too, calling us over.