Chapter 50: Caught Cold (Caleb POV)
Chapter 50: Caught Cold (Caleb POV)
I’m crouched low by the couch in Ryan’s apartment, Tuesday night slipping into Wednesday, my hands clutching the $7,500 tight against my chest. The doorknob rattles—sharp, loud, metal clicking fast—and my stomach drops, cold and heavy, locking me in place. Ryan’s beside me, cap off, eyes wide, breathing quick and shaky, and my throat’s tight, hearing the lock pick twist, knowing we’re done. My chest’s pounding, hard and fast, and my hands shake, cash crinkling soft, Torres’s deadline hours away, $7,500 so close to ten grand, yet so far.
The door flies open—hard, banging the wall—and my head snaps up, heart jumping to my throat. A guy storms in—not Torres, but big, bigger than him—boots scuffing the floor loud, jacket dark and wet, fists clenched ready. My stomach twists, cold and sick, and I stand, fast, shoving the cash deeper in my jacket, “Who are you?” My voice shakes, loud, stepping forward, boots crunching glass from before. Ryan scrambles up, slow, hands out, shaky, and the air’s thick—stale, sour with fear.
“Miles’s new guy,” he snarls, voice rough, stepping close, eyes hard like steel. My chest burns, hot and quick, and my hands clench, “We’ve got nothing—signed it all away!” My voice cracks, raw, and I push forward, needing to keep the cash, needing it bad. He laughs—short, mean, boots loud—and grabs my shirt, fast, yanking me up, “Ten grand by morning—or Miles sics Torres anyway.” My throat closes, breath gone, and his fist flies—quick, hard—crashing into my jaw, pain exploding sharp.
I stumble back—head spinning, lip splitting, blood hot on my chin—and my hands shake, swinging wild, hitting air. He’s fast—fists pounding my chest, my gut, knocking wind out—and my knees buckle, hitting the floor hard, wood cold under me. “Stop!” Ryan yells, loud, voice cracking, lunging forward, but the guy turns, quick, slamming a boot into Ryan’s ribs, dropping him fast. My stomach lurches, seeing him fall—groaning, curling tight, hands on his side—and my chest’s tight, crawling to him, blood dripping from my lip.
“Where’s it at?” the guy growls, loud, stepping over, boots scuffing close. My hands shake, holding my jacket shut, cash crinkling loud, and my throat’s dry, “Nothing—leave us!” My voice breaks, weak, and he grabs me again—hard, fist in my collar—ripping the jacket open, cash spilling out, bills fluttering to the floor. My chest stops, cold washing over, and I claw at him—fingers slipping, nails scraping leather—but he snatches it quick, stuffing $7,500 in his pocket, smirking big.
“That’s mine!” I yell, loud, lunging up, fists swinging, hitting his arm, solid like rock. He shoves me back—hard, fast—crashing me into the couch, springs creaking loud, and my head bangs the wall, dizzy and hot. My lip bleeds more, dripping on my shirt, and my hands shake, pushing up slow, watching him turn to Ryan—curled still, ribs aching, face pale. “Full ten by morning,” he snarls, loud, kicking a can across the room, clattering sharp, “or Torres finishes you.” My stomach sinks, cold and deep, and my chest’s heaving, staring at him, helpless.
He stomps out—boots loud, door banging shut—and my throat’s thick, breath short, crawling to Ryan, hands shaky on his arm. “You okay?” I say, quiet, voice rough, pulling him up slow, blood wet on my chin. He nods, slow, coughing hard, hand on his ribs, “Yeah—hurts, but yeah.” My chest hurts, sharp, and I sit him up, leaning close, feeling the room spin—cans scattered, chair busted, cash gone again. My hands shake, wiping my lip, smearing blood, and my stomach’s hollow, back to zero, Torres’s clock ticking louder.
The apartment’s a mess—curtains shut, floor creaking, air heavy with sweat and defeat—and my throat’s tight, looking around, nothing left to sell, nothing to fight with. My chest’s tight, bruised and sore, and my hands clench, empty now, $7,500 snatched quick, leaving us broke, battered. Ryan’s breathing slow—ragged, pained—and my stomach twists, mad and lost, needing a way out, needing something before morning hits. My lip stings, blood drying sticky, and my head’s heavy, leaning on the couch, feeling us sink, deep and cold.
“We’re done,” I mutter, low, voice breaking, staring at the floor, boots scuffed and wet. My hands shake, resting limp, and my chest’s hollow, Torres’s threat—take it out of you—ringing loud, no cash, no time. Ryan coughs again—hard, wincing, hand pressing his ribs—and my throat’s dry, watching him, needing him okay, needing us to hold on. The room’s quiet—wind soft outside, cans still—and my stomach’s churning, back to zero, Miles winning again, kicking us down.
Then Ryan shifts—slow, groaning, pointing shaky at the couch, “There—under.” My chest jumps, head snapping down, and I look—flyer, crumpled, sticking out, Benji’s name in bold. My hands shake, pulling it free—paper damp, torn—and my throat’s tight, reading quick, “Gig—tomorrow night, bar downtown.” My stomach flips, small and fast, and Ryan coughs, voice rough, “Benji—might help, if we dodge Torres.” My chest lifts, bruised but stirring, a chance, thin and far, but there, if we can make it through the night.