Chapter 52: Beggar’s Plea (Caleb POV)

Chapter 52: Beggar’s Plea (Caleb POV)

I’m limping down a dark street, my arm under Ryan’s, holding him up. My lip’s swollen, blood dried crusty, and my chest aches from the collector’s fists, every breath sharp and sore. Ryan’s worse, ribs bruised, coughing soft, leaning heavy on me, and my stomach twists, feeling us break, nothing left but pocket change and a crumpled flyer. Torres’s deadline, dawn, ten grand or worse, ticks loud in my head, and my throat’s tight, pushing us toward Benji’s gig, our last shot. My boots drag on wet pavement, slow and heavy, and my hands shake, needing this, needing Benji to save us.
The bar’s up ahead, neon buzzing, Rusty Nail flickering red, and my chest jumps, hearing drums thump loud through the walls. “Almost there,” I say, rough, voice shaky, pulling Ryan faster, his cap low, hiding his eyes. My jaw’s bruised, stiff from the punch, and my stomach’s churning, broke and battered, hoping Benji’s got cash, something to keep Torres off us. The lot’s packed, trucks, bikes, tires shining wet, and my hands clench, flyer crinkling in my pocket, Benji’s name our thin rope now.
We push in, door creaking, air hitting me thick, sweat and beer, and my eyes squint, lights flashing bright, crowd loud and drunk. My chest’s tight, scanning fast, spotting Benji on stage, guitar wailing, sweat shining under the lights, sticks flying on the drums. My throat’s dry, and I limp us through, elbows bumping, boots sticking to the floor, needing him close, needing to talk. Ryan groans, soft, ribs hurting, and my stomach sinks, holding him tighter, weaving past tables, voices yelling over the beat.
I stop near the stage, close, heat blasting off it, and my hands shake, waving at Benji, “Hey!” loud, voice cracking over the noise. He looks down, mid-riff, eyes wide, sweat dripping off his chin, and my chest lifts, small and quick, seeing him nod, quick, keeping the song going. My throat’s tight, and I yell again, “Benji, need you!” My voice shakes, raw, and my jaw’s set, bruised but firm, needing him off that stage, needing cash before dawn hits.
The song ends, crowd roaring, bottles clinking, and my stomach jumps, watching Benji jump down, guitar still slung, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Caleb?” he says, loud, stepping close, eyes flicking to Ryan, slumped against me. My hands shake, pulling the flyer out, holding it up, “Loan, please, we’re done without it.” My voice cracks, desperate, and my chest’s pounding, feeling the clock, Torres’s growl loud in my ears, ten grand we don’t have.
He frowns, slow, looking us over, my bloody lip, Ryan’s pale face, and my throat’s dry, waiting, needing him to say yes. “No cash,” he says, quiet, shaking his head, and my stomach drops, cold and fast, hands clenching the flyer tight. “But, gig,” he adds, loud, leaning in, “Shank’s Dive, across town, tomorrow night, three grand, split three ways.” My chest stops, breath caught, and my head spins, $1,000 each, not enough but something, something to fight with.
“Shank’s?” I say, sharp, voice shaky, stepping closer, “Rough joint, bikers, right?” My hands shake, flyer crinkling more, and my jaw’s bruised, aching as I talk. He nods, fast, sweat shining still, “Yeah, tough crowd, big pay, you play, we split it.” My stomach twists, hope thin but burning, and I glance at Ryan, eyes sinking, ribs sore, needing him in, needing us to take it. “We’re in,” I say, loud, voice fierce, pushing it, “Desperate, got to.”
Ryan nods, slow, coughing soft, “Okay, if you say,” voice rough, leaning heavier, and my chest burns, glad he’s with me, scared it’s not enough. Benji grins, small, clapping my shoulder, “Good, meet me after, we plan.” My throat’s tight, and my hands shake, stuffing the flyer back, feeling the bar loud around us, drums pounding again, crowd yelling, glasses smashing somewhere. My stomach’s churning, $1,000 each, dawn close, Torres hunting, but we’ve got this, a shot now.
I turn to Ryan, slow, holding him up, “We’ll make it, Benji’s got us.” My voice shakes, fierce and sure, and my chest’s tight, bruised but steady, needing rest, needing to move. The bar’s hot, sweat dripping, lights flashing, and my hands clench, flyer safe, Benji jumping back on stage, guitar wailing loud again. My throat’s dry, and I limp us to a table, sticky, wobbly, sitting slow, Ryan groaning soft, waiting for Benji, waiting for a plan, dawn ticking closer.
Then a bang hits, hard, loud, shaking the wall, and my chest stops, head snapping back, hearing Torres shout, “Hart! Delgado!” My stomach drops, cold and fast, and my hands shake, grabbing Ryan, pulling him up quick, “He’s here, back door!” My voice cracks, loud, and my jaw’s tight, spotting Benji freeze mid-strum, eyes wide. The crowd yells, confused, drunk, and my chest’s pounding, limping fast, Ryan stumbling, heading for the exit, boots loud on the floor.
We hit the back, door rusted, creaking loud, and my hands shake, shoving it open, cold air rushing in, Torres banging again, “Open it!” My throat’s tight, and I push Ryan out, fast, desperate, Benji sprinting off stage, catching up, “Go!” loud, guitar banging his hip. My chest burns, hearing the lock crack, wood splintering, and my boots slip, wet pavement outside, sprinting hard with them, Torres shouting our names, forcing us out as it gives.