Chapter 56: Stage Split (Caleb POV)
Chapter 56: Stage Split (Caleb POV)
I am standing on Shank's stage, Wednesday night thick and loud, my hands gripping my guitar, sweaty and shaky. My throat is raw, voice hoarse from yelling at Ryan earlier, and my chest aches, bruised from the collector, lip still sore. The crowd is rowdy, bikers jeering, boots stomping, bottles clinking hard, and my stomach twists, needing this gig, needing that $1,000 to keep Torres off us. Ryan is beside me, cap low, hands loose, barely touching his strings, and my throat is tight, mad at him, harmonica gone and now this, him thinking about Griff's shady deal. Benji is behind, drums thudding, sticks off-beat, and my jaw is set, pushing us to start, needing it good.
I strum, hard and loud, strings buzzing rough, and my chest burns, kicking off a song, old Static tune, voice scratching out the words. My hands move, fast and shaky, fingers stinging on the frets, and my throat is dry, singing hoarse, crowd booing loud, "Play something good!" My stomach sinks, cold and fast, and my jaw aches, bruised but firm, glancing at Ryan, cap dipping lower, chords weak, barely there. "Come on," I say, sharp, voice cracking over the noise, needing him in, needing this to work, $1,000 on the line.
He nods, slow and stiff, picking a note, off-key and quiet, and my chest tightens, feeling it fall apart, stage shaking under my boots. The lights dim, flickering soft, heat blasting up, and my hands shake, strumming harder, trying to pull it back, crowd yelling, "You suck!" My throat is raw, pushing the chorus, loud and rough, and my stomach is churning, mad at Ryan, mad at me, gig going bad fast. Benji drums, thudding uneven, sweat dripping off him, and my chest burns, hot and sharp, needing them with me, needing this cash.
Bikers jeer, louder, bottles banging tables, and my hands clench, guitar screeching shrill, voice breaking on a high note. My jaw is tight, and my throat is thick, glaring at Ryan, cap hiding his eyes, hands dropping slow, not playing now. "What's wrong?" I yell, loud, leaning close, voice hoarse and mad, needing him to move, needing him here. He looks up, slow, eyes tired, "Can't, done with this," voice low and rough, stepping back, and my stomach drops, cold and hard, watching him turn, boots scuffing stage.
Griff is by the bar, grinning crooked, nodding at Ryan, and my chest stops, seeing him walk over, slow, cap low still. My hands shake, strings buzzing quiet, song fading, and my throat is dry, yelling, "Ryan, get back!" My voice cracks, fierce, but he keeps going, stopping by Griff, words low I cannot hear. My stomach twists, cold and sick, and my jaw aches, strumming alone now, crowd booing harder, "One-man crap!" My chest burns, mad and lost, needing him with me, needing that grand.
"Delivery, five hundred," Griff says, loud, slapping Ryan's shoulder, and my throat closes, breath gone, hearing it clear. My hands freeze, guitar silent, crowd yelling loud, and my stomach sinks, watching Ryan nod, quick and desperate, taking it. "No!" I yell, sharp, voice breaking, stepping forward, but he is off, walking fast, off stage mid-set, boots thudding down. My chest heaves, hot and fast, and my hands shake, staring after, him leaving me, picking Griff over us, over this.
Benji drums, slow, stopping soft, and my throat is tight, turning back, crowd jeering, "Finish it, loser!" My stomach twists, and my jaw is set, bruised but steady, strumming hard, picking it up alone. My voice scratches, hoarse and loud, pushing the song, and my hands move, shaky and sore, needing to end it, needing that $1,000 still. The stage shakes, lights dim, bottles clink, and my chest burns, singing rough, mad at Ryan, mad at this mess, harmonica gone and now him too.
Benji leans close, drums quiet, whispering quick, "Miles, I am snooping, got something." My stomach jumps, small and sharp, and my throat is dry, nodding fast, "What?" My voice shakes, hoarse, strumming still, needing to know, needing a way out. "Later, photo, shady stuff," he says, low, sticks tapping light, and my chest lifts, thin hope, but my hands shake, mad still, Ryan gone, gig falling apart. My jaw aches, and my stomach is churning, finishing alone, crowd booing soft now, fading out slow.
The song ends, strings buzzing, voice gone, and my chest is heavy, dropping the guitar, thudding loud, stage creaking. My hands shake, wiping sweat, and my throat is thick, stepping back, bikers laughing, "One guy's trash!" My stomach twists, cold and mad, and my jaw is tight, spotting Ryan, cap low, by Griff now, talking close. My chest burns, fierce and hurt, needing him back, needing us together, but he is with him, picking cash over me, over this.
Griff hands him keys, jingling loud, grinning big, and my throat is tight, watching Ryan head out, slow, toward the lot. My stomach drops, cold and fast, and my hands clench, storming off stage, boots stomping, mad and hot, kicking a chair hard, crashing loud into the bar. My chest heaves, and my jaw is set, hearing Griff's truck roar, engine loud, tires crunching gravel, as Ryan climbs in, cap dipping low, driving off for the run, leaving me here, split and alone.