Chapter 57: Solo Run (Caleb POV)
Chapter 57: Solo Run (Caleb POV)
I’m standing in Shank’s lot, Wednesday night heavy and dark, my boots crunching gravel, hands shaking mad. My throat’s raw—voice gone from the gig—and my chest aches, bruised and tight, watching Griff’s truck roar off, Ryan inside, taking that $500 delivery run alone. My jaw’s set—sore, stiff from the collector’s punch—and my stomach twists, mad at him, mad he walked off stage, picking Griff over me, over us. Benji’s beside me—sticks in his pocket, van keys jingling—and my throat’s dry, kicking a rock hard, skittering loud across the lot, needing to move, needing away from this.
“He’s gone,” I say, rough, voice cracking, turning fast, “Let’s go—back to your place.” My fists shake, clenched tight, and my chest burns, hot and sharp, refusing that shady crap, refusing to follow Ryan down Griff’s hole. Benji nods—slow, quiet, “Yeah—come on,” voice low, heading for the van, and my stomach’s churning, limping after, boots dragging, gig done but split now, $1,000 each still up in the air. My throat’s tight, and my hands clench, needing Benji’s talk, needing something on Miles, something to fight back with.
We climb in—van rattling, seats torn, air stale—and my chest’s tense, slumping down, watching Shank’s fade, neon buzzing dim in the dark. “What’s this Miles thing?” I say, sharp, voice shaky, leaning close, needing it now, needing a win. Benji starts the engine—coughing loud, wheel creaking—and my jaw aches, waiting, hands on my knees, shaky still. “Photo,” he says, rough, digging in his jacket, “Miles with a clerk—crooked guy, city hall, caught ‘em together.” My stomach jumps, small and quick, and my throat’s dry, “Show me—now.” My voice cracks, fierce, needing proof, needing leverage.
He pulls it out—grainy, crumpled, Miles grinning with some suit—and my chest lifts, hope thin but sharp, staring hard, “What’s it mean?” My hands shake, taking it, fingers brushing paper, and my jaw’s tight, bruised but steady, needing this to hit Miles, needing it big. “Bribes—maybe faked The Static’s debts,” Benji says, low, driving slow, van bouncing rough, “Snooping more—could help.” My stomach twists, glad he’s digging, mad Ryan’s not here, mad he’s off with Griff instead of us.
“Should’ve stayed,” I mutter, rough, voice breaking, shoving the photo back, “He’s screwing us—running for Griff.” My fists shake, hitting the dash, soft but mad, and my throat’s thick, picturing Ryan—cap low, driving that truck, boxes in the back. My chest burns, hot and lost, and my jaw aches, leaning back, van rattling loud around me, Benji quiet, sticks tapping his leg. My stomach’s churning, gig split us, harmonica gone, now this—Ryan picking cash over me, over everything.
We roll slow—streets dark, lights wet—and my chest’s heavy, thinking where he’s at, what he’s doing, $500 tempting him away. “Dock run,” Benji says, quiet, “Griff’s jobs—boxes, quick drop, pays fast.” My throat closes, cold washing fast, and my hands clench, “Shady—knew it, told him no.” My voice shakes, mad and hurt, and my jaw’s set, refusing still, needing us clean, needing Ryan back. My stomach twists, picturing it—water lapping, crates thudding, truck rumbling back—him alone, choosing that.
I stare out—glass foggy, night black—and my chest’s tense, imagining him pull up, Griff’s truck loud, engine growling low. My throat’s dry, and my hands shake, mad he’s there, not here, chatting with Griff after, laughing maybe, like I don’t matter. “He’ll come back,” Benji says, low, turning sharp, van groaning, “Needs the cash—desperate.” My stomach sinks, cold and hard, and my jaw aches, “Not with me—he’s done with me.” My voice cracks, rough, feeling the rift, growing wide now, harmonica trade my fault, his fault.
We stop—Benji’s lot, cracked and dark—and my chest’s tight, climbing out slow, boots hitting gravel, air cold on my skin. “Wait here,” I say, sharp, voice shaky, “Going back—check on him.” My fists shake, needing to see, needing to know, and Benji nods, slow, “Take the van—careful.” My throat’s tight, grabbing keys, jumping in, engine coughing alive, rattling loud under me. My jaw’s set, and my hands grip the wheel, peeling out fast, needing Shank’s, needing Ryan back, needing us whole.
The road’s long—tires humming, wind whistling soft—and my stomach’s churning, driving hard, chest burning mad, hurt deep. My throat’s dry, and my jaw aches, spotting Shank’s—neon glowing, bikes still there—pulling in slow, gravel crunching loud. My hands shake, parking far, watching Griff’s truck roll back—dusty, loud, Ryan climbing out, cap low, $500 in his pocket. My chest stops, breath caught, and my throat’s thick, seeing him linger—chatting with Griff, laughing loud, echoing over—and my fists clench, rift cutting deeper, him with them now.
Griff slaps his back—hard, grinning big—and my stomach twists, cold and sick, hearing him say, “Another run—thousand bucks this time, you’re good.” My throat closes, cold washing over, and my hands shake, watching Ryan nod—quick, yes, cap tilting up—taking it, staying there. My chest burns, hot and mad, and my jaw’s tight, staring from the van—dark, quiet—seeing him laugh again, Griff’s arm around him, picking that over me, over us, leaving me here, alone with Benji’s photo, split wide open now.