Chapter 60: Rift Raw (Caleb POV)
Chapter 60: Rift Raw (Caleb POV)
Wednesday night bites cold as I charge across Shank's lot. My boots slam gravel, and my fists swing tight at my sides. My breath puffs fast, hot and ragged. My chest burns from old bruises, and my throat scratches raw, hoarse from shouting Ryan's name through the cracked window. The rock is still in my hand, rough and cold, with edges biting my palm. My jaw throbs, stiff and sore. I need him out here. I need him to quit Griff's jobs. Neon hums red overhead, and I pound the door. The wood shudders, and my knuckles sting. "Ryan!" I yell loud. "Open up!" My voice cracks, fierce and shaky. The air is smoky as it seeps out, and the jukebox whines faint inside.
The door swings wide. The hinges creak, and light spills sharp. Ryan steps out, his cap low, eyes hard under it. My stomach twists, cold and tight, as I watch him cross his arms. His jacket crinkles, and his boots scuff dust. My fists shake, and I drop the rock. It thuds soft on the gravel. "Quit it," I rasp, my voice breaking rough. I step close. "Griff's runs. Stop, come back with me." My throat tightens, dry as ash, and my hands flex. I reach for his sleeve, needing him to hear, needing us whole. He jerks back fast, his elbow knocking my arm. My chest heaves, hurt slicing deep, as I stare at him. His cap tilts up now, his face mad.
"No," he snaps, his voice cutting sharp and loud over the jukebox. "I've got $2,300. More than your $1,500, Caleb." My breath catches, quick and cold, and my fists clench. I watch him pull bills from his pocket, crumpled and thick. He waves them fast. "Griff's my way out. You're stuck." My throat burns, raw and hot, and my jaw locks. My teeth grind sore. "Way out?" I yell. "Shady crap. I told you no!" My voice breaks, loud and mad. I step closer, my boots scraping gravel. I need him to see. I need him back.
He shoves the cash away. His pocket bulges, and his hand slaps his thigh. My stomach drops as I hear him laugh, short and mean. "$500, $1,000, $800. It adds up. Beats your gig split." My chest stops, cold washing fast, and my hands shake. My fists curl tighter. "That's it?" I ask. "Cash over us? Over me?" My voice cracks, hoarse and fierce, and my throat tightens. I watch him shrug slowly, his cap bobbing. "Griff's crew now," he says. "Better than scraping with you." My breath hitches, sharp and hot, and my jaw aches as I stare at him. The rift tears wide, and he's picking that over this.
Griff leans on the bar inside, smirking big, a bottle glinting in his hand. My chest burns, hot and mad. I lunge forward. "You're done!" I yell. "Come on!" My hands grab Ryan's jacket, the fabric rough, tugging hard. My voice breaks, loud and raw, as I pull him toward me. I need him out. I need him free. He twists fast, his boots planting firm. He shoves me back, his hands slamming my chest hard and strong. I'm knocked off balance, and gravel crunches under my stumble. "Back off!" he yells sharp, his voice cutting through. My stomach sinks, cold and sick, as I watch him step inside. The door swings wide still.
I catch myself, my boots skidding, my hands clawing air. My throat closes. "Ryan!" I charge after him. "Don't!" My voice rasps, fierce and broken, and my fists bang the frame. The wood rattles, and smoky air hits me. I see him turn, his cap low again, his eyes cold. My chest heaves, and my hands shake. "We're in this," I say. "Together. Stop this!" My jaw throbs, sore and tight, and my stomach twists. I watch Griff clap his shoulder loud, grinning wider, pulling him back, away from me. My breath puffs fast, mad and hurt. I need him to stay. I need him to choose us.
Benji's van rolls up, tires crunching slow, engine growling low. I snap my head around, seeing him jump out. His boots hit gravel, and he grips a creased ledger. My throat tightens, and my fists unclench slow. I turn fast. "What?" my voice cracks, rough and sharp, as I step toward him. I need something, anything now. "Miles's tax proof," he says low, holding it out. The pages flap, the ink dark. My hands snatch it, my fingers trembling. "Twenty grand dodged," he says. "Solid. Look." My chest lifts, quick and fierce. My eyes scan fast, numbers blurring, hope cutting through, drowned by this fight.
"Ryan!" I yell loud, spinning back, waving the ledger. The paper rustles, and the creases bend. My throat burns. I need him in. I need him to care. He laughs, short and cold, with Griff's arm slinging over him. My stomach drops as I watch him shake his head. "Don't need it," he says. "Got my own." My chest stops, my breath gone, and my jaw aches. I stare as he steps deeper, his boots scuffing, the bar tense. The jukebox whines louder now. My fists shake, and my voice breaks. "You're wrong!" I yell. "Come back!" My hands clutch the ledger, tight and useless. The fight drowns it all, and he's slipping far.