Chapter 61: Silent Crew (Caleb POV)
Chapter 61: Silent Crew (Caleb POV)
I stumble back from Shank's door. Gravel crunches sharp under my boots, and my chest heaves hard. My breath puffs hot into the night. My fists unclench slow. My knuckles sting, bruised from banging wood, and my throat burns raw. My voice is gone after yelling Ryan's name. I am locked out now. Benji tugs my arm, his fingers digging tight, pulling me fast. My jaw throbs, sore and stiff, as I turn away from the bar's neon glow. Ryan's laugh echoes faint behind the bolted door. My stomach twists, cold and heavy, and I stagger toward the van. My boots drag. I need out. I need quiet. I need him back, but I know he's gone.
Benji shoves the van door open. The metal screeches loud, and the hinges creak. I climb in, my knees banging the frame. The seats sag deep under me. My hands grip my thighs, the jeans rough, my palms sweaty. The engine roars awake, rattling the floor, shaking my bones as Benji twists the key. My chest tightens, bruised and sore, and I slump low. The air hits me, stale and thick with gas and dust. Papers rustle loose on the dash. My throat scratches dry, and my jaw locks. I stare out the cracked window. Shank's looms dark, loud with bottles and voices. Ryan stays there, not talking to me, split wide over his delivery cash.
The van lurches forward. Tires spin gravel, and the wheel jerks in Benji's grip. My stomach churns, silent now, fractured deep. I feel Ryan gone, with $2,300 in his pocket pulling him to Griff. My hands fumble my jacket. The zipper catches, and bills crinkle. I have $1,500 from the gig, less than his, useless against this rift. "Miles's tax dodge," Benji says low, his voice cutting through the hum. My head snaps, and my eyes sting. I watch him fish papers from his coat. The ledger flaps, creased and worn. My breath hitches, quick and sharp, and I snatch them. My fingers tremble, and ink smudges. I need this. I need something to hold.
"Twenty grand dodged," he grunts, tapping a line. Numbers sprawl, and dates are scratched tight. My chest lifts, hot and fast, as I flip pages quick. The paper brushes my skin. My throat tightens, dry and rough. "Clears my debts," I say. "Torres off me?" My voice cracks, hoarse and fierce. My jaw clicks sore as I lean closer. I need it real. I need it now. "Yeah," Benji says. "Solid proof. Hit him with it." He steers sharp, and the van bounces hard. My hands clench the ledger. The edges curl, and pages rustle loud. Hope slices through, thin but strong, with Ryan's absence stinging sharper against it.
I shove the papers down. The ledger thuds the seat and crinkles soft. My fists shake, and I punch my knee. The jeans muffle the thump. "He should see this," I growl. "Damn it." My voice breaks, rough and mad, and my chest heaves. I picture him with Griff, hauling boxes, laughing loud, not here for this. My boots scuff the floor. Rubber squeaks, and grit grinds. My stomach twists. "$2,300," I mutter. "He's got more. He doesn't care." My throat burns, dry as ash, and my jaw aches. I lean back. The seats sag deeper. The air is heavy, choking me silent. Our bond is split over his cash, his choice.
Benji shifts. His coat rustles, and his elbow brushes mine. My chest tightens. "Plan's next," he says low. "Hit Miles. Use this." He taps the wheel, his fingers drumming fast. My hands flex, slow and shaky. I nod quick. "Yeah," I rasp. "Soon. Take him down." My voice is fierce and flat, and my throat scratches. I stare ahead. The road is dark, lights far. I need to fight. I need this win. Ryan is out of it now, not talking, not with me. My stomach churns, and my jaw locks. My bruised face throbs. I feel the van cramp around us. The seats are torn, the air stale. We are a silent crew, just us two.
The tires hum soft. The pavement is smooth, and wind whistles through the crack. My chest sinks, heavy and cold. I picture Griff's bar. It's loud, alive, pulling Ryan in tight. My hands rub my face. My skin is rough, sweat slick. My throat tightens. "He's gone," I say. "Griff's got him. Crew now." My voice cracks, low and raw, and my jaw aches. My boots kick the dash. Metal clangs soft. I'm mad he's there, not here. The $20,000 dodged is meaningless without him. My stomach twists, and my fists unclench. They lie limp on my lap. I am fractured deep. The silence is loud between us.
Benji brakes slow. Tires crunch, and the van rocks gentle. My chest jumps, and I peer out. The street is quiet, with Shank's glow faint behind. My throat scratches dry, and my hands grip the door. The metal is cold, and the handle sticks. I'm ready to push it open. I need air. I need space. "Cops sniffing," Benji mutters low, nodding ahead. My head snaps, and my eyes squint. I catch lights flash. Red and blue slice the dark. Tires screech loud down the street, aiming for Shank's. My breath stops, cold and fast, and my jaw locks. I spot Griff's truck. It's dusty, rolling out fast. Ryan is inside, his cap low, boxes stacked high, pulling away.
I shove the door. The metal bangs wide, and my boots hit pavement. My chest heaves. "Ryan!" I yell. My voice breaks, hoarse and sharp. My hands wave wild. I need him to stop. I need him back. My stomach drops as I watch him go. The truck rumbles, and dust swirls. Cops close in, lights flashing brighter, tires screaming closer. Benji grabs my shoulder. His fingers are tight, yanking hard. "Move," he says. "Now!" My throat burns, and my fists shake. I stare after Ryan. He is gone, silent and split. Cops tear toward the bar, and the ledger is useless in my grip now.