Chapter 4: Cash and Chaos (Caleb POV)

I wake up with Ryan’s arm heavy across my chest, his breath warm on my neck. The booth’s hard under me, and my back aches from sleeping here, but I don’t care. Last night’s still buzzing in my skin—his hands, his mouth, us. For a minute, I let it hold me, block out the rest. Then I see the loan papers on the floor, sticking out of his jacket like a middle finger. Reality slams back. Less than a week. Fifty grand. No more drifting.

I shift, careful not to wake him, and sit up. The bar’s quiet, just the hum of the fridge and a faint drip from the roof—rain’s done, but the leaks aren’t. Ryan stirs, blinks awake, rubs his eyes. “Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding at the papers. “Fun’s over.”

He sits up fast, runs a hand through his hair. “Right. We gotta figure this out.” His jaw’s tight already, like he’s been chewing on it all night in his sleep.

We don’t bother cleaning up. I grab my shirt off the floor, pull it on, and he does the same. The bar smells like us—sweat and something sharper—but we’ve got bigger problems. He heads to the counter, grabs a notepad and a pen. “Let’s think,” he says, tapping the paper. “Ways to get cash quick.”

I lean on the bar next to him, arms crossed. My head’s spinning, but I keep it light. “What’s the plan, boss? Sell your charm?”

He snorts. “If that worked, we wouldn’t be here.” He writes something—drink specials—then looks up. “More events, maybe. Trivia night, open mic. Pull in a crowd.”

“Crowd’s good,” I say, nodding. “But that’s slow cash. Fifty grand’s a mountain.”

He frowns, scribbles cut costs. “We ditch the fancy beer. Cheap stuff only. Maybe skip a shipment, stretch what we’ve got.”

I shake my head. “That’s pennies, man. We need a big swing.” My mind’s already running—wild stuff, dumb stuff. “What about underground gigs? Off-the-books shows. No permits, just cash at the door.”

He stops writing, looks at me hard. “That’s illegal, Caleb. Cops catch us, we’re done.”

“Yeah, but it’s fast,” I push. “I know guys—sketchy ones. They’d pack this place. One night, ten grand easy.”

“No,” he says, sharp. “We’re not risking that.”

I bite my tongue, lean back. He’s right—cops would kill us—but I don’t like it. My hands itch for something reckless, something to shove this mess off our backs. He’s still writing—band night—when the door creaks open. Benji walks in, drumsticks in his pocket, hair a mess. He’s early for setup, but I’m glad he’s here.

“What’s up?” he says, eyeing us. “You two look rough.”

“Loan shark’s up our ass,” I say. “Fifty grand by Friday or we lose the bar.”

Benji whistles low, drops into a stool. “That’s brutal. Got a plan?”

“Trying,” Ryan says, tapping the notepad. “Events, specials. Not enough yet.”

Benji leans in, grins. “What about a fundraiser? Punk show, local bands. Charge at the door, push drinks. I know some guys—decent players. They’d do it cheap.”

I perk up. “That’s good. Big crowd, quick cash. Could work.”

Ryan’s quiet, chewing his lip. I know that look—he’s weighing it, hates the chaos. “How much you think it’d pull?” he asks finally.

Benji shrugs. “Five, maybe ten grand if we pack it. One night.”

“Not fifty,” Ryan says, voice flat. “But it’s a start.”

“Better than trivia,” I say, nudging him. “Come on, man. Punk’s our thing.”

He sighs, nods slow. “Fine. Fundraiser it is. But we do it right—permits, no screwing around.” He looks at me when he says it, like he knows my brain’s still on the illegal stuff.

“Deal,” I say, but my mind’s already spinning again. Ten grand’s a dent, not a fix. Benji’s talking—bands he’ll call, flyers he’ll make—but I’m half-listening. Ryan’s scribbling notes, focused, and I watch him, his hands steady even now. I love that about him—how he keeps it together when I’m ready to burn it all down.

“Gonna need a cut from the door,” Benji says. “And bar sales. Split it fair.”

“Yeah,” Ryan mutters, writing it down. “We’ll figure the numbers.”

I nod, but I’m drifting. Underground gigs keep popping up in my head—fast, dirty cash. Or worse—guys I used to know, back before Ryan, before The Static. Shady types who’d front money for a price. I haven’t told Ryan about them, not all of it. He knows I ran with a rough crowd once, but not how deep it went. Not about Mick, the guy who’d loan me fifty grand tomorrow if I asked. If I paid it back double later.

Benji’s still chatting, excited now. “I’ll hit up the scene tonight. Get it rolling.”

“Good,” Ryan says. “We’ve got five days. Move fast.”

Benji heads out, promising calls by morning. The door bangs shut, and it’s just us again. Ryan drops the pen, rubs his face. “This might buy us time,” he says. “Not much.”

“Time’s something,” I say, stepping closer. I put my hand on his arm, feel the tension there. “We’ll make it work.”

He looks at me, eyes soft but tired. “Yeah. We will.”

I want to believe him. I do. But fifty grand’s a monster, and five days is nothing. He pulls me into a quick hug, his chin on my shoulder, and I hold him back, tight. It’s steady, solid, like always. When he lets go, he grabs the notepad, starts flipping pages—numbers, plans, hope on paper.

I sit on a stool, watch him work. My phone’s in my pocket, heavy. Mick’s number’s still in there, buried in my contacts. I haven’t called him in years—not since I left that life. But fifty grand? One call could fix it. Or break us worse. I don’t say it out loud, don’t even move. Just sit there, staring at Ryan’s back, the idea burning a hole in my head.