Chapter 8: Fundraiser Fiasco (Caleb POV)

I’m back at The Static by noon, hands still jittery from Benji’s place. The loan’s a setup—forged signatures, Miles screwing us from the start. It’s burning in my head, but I keep it locked up. Ryan’s downstairs when I walk in, dragging tables into rows, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. He looks up, eyes sharp, but doesn’t ask where I’ve been. I don’t bring up his disappearing act last night either. We’re both sitting on stuff we won’t say, and it’s thick between us, like smoke we’re pretending not to see.

Tonight’s the fundraiser—Benji’s punk show idea. Our one shot to pull in some cash. Ryan’s been at it since morning—phoning bands, setting up drink deals, moving like he’s got no time to breathe. I jump in, hauling amps onto the stage, plugging cables into my soundboard. We barely talk, just grunt and point, keeping busy so the tension doesn’t spill out. “Crowd’s gonna be big,” he says once, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. His voice is tight, but there’s a spark in it.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing a grin. “Gotta be.” I want to believe it—need to. Fifty grand’s a monster, and this is all we’ve got.

By seven, the bar’s buzzing. Doors swing open, and people pour in—punks with spiked hair, regulars in flannel, randoms off the street with nowhere else to go. The first band hits the stage, guitars screaming, drums pounding through the floor. I’m at the soundboard, headphones half-on, tweaking levels to keep it loud and raw. The room fills fast—bodies packed tight, voices yelling over the music. Ryan’s behind the bar, pouring beers and shots, hands moving quick. Cash stacks up in the metal box—crumpled bills, coins clinking. For the first time in weeks, it feels real—hope, like a pulse I can grab onto.

I watch the crowd, my chest loosening a bit. They’re into it—headbanging, shoving, spilling drinks and laughing about it. The air’s thick with sweat and beer, the neon sign outside flickering red and blue through the windows. I catch Ryan’s eye across the floor—he’s grinning, quick and bright, the kind of smile he hasn’t had in forever. It hits me hard, makes me smile back, even with all the crap between us. I nod, turn up the bass, let it shake the walls.

By nine, it’s packed—standing room only, people pressed against the bar, the stage, the walls. The second band’s up, Benji on drums, pounding like a machine. Sweat’s dripping off him, his shirt soaked, but he’s grinning wild. He’s good—damn good—and the crowd’s eating it up, shouting, throwing fists in the air. Money’s rolling in—ten bucks at the door, drinks flying, some guy even tosses a twenty into a tip jar we didn’t put out. I see it land, crumpled and green, and my heart jumps.

“Ten grand, easy,” I mutter to myself, leaning on the soundboard. I do the math in my head—door cash, bar sales, maybe more if we push it. Not fifty, but a start. A real start. I picture handing it to Ryan, seeing that grin stay. For a second, I let myself hope we’re pulling out of this hole.

Then it changes. I don’t catch it right away—too busy keeping the sound tight—but the crowd starts thinning. People drift toward the door, not slow like they’re tired, but fast, like they’re done. The third band’s setting up, plugging in guitars, but the room’s emptying out. I pull my headphones down, squint through the haze. Ryan’s still pouring, but his grin’s gone, replaced with a hard frown. “What’s happening?” I yell, stepping off the stage, pushing through bodies.

He shakes his head, hands on the bar. “Don’t know. They’re just leaving.” His voice is sharp, confused. I see the cash box—still full, but not growing anymore.

I shove to the front door, stick my head out. The street’s wet, air cold, and the line’s gone—no one’s waiting to get in. My gut twists hard. This isn’t right. The music’s still blasting, the bar’s still alive—why are they bailing? I turn back, grab Benji as he hops off the drum riser, wiping his face with his shirt. “Hey,” I say, loud over the noise. “Something’s wrong. Crowd’s dying.”

“Yeah,” he says, breathing heavy. “I saw it too. Gimme a sec.” He pulls out his phone, scrolls fast, thumb flying. His eyes narrow, and he shoves it at me. “Check this.”

I take it, squint at the screen. It’s a post—some local music page. The Static’s done. Closing this week. Not paying staff. Skip the show. My stomach drops like a rock. “What the hell?” I mutter, scrolling down. Comments pile up—Heard they’re broke. Waste of time. Staff’s pissed. All posted in the last hour, spreading like fire.

“Who wrote this?” I snap, shoving the phone back.

Benji’s already digging, tapping fast. “No name, just some random account. But—hold up.” He stops, face going hard. “Jake liked it. That jerk from the other night.”

“Jake?” I say, voice low. My hands clench, nails biting my palms. “That drunk piece of—”

“Yeah,” Benji cuts in. “He’s been trashing you online since you tossed him. Bet he’s the one.”

I don’t wait. I turn, push through what’s left of the crowd—people still trickling out, muttering now. Ryan’s at the bar, counting cash, but it’s slowing down, way too slow. “Caleb,” he calls, voice sharp, but I keep moving. I hit the door hard, step outside. The street’s quiet, wet pavement shining under the streetlights. And there he is—Jake, leaning on a lamppost across the road. Grinning. That sloppy, smug grin he gets when he thinks he’s got you.

My blood’s on fire. I see him, that post, the crowd bailing—all his doing. “You son of a—” I yell, storming out. My boots slam the pavement, fists balled tight. He’s laughing now, loud and mean, and it’s all I can hear. I’m done—done with his crap, done with losing. I’m after him, and I don’t care what happens next.