Chapter 9: Cash and Consequences (Caleb POV)

I’m across the street in seconds, boots pounding wet pavement, eyes locked on Jake. He’s still grinning, leaning on that lamppost like he owns the night. The fundraiser’s falling apart behind me—music fading, crowd gone—and it’s his fault. My fists are tight, itching to wipe that smug look off his face. “You son of a—” I yell again, voice rough, closing the gap.

He laughs, loud and sloppy, then bolts. Not fast—he’s drunk, stumbling—but he ducks into an alley next to the bar. I chase him, heart slamming, breath hot in my throat. The alley’s narrow, dark, stinking of trash and piss. He’s ahead, weaving, his jacket flapping. “Come on, golden boy!” he shouts, voice echoing off the brick.

I’m close—close enough to grab him—but he spins, stops, leans on a dumpster. That grin’s still there, wide and mean. “What’s the plan, huh?” he slurs, swaying. “Beat me up? Won’t fix your crap bar.”

“Shut up,” I snap, stepping in. My hands shake, fists ready. I see the post in my head—The Static’s done—all his lies killing our night. “You tanked it. Why?”

He laughs again, spits on the ground. “I told you, man. You ruin everything you touch. The band, me, now this dump. You and your boyfriend deserve it.”

That hits hard—Ryan’s name in his mouth, twisted like that. I lunge, grab his shirt, slam him against the dumpster. It clangs loud, metal rattling. He’s still grinning, eyes blurry but sharp with hate. “Go on,” he says, voice low. “Do it. Prove you’re trash too.”

My fist pulls back, knuckles white. I want to—God, I want to. One swing, and he’d shut up. But I stop, breathing hard. His face blurs in front of me, and I see Ryan’s instead—tired, steady, telling me to cool it. If I hit Jake, I’m gone—cops, jail, more mess for Ryan to clean up. I can’t do that to him. Not now.

I let go, shove him back. He stumbles, catches himself, still laughing. “Weak,” he mutters, wiping his mouth. “Always were.”

“Get out,” I say, voice low, shaking. “Don’t come back.”

He sneers, turns, staggers off into the dark. I stand there, chest heaving, watching him go. My hands unclench slow, stinging where my nails dug in. The alley’s quiet now, just my breathing and the drip of water somewhere. I kick the dumpster—hard—metal booming, then head back. Jake’s gone, but the damage is done.

(Leah POV)

The bar’s a mess when I clock in—half-empty, music still going, but the crowd’s thin. I heard the fundraiser was big earlier, but now it’s dying. Caleb’s gone—stormed out after some guy—and Ryan’s behind the bar, pouring what’s left. I grab my apron, tie it on, step up to the register. It’s been a long night already, and I’m not even halfway through my shift.

I’m drowning. Rent’s late, my car’s dying, and the bills keep piling up—electric, phone, that stupid loan I took last year. I’ve got nothing left, and this place—Ryan’s bar—it’s going under anyway. Everyone’s saying it. Online, in the crowd tonight—The Static’s done. I see the cash box, full but not full enough. Fifty grand by Friday? No way.

I ring up a beer, hand it to some guy with a mohawk. He slaps a ten down, walks off. The register’s open, bills staring up at me—fives, tens, a couple twenties. My hand hovers. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But my rent’s due tomorrow, and I’ve got no one to ask. Ryan’s good to me—decent boss, fair—but he’s broke too. He won’t miss a little.

I grab a ten, quick, slip it into my apron pocket. My heart’s pounding, but I keep my face blank. It’s borrowing, I tell myself. Just till I’m back on my feet. The bar’s toast anyway—why not take what I can? I ring up the next guy, pocket a five this time. Small stuff, nothing big. No one’ll notice.

The night drags on. Caleb’s back—wet, pissed, muttering to Ryan—but I stay busy, pouring, wiping, skimming. A twenty here, a ten there. It adds up—fifty bucks, maybe sixty by closing. My pocket’s heavy, guilt gnawing at me, but I push it down. I need this. They don’t. Not when it’s all falling apart.

Ryan’s counting the door cash now, focused, and I keep my head down. He doesn’t suspect—I’m good at this, always have been. But my hands shake a little, wiping the bar. It’s not much, what I took. Not enough to save them, not enough to ruin them. Just enough for me.

(Ryan POV)

It’s past two when we shut down. The fundraiser’s a bust—crowd bailed, cash stopped flowing. Caleb’s quiet, sitting on a stool, staring at the floor. Leah’s gone—clocked out fast, said she was tired. I’m alone behind the bar, locking up, counting what we made. The box is heavy, but not heavy enough.

I spread the bills out—door take, bar sales, that random tip jar. I tally it slow, pen scratching on a napkin. Five grand, maybe six if I stretch it. Not even close to fifty. My chest’s tight, head pounding. Jake did this—Caleb told me, voice shaking, about the rumors online. I want to find that jerk, break something, but it won’t fix this.

I flip through the register tape next, checking Leah’s numbers. She ran it most of the night—steady hand, good worker. But something’s off. The cash doesn’t match. I count again—tens, fives, ones—then check the tape. Short. Not a lot—fifty bucks, maybe more—but it’s there. My gut twists. Could be a mistake, busy night, sloppy math. Or not.

I sit back, stare at the pile. Five grand won’t save us. And now this—money missing, on top of everything? I rub my face, hard. Something’s not adding up, and I don’t know what to do about it.