Chapter 4
Jessica was in the chapel running through fingerpicking patterns when her phone buzzed against the concrete floor. She grabbed it without checking the screen, expecting Raven or maybe one of her students' parents asking about rescheduling.
"Hey, it's Danny." The voice on the other end was tight, uncomfortable. "From The Rusty Spur."
Danny Kowalczyk. Owner of the dive bar on Bragg Boulevard where she'd been playing Saturday nights for eight months. Decent pay, appreciative crowd, the kind of steady gig that kept her rent covered while she built toward something bigger.
"Danny, hey. I'm still on for tomorrow, right? I know I missed last week, but—"
"That's why I'm calling." A pause. The sound of him moving somewhere quieter, away from the bar noise. "I gotta cancel you, Jess. Not just tomorrow. The whole residency."
The words hit like a punch to the sternum.
"What? Danny, I've been playing your place for almost a year. What happened?"
"Look, I don't want to get into it—"
"Get into it." She was on her feet now, guitar forgotten on the chair. "You owe me that much."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"A guy came by yesterday. Said hiring you would be a liability. Said he knew people at the ABC board who might have questions about how I'm running my liquor license." Danny's voice dropped. "I can't afford that kind of heat, Jess. I got a business to protect."
"Who was this guy?"
"Didn't give a name. Wiry, patient-looking. The kind of guy who smiles while he's threatening you." Danny exhaled hard. "I'm sorry. I really am. But I can't have you on my stage if it means losing my license."
The line went dead.
Jessica stared at the phone in her hand, watching the call duration fade from the screen. Eight months of Saturday nights, gone with a single threatening visit.
She pulled up her contacts and dialed Christopher Wilson at The Foxhole, a bar near the base that had been talking about booking her for their new open mic night.
Three rings. Four. Then: "Jessica, hey—listen, I was actually going to call you—"
"Let me guess. Something came up."
Silence. That was answer enough.
"Who got to you, Christopher?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. We're just... going a different direction with the open mic. Local talent, you know how it is—"
"I am local talent. I've been playing Fayetteville venues for six years."
"Look, I gotta go. Good luck with everything."
Click.
One more. She had to try one more.
Paula Carlson at the coffee shop in Haymount. They'd talked about afternoon acoustic sets, something mellow for the brunch crowd. Paula had seemed excited about the idea.
The call went straight to voicemail.
Jessica didn't bother leaving a message.
She found Static in the compound garage, checking the air pressure on his bike tires.
"I need a ride."
He looked up. Tall, Airborne muscle, the kind of presence that made people think twice about starting trouble. Ghost had introduced him yesterday as "the guy who watches everyone's back."
"Where?"
"Bragg Boulevard. The Rusty Spur." She crossed her arms. "I've got a tip jar and a tuner pedal there from my last set. And I've got questions for the owner."
Static studied her for a moment. Whatever he saw made him nod.
"Give me five minutes."
The Rusty Spur looked sadder at night than she remembered.
Neon signs flickered in the windows. The parking lot was half-empty despite it being Friday. A hand-painted banner above the door advertised LIVE MUSIC SATURDAYS, and Jessica felt her jaw tighten at the sight of it.
Static pulled the truck into a spot near the entrance and killed the engine. "You want me to come in?"
"Wait here. This won't take long."
She pushed through the door and scanned the room. Scattered drinkers at the bar, a pool game in the corner, the jukebox playing something country she didn't recognize. Danny was behind the bar, pouring whiskey for a regular, and his face went pale when he saw her.
"Jess. I didn't expect—"
"My tip jar." She walked straight to the bar, not slowing down. "And my tuner pedal. You've got them behind the counter."
"Right, yeah, let me just—" He fumbled under the bar and produced a mason jar with maybe thirty dollars in crumpled bills and a yellow Boss tuner pedal she'd left after her last set. "Here. It's all there."
Jessica pocketed the pedal and counted the cash. Thirty-two dollars. A fraction of what she'd normally make on a Saturday night.
"Tell me about the man who threatened you."
"I already told you everything on the phone—"
"Tell me again. To my face."
Danny glanced around the bar like he was checking for witnesses. The regulars weren't paying attention. The pool game continued. Nobody cared about a conversation between a bar owner and a musician he'd just fired.
"Wiry guy. Calm. The kind of calm that makes you nervous, you know?
" Danny's voice dropped. "He knew things about my business.
Knew about the inspection I barely passed last year, knew about the complaint I got from the neighbor about noise.
Said he had friends who could make my life difficult if I kept booking certain acts. "
"Did he mention me by name?"
"He didn't have to. It was pretty clear who he was talking about."
"And you just caved? Eight months of me filling your Saturday nights, and you folded because some stranger made threats?"
Danny's face flushed. "Easy for you to judge. You're not the one who'd lose everything if the ABC pulled my license. I've got a mortgage, a kid in community college, and this bar is the only thing keeping us above water. I can't afford to be brave."
The words landed harder than they should have.
Jessica had been brave. She'd walked away from her studio, left her equipment behind, trusted a man she barely knew to take her somewhere safe. And now she was watching her entire career collapse because she'd heard something she shouldn't have.
Bravery didn't pay the bills. Bravery didn't keep the lights on.
"The guy who threatened you," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Did he have a name? Anything you can give me?"
"Nothing. He didn't introduce himself, didn't leave a card. Just made his point and left." Danny wiped down the bar, avoiding her eyes. "I'm sorry, Jess. I really am. But I've got to protect what's mine."
What's mine.
She thought about Raven saying the same thing. Protection or possession. Both, eventually.
"Yeah." Jessica tucked the tip jar under her arm. "I get it."
She walked out without looking back.
Static didn't ask questions during the drive back to the compound.
Jessica appreciated that. She wasn't in the mood to explain how it felt to watch six years of reputation and relationships crumble in a single evening. Three venues, three cancellations, three people who'd rather cave to threats than stand by someone they'd worked with for years.
The compound gates opened as they approached. Chrome gleamed under the security lights. Brothers moved between buildings, doing whatever brothers did at midnight on a Friday.
She found an empty corner of the common room and pulled out her notebook.
The pages were filled with song drafts—chord progressions, half-finished lyrics, ideas she'd been nurturing for years. Her demo material. The collection she'd been building toward something bigger than dive bars and Saturday night residencies.
She flipped to a blank page and started writing.
Lost income: Rusty Spur - $200/week = $800/month Foxhole (projected) - $150/week = $600/month Coffee shop acoustics (projected) - $100/week = $400/month
She stared at the numbers. Eighteen hundred dollars a month in gig income, gone before she'd even had a chance to play another note.
Her studio rent was due in twelve days. Four hundred and fifty dollars she didn't have anymore.
Her apartment rent was due in eighteen days. Seven hundred dollars she definitely didn't have.
Savings: $340 Time until broke: 2-3 weeks
She closed the notebook and pressed her palms against her eyes.
Everything she'd built—the teaching practice, the gig circuit, the slow climb toward something more—was being systematically dismantled by men she'd never met.
Men who moved bodies at midnight and threatened bar owners with licensing problems. Men who'd decided she was a liability simply because she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Footsteps approached. She didn't look up.
"Static told me what happened."
Raven's voice. Of course.
"I had three venues lined up," she said, not moving her hands. "Three steady gigs that would've kept me afloat while I figured this out. Now I've got nothing."
"We're going to fix this."
"How? By killing everyone who threatens a bar owner?
By burning down every pawn shop in a fifty-mile radius?
" She finally dropped her hands and looked at him.
"They're not just trying to scare me, Raven.
They're trying to erase me. Make it so I can't work, can't pay rent, can't survive long enough to be a problem. "
He didn't flinch. Didn't offer empty comfort.
"Then we make sure they can't finish what they started."
"And in the meantime? What am I supposed to do while you're making sure?"
"Stay here. Let us handle the threat. Focus on your music."
"My music doesn't pay my bills."
"It will." His voice was certain in a way that should have been annoying. "When this is over, you'll rebuild. Better venues, better money, no one threatening the people who book you."
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that this nightmare had an ending where she came out whole on the other side.
But she'd spent too many years watching systems fail people like her. Too many years knowing that promises from smooth talkers rarely survived contact with reality.
"I've been calculating," she said quietly. "I've got maybe three weeks before I'm completely broke. Studio rent, apartment rent, phone bill. After that, I'm living in my van with a guitar and a notebook full of songs nobody's going to hear."
Raven was quiet for a moment.
"You're not going to be living in your van."
"You can't promise that."
"I just did."
He turned and walked away before she could argue.
Jessica sat alone in the common room, her notebook open to the page of numbers that spelled out exactly how precarious her life had become.
Thirty-two dollars in a tip jar. Three hundred and forty in savings. Three weeks until everything collapsed.
She picked up her pen and added one more line at the bottom of the page:
Time until Slade's men succeed: unknown
Then she closed the notebook and went to find her guitar.
If she was going to lose everything, she might as well keep playing until the music stopped.