Chapter Six
DOSE
"IWanna Sex You," by Pleasure P, blasted through the club.
I stood on the overhead, watching above, monitoring everything and everyone as if we didn't have RoxxGuard, a top-tier, elite security system.
Motherfuckers were high off coke and fucking like it'd be their last piece of pussy or dick.
Even the mayor had a seat, getting his share of pussy handed to him on a silver platter.
My pops passed everything down to me, including ownership.
His marriage license gave him the urge not to have any dealings with it anymore, as if his After Dark account still wasn't getting over a million views.
He was still getting checks from them, but when he mentioned to me that he was wiping his hands clean with everything and that he wanted me to take over, I didn't second-guess it.
Crazy enough, so many people were throwing offers on the table from motherfuckers with crazy ideas and a bigger floor plan, when he mentioned that he'd be stepping down. All of which he ignored and called it petty cash. He didn't want a profitable business charity to be turned into a Freaknik.
The way shit was running was nice and didn't need to be interrupted by a motherfucker thinking they could come up with a better system than my pops came up with.
Even with me, he was strict about not changing anything and donating to St. Pete on a monthly basis.
Every now and then, he'd peep his head in and check shit out, but he was like a ghost, able to be two places at one time and people never saw him.
My phone dinged in my pocket. Reaching for it, I took a quick glance at the number and my heart felt like it was about to thump through my fuckin' chest. It was Sia.
I tried my best to use my Face ID, but facial recognition acted like they couldn't recognize me.
It'd been two hours since we opened, but I sent her the location last night, getting ahead of her.
I was on pins and needles hoping that she wouldn't stand a nigga up and cancel, but that's exactly what the fuck she did. It was like a bomb had landed on me, destroying my shit. I read the text over and over as if it'd magically disappear and say something else.
"I can't come. Sorry."
Clicking my teeth, I shoved the phone back in my pocket and thought hard.
If she knew she wasn't coming, she could've said that shit sooner.
She ain't have intentions on popping out in the first place.
I don't like shit like that. Don't be treating me like I'm a simp-ass nigga.
Taking my phone back out my pocket, I grew the urge to call her.
She declined it.
I called again.
She declined it.
I called again once more.
She declined it.
I called yet again and the phone went straight to voicemail.
So I shot her sheisty ass a text, but the message turned green, indicating that she had me blocked.
Releasing a low laugh I nodded my head. It was the only way to keep from losing my shit.
Catching my attention, I heard the code to the elevator chime, signaling that someone who had access entry needed something important. It was the bartender. I glanced over at her, slightly annoyed. She put her hands up in mock surrender, sensing it too.
"I'm sorry Dose, I didn't mean to disturb you, but I couldn't reach you. We're out of Hennessy and you know how much they love that shit," she informed me, making my face screw up.
"What you mean? We don't have shit in stock at all? Not even in inventory?"
She shook her head. "I checked and another shipment isn't set to arrive until next week. I'll be sure to order more the next time, but I didn't want to overdo it."
"You good," I nodded, slipping Sia in the back of my mind for now. "I'm about to make a run though, I'll be back."
A few months ago, we lost our alcohol supplier.
They relied heavily on imported products that came through port shipments, mostly by river rather than by air or land transportation.
That arrangement worked well for both of us for a long time.
However, the supplier wasn't operating through legal import channels and didn't have the proper documentation required to bring those products into the country.
As enforcement of import and trade regulations became stricter, they were no longer able to continue importing their inventory, which eventually forced them to stop supplying us.
As of now, I was depending on someone local in the States, but there were too many hiccups for me to want to continue business through them.
I'd grabbed my car keys and drove to a nearby restaurant, that could backdoor some cases to me, until we got our shit together. I'd already let them know ahead of time about my arrival. They didn't give me a hassle, but I spent more than I wanted to on liquor for a bunch of horny motherfuckers.
"You should come in and have a glass of wine with us," the owner mentioned.
Closing the trunk of my black F450, I grimaced from the rain hitting my skin and eyelids hard. It felt like slices.
"Nah, Beezi, as much as I'd love to, I need to take care of business, man."
Beezi was a full-blooded African who didn't take no for an answer. By all means, he treated the people who spent bread with him like family.
"Man come on. Your father loves our wine and steak. At least let me get you a bottle to send to him."
Seeing as though he wasn't about to give up, I locked my car and headed towards the entrance. The sound of black Samba Adidas clapped against the wet concrete, as I jogged my way inside, again once more, while using my black Adidas windbreaker to protect my freshly cut hair.
The rain mixed with the wind caused it to get a little chilly, so feeling the warmth over my body had me rubbing my hands together so they could warm up.
I trailed Beezi throughout the kitchen, speaking and nodding my head at everyone we passed until we stopped at his wine collection a few inches from the bar.
I ain't really a wine drinker. Pops tried to encourage me to drink it quite a few times because he said Myla put him on, but he lost me when he said sometimes it makes him feel like a bad bitch, whatever the fuck that meant, but I wasn't easily impressed.
Beezi went on and on about fine wine, as if I knew what the fuck he was talking about.
Midway through his yip-yap, my eyes gazed over parts of the restaurant that were visible and my eyes landed on Sia.
Amid the low lights, she stuck out in the red silk dress like a sore thumb.
My eyes turned to slits, noticing the other party.
They were engaged in a cute conversation—his hands were caressing hers under the dinner table.
My eyes shifted underneath the table, where his other hand was caressing her knee.
I'd hate to be a party pooper, but she'll never get the benefits of treating me like a lame-ass, simp bitch.
As much as I didn't want to turn Beezi's establishment into a shootout, the chances of doing so were slim.