Chapter 2
Chapter Two
BLAZE
Running my tongue over my bottom lip, I slowly circled Chauncey.
My ex-girlfriend’s brother was hanging from a metal bar that was attached to the ceiling of my warehouse.
When Andrea found out her brother was dead, she was going to be devastated.
That thought alone made a smile tug at the corners of my lips, but my expression remained stoic.
“B-Blaze, I can get your money back,” he panted. His voice was barely audible.
I heard him clearly, however, and his words made me stop in my tracks.
As I peered at his battered and bloody face, the smile I’d been fighting to let form finally broke through.
“You can get me my money?” I asked in an amused tone.
“You and your bitch ass sister have been running, ducking, and dodging me for a year now. But suddenly, you feel inclined to give me my money. Don’t even worry about it my nigga.
I’d rather watch you take your last breath than to have the money. ”
Pulling my gun from the waistband of my jeans, I cocked it, stepped back, and put a bullet in the center of Chauncey’s face.
The sound of the gun being fired alerted my homie, Doc to enter the space.
He had on a thick, plastic apron, gloves, and eye goggles.
Doc was the cleanup guy, and he was going to get rid of any evidence that Chauncey ever existed.
I trusted Doc with my deepest darkest secrets.
I met Doc ten years ago when he was doing security at a night club.
I watched him numerous times turn away men trying to get into the club with guns no matter how much they offered him.
That showed me that he couldn’t be bought.
I didn’t have to be searched because the owner of the club was my cousin.
After a while, I learned that Doc was a serious person.
He didn’t have kids or a lot of family. According to my cousin, Quail, he was a loner.
The more money I started making in the streets, I needed muscle to move with.
I offered Doc a very hefty salary, and he quit the club.
Quail didn’t mind because bouncers came a dime a dozen.
Over the years, Doc had earned my trust. More than that, we became friends.
That said a lot because I didn’t fuck with many people.
I no longer sold drugs, but I had money, and I couldn’t move like I used to.
Therefore, having Doc around was still necessary.
I owned a funeral home, a laundromat, delivery company, and a gym.
Ever since I researched and learned that the average millionaire had seven streams of income, I was on it.
The funeral home paid my bills, my mother’s bills, and any other expenses I had.
Everything I made from the gym and laundromat were either put into a high yield savings account or my IRA account.
What I made from the delivery company went into various investments.
I didn’t have seven streams of income but with the dope money I left the game with and the businesses that I did have, I had surpassed a million.
I took losses in the dope game and running businesses was no different.
There were good months, and there were bad months.
I hated losses which was the reason when Chauncey and Andrea stole $100,000 from me, I vowed not to rest until I got their asses.
I was in a relationship with Andrea, so it was her that had access to my house and my safe.
No matter how mad she was at me or bold enough to steal, Andrea didn’t dare go to my home alone.
I watched on the security cameras, the ones she didn’t know about, as Chauncey walked in my crib like he had been invited.
When she did that, she put a tag on her brother’s toe, and she didn’t even know it.
Andrea knew me, and she knew how I gave it up.
In her delusional ass mind, I wouldn’t miss the money and since I’d done her wrong, in her eyes, she deserved the money.
She was smart enough to leave town not giving a fuck that her parents and everyone else she loved were still here.
Had I been a different type of nigga, I would have wiped out her immediate family and made her live with the guilt.
As pissed as I was at Andrea, I still wasn’t sure I had it in me to kill a woman.
Chauncey’s death would devastate her, so that was a start.
No one would ever find his body or be certain what happened to him but deep down, she would know.
I had things to do but getting rid of the gun I’d used to kill Chauncey was a must. I loaded the clip and always handled the gun while wearing gloves. Even if it was found, my prints wouldn’t be on it or the bullets. I still couldn’t get caught with it, however, so in the lake it was going.
As I drove home, I began to regret the fact that I told my homeboy, Ryan, he could use my house to throw a cookout.
He was newly single. After ending a four-year relationship he decided to move in with his mother for a few months to stack his paper and clean his credit up, so he could buy a house.
Ryan made good money working for my delivery company and any chance he got, he’d been picking up extra shifts.
The housing market was trash and any house that he would want to live in wasn’t less than $300,000 and even that was a stretch.
It was his gathering so technically; I didn’t have to mingle or deal with people.
I could stay inside while they occupied the backyard.
I had already made it clear to him that I didn’t want anybody in my house.
There was a bathroom in my pool house, so they shouldn’t be inside my crib for any reason.
Driving always calmed my nerves. It relaxed me and gave me time to either think and strategize or zone out and free myself from the constant task of strategizing and overthinking.
I wasn’t a perfectionist or an overachiever, but I was a man that knew nobody was going to give me shit.
Anything that I wanted I had to go and get it.
Simple as that. my businesses not only supported me, but they gave a lot of people jobs.
The business I was most hands on with was the gym.
All of my other businesses were either run by a family member or someone that I interviewed thoroughly and made sure was right for the job.
At the age of twenty when I first started seeing insane amounts of money from selling drugs, no one could tell me shit.
I was a young nigga out there having my way.
Anything I wanted; I could get it. Legally, I wasn’t even old enough to drink but was sitting courtside at basketball games, flying my entire crew out to various islands, buying clothes and sneakers to only wear once or twice then I would give them to kids in the hood that could fit them.
My thought process was that if I went to jail or hell, I wanted to have enjoyed the money I was risking my freedom and life for.
Around the age of twenty-three, I started thinking more long-term.
The funeral home was my first business. People died every day, and I also used empty coffins as a way to traffik drugs out of state.
My first year of business, I made over $800,000 in legal money and began the process of having my home built.
I designed every inch of the home. The kitchen, movie room, ensuite bathroom, master bedroom, closets, all me.
It took two years to build and by the time it was completed, I had started the delivery business.
Walking into my home made me feel like a king.
I had done that shit. On my own through plenty of sleepless nights, blood, sweat, and tears.
I hired two interior designers to decorate the place, and they had my shit so fye that I hated leaving home.
The vibe was dark and sexy, like I liked it.
By then I was almost twenty-six, and I made the decision to stack another few hundred thousand in drug money and to leave the game.
When hustling and fast money was all a person knew, leaving the game was easier said than done.
It was actually quite scary. Even after I saved another $200,000, I still didn’t quit.
I hustled for another year before walking away for good.
But, my home was paid for and so were my motorcycle, Bentley, BMW, Lexus, and Range Rover.
My parents were no longer together, but I bought each of them a house and a car.
My father spent nine years of his life in prison for manslaughter.
He came home when I was twenty-five, and I gave him a job at the funeral home.
Currently, I was thirty and had been living in my home for almost four years.
Still, whenever I pulled into my driveway all I could do was take a deep breath and say, “You really did this shit.” A kid that once went to pour a bowl of cereal and was traumatized when a roach fell into the bowl.
Inside my walk-in shower that could comfortably fit five adults, I washed my sins away.
It was rare that I drank alcohol. Maybe once or twice a month.
After one too many nights of overindulging and being fucked up the next day, I decided getting drunk wasn’t for me.
I didn’t really care for smoking either, but I would take an edible a few times a week just to relax.
Quail laughed his ass off when he came in the crib one day and saw my yoga mat.
I didn’t do yoga, but I would sit on the mat and meditate.
I gave no fucks about his jokes. I would rather find alternative methods for relaxing than being high or drunk as hell all day every day. That shit wasn’t for me.