Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
LANGSTON BLACK
It was a quarter to five in the morning, and I was already sitting up.
My feet found the cold hardwood without hesitation.
Some habits were so ingrained in your bones they became a reflex, like the way my body knew it was time to run before my brain had booted up.
Sleep clung to my edges as I stretched, but I shook off the temporary weakness.
Discipline wasn’t about feeling good; it was about doing what needed to be done regardless.
I slipped into my running gear — compression shorts, a moisture-wicking shirt, and the expensive running shoes I allowed myself to buy after landing the Westridge contract.
Small luxuries reminded me I wasn’t that broke kid anymore, stealing sneakers from the outlet mall because Grandma’s social security check wouldn’t cover both new shoes and the light bill.
My house was silent as I moved through the three-bedroom colonial that was too big for me but served as another marker of success.
I bought it two years ago, partly because I could and partly to prove to everyone in this town that Langston Black wasn’t just another statistic waiting to happen.
The surprise on the realtor’s face when I paid cash still made me smirk on mornings like this.
Outside, the air had a pre-dawn coolness, crisp enough to make my lungs work a little harder on the first inhale. I stretched, focusing on my hamstrings, quads, calves, and shoulders. My watch beeped, 5:00 a.m., as I took off down the driveway.
The first mile was always rough. As I tried to find my pacing, my breathing settled into a pattern, in for three steps, out for two, while my feet struck the pavement with steady purpose.
This early, Main Street belonged to me and the occasional delivery truck.
No soundtrack but my own breathing and the distant hum of the highway beyond town limits.
No audience but the streetlights dimming as dawn threatened to break their night shift.
I rounded the corner past the old library, where I used to hide out when Grandma and Grandpa were fighting. I passed the high school gymnasium, where I once thought basketball would be my only way out. Each landmark held a piece of who I became, despite all the expectations stacked against me.
“Boy, you’ve got the talent but not the commitment. Shame to waste it all,” Coach Wilson said, shaking his head after I missed practice for the third time that month.
His voice replayed in my head sometimes during my morning runs, pushing me harder when my legs wanted to slow.
I bumped my pace up, noticing the burn in my calves, the controlled strain across my shoulders.
I ran five miles every morning, rain, shine, or hangover, though those were rare these days.
Couldn’t afford to be sloppy when you had built something worth protecting.
Downtown came into view as I hit my third mile.
The storefronts were dark, except for Maggie’s Bakery, as the morning shift prepared for the day.
Freshly baked bread hit me as I passed, a momentary distraction from my run.
I nodded at the delivery guy unloading newspapers outside the corner store.
He returned the nod in a silent greeting.
And then I saw it, the bench at the corner of Elm and Washington…
my bench. Well, it was technically the city’s bench, but the advertisement spanning its back belonged to me: Black Security & Investigations in bold letters, with my logo, a shield crossed with a key, and phone number beneath.
The first marketing investment I ever made and kept up to this day.
When I operated out of my garage apartment, I relied solely on my determination and the security certification I earned through night classes.
I slowed to a stop, breathing controlled even as my heart pounded from exertion. Sweat trickled down my spine, soaking into the fabric of my shirt as I eyed that damn bench. The ad wasn’t anything special. Still, it served as my morning checkpoint, indicating I made something from nothing.
I checked the time: I was right on schedule.
“Morning, Mr. Black. Looking good today!” Mrs. Jeffries waved from her front porch across the street, wrapped in a housecoat despite the summer warmth. She’d been up this early watering her plants since I was a kid, trying to sneak back home before Grandma noticed I’d snuck out.
“Morning, Mrs. Jeffries. Those roses are coming in nice this year,” I replied, offering a polite nod.
She cackled, adjusting her headscarf. “They know better than to disappoint me. You tell your mama I’m still waiting on the recipe she promised.”
I didn’t correct her assumption that I’d seen my mother recently. Some battles weren’t worth fighting, especially this time of the morning. Instead, I nodded and resumed my pace, letting the rhythm drown out thoughts of family complications.
The eastern edge of town was waking up now. Lights flicked on in upstairs windows. The first school bus of the day rumbled past, heading to start its route. Each detail registered and filed away, observation was second nature in my line of work, allowing me to pick up on what others missed.
I rounded the final corner toward home as the sun broke. The day was officially beginning, but I’d already claimed my piece of it, already put in the work keeping me grounded. By the time most people hit their snooze buttons, I’d already covered five miles and mentally mapped out my day.
Back at my driveway, I slowed to a walk, letting my heart rate settle as I stretched my arms overhead. My house looked different in the early light, more like the promise I worked to fulfill, a home, not only a house, though the distinction sometimes felt beyond my reach.
My alarm beeped again. 5:58 a.m. Perfect timing.
Inside, I stripped out of my sweat-soaked clothes and stepped under the shower spray before it heated.
The cold shock was a part of the ritual, another small test of will.
As the water warmed, I shifted gears, loosening my muscles from the solitude of my run to the responsibilities waiting at the office.
Black Security & Investigations didn’t run itself, though some days I wished it would.
I went from a troubled kid to a business owner, a transformation that still surprised some of the old-timers in town who remembered me as the Langston Black boy, shame about his mama.
Still, I built something solid, something with my name on it, something no one could take away.
The water washed over my shoulders, easing away tension and sweat. Still, the sense of accomplishment from seeing my bench, my advertisement, and my mark on this town lingered, warming me from the inside like the first sip of morning coffee to come.
After my morning routine, I headed to work.
The Black Security & Investigations office was located in what used to be an old hardware store downtown, an ironic choice considering my history with the place that burned down during my senior year.
I deliberately chose it, a middle finger to the rumors which followed me for years after that night.
Now it was modern with exposed brick walls, polished concrete floors, and a security system that made other security companies jealous.
I swiped my key card at the front door at half past seven, just like every morning.
This routine was as much a part of me as my morning run.
The empty reception desk glared at me as I passed.
Hannah called in sick Friday, the third time this month, but I’d push my concern aside until after my first cup of coffee.
My office was as I had left it. The desk was clean, except for my laptop and the framed photo of Grandma and Grandpa at their fiftieth anniversary, taken two years before they both passed away within months of each other.
The blinds were tilted at the perfect angle.
This was how I preferred my office, everything in its place.
The coffee machine in the break room hummed to life under my touch, brewing the dark roast I special-ordered in bulk.
It wasn’t the best, but it got the job done.
While it brewed, I checked the time. I had twenty minutes to review the Wilson case notes before the team briefing at 8:00 a.m. Plenty of time to settle in, organize my thoughts, and prepare for the day ahead with the same precision I applied to everything else.
Back in my office, coffee mug in hand, the one Grandma gave me when I opened this place, Boss printed on the side, I powered up my laptop and took the first sip.
Perfect. Strong and bitter, enough to sharpen my focus without setting off any anxiety lurking beneath my carefully constructed calm.
I pulled up the Wilson file, scanning the notes from yesterday’s surveillance, when my desk phone lit up.
“Morning, Tamika,” I answered, keeping my voice neutral despite the interruption to my routine.
“Morning? There’s nothing good about it. We have problems,” Tamika fired back, her voice crisp with the efficiency that made me hire her as an assistant three years ago — no pleasantries, no bullshit, only facts delivered with the precision of a surgeon.
I set my coffee down. “What kind of problems?”
Tamika summed them up. First, Hannah quit, which was annoying but not catastrophic. The temp agency would send someone within hours, and we’d find a permanent replacement within two weeks. I made a note to review our onboarding process to identify the causes of turnover.
Second, our biggest client Westridge... Their background checks were doable if we reallocated resources. I’d need to personally review the final reports to ensure they met our standards despite the rushed timeline. Not ideal, but manageable.