9. Kase Madoxx
Kase Madoxx
B eing a club owner was dope. I made hella money, but I was tryna grow past bottle service and booty-shakin’ Thursdays.
I wasn’t just in it for flash, I wanted real wealth, long money, passive income I could eat off forever.
So, I started looking into stocks and legit investments, some grown-man shit.
My accountant connected me with this advisor who worked with small business owners, tryna flip their profits the smart way.
We had a meeting scheduled for noon, and I was tryna prepare without lookin’ like I gave a damn.
I didn’t wanna show up lookin’ like a rapper turned motivational speaker, but I also wasn’t tryna fumble the bag.
Just as I slipped on my dress shoes, the doorbell rang.
I wasn’t expecting nobody, so I strolled over, already annoyed, and cracked it open like somebody owed me an apology.
There she was, Blyss. She was standing in my doorway like a damn Chick-fil-A employee, grinning like I was her favorite combo meal, holding two smoothies from my favorite spot. Her curls bounced with every word.
“Wheels, what you want? My brother and your cousin ain’t here.”
“I know,” she said sweetly. “I came to see you.”
“For what, shawty?”
“To thank you for giving me that ride.”
“That twenty you handed me was enough. Next time, hold the wetness from the tittie, though.”
She giggled like that was cute. “You are so funny. But seriously, this is a peace offering.”
She extended one of the smoothies toward me like it was a sacred gift, and I eyed it like it might be laced.
“You ain’t tryna poison a nigga, are you, Wheels?”
She snorted. “No! Of course not!”
“Mmhmm,” I said, still suspicious. “Alright. Preciate the smoothie.”
I snatched it from her hand and shut the door in her face before she could say anything else.
As soon as I took a sip, I paused. That joint was hittin’.
It was cold, balanced, and not too sweet.
Then it clicked, I had that investment meeting, and I still didn’t fully understand half the documents they emailed me.
That’s when I remembered that Blyss worked at the library, always buried in some book or spreadsheet.
She could probably decode this stock talk like it was a damn children's story.
I cracked the door back open and saw her halfway to her little bike, laughing at herself like she was crazy.
“Yo!” I called out.
She turned around, eyebrow raised.
“You wanna be useful or you just tryna flirt with me all day?”
She grinned. “Depends. You finally admitting you need my help again?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Wheels. I just figured you could translate some of that Harvard-ass investor talk so I don’t end up investing in a front for organ trafficking.”
She laughed. “I got you. When do you need me?”
“Now.”
“Okay. But we’ll have to take your car since I rode my bike.”
“How the hell you deliverin’ smoothies on two wheels?”
“I got a basket,” she said proudly.
I just shook my head. It didn’t make no damn sense how someone could be that happy about helping me.
I didn’t argue. Just unlocked the car and dropped my smoothie in the cupholder.
We hit the road. For the most part, the ride was quiet for a minute, just the hum of traffic and me sipping that smoothie like it held all the answers. Then I noticed her sneaking glances.
“What?” I asked, eyes on the road.
She smiled. “Nothing.”
“Nah, don’t ‘nothing’ me. You been lookin’ at me like I’m a damn cinnamon roll fresh out the oven.”
She smirked. “Yeah... one I wanna eat, but then when you talk, I remember why I hate sugar.”
I smirked. “Damn, Wheels. That was almost sweet ‘til you threw in the slander.”
We pulled up to the office building where the investment guy worked. I parked smoothly, hopped out, then, against all logic, circled around to open her door.
“Aww,” she beamed. “That was sweet.”
I scratched my head. “It’s not a big deal or nothing.”
What the fuck, Kase? I didn’t do that for no woman. Not unless she was elderly or cooked Sunday dinner. But I let it ride. Blyss got out the car smiling like I’d just read her a poem.
“I’m starting to rub off on you,” she said.
“You wish.”
Still, I walked beside her, not in front of her like I normally did with girls who annoyed me.
We walked in like some respectable-ass couple on a date.
When we got inside, I adjusted my pants a little.
Not all the way up, just enough to look “professional,” whatever that meant.
As soon as we stepped in, some woman near the reception desk turned around with her blouse damn near choking from how much breast it was holding.
Normally, I’d flash a smirk, throw a line, something smooth.
But today? I waved awkward as hell with my full palm.
I looked like a damn fool. She smiled, but I could tell she was confused. Shit, I was too.
“Dress shoes,” the woman complimented.
Now was the time for me to be slick. Instead, I said, “Thanks! They’re… memory foam.”
Memory foam, my nigga?!
I felt Blyss snort behind me. This was bad. I cleared my throat and tried to regain control of my own damn body. “I mean... they're comfortable. I walk a lot... sometimes. Health is wealth, right?”
Now I wanted to crush myself like a cookie. The chick smiled again, said “Okay then,” and walked off, probably going to tell her homegirl she just met a fine dude with orthopedic shoe energy. I turned to Blyss and gave her the look.
“Don’t,” I said, already knowing she had something on her chest.
“I didn’t say a word,” she said, lips twitching.
“You ain't have to. I could feel you judging me with your eyelashes.”
She shook her head. “You were so polite… it was almost romantic. Like a PBS character.”
“Man, shut up.”
But deep down? I was shocked.
We checked in at the front desk, and while Blyss signed us in, I saw some magazines on the table and, like a damn usher, started tidying them up. I even thanked the receptionist for “keeping a peaceful atmosphere.”
Yo… what is happening?
I glanced at my reflection in the glass partition and damn near didn’t recognize myself. My brows were relaxed, my jaw unclenched, and my posture was straight. I looked like a youth pastor about to open Bible study with a lighthearted joke and a prayer request sheet. Then I noticed something worse.
Why the fuck was my pants raised? I loved when they hung low; it gave me swagger. I reached down to pull them back to where God intended, but as soon as I did, I feltawkward. So, I decided to keep them pulled up and went to sit next to Blyss, who kept giggling.
“You okay?” Blyss asked.
“Yeah,” I answered too quickly, forcing a scowl back onto my face, but it felt off.
My facial muscles had gone soft, like they forgot how to frown. Even my walk had changed. I wasn’t gliding like usual. I was bouncing. It felt like I had rhythm in my step andhopein my spirit.
Hope?
Naw. That ain’t me.
Eventually, we got called into the office.
We followed some clean-cut dude named Mr. Harmon into one of those modern offices with glass walls and no real privacy, just enough style to make you think he was important.
He looked like the kind of guy who had a golf app on his phone and took oat milk seriously.
I sat down, trying to act like I belonged, while Blyss adjusted her tote bag and pulled out a notebook like she was ready for class.
This was my first investment meeting. Not no street hustle, not flipping merch out the back.
Real shit. I had a dream of taking my money from my clubs and putting it somewhere that grew while I slept.
Stocks. Real estate. Maybe even tech. I had been watching YouTube videos like crazy, reading articles, and trying to level up.
Because I knew one day the club scene would get old, but my money couldn’t afford to.
This meeting was about securing that future.
Only problem? I couldn’t focus because homeboy had a stain on his shirt.
Not just any stain. A bold-ass coffee drop, right over his heart like a target, all dried and settled in like it paid rent.
While he talked about “portfolio diversity,” my brain had its own agenda.
Why he ain’t hit that with no OxiClean?
Do he not own a Tide pen?”
Maybe he spilled that shit this morning, but why not change shirts, though?
I nodded like I was listening, even leaned forward a little to fake interest, but I was locked in on that stain like it owed me back pay.
“If you’re serious about this round of funding, we’ll look at your current assets and liquid reserves?—”
“Is that... cocoa?” I asked out loud before my brain could stop me.
Mr. Harmon’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry?”
Blyss smiled but didn’t say anything.
I cleared my throat. “Sorry—uh… collateral. That’s what you said, right? Collateral.”
He gave me this tight corporate smile like he was trying not to call security, and then stepped away momentarily.
Blyss leaned toward me and whispered, “You really asked this man about his shirt?”
“I couldn’t help it,” I muttered. “That stain was staring at me like it wanted to fight.”
“You want this investment or not?”
“I do, but that shirt is disrespectful. ”
Blyss sucked in a breath, lips twitching as she held back a laugh, and slid the pitch documents over to me like she was babysitting a toddler with a crayon.
I grabbed the pen, ready to sign where needed, but she told me to hold off so she could ask more questions.
When he came back to sit back down, I couldn’t stop my eyes from creeping back to that damn spot on his chest. The man could’ve said buy Apple, get rich tomorrow , and I still would’ve been thinking, what temperature did he wash that shit on?