Page 6 of Volatile Obsessions

? Sucker for Pain - Lil’ Wayne, Wiz Khalifa, Imagine Dragons, X Ambassadors, Logic & Ty Dolla $ign ?

Two months later- Present day

The King has arrived.

Stepping out onto the pavement in the infernal Miami heat, I slammed shut the door of my rental Mercedes and quickly adjusted my off-centered obsidian tie. Through the Ray-bans aiding me from going blind under the oppressive rays, my gaze shot around the palm-riddled lot, then over the ordinary factory.

Dingy, white paint, and eroded vents, likely from the salt water nearby.

This is it?

I chuckled. Even the cloudless blue sky and lush view of the marina didn’t help. Of all the places he could’ve chosen to start an empire, why here? This place was a shit hole. Literal hell.

Truth is, I didn’t really want to be here. That alone was enough for me to nit-pick and dissect every aspect of my visit. But Vic needed my help, so despite my plethora of opinions, here I was—being a good-fucking-friend and all that shit.

With a resigned huff, I straightened my jacked, refastening the first of two buttons as I squared my shoulders and started for the only set of doors in plain sight. From what I could see, they were as dingy and eroded as the rest of the exterior.

I shook my head in disdain. Clearly, Vic needed a proper lesson in business. Not that I was a businessman—per se—but even I knew the importance of aesthetics and appearance.

And this place screamed nothing short of filthy and unsanitary.

If he was hoping to get me on board of whatever this was, we were going to have to make some serious changes. No way in hell I was slapping my name on something so putrid.

Once at the mass double doors, I came to an abrupt halt, staring at the handles in revolt. My lip curled offensively. They looked like a tetanus breeding ground, layer upon layer of rust accumulated at the curves. I wouldn’t even consider touching them, and I wondered how the hell Vic could possibly touch them on the daily, too, considering his obsessive habits.

What sounded like a zooming sound whirred somewhere on my left, shifting my attention away from my long time friend and the offending entry to his fairly new stab at success. I snapped my head in its direction, noting the security camera at the top of the doorway zeroing in on me, a small red light blinking every other second or so.

“It’s about time you showed, King.” Vic’s voice erupted from some hidden source. He sounded both amused and a little shocked.

“Blame it on your beloved city. How is there traffic at ten in the morning? Do people here not work?” I asked irately.

“Yes, they work”—he laughed—“but you’re in Miami, Rome. Lots of retirees, college kids, tourists, and immigrants. Get used to it.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that. Open up, will ‘ya? It’s hot as balls out here.”

A low buzz met my ears, followed by what sounded like the lock mechanism coming undone. I laughed sarcastically, motioning toward the door. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, right? I’m not touching that shit.”

Vic went on to laugh too, his more entertained than sarcastic. “Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a prissy bitch since I last saw you, bro.”

“Says the man who spends a fortune on hand sanitizer each month,” I fired back.

“Touché, touché.” He laughed again. “I was joking by the way. Wouldn’t touch that door with a ten foot pole either. Roscoe’s on his way. He should be there any sec—”

The door flew open, a hulking bastard of a man with leather-gloved hands stepping aside to allow me entry. I stared at him with much of the same disgust in which I’d stared at those detestable handles. I wasn’t a small man by any means, but this dude made me look like a teacup puppy in comparison. A shoe-in for Jack the giant, he was more beefy than anything else, and not in the defined way women liked to see. He was balding, too, with a scraggly beard and an obvious beer gut, none of which helped deter from the slimy vibe oozing off his person. Other than the grunted directions muttered under his breath, Roscoe didn’t move, standing stock-still with crossed-arms.

Taking care not to come within three centimeters of his body, I slipped in past him and followed the given route to the singular elevator bank, pulling off my sunglasses in the process. I tucked them into the breast pocket of my jacket and jammed my thumb into the call button promptly thereafter. The doors slid open almost immediately with a loud ding, leaving me absolutely no time to assess the conditions of the first floor. At a quick glance, it was nothing more than an emptied factory, but a full perusal would have to wait until later, that is, if I decided to actually lend my buddy a helping hand.

Otherwise, not my business. Not my fucking problem.

When I arrived on the second floor, the only route optional was that of a suspended, metal pathway that led to a large office situated dead-center of the vast space on the other side. Wrapped in entirety with floor to ceiling windows, it looked like something straight out of a mafia film, one where the mob boss could overlook his empire from any and every accessible point possible.

Typical Vic, I thought to myself as I trudged over the bridge, idly speculating whether this thing would collapse under my weight or not. Rickety shit looked about ready to do just that; all oxidized and unkempt like everything else around here.

Regardless, I kept on, and from my vantage point up here, I could just barely make out a set of stairs the led up to the office from the first floor, along with several gargantuan machines and dusty conveyer belts. The rest was shrouded by darkness. Given the scarcity of people, I assumed what laid down there was of no working use or value.

Piqued my interest as to why he’d keep it in the first place.

Guess we’re about to find out…

---