Coming from a life of drugs, money, and women, Michael "Meechie" Jackson had the world in the palm of his hands. He had power and his business, which he built from the ground up, morphed him into one of the most well-known drug lords in the city.
I...
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His bronze irises were glued to Ishmael like dry cement who was explaining to a new employee what their position entailed. Of course, they had to go through the big boss first to get approved and liking what he was presented with and the answers to the questions he spewed, the new employee was able to start their training today.
Despite the incident during his first shipment, Michael still trusted Ishmael for recommendations; it wasn't his fault for what happened last time. But to take on good leadership skills was to find out who's really for him and who's not. Everyone is not to be trusted and even the ones he knew for a long time. As hard as it was to admit, people always found ways to betray the people that were loyal to them. It was the only way for him to learn.
As Michael continued his observation, he knew in the back of his mind he was making the right decision. Patting the guy, whose name was Marshall, on the back, Ishmael called over another employee to show him the ropes hands on before making his way over to Michael.
"My bad, Bossman. Wasn't tryna keep you waiting." He extended his hand for a handshake that Michael reciprocated wearing a grin.
"You good. I was just watchin' you in yo' element as a leader. I like what I'm seein'."
"Aye." He shrugged. "I learned from the best."
"You fuckin' right." They shared a laugh at his arrogance. "Let's go to the back and talk real quick." Michael nodded his head towards the direction of where the office was located.
Walking the narrow hallway and through the door first, Michael waited until Ishmael entered, taking a seat in a chair in front of the black, wooden desk whereas Michael sat on the edge of it.
"How your girl doin' since the shooting? She a'ight?" Ishmael asked concerned.
"She's doin' better, I guess. Just dealin' with the aftermath of everything," came Michael's response, his mind thinking of Irish first three days back home. Now on day ten, nightmares were a new occurrence for her but not so much for him considering he dealt with it briefly before he got the call she was awake. He took awareness of the way any noise similar to a gunshot triggered her immensely, making her paranoid like a motherfucker.
So much changed since she was discharged, and it's obvious she suffered from post traumatic stress disorder. Still, he blamed himself for her having to deal with such psychological issues. It's hard to forgive himself for it no matter what she said otherwise. It would always be a burden, and he was taking full responsibility.
"PTSD?" Ishmael arched a knowing brow.
"Yeah." Michael nodded. "It looks like that's what it is. She's only been home for about two weeks or so. It finally kicked in."
