BLACK TAR → madwheeler

one.

      ⋆｡˚  MIKE WHEELER DROPPED HIS BIKE IN THE DRIVEWAY OF THE CABIN STRETCHING ACROSS THE GRAVEL DRIVE. Surrounding the place were miles of trees, a lake just beyond that. The absolutely massive cabin was Xan's family's, and it was the group's "spot" where they usually met. 

    Sweat beaded at his forehead, and he wiped it away, biting his lower lip as he cast a look around the vast premises. Besides Xan's white Nissan in the driveway, there was practically no one for miles around; save for the other rich families that came in the summertimes. Privacy was guaranteed, and since the business had started up in April, the cabin's purpose had only served to be more vital as the months went on.

     Mike checked his watch, the numbers 5:03 am flashing up at him from the screen. He removed his duffel bag from his arm, crouching as he unzipped the compartment, using his phone flashlight to see the contents he already knew were inside.

     What Mike kept in his duffel was barely close to ten items -- when he had them, his balloons; carefully tied in the bottom of his bag, two metal spoons, a lighter, a few tiny plastic bags, his pipe, and about five to six empty syringes. "His gym bag," The boys usually joked. 

     He looked through the contents, coming up with a plastic baggie with barely any flakes of powder left. Even though he had already checked six times this morning, he cursed underneath his breath all the same, throwing it back into the bottom with a groan. 

     Flicking his bangs out of his eyes once more, he zipped up the duffel, not bothering to throw away the other empty bags he knew were lining the inside. After all, you always kept them. Just in case.

     He headed up the wooden stairs, leaning on the front door as his finger found the smooth edge of the handle, pushing inwards as warm air greeted him. He closed the door behind him, taking a few seconds to warm up in the front foyer as his eyes fell on the staircase stretching up to the upper levels, where the bedrooms, pool table, and hot tub were. 

     Mike ran his fingers through his jet black hair, hearing voices coming from the dining room just beyond the kitchen. He took a deep breath, pushing the bag further up on his shoulder as he walked past the living room and through the kitchen, leaning on the doorframe of the entryway as he set his duffel down with a thump. 

     "Wheeler!" Xan said, and the rest of the boys all looked up. There were six of them in total -- Mike, Troy Walsh, Cole Monroe, Alex Gray, Blake Campbell, and of course, Xan. The group had begun with just he, Xan, and Troy and had eventually just kept going until Xan had found all the right components to make his business work. With Mike and Troy on drug runs, Xan in charge, Blake supervising over the supply and handling, and Cole and Alex working to make sure none of the shitload of enemies they had managed to make were on their trail, the trade was pretty quite honestly one of the best things they had going for them. 

     And what Mike had come to realize, now that he was seventeen years old -- still not living up to the expectations of his father, his grades slipping behind more than they had ever had before -- it was probably one of the only things he was meant to do in the fucking first place. 

     He dropped his bag on the ground, slumping into one of the dining room chairs as he waved at Xan to move along, closing his eyes as he tried to hold his arms steady from shaking. "Enough with the theatrics, Elliot, I'm not feelin' too hot this morning." 

     Xan raised his eyebrows. "Can't imagine why." 

     There were snickers from around the table and Mike reopened his eyes, using every ounce of his energy to grit his teeth together and stop from curling into a fetal position on the cold wooden floor. "Hah hah, you're all comedians."