Working Boy [Revamped]

The Pink Flyer

This wasn't what Chase was expecting. All he could do was peer out from behind the velvet curtains as bright lights lit up the shiny, navy blue stage. Surrounding the stage was a sea of spectators, whooping and hollering- waiting to be entertained by Damon's Paradise's newest dancer: "Black Mamba".

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The alarm tore through the silence of the room like a chainsaw to a dream. Chase groaned, slapping at the snooze button but missing. He sat up, half-awake, rubbing the grit from his eyes. Legs over the side of the bed, feet to cold tile. Morning routine mode: engaged.

He shuffled down the hall to the bathroom. Brushed his teeth, washed his face. Looked up at his own reflection in the cracked mirror. His curls were doing whatever the hell they wanted, wild and full of attitude—but he'd wrangle them into something halfway decent before school, like always.

He turned on the shower and stepped in, letting the water drag the sleep out of his bones.

Chase Ramesh Mitchell was the average jock in American football. He stood 6'3, with a strong build and a smooth, deep brown complexion that reflected his Trinidadian roots. His honey-colored eyes stood out the most—warm, sharp, yet unreadable. His smile, when he wore it, could drop jaws and raise eyebrows, thanks to a pair of deep dimples that earned him the nickname "Crater Dimples."

He dried off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stepped back into the hallway—only to jump.

"Damn, Antwon," he said, startled. "You scared me."

His uncle stood by the dresser, fiddling with the alarm clock.

"You forgot to turn it off," Antwon said casually, flipping the switch.

"Ah, my bad. Didn't mean to wake you," Chase muttered, scratching the back of his head.

Antwon waved him off. "No big deal. Go get dressed."

Weird. Usually, the man would've gone straight back to bed. Chase squinted after him as he walked to the kitchen. Tired or not, something was off.

Antwon was a 6-foot tall Trinidad native with a well-built physique. He had rich dark skin, greying goatee, and very long locs that reached his lower back that he often wore back into a tube sleeve-styled headwrap. His voice carried a natural boom, his accent carrying a heavier Trini accent vs Chase's softer 'Trinimerican' voice.
He flew out to the States with his mother when he was 16 before moving to California in pursuit of a job in finance at 22. Gave it 30 good years before being let go. In between, he took in a young 4-year old Chase—the son of his sick younger sister and his nephew.

Chase shrugged off the odd interaction and got dressed. His school uniform—white button-down, navy vest and slacks, red tie—felt stiff but clean. He brushed his curls into a low, bushy ponytail and headed into the kitchen.

The smell hit him first—eggs, bacon, toast. Two plates were already set. Chase blinked.

"Coffee too?" he asked with a smile as he sat down. "Okay, what's the occasion?"
Antwon poured his own cup and took a seat across from him. "Nothing much."

"Uh-huh. You don't usually go all out unless it's Sunday—or someone died."

Antwon didn't answer. He took a long sip of coffee, eyes distant.

"You good?" Chase asked, instantly on alert.
Antwon sighed, put down the mug, and met his nephew's gaze.

"You remember that little office job I had?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"I got let go."

Chase paused mid-bite, toast halfway to his mouth. "Wait, what? But you were killin' it there. All those sales—"