Max Rafter was exhausted, and the day had barely begun. He had been working since 2 am and was desperate for it to be over. Setting the hammer-drill down, he finally took notice of his buzzing phone. 7 missed calls, 42 texts, and a full voicemail box. Max knew better than to check it. It was either telemarketers or unwanted drama. Ever since the incident where a girlfriend accidentally butt dialed him while cheating, he had set his voicemail to instruct people to text him instead. Max had made some changes in his life since then. He focused on finding happiness within himself rather than relying on others. He took up weightlifting, learned to play the guitar, and even joined a band. His newfound confidence made him attractive to women, and if one cheated, he simply moved on to the next. But deep down, Max despised the person he had become. He felt trapped, as if life had dealt him a perpetual disadvantage.

  His preferred escape was the bedroom, but when that wasn't an option, he turned to the next best thing. As he reached into his pocket, his hand trembling, he retrieved a small straw that he had sealed shut at both ends. With an exacto knife, he carefully opened one end and emptied the white powder it contained. He prepared to indulge in his second favorite forbidden vice.

  As he was about to lean down, a loud crash shattered the silence of the rooftop. Startled, Max jolted back, the straw slipping from his fingers. Panic surged through him as he desperately tried to conceal the powder before anyone noticed. Reality came crashing in, overpowering the allure of the substance. He couldn't afford the risk, not now. With a mixture of relief and regret, Max swiftly pocketed the straw, burying the temptation that had momentarily captivated him. Straightening his shoulders, he turned his attention toward the commotion that had interrupted his escape, only to realize the powder was still visible.

  He reached for his hammer drill to lay over his habit but missed getting a grip on it and it slipped off the side of the roof cracking on the concrete below, nearly hitting a bystander smoking a cigarette.

  “Nice move asshole!!” the smoker yelled. “ You trying to kill someone?”

  Max made sure to stay away from the ledge so whoever it was didn’t see him. Not that it’d be hard to figure out it was him, being he was the only worker up there today. At this time, it was probably another employee. Hopefully one that didn’t know to file a complaint. Turning his attention back the roof top visitor, he realized he had nothing to cover his drus. When he turned back, to his surprise, it was his little brother, Mason, and he had spotted it immediately.

  "Seriously?" Mason exclaimed, his voice filled with scorn. "What the fuck?"

  "Watch your language!" Max quickly retorted. "And it's not mine!"

  "I'm telling Mom!"

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  "It's not mine, Mason! I caught some kids up here earlier, and they ran off."

  "Kids here at this hour? I don't believe you," Mason replied skeptically, heading back toward the roof door.

  "Mason," Max called out in frustration. Since their father's passing, Max had been bringing his younger brother to work with him. He’d slept the first few hours in the car and the rest in the mall's arcade or people watching. They used to be close, but Max's changes had driven them apart. But Max had decided to change paths and remain true to himself while he still could. Even if others didn’t believe him. And even if he still had a little bit of a habit to kick. He was trying.

  "What do you want?" Max pleaded, desperate to avoid trouble.

  Mason hesitated. He didn't want to get his brother in trouble, but he also didn't want him to overdose. Mason considered the situation, realizing that this could be an opportunity for him. It could get him the video game he had been wanting and put a dent in Max's drug budget. Mason was quick to recognize such opportunities, although some of his thoughts still carried a shade of immaturity and self-interest. Despite feeling guilty for his willingness to turn a blind eye, he had come to the rooftop with a purpose.

  "VR and three games. And I want to see you flush that crap," Mason demanded, cutting straight to the point.

  Max breathed a sigh of relief, though he masked his gratitude for his brother's compromise. It was a steep price, but one he would gladly pay. If his mother discovered his stash again, he would be kicked out, and then he would be paying Mason's demanded price on a monthly basis for a one bedroom apartment in the shadiest parts of town. At that point, he wouldn't be able to afford his habit at all. Others would by stealing his crap.

  "Deal! But not all at once."

  "Make it five games."

  "Don't push it."

  "It has to hurt... and every dime you spend on games is one less dime spent on... that," Mason said, casting a meaningful glance toward the visible powder.

  "Four.” Max negotiated.

  “Fine.” Mason agreed.

  "I'll come down on my break," Max said, eager to finalize the agreement and get back to work.

  Mason didn't turn away, keeping his gaze fixed on his brother.

  "What?" Max asked, feeling the weight of stress pressing down on him.

  "I want to see you get rid of it," Mason asserted firmly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

  Max stared at the line of cocaine, hesitating for a moment as conflicting thoughts raced through his mind. He knew the risks, the potential consequences, but there was a part of him that craved the escape it promised. The weight of his troubles seemed unbearable, and this tiny white powder held the allure of temporary relief.

  His brother Mason stood nearby, a subtle smirk of approval on his face.

  With a mix of trepidation and surrender, Max tossed the paper holding the cocaine into the air and watched it disappear with a gust of wind.