Luxe (11 page)

He stopped walking and grabbed her elbow to make her face him. “I understand, ma, and I respect it.”

Those gray eyes pulled her in as she stared at his handsome features.

Suddenly he raised his arm, signaling the lone cab that was driving down the street. The driver pulled over and rolled down his window. “I'm not working! Taking it in for the night!”

Iman pulled out a Gotti knot, revealing the cash to the driver, enticing him to stop. It was true what they said; money made the world go round, because just like that the cabdriver was suddenly willing to pick up one last fare. Iman peeled off two hundred-dollar bills. “Get her where she has to go, a'ight?” He leaned down over the car and passed the money through the passenger window. Opening the back door, he held it open for her.

“You didn't have to do that,” she said. “What about you?”

“I'll catch the next one,” he said. “Where are you going?”

“Rieber Hall,” she responded.

He leaned down and looked at the cabbie. “You hear that, my man? UCLA, Rieber Hall.”

The man nodded and Bleu walked over to the door, hesitating as she stared him directly in the face. “Thank you,” she said.

He gave her a wink, his charm undeniably sexy, as he replied, “Good night, Bleu.”

She waved to him just before the cab pulled away, secretly wishing that they had taken that long walk to campus. He was someone she wouldn't mind spending a little extra time with. She wouldn't mind that at all.

*   *   *

Morning came too quickly and classes moved along too slowly as Bleu struggled through the entire day. She hadn't made it home until after 3:00 a.m., and with her first class being an early one it left little room for sleep. She was exhausted and on top of that distracted. She didn't know how she would balance everything out, but she knew that she would have to figure something out. She didn't come from money. There was no support system back in Flint, rooting her on and sending her care packages. All she had was herself, so she would have to play superwoman if she wanted to remain in L.A.

She made the long walk back to her dorm grudgingly, and when she arrived she stopped dead in her tracks. The familiar face immediately caused butterflies to form in her stomach. Iman stood, leaning against his white S-class Mercedes, arms folded across his chest. He wore Ray-Ban shades over his eyes and a fitted cap, but she immediately knew who he was. It was his aura that gave him away. She had never met a man who carried himself quite like Iman. He was a god, living among mortals. He was everything, and she instantly swooned over him in her mind. The giddy feeling that she got when in his presence told her she was feeling him more than a little bit, but she would never admit it aloud.

She frowned in confusion as she approached him slowly.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“It's a long walk to work. Let me take you,” he replied.

“You came all the way here to take me to work? You didn't—”

“Have to,” he finished for her. “I know. Are we going to repeat last night or are you going to get in?”

“I don't have to be there until six. You're kind of early,” she said as she grabbed at the straps of her backpack.

“Then let's grab some food or something beforehand,” he offered.

“Lunch?” She was unsure of his intentions and of her own, in fact. What was this? Why was he going out of his way to be nice? Where she was from, niggas who were that friendly wanted only one thing in return, and she wasn't paying her debts in pussy.

“It's just a meal, ma. It doesn't take that much thought,” he said. Her uncertainty was written on her face, and he was perceptive to her doubts.

She looked down at her clothes. The sweatpants and tank top she had thrown on before rushing to class instantly filled her with embarrassment. He had caught her at her worst.

She pointed back at her dorm. “I just need to change. Do you want to come up?”

Iman gazed up at the building and then at Bleu. He nodded. “A'ight.” He tossed his keys to a student who was walking by. The kid snatched them out of midair and looked at Iman, baffled.

“Bro?” the blond surfer boy asked as he held his hand up in confusion.

Iman pulled off a few hundred-dollar bills and placed them in the guy's hand. “Watch my car. I won't be long.”

“Bet, bro. Thanks,” the guy said in shock as he stuffed the money in his pocket.

Bleu shook her head as Iman came to her side. “You just have nothing better to do with your money, do you?”

“I could think of a few ways to put it to better use, but I don't think you would accept,” he said slyly.

She stopped walking as she turned to him, slightly offended. “I'm not for sale.”

“Girls like you usually aren't,” he said. “I was talking about shopping, ma.”

“Handbags and red bottoms won't work on me either,” she replied.

“Who said I was trying to work on you?” he asked with a slick grin. The way his eyes creased when he smiled made Bleu's panties moist. He was too damned handsome for his own good, and he knew it. Oddly enough, she liked his cool air of confidence. It wasn't overbearing or obnoxious. He intrigued her with just the right amount of chivalry while still keeping his gangster.

“Now, if you throw dollars at my tuition bill, I'll twerk a little something for you,” she joked.

He laughed, surprised. “So there's a sense of humor behind the hard façade?” he asked.

She cut her eyes at him and smiled before sashaying in front of him, headed for her room.

She walked inside. “You can sit on my bed,” she said. He looked around at her bare walls, her bare bed. It didn't even seem like she had fully moved in yet. He took a seat as she she grabbed a simple sundress before rushing into the bathroom.

Bleu could have slapped herself when she looked in the mirror. She was just plain. Ponytail, no earrings, bags under her tired eyes. She couldn't believe he had seen her so rough.
The fuck?
she thought in frustration. His interest in her seemed odd, and she couldn't help but think he had a hidden agenda. He could undoubtedly have any girl in L.A.
Maybe he is just being nice. Why would he be interested?
she thought to herself. There was no umph, no glamour, no nothing about her that could possibly keep his attention.
Marta probably sent him here today.
Bleu slipped into the dress, her curves filling it out as they formed a dangerous silhouette. She left her hair in the high ponytail but switched it to a large bun and then added a pair of large hoop earrings. Within minutes she was ready, and when she emerged from the bathroom she held out her arms for inspection.

His smile was all the approval she needed as she followed him to the door. He held it open for her, and before she walked through it she said, “Keep your eyes off my ass.”

He laughed and shook his head. “That mouth real slick. A nigga can't even be nice,” he said.

“Where I'm from accepting something nice from someone turns into a debt, and dudes back my way only want that debt paid one way,” she replied honestly. She rolled her eyes and began to walk away until she felt his hand pulling her back. He pinned her against her door, standing so close that she became intoxicated by his Ralph Lauren cologne.

“I'm not that guy,” he said. She felt the familiar bulge of a pistol that was tucked in a holster at his waistline, and her eyes widened in surprise. She hadn't pegged him as the type. His pretty-boy skater image had her confused, but clearly he had an edge to him and if she walked too closely to that edge, she could see herself falling … hard.

“For every guy that says that, there is at least one girl who would say otherwise. I don't trust words. I trust actions,” she replied.

He nodded in understanding as he stepped back, giving her space. “I got you. I get it. Now can we go eat?”

Riding shotgun in his luxury whip, she stuck her hand out of the window as the wind blew through her hair.

“Where are we going? We've passed like ten restaurants,” she said.

“I'm taking you to the beach. They ain't got those in Michigan, right?” he joked.

She cut her eyes and pursed her lips. “We have beaches,” she replied sarcastically.

“Nah, those ain't beaches. If it ain't salt in the water it's just pretend,” he replied, his eyes hidden behind his designer shades.

“I don't have that much time. I've got to be at work in an hour,” she protested.

“Don't worry about work. You're with me, you're good,” he answered.

As soon as he pulled up to the beach she immediately understood why Michigan beaches weren't worthy of the title. It was beautiful. Palm trees and tan sand were the backdrop to the light waves that broke at the shoreline. The pier stretched out into the water for what seemed like miles as happy faces skated and fraternized around her. There was no barbecuing, or project babies running around in soggy diapers. No 40-ounce Cîroc bottles in red coolers or picnic tables. It was just pure beauty all around her. Carefree and happy people, doing California shit. This was the life that she imagined before she moved west.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Santa Monica Pier,” he answered. “I like to come here to think. In the morning, when the sun is coming up and nobody else is around, I come here to plot my next play. The silence speaks volumes.”

“I can only imagine how gorgeous the sunrise is here,” she whispered.

“Now you don't have to imagine. You're here. You don't have to dream anymore, gorgeous. All you've got to do is live the life you want,” he said. He opened his car door and she slowly climbed out.

She kicked out of her sandals as she walked onto the sand. Like a moth to a flame, she was drawn to the water. The smile that melted across her face was infectious, and he was amazed at how something so simple impressed her so much.

“I can't stay here long,” she told him. “I just got this job; I don't want to lose it.”

“You're pressed over that little money, ma? I told you, you don't have to worry about that,” he assured her. “You would have made, what, seventy-five bucks today?” He peeled off ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from his knot and held it out for her. “This should buy me some of your time.”

“I'm not pressed. I just need my job. I don't know if you noticed, but I don't have a lot. In fact, I don't have shit. So my job may be little to you, but to me Picante is a lifeline that I'm not trying to fuck up. I'm not a charity case. I don't need your money,” she said as she stormed off. She turned back to him as she backpedaled away from him. “In fact, this was a mistake.” Suddenly he seemed a little showy and his arrogance was turning her off. It was as if he thought he could buy the world. Little did she know, he had enough paper to damn well try.

“Bleu!” he called out to her, but her back was already turned to him as she went walking up the beach alone. “I ain't had to chase a chick ever, ma. You really gone make me start now?” he asked. He shook his head as he let out an exasperated sigh. She was work … a challenge, and he didn't know what made him enjoy the chase, but he did. Most women flocked to him, but Bleu … Bleu ran from him as if she was afraid to let him catch her. “We ain't doing this again, ma. You're a runner. You probably ran to Cali to get away from something the same way you're running now!” he taunted. “I thought you Detroit chicks were supposed to be tough!”

She stopped walking suddenly and turned toward him and walked up on him with fire dancing in her eyes. If looks could kill … “I'm not from Detroit, I'm from Flint, and you don't know shit about tough until you've come from where I'm from. Yeah, I ran. A nigga put a bullet through my chest and I ran as fast as I could, all the way out here. I'm not trying to go back, and right now Picante is all I have. I'm on a partial scholarship. It doesn't cover everything. I need books, clothes … basic shit. You get it? Do you understand why I don't have time to play on the beach with you?”

The desperation in her voice tugged at his heartstrings as he looked her in the eyes. She was exquisite. From the top of her head to the bottom of her toes, she was the most beautiful chick he had ever seen. Not because she was perfect, but because she was flawed. In a world where every chick was doing more and more to appear perfect, Bleu symbolized reality. She was a real young woman. Her curves, her face, her hair, her nails. It was all authentic, and what was even more exciting was the fact that the inside seemed to match her outer beauty. There were so many layers to her. She had a depth that he just hadn't encountered before. The shallow shit didn't matter to her, and his money didn't impress her. She was genuine, which was hard to find. In a world full of fakers, she was the realest chick he had found. She was rare and so different from every other pretty skirt in the bunch. She didn't have that L.A. ditz about her. She was born and bred somewhere else, a place where even the sun was afraid to shine, so she dulled her own. She didn't even know how her presence brightened up a room, but he recognized it instantly, and he wanted that type of light in his life. He wouldn't push, but he had already decided that she would eventually be his.

“Yeah, I get it,” he said as he nodded. He knew exactly how to handle her. She was so strong … had endured so much that the pressure was now unbearable. He would have to handle her delicately so that she wouldn't break. “Your job is safe. I own Picante. A'ight?”

She looked at him, surprised. “I thought?”

“Eddie and Marta got into some financial trouble with the bank about six months ago. I bought out the loan and came on as a partner. So the business is half-mine. Next time I tell you I got you, I need you to trust it. I won't ever lie to you, ma. You're good with me,” he said.