Luxe (15 page)

When she was out of the room the chef said, “Be careful with that one. She's a good girl.”

“Indeed she is,” Iman responded as he turned and took a seat at the table.

Bleu sighed in relief once she was tucked inside the safety of the bathroom. She was so hot and bothered. A part of her wanted to tell Iman to finish what he had started. He had certainly turned on her body's faucet, causing her waters to flow and her love button to plead for attention. She looked underneath the sink and found a stack of washcloths. She quickly took a birdbath, refreshing herself before hurrying back to the dinner table.

“You good?” Iman asked.

She nodded. He motioned for her and she crossed the room to go to his side.

“Are you mad? I don't want you to think I'm playing games,” she said.

“I'm not a clown, Bleu. I'm a patient man. When it's right it will jump off. I'm not applying no pressure to you over nothing petty. That's your temple. I respect that you respect it. It makes me respect you.”

“I didn't want to say no, but—”

He placed a finger over her lips to silence her. “You're young, ma, so you feel like you need to justify yourself. When you tell a nigga no, nothing has to come after that. Learn to say no without explaining yourself. That's that grown-woman shit. You're out here by yourself, no family, no nothing. You'll be better off once you realize that you don't owe anybody shit, including me.”

He pulled out her chair for her and she took a seat, feeling empowered by the game he had just given her.

They sat like king and queen at opposite ends of the table as they dined on a five-course meal. They laughed with each other as if they had been acquaintances forever, and it was through conversation that they realized how kindred their spirits were. Iman was protective and serious, brooding in a way that was extremely intriguing. It took a lot for him to lower his guard and allow himself to be vulnerable with a woman, but Bleu was stripping him of his defenses. He was feeling the shit out of her, and his willingness to let her in terrified him. Who was this young chick from the Midwest who was putting a claim on him without even trying?

She stood and picked up her plate before rounding the table to collect his.

“What are you doing? The chef can take care of that,” Iman said. He was clearly spoiled by luxury.

She scoffed as she frowned. “I think I can handle the cleanup. I've washed a dish or two in my lifetime. Where I'm from we don't have personal chefs and housekeepers,” she said with a laugh.

She waltzed into the kitchen and placed the dirty dishes in the sink. The chef was still moving around the space, and he paused when he noticed her begin to work.

“I've got that,” he said.

“No, please let me. The food was great. I think you've earned the night off,” she said. “What's your name?” she asked.

The dark-skinned man was tall, with a big belly and a shiny bald head. His friendly face was illuminated with a smile because in all of his years of cooking he had never had a client do the dishes behind him.

“Leslie,” he replied. “Iman here calls me Big Les.”

Iman nodded as he stood in the doorframe watching Bleu's and Les's interaction.

“Well, Big Les, I think I can wash a dish or two. I think you've earned the night off, right, Iman?” She turned to him.

Iman nodded in confirmation. “You heard her, man,” he replied.

Big Les chuckled and replied, “I guess there's a new queen in the castle.” He gave Bleu a wink before heading out.

There was just something about a woman taking care of his home that Iman found sexy. The view from behind Bleu was breathtaking. The way her hips spread out beneath her thin waist teased him, but he resisted his need to pursue her. When she was ready she would come to him, but he had to admit it would be a struggle. Bleu didn't even realize the power she had over him, and for that Iman was grateful. Bleu was the type of girl that was impossible to resist.

*   *   *

It wasn't until the sun peeked through the blinds that Bleu even realized that she had spent the night. After dinner Iman had given her the tour of his home, and they had eventually settled into his comfortable king-size bed. They had fallen asleep like only new lovers could, wrapped in each other's arms. It wasn't until things got old did a nigga push you to the other side of the bed for their own comfort. She had lain comfortably, head on his chest, all night. He had been a perfect gentleman and not once had he let his hands slip. It was more intimate than any night of passion. They had connected emotionally, mentally … and she had loved every minute of it. She eased her way out and reached for her cell that sat atop the nightstand. The numbers 12:32 slapped her in the face, causing her to panic.

“Oh my God, oh my God!” she whispered as she covered her face with her hands. Her distress awakened Iman, who pulled her back down with him.

“I didn't mean to stay the night,” she revealed.

“If it was up to me, you'd stay every night,” he replied as he kissed the top of her head without opening his eyes.

She smiled at the thought. To be young and in love was amazing. With young emotions came the thought of forever. Despite how unrealistic it actually was, she felt like she wanted to feel like this until the end of time. Iman made her feel … beautiful? Perhaps irresistible? Or was it irreplaceable? She didn't even know what this feeling was. It was so unfamiliar that it almost intimidated her. All she knew was that it felt good and she didn't want it to end.

“I can take you back to campus so you can handle your business,” he offered.

“I don't want to leave, but I've got to,” she said.

Iman climbed out of the bed, his washboard abs tightening with his every movement as he stretched his arms overhead. “Let me take a shower and I'll drive you back,” he said.

She nodded as she watched him head toward the master bathroom. The sound of his phone vibrating on the wooden nightstand grabbed her attention as she crawled across the bed. She picked it up and a sickening feeling consumed her as she looked at the picture flashing on the screen. One of the beautiful people was calling him. One of those California model chicks … the type that made Bleu feel so ordinary. Tan was her name and it felt like someone had knocked the air out of her lungs. She carefully placed the phone back where she had gotten it. Her kind of pretty wouldn't cut it in L.A. and it definitely wouldn't keep a man like Iman interested for long.

I'm not even fucking. This virgin shit is going to get old quick, especially if hoes like this bitch are throwing it at him left and right,
Bleu thought. She wasn't fancy and there wasn't anything about her that said expensive or exclusive. In fact, the words “Bleu” and “high-end” didn't even belong in the same sentence. She didn't call purses “bags” or even own one worth mentioning. She was an ordinary girl, and in the race to win the heart of an extraordinary man ordinary didn't win.

It was in that moment that she decided that it was time to up her game. China had given her an open invitation to get down with her hustle, and Bleu did need to make some real money. At first she had dismissed it, but now she was reconsidering. She couldn't keep living the struggle life out here, not when there was money on the table practically waiting to be picked up. Picante couldn't finance the lifestyle that she desperately wanted to be a part of. She was about to dive headfirst into a deadly game, just so that she could afford the luxe life.

 

12

“Blake Jackson?” Bleu questioned as she looked down at her fake I.D. “I don't even know what a real passport looks like. How do I know this even looks like the real thing?”

Bleu fanned herself as she felt her temperature rise. Her nerves were all over the place. She had a million reasons to back out of this. Her gut was telling her that she was headed toward trouble, but it was just like a young girl … she knew all the reasons why this was wrong, but still she was going to go through with it. Knowing that the fire was hot wasn't reason enough not to touch it; she had to feel the burn … learn the lesson the hard way.

*   *   *

“You have got to calm down. You acting hot,” China said as she drove the rental car down the highway. “We're headed to San Diego; we'll cross over into Tijuana there. You don't even have to be nervous yet. The hard part is getting the bricks back. Going there is just like any other drive.”

Aysha sat up from the backseat and added, “Just consider this a vacation. We'll get a little sun, meet a couple boys, have a few drinks. On the way back we pack something extra in the suitcase and forget that it's there. No big deal.”

“No big deal,” Bleu confirmed, but she was unconvinced as she tried to relax. She wasn't beat for this. What was the point of escaping the hood if she was going to put herself in hood situations anyway? She could have stayed in Flint; at least there she would have been closer to Noah. Her thoughts wandered as she thought of him and suddenly her breathing calmed. He had not written her back and a part of her felt slighted.
I don't even know if he got the letter,
she thought.
He couldn't have. He would reach out to me. I hope he's okay.
Hours passed and Bleu was silent as Noah consumed her thoughts. She missed him. Like lungs needed air, like a flower needed the sun, she needed him. She didn't realize how much she loved him until she had been forced to let him go. Now she was just going through the motions. Without him, she felt like a piece of herself was missing. Noah was locked up and with him so was her heart. He was her very best friend … the one person in the world who understood her.

“Hello? You in there?” China called as she waved her hand in front of Bleu's face.

She snapped out of her thoughts and pushed China's hand aside. “Yeah, I'm here,” Bleu answered in irritation.

“Crossing into Mexico isn't the problem,” China schooled her. “Just keep it cool and hand me your passports.”

“What if they can tell it's a fake?” Bleu asked, worried.

Aysha placed her passport on the center console. “They won't. This isn't our first time at the rodeo, Bleu. Stop tripping. You're making me nervous, damn,” she said.

Within fifteen minutes and after a routine check at the border they were passing into Tijuana. “I told you,” China said. “Now it's time for the fun part.”

“The fun part?” Bleu questioned.

“The beach,” Aysha concluded.

“What? Shouldn't we get the stuff and head back?” Bleu asked. She was truly green to the game and it was showing. “I have to work tonight and I have a class tomorrow morning.”

“Well, that's too bad then. Every time we come here we stay three days,” China informed her.

“I can't stay for three days! I have classes,” Bleu protested. Ditching would throw her all the way off track. “Why wouldn't y'all tell me we would be gone long!”

“Well, we can't cross the border too frequently. That will throw red flags. Nobody comes to Tijuana and then leaves in a few hours. So consider it a vacation,” China schooled her. “This is an entirely different ball game, Bleu. That good-girl shit has to go. Fuck class. We're playing with the big boys and they'll eat you alive, so get your shit together and let's make this money.”

*   *   *

The first thing that Bleu heard when she stepped out of the car was the sound of the gentle waves as they broke on the shoreline. As she looked out onto the water the view took her breath away. This was it. This was what she had always thought paradise looked like. While the rest of Tijuana was a myriad of outdoor markets and run-down infrastructure, the beach was the complete opposite. The shoreline was beautiful. The golden sand met the turquoise water and painted a perfect picture before her. It was a little piece of heaven on earth, and the hundreds of people who were out in the water looked like they were having the time of their lives.

Aysha immediately peeled off her clothes and tossed them in the trunk. Her long lean body was the perfect canvas for the Burberry two-piece she wore. It was more of a string than anything, and she was flawless in it.

“I didn't bring a suit,” Bleu said.

Aysha shrugged as she released the ties on her top, allowing it to fall into the sand. She shrugged as she revealed her perky breasts. “So don't wear one,” she said with a carefree laugh as she immediately headed for the water. Bleu shook her head in amazement as she blushed slightly.

China laughed. “You only live once, right?”

Bleu's skepticism was written on her face. She wasn't the girl with the perfect body. She was fine with her curves and she knew that many had admired her voluptuous nature, but she wasn't without insecurities. Stripping down to her essence wasn't her idea of fun. She had scars. Scars that no one needed to see. Ones that would expose the fact that she didn't belong in this bubble of an L.A. world. She was flawed.

BEEP! BEEP!

They turned at the sound of the car horn, and she watched as a man climbed out of an F-150. He was handsome, young, and flashy. The blinding watch on his wrist told a story of wealth as he approached. He seemed to like excess. Everything about him was a bit overdone. Too much jewelry, too many women hopping out the back of his truck, too much arrogance in his stride as he approached. He was attractive, but conceit dripped off of him. She could tell that he had never heard the word “no.” He was sexy and powerful. Everyone on the beach seemed to flock to him, paying respect as they surrounded him like groupies.

“That's Cinco,” China said. “That's who we're here to see. He's the man that makes it snow in L.A.”

He was younger than Bleu had expected. When she thought of the Mexican Cartel, she envisioned old Mexican men in linen suits and full beards with beer bellies. Dude before her couldn't be a day over twenty-three. He gave new meaning to the word “kingpin.” He was the new generation of a powerful ruling family in Mexico. With a mother from South Central L.A. and a father who reigned over one of the most powerful cartels in Mexico, Cinco had more hustle coursing through his veins than Nino Brown himself. Cinco's cartel ties were only the tip of the iceberg; he was also affiliated with the street gangs in L.A. He was heavy in the streets and known for his murder game. Coke wasn't his expertise. He simply had unlimited access, so he might as well make his money flip. His familial ties made him powerful. His father was a notorious supplier. Cinco would have made the perfect man in charge if it wasn't for his hot head. So his father appointed someone else to the throne, and Cinco acted as the shooter. He was so good at being bad and Bleu's intuition told her that he was danger personified.