A LaLa Land Addiction (5 page)

“Welcome to The Sanctuary. How can I help you?”

Bleu looked at the blond woman who smiled politely at her, but she didn't offer a smile in return.

“I'm here for treatment. My name is Bleu Montclair,” she replied.

“Welcome, Bleu. Please have a seat and fill out this paperwork. I'll go fetch Gloria, our intake nurse, okay?” The woman held out a clipboard for Bleu and she hesitantly took it.

She flipped through the pages, scanning the questions.

How long have you been using drugs?

What type of drugs do you use?

What are your triggers?

Does substance abuse run in your family?

Bleu felt nauseous. This was too big of a commitment for her. She didn't want any of this. She didn't ask to be here. Iman had forced it on her, surprised her without warning, and put his love on the line so that she couldn't say no. She sat looking out the window while gripping the pen in her hand, but she didn't write one thing. She just sat, blankly staring at the waves of the ocean, thinking of how much her life had changed. Just one year ago she had come to L.A. with the entire world at her feet. Life had been hers to conquer. She should be starting her sophomore year at UCLA. This street life, this fast life, had run her into the ground. Bleu had come to California with dreams. She had planned her entire life out in her head only to let it slip through her fingers.

“Bleu?”

Bleu turned to find another woman standing in front of her. “I'm Jess. I've been expecting you,” she said. She was beautiful, with dark olive skin and jet-black hair that fell down her shoulders. Her frame was model thin and she had a graceful smile that made Bleu feel as though they were old friends.

“I, um…” Bleu cleared her throat as she held up the paperwork. “I didn't get a chance to fill these out. I don't … I don't think I belong—”

“Of course you don't belong here. Nobody belongs here. Nobody sets out to use cocaine, or heroin, or meth, or alcohol, but somehow you're here. Somehow things got out of control. So why don't we just give it a try anyway. Okay?” Jess said.

Bleu nodded and followed Jess down a hall. Bleu passed a studio where a group of people were sitting on yoga mats, arms and legs folded, with their eyes closed and palms uplifted to the sky.

“That's the meditation room,” Jess said as they bypassed it. “We have every luxury you can think of here. We offer exercise classes, cooking courses; we have a psychiatrist on staff who you will have one-on-one sessions with. There is a pool, a sauna. We offer massages and detoxification baths. All of our meals are prepared with organic foods and are gluten- and preservative-free. When you leave here your body will be purged of every poison. It's not just about getting the drugs out of your system. It's a complete cleansing.”

Bleu listened as she tried to absorb it all. Jess gave her a tour of the entire property until finally she was shown to her room. She just wanted some privacy and a little bit of time to adjust to it all.

“There are no phones allowed on the property. Our clients value their privacy, so I'm going to need to confiscate any device you have. Laptops and iPads included.”

“I only have a phone,” she said as she reached into her bag and retrieved it. “How long is this program?”

“Seven weeks,” Jess answered. “Don't worry. It will fly by and at the end you will thank yourself for sticking it out. Visiting day is every Tuesday. You have today to roam and get comfortable with this place. Tomorrow your treatment begins.”

Bleu plopped on the bed as soon as Jess left the room. Seven weeks without Iman felt like a lifetime and she was sick thinking of all the random women who would try their hand at him while she was away.
He's going to replace me,
Bleu thought. A fire burned in her chest as despair filled her. She was so wrapped up in Iman that thoughts of him consumed her. She was younger than him, so her world revolved around him. She had never felt the things he made her feel and she didn't want to go a day without him. Bleu didn't know it, but a love this strong wasn't meant for a girl so young. She was dependent on it and whenever she didn't have him she would need something to fill the void he left behind. Something as intense as the bond they shared. Something that made her feel just as good. For her that “something” was crack cocaine, and as she buried her head under the pillow she realized the answer to one of the questions on the intake form.

What are your triggers?

She grabbed the pen from the nightstand beside her bed and picked up the application before writing her answer.

Iman.
Her trigger was the man she loved, and if they expected her to let him go they had another thing coming. She would rather die loving him than live without him. Bleu didn't realize that in itself was an addiction, one that she needed to shake.

 

5

Noah stood in the middle of the cemetery, staring at the headstone in front of him. It was evident that not many people visited it anymore. While all of the graves of those laid to rest around it were trimmed and freshly flowered, this grave was unkempt. Apparently the street legend who had faked his death over a decade ago had been forgotten. Noah was still in disbelief that all these years he was the son of one of Flint's biggest kingpins.

“I remember the day they laid that stone. The graveyard was packed all the way down to the street. As soon as they bury you, they start to forget,” Khadafi said as he walked up behind Noah.

“Nah. Flint didn't forget. I heard your name coming up before I ever knew you were my father. The entire city thinks you're dead. I haven't even wrapped my mind around the fact that you're standing next to me in the flesh. You'll have to tell me the story about why your name is on this rock one day,” Noah said.

“One day,” Khadafi confirmed. They stood side by side and stared out into the distance as they spoke. Despite the fact that they shared the same blood, they were still strangers and an awkwardness existed between them. They didn't know each other, not in the way that they should.

“If I had known about you, I would have been around,” Khadafi said, clearing his throat as he shifted his stance uncomfortably.

“No need to address that. Mom dukes did just fine. She had her reasons for keeping me from you. It's not my business why. I'm not crying no rivers. I'm good. Let's move forward and talk about this money,” Noah said.

“How much can you handle?” Khadafi asked, switching gears.

“I need fifty this time,” Noah answered matter-of-factly.

“That's a lot of heroin. You've been flying under the radar, moving low, but you're gaining a reputation in the city. You're building your own empire and you need a team around you. You're too hands-on. You need a right hand and Naomi ain't it,” Khadafi replied. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

“Nah, I don't rock with new niggas,” Noah protested.

“He's new to
you
. I've known him since he was a cub. Practically raised him—”

“Must have been nice,” Noah replied sarcastically.

Khadafi paused. “You're my son, but you're a man and no man has ever disrespected me. You show me respect and I'll do the same. Same goes for the clowns you deal with in the streets. Don't let a nigga take a tone with you. You're not a boy. You're a man. You make sure people treat you like a man. You accept less and the next thing you know they start thinking you're equals. Once they start thinking that they begin plotting on your spot. Now you ready to listen or you got more to say? Because you can't absorb knowledge when you're talking. Niggas that talk too much miss the lesson.”

Noah stopped himself from replying because he knew if he spoke he would tell Khadafi something he didn't want to hear. Khadafi was kicking game that would have fascinated a young boy, but Noah was far removed from those influential years. He was a grown man, one who was unsheltered, one who had done a bid already. It was too late to school him. Khadafi had missed those years, but out of respect Noah didn't remind him of that. Khadafi could see that Noah was uninterested in the direction of the conversation, so he detoured. “Bookie has a son. Messiah. I want you to bring him in. He's solid and he's thorough. He isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. I'll set up the meeting.”

Noah nodded and then turned to head back to his Range Rover. He stopped midstride and faced Khadafi, staring him in the eyes. “I respect you. Every little knucklehead running these streets grows up respecting you. We've all heard the same stories. What you need to worry about is the love. I don't got that. I don't know nothing about having love for another man. You learn that by loving your pops growing up. I didn't have a father to admire, no pops showing me how to change a tire or how to throw up a jump shot. So the respect is there. The love, that's the main lesson I missed.”

“So we both have a lot to work on as we develop this bond,” Khadafi said.

“Agreed,” Noah said before walking away. He wondered if he would ever view Khadafi as more than a connect.
The nigga don't even know the day I was born,
he thought. Noah shook his head as he reminded himself,
He ain't been a part of any other birthday. I made it this many years without him. I don't need him. Fuck him.

*   *   *

Noah climbed inside of his truck with a myriad of awkward emotions filling him. He was a man with no emotional compass to guide him through the ups and downs of life. It was because of Khadafi's absence that Noah felt like the knots in his gut made him weak. He couldn't admit that his father not knowing his birthday had hurt him or even attest to the fact that having Khadafi in his life excited him. He was unbalanced with pride and ego because it was what he used to navigate his way through childhood. He had taught himself to be a man, and having Khadafi show up after all this time was difficult for Noah to process. Nothing but time could forge their relationship in stone.

Noah put his truck in gear, and when he focused on the road ahead he noticed a black envelope stuck under his wipers. He frowned as he retrieved it. When he opened it a piece of paper with an address written on it fell out.
Fuck is this?
he thought as his eyes shot back toward the gravestone, but Khadafi was nowhere in sight. Noah figured that the address was the location where the bricks of heroin would be left. They had never done business this way before and he wasn't really comfortable with the change of plans, but he would have to roll with it. The streets were drying up and he was eager to re-up so that business could go on as usual. He wasn't the type to miss a dollar, so instead of going home to Naomi as planned, he started his engine and entered the address into his GPS.

It didn't take him long to make it across town. He found himself in Grand Blanc, one of Flint's prestigious neighborhoods. Prestige of course was relative when speaking in terms of Flint. Anything outside of the city limits was considered an upgrade. Grand Blanc was where the doctors and lawyers lived. It was only a stone's throw away from the most violent city in America, but for some reason when you drove into its neighborhoods they felt far removed from it all. It was a hot place to do business.
Why would he bring me to the burbs to do this type of business? I stick out like a sore thumb out here,
Noah thought. He pulled up to a massive home and frowned. Nothing moved around the house. There were no cars in the driveway, no people in sight. It was just him. He picked the key out of his cupholder and exited the truck. He fidgeted uncomfortably and looked around cautiously before making his way to the front door. Noah was hesitant to use the key. He had no idea what was waiting for him on the other side. There was too much mystery in the air, and tension filled him as he opened the door.

“Yo!” he called out. He didn't know whom he was talking to, but he just wanted to let his presence be known. The empty house only echoed back to him, and when he was sure he was alone he stepped inside. “Damn,” he whispered, marveling at the exquisite home. He had never been inside a place so grand. This was the type of neighborhood he used to come trick-or-treating in as a kid because he knew they would be giving out the big candy. It was where the rich folks lived, where they actually ran water that people could drink, and where the police actually responded. He immediately felt out of place. A hood nigga with hood swagger wasn't even supposed to be this far out of the city limits. He wondered why Khadafi had sent him here. As he made his way through the house he noticed a bottle of Dom Perignon sitting on the mantel above the travertine fireplace. There was a red bow tied around it and a card leaned against it. He opened it.

Every king needs a castle. I had many good years in this house. Take good care of it. Happy Birthday, Son.

Noah smirked. “You mu'fucka,” he said with a chuckle as he realized Khadafi had known all along. Noah looked around, marveling at the details of the enormous house. Nothing had been spared. This had been Khadafi's home once upon a time. The hood had spoken for years about how the government had seized it years ago. Khadafi had purchased it back just to give to his only son. Perhaps having his father in his life wouldn't be that big of a challenge after all. He placed the bottle of champagne back on the mantel and then walked out. He had a birthday celebration to get to. Before he drove away he looked up at the mini-mansion. It symbolized so much. His father had been the greatest hustler the city had ever seen. Noah only hoped he could follow the same path.
Get money and stay out the way,
he thought. Noah didn't need the street fame. If he was too flashy the same streets that loved him would turn on him. He wanted to make silent paper. Get in, grind to the top, and get out before the hungry niggas beneath him came for his head.

*   *   *