Luxe (10 page)

I guess this is how the beautiful people live. Who's going to stop her?
Bleu thought.

Before she knew it, it was 4:00 a.m. and they were staggering out of the club. Bleu had just danced her ass off for hours, and to her surprise it had been the best night of her life.

 

9

“You. New girl in the back with her head on the desk.”

Bleu would have heard her philosophy instructor's displeasure had she been awake, but she was suffering from the result of all-night partying. Her 8:00 a.m. class was not agreeing with her. While the professor was discussing Socrates and Plato, she had fallen asleep right inside of her book. It wasn't until she felt a tap on the shoulder did she become aware that all eyes were on her.

“Excuse me for interrupting your beauty rest. Ms.…”

Bleu cleared her throat and shifted uneasily as she replied, “Montclair. Bleu Montclair. I'm sorry.”

“Since you feel confident enough to sleep through my lectures perhaps you can answer this question. Is the just person happier than the unjust person?”

Why did I not just stay in last night?
She was mortified to be getting called out in class but took a deep breath and opened her mouth to reply. This was her arena. She might not have fancy clothes or Daddy's trust fund to fall back on, but in the classroom she was equal. “Since philosophy is not science I will give you my opinion on the matter. I believe the unjust person is happiest because they do not care about what others think of their actions. The unjust person lives only for their own gain and therefore has no standards outside of their own to meet. Socrates would argue that the just man is happier, but I disagree.”

The professor was baffled as a small smirk crossed her face. She raised one brow and nodded in satisfaction. “Very well. Back to your nap now?” she asked.

“No, I'm up,” Bleu responded with a smile, remembering why she was here all of a sudden.

The class ended and Bleu hustled out of the lecture hall, but before she could make her escape, her professor stopped her.

“Ms. Montclair?”

Bleu winced as her feet suddenly stopped moving, causing the student behind her to bump into her. “Sorry,” she mumbled as she turned to her instructor. Professor Murial Davis was a hard-nosed, by-the-book instructor who knowingly had the hardest freshman course on campus. She was notorious for her hard tests and no-nonsense demeanor. China had warned Bleu about her, and as she walked over to her podium where the professor stood, marking up papers in front of her, Bleu was slightly intimidated. It felt like she was being called to the principal's office. The last thing she needed was to get on this old woman's bad side. She stood not even five feet five, but her presence was towering. Her red, fluffy hair was pulled back, held in place by a single pearl clip. A pair of cat's-eye reading glasses framed her blue eyes. Bleu stood there uncomfortably as almost a minute went by. She cleared her throat.

“This isn't some elective course, Ms. Montclair. The next time you fall asleep in my class I will kick you out, permanently. I don't think you want to be a sophomore repeating freshman philosophy simply because you couldn't stay awake, eh?”

Bleu shook her head as she gripped her book in front of her chest. “No, ma'am,” she responded.

“I've seen your test scores. I've seen your transcripts. You're smart. I want to see that the scholarship you are here on wasn't wasted,” she said.

“Yes, ma'am.” Bleu felt like a child being chastised.

“Now run along. I have another class coming in. Unless you'd like to sleep through this one too,” Professor Davis said.

Bleu shook her head and then practically ran out of the classroom. The lady was like the Wicked Witch of the West and Bleu made a mental note not to get on her bad side.

*   *   *

“Welcome to Picante. You can have a seat anywhere and someone will be right with you,
mami, si
?”

The busy middle-aged woman spoke the words quickly as she passed Bleu with a round tray balanced on her palm. The smell of the Mexican restaurant was amazing, and immediately Bleu's stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten. She wasn't there for food, however. She was looking for a job. After partying last night with Aysha and China and sleeping without linens when the night came to a close, Bleu quickly realized that she needed to make some money. Being in L.A. broke was next to impossible, especially when she had the Joneses to keep up with. She had taken a bus twenty minutes away from campus just to find the Mexican joint and she immediately noticed how popular it was. It was nothing special … sort of a hole-in-the-wall joint, but based on how thick the crowd was, Bleu knew that the food had to be good. The Spanish music playing in the background and the green and red Christmas lights that festooned the ceiling, despite the fact that it was nowhere near Christmas, gave the place a vibe all its own. She followed the waitress who was busy serving patrons, as she moved as if she had octopus hands. She was all over the place, refilling drinks, delivering food, settling bills for patrons. She seemed to be the only person working besides the chef, who was visible through the small food window as he slid plates of food through.

“Umm, excuse me, is Eddie here?” Bleu asked.

“Eddie's never here, sweetheart, but I could probably get him to come and help out if he knew a hot young thing like you was asking for him,” the waitress said. She moved with swiftness behind the counter as Bleu followed her. “Who are you?”

“My name is Bleu,” she answered as she practically chased her around the restaurant, trying to hold a conversation as the lady worked.

“Well, Bleu, if you are going to follow me, you might as well carry something,” the lady said. “Here.” She handed Bleu two plates and then grabbed four and with perfect balance headed to a table. “How do you know Eddie?”

“He was my cabbie the other night. He told me about this place. Said his wife owns it. Are you his wife?” Bleu asked.

“Marta,” she said.

“Marta, I don't really need Eddie; I just came to see if you were hiring,” Bleu said. “I'm a student and I could really use the money.”

Marta stopped walking and wiped her brow with the back of her arm as she exhaled.

“This is family owned and run,” Marta replied. “I work the floor and the cash register and my mama and papa cook the food. That's how it has been for ten years.”

Bleu looked around at the packed establishment. “It seems like you could use an extra waitress. Or at least a dishwasher? I'll do whatever. I just need a job. I came out to California with nothing. I didn't know how expensive dreams are out here,” she said.

The desperation in her eyes shone brightly. It was enough for Marta to sympathize with the young woman.

“Where are you from?” Marta asked.

“Michigan,” Bleu responded.

Marta wiped her hands on her apron and then placed one hand on her hip. “Long way from home. How old are you?” she asked.

“Eighteen,” Bleu answered.

“Fine,” Marta answered in exasperation, giving in. “You can take orders, bus tables, help with dishes and trash. I'll pay you ten dollars an hour and not a penny more. You get to keep your tips.”

Bleu's face melted into a smile of relief. It wasn't much, but her pockets would have more than lint in them, and for that she was grateful.

“Thank you,” Bleu said.

“You're in school, right?” Marta asked. She was all business. A dark-haired, tan-toned Mexican woman, she wore her aging beauty well. She was fast talking and even faster moving; the crow's-feet around her eyes were every indication of how much sweat she had put into her business. Bleu could tell that the restaurant was Marta's baby.

“Yes, UCLA,” Bleu answered.

“You can work nights then,” Marta said. “There's an apron and an order pad in the back. You can start now. You don't work the register. I'm the only one who touches it,
comprende
?”

“Yeah, I got you,” Bleu answered.

She pulled her hair up into a loose ponytail and retrieved the apron, wrapping it around her waist and sticking the pad inside. The restaurant was crazy busy, and as soon as she hit the floor it seemed as if she were pulled in a million different directions.

The location of the restaurant made it a popular choice with the night crowd. In the middle of West Hollywood, it was an after-hours hot spot when the clubs let out. The fact that it was an authentic Mexican family-owned business only added to its charm. It wasn't much, but it was a job.

Customers flowed in and out of Picante all night until finally at 2:00 a.m. they closed.

Bleu sighed in exhaustion as Marta walked up behind her. “I think you will work out well. I didn't realize how much help I needed until now. Go home; get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow … six o'clock,” Marta said.

Bleu nodded and then lifted her head when she heard the bell above the door ring.

“I'm sorry, we're—” She stopped speaking when she looked into his gray eyes. He was average height, but he had a big man's swag. His brown skin was smooth like cocoa, and the outline of his full lips enticed her. His attire was simple … designer khaki shorts and a sleeveless Lakers tank with fresh sneaks. A chunky diamond link rested against his shirt, his only accessory. She was speechless. His presence dwarfed her as he stood before her, handsome, suave, yet humble all at once. His arms and neck were covered in tattooed sleeves, roughening his pretty image slightly.

“We? I'm sorry, ma, but who are you?” he asked.

Marta came walking out of the back and answered the question for Bleu. “This is Bleu. I hired her.”

“I've been telling you to get help around here for two years and out of nowhere you hire someone new?” he asked with a slight smile.

“She was persistent,” Marta answered. Marta turned to Bleu and made the introduction. “Bleu, this is my nephew, Iman.”

“Nice to meet you, beautiful,” he said. There it was. The insincerity that came along with fine men like him. She had heard it all from his type. The lines. The flirtation. The whack little come-ons. It was all so predictable, no wonder all the ugly niggas were pulling all the women. They were the only ones with originality.

She pulled her lips together in a fake smile and replied, “You too.” Just like that she was uninterested. She turned to Marta. “I'll see you tomorrow, Marta.”

“Have a good night, Bleu,” she returned.

Bleu walked out into the night air, relieved. All she wanted was a shower and her bed. She smelled like beer and corn chips. She had never worked so hard for $60 in her life. Those were her meager earnings for the night, and as much as she wanted to complain, she didn't. Sixty dollars would buy the linens she needed for her bed and towels for her showers. She had nothing, and anything was better than that. She looked up and down the block. The emptiness reminded her that the buses had stopped running hours before. She was too broke for a cab and she doubted that she would find another cabbie as friendly as Eddie had been. It would be a long walk back to campus. Her tired feet ached in protest as she started down the block. Just as she started off she felt a car pull up alongside her. She kept her head straight as the car crept.
I probably look like a hooker,
she thought as she picked up her pace. “Bleu! Do you need a ride?”

Marta's voice caused her to stop. Iman and Marta sat in the car awaiting her answer. “No, I'm good. Thank you,” she said, too proud to accept.

“You can't walk all the way to UCLA,
mami
. Please get in the car. Iman can drop you off after he takes me home,” Marta reasoned.

“I don't want to be an inconvenience,” Bleu said as she continued to walk slowly. “I promise you, I'm fine. It's a nice night. I'll walk for a little while and then catch a cab the rest of the way.”

The car stopped and Iman hopped out as Marta moved into the driver's seat. Bleu stopped walking as he approached and Marta pulled away. “What are you doing? Where is she going?”

“Home. There was no way she was letting me pull off and leave you out here this late at night, and since you weren't getting in the car…”

“This is stupid. You don't have to walk me,” she answered persistently.

“Are you always this combative?” he asked with a smile.

“Usually,” she admitted, causing him to laugh.

“The pretty girls usually are,” he answered. She blushed and lowered her head, not sure of how to respond.
That line was a little original; okay, playboy, I see you,
she thought, making herself chuckle slightly.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

She shook her head and waved her hand dismissively. “Nothing,” she responded.

He started walking, hands stuffed in his pockets as he strolled with a cool confidence by her side. “How did you get my aunt to hire you? She doesn't trust anyone with her restaurant. She wouldn't even let me bus tables, so how does a complete stranger win her over?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I guess good people just recognize good people.”

“That makes me bad people?” he asked, placing his hand over his heart as if she had wounded him.

She smiled and shook her head. “No, bad people don't get out of a new Mercedes to make sure that a random girl makes it home.”

“So, tell me the truth. Why are we really walking?” he asked.

“I don't have money for cab fare. I barely had enough to catch the bus down here. I guess I didn't think of how I would get back,” she admitted.

“That's a lot of trouble for a waitressing job at a taco spot,” he answered, trying to figure her out.

“Yeah, well, I need the money, so…” She shrugged without finishing her statement. She didn't expect a guy like Iman to understand. He smelled like money. “A Richie Rich type like you wouldn't get it. I've got to work for everything I get. No silver spoons over here.”