Luxe (13 page)

“Thought I wasn't gon' come back after that shit you pulled in the mess?” the inmate growled. “Bitch-ass nigga.”

Again, dude was about talk. Unlike most, Noah didn't need to grandstand. He wasn't about the wordplay. When a nigga came at him talking reckless, he reacted. Usually the .45 he kept on his hip was enough to back any nigga down, but in here all Noah had was his one and two. He was grateful for all those project fights he had gotten into coming up. Growing up in the heart of Black Wall Street had hardened him to the point where he didn't even think twice. When somebody started yapping at him with the loud talk, he got it popping. Naked and all, Noah swung first.

He caught the dude's jaw with a clean two-piece and busted his nose wide open with a following jab. Noah could have easily taken this fight had it not been for the mob of dudes who grabbed him up. He bucked and fought against them, but they had the numbers on their side. They held him, one on each arm, as the dude rushed him. It only took a second for Noah to see the glint of the homemade shank, and his eyes widened.

Before his opponent made his move Noah gritted his teeth, preparing himself for the pain. He stared the guy directly in the eye and said, “Couldn't handle these hands, so you got to knife me up?” He taunted, “Better make sure you kill me, pussy.”

The feeling of his flesh being punctured repeatedly was blinding as he saw flashes of white before his eyes. Each stab ripped through him. Had it not been for the men at his sides, he would have fallen to his knees in distress. He felt blood pouring out of him. They were trying to leave him leaking facedown in the showers. Sadly, he didn't fear it. Coming where he came from, making it to eighteen was a luxury anyway. His entire life didn't flash before his eyes; only Bleu's face appeared. There was something to be said about the last person you thought of when in the face of death. It was Bleu. It had always been about her.

“Hmm-hmm!”

The sound of someone interrupting caused the men to release him. Like children caught in the act they all turned to find three inmates standing at the doorway.

“You're done,” one of them said as he walked up, breaking up the group.

“This don't concern you,” the dude said.

“This concerns me because Khadafi says it concerns me.”

The response broke the entire mob up as Noah staggered to his feet, clutching his midsection as blood seeped through his fingers. He couldn't even stand as he dropped to one knee while holding his bloody fingers in front of his face. So much blood. So much pain. He couldn't focus. The mob of men stood down, and it was as if the group of attackers had seen a ghost as they immediately deaded the beef. Just the mention of Khadafi Langston brought the bitch out of them, and as they conceded defeat the loudmouthed one spoke up. “You a lucky mu'fucka.” He sneered. Noah met his death stare until he had left the bathroom.

Noah was weak and growing woozy as he stumbled slightly. His father's name had saved him. A dead man Noah had never gotten the chance to meet had saved him. How? Why did the name of a ghost carry so much weight? He had a hundred questions, but before he could open his mouth to ask even one, the entire room went black.

 

11

Her stinging, dry eyes told Bleu that it was a wrap. She had been staring at the same sentence for at least ten minutes, trying to force herself to read the words on the page before her. The library was the last place she wanted to be on a Friday night, but the hair tie on the outside of her dorm room door let her know that China had company. It was their code for,
I'm getting some dick, so don't bring your ass in here,
and Bleu respected it. She could keep herself busy. It had been three hours, and as she gathered up her books, she thought,
Fuck this. If she ain't done, she's about to be. The library is practically closing.
Bleu packed it up and made the long trek back to her dorm. The campus was still, which was odd for a Friday night, but no one seemed to be out. No fraternity boys staggering back to their rooms, no late-night nerds coming back from studying, it was just her and the night sky. In a city so big, on a campus so vast, she felt small. It was like UCLA had dwarfed her, turning her into this chick with insecurities and doubts. She was busting her ass working every day after her classes just to make a few ends meet. Her meal plan didn't cover the weekends, so she skipped meals or snuck food at Picante just to stop the growl in her stomach. On top of that, she just didn't fit in here. Aysha and China were cool—in fact, they had all become quite friendly—but she couldn't keep up with them. Their lifestyle, their tastes, their fashions, it was all just too expensive. They were glamour girls without a care in the world, but Bleu was burdened heavily. She was living the struggle life in L.A. and she couldn't help but wonder if she had made the right choice by coming to the West Coast at all. Perhaps the thug life back home was easier than the luxe life that she couldn't afford.

By the time she made it to her building she was more than tired.
I just want my bed,
she thought, but when she saw the hair tie still hanging from the doorknob, she sighed.
Fuck that. I'm not leaving. I'm about to bust up their little groove,
she thought as she used her key to open the door. She barged into the room.

“China, my bad, but this hair tie been on the door for hours and I'm—” She stopped midsentence and her eyes widened in shock when she saw what was laid out on China's bed.

“What the fuck? I thought you said she wasn't coming back anytime soon,” Bree said.

“What are y'all into?” Bleu asked. “That's coke and a lot of it. That's at least fifteen bricks,” she said, astonished. What the hell had she just walked in on? She wasn't green. She had lived around hustlers all her life, but she had never seen weight before. All the niggas she knew were moving ounces. If she had come across bricks back home, she would have come up on a lick. She knew niggas who would take that weight at the drop of a dime, but out here she was purely shocked. She didn't know how to react.

“Don't ask no questions. You pretend like you didn't see this and we're all good,” Bree stated. He bent over the bed and began to stuff the packages into a large duffel bag before snatching it up and slinging it onto his shoulder. His aggravation was written all over his face. He stormed toward the door that she was blocking and she stepped out of his way. He stopped directly in front of her and said, “Are we cool here, Bleu?”

Silently she wondered what if she said no? The way he was ice grilling her told her that he was willing to do whatever to ensure her confidence.

“Yeah, yeah, we're good. I won't say shit,” she said.

Bree reached into his jacket and pulled out a wad of rubber-banded money. He tossed it to her. “That should buy your silence. Just mind your business, Detroit. This don't have anything to do with you, a'ight?” he challenged her.

She nodded as he stormed out. She didn't realize that she had been holding her breath until she exhaled loudly as the door slammed. She had never been afraid of Bree before, but the look in his eyes intimidated her. Suddenly he wasn't so friendly. Now that she knew a secret of this magnitude she had become a threat, and she knew it.

“What the fuck, Bleu? You just barge in here?” China said as she threw up her hands.

“Bitch, I thought you were in here getting your back blown out and you're in here doing … Wait … what was that? What were you doing?” Bleu asked.

“Something's got to finance the lifestyle,” China returned as she pulled up her hair and peeled herself out of her clothes, preparing for bed.

“I thought your parents gave you money?” Bleu asked. “You said you're from Beverly Hills.”

“Please,” China scoffed. “My parents cut me off after my first stint in rehab. Everything you see I pay for. My tuition, my whip, clothes, all that—”

“How? You're selling coke?” Bleu asked in disbelief. Where she came from, the dope dealers weren't beauty queens. They were killers, and China didn't fit the mold.

“Hell no,” China responded. “Look, I just move the product from Mexico to L.A. As long as I get it across the border I get paid. Twenty thousand dollars a trip.”

Bleu's heart skipped a beat at the sound of that much cash. It was more than she had ever seen. “What?”

“It's good money. I put Aysha on when school first started. I've been down with Bree a bit longer, though,” China finished.

Bleu was silent with disbelief. Here she thought these girls were shallow and spoiled when they were really like everyone else she knew, about their hustle. Money made the world go round and apparently there were no limits on how to get it. Even spoiled little rich girls had one foot in the game.

“What if you get caught?” Bleu asked. “Do you know what type of time they will throw at you if something goes wrong?”

“It never goes wrong. It's foolproof,” China replied. She frowned and then looked at Bleu seriously. “Look at you, Bleu. You work your ass off for peanuts. I see you trying to keep up, but that little taco joint isn't going to upgrade you high enough to play with the big boys.” She walked with haste over to her closet. “Look at this stuff. Cavalli, Gucci, Fendi, Prada, Chanel … it's all here. I bought it. I've stacked a hundred grand in less than six months. This flip is real, Bleu, and if I were you, instead of turning my nose up at it, I'd be trying to get down. Bree is always looking for a pretty face to add to the crew. If you want me to, I'll bring you in. That's how Aysha got down. She ain't big-time yet. Those modeling checks are chump change compared to what she's making with me. Think about it. I mean, what do you have to lose?”

Bleu's mind was blown as she sat on the edge of her bed. Before China disappeared into the bathroom she added, “And next time knock.”

*   *   *

Bleu leaned over the bar, her face buried in her textbook, but she could barely focus. Picante was abuzz with patrons, but she was clearly distracted. Every chance she got, she tried to read a paragraph of her work. She was juggling so many things that she was just waiting to drop the ball on one of them.

“Excuse me?” Marta interrupted. “You have customers waiting for you, Bleu. Table four needs their bill, and there are more people waiting to be seated.”

Bleu looked up and noticed her tables were in chaos. “Sorry, I have a test. I was just trying to multi-task.”

Marta sighed and said, “I tell you what. When we slow up, I'll give you an extra half hour for your break. There's a small studio apartment above the restaurant. You can go up there where it's quiet but stay focused. While you're on the clock I need you to do your job. I need your help.”

Bleu nodded and closed her pen inside her book, marking her spot. As soon as she hit the floor she saw Iman walking smoothly through the door with a man trailing behind him. She smiled as he walked up on her, invading her space like he owned it. It was a habit of his that she liked. He was always in control. He didn't ask for what he wanted; he simply took it. Marta looked at the pair curiously and wagged her finger in chastisement. She could see the familiar look in Bleu's eyes. Iman had worked his magic on Marta's new waitress. Bleu didn't know it yet, but she would eventually worship the ground that Iman walked on. She had no wins against his swagger. Charming yet gangster, rich but with the humility of a pauper, dangerous, yet he had the ability to keep the ones he loved safe. Not to mention the mix of his Hispanic and black heritage; he had a face that looked as if it had been chiseled by Michelangelo himself. Bleu's heart didn't stand a chance. Marta had seen Iman break many hearts over the years. No woman could seem to keep him interested for long, and they always walked away having invested too much in a young king who valued them too little. Marta didn't have time to nurse the hurt feelings of one of her employees, but she knew that she couldn't stop the chemistry between them. What Iman wanted …

“No, no, no … she's at work and I need her here. You see this crowd,
mijo
?” Marta asked Iman. “You can sweep her off her feet after her shift, lover boy. What are you doing anyway? You're too interested. You know your situation. Out of all the girls in the world, you have to choose her. She's a good girl. School girl. She doesn't have time for your type of trouble, Iman,” Marta fussed. “All of a sudden you choose my favorite waitress to distract. Aye …
papi!
”

Bleu laughed as she blushed. “You heard her. She's the boss,” Bleu said. “I get off at two.”

“You get off now,” Iman said. He pointed to the bulky guy behind him. “My sweet
tía,
you know Juice,” he said, using the Spanish word for “aunt.” Whenever he called her
tía
she couldn't resist. It reminded Marta of when he was a boy, clinging to her leg. Iman had a way of wrapping the ladies in his life around his finger and she was no exception. “He'll work her shift.”

Marta sighed as she pointed a finger at Bleu's substitute. “Juicy, you better not drop one plate,” she said, giving him a hard time.

“Is this okay?” Bleu asked seriously.

Marta nodded and gave Bleu a gentle smile. “Of course. My nephew likes you. I haven't seen him smile in a long time. He is so serious all the time. I like seeing him happy,” she said. “Go ahead. You kids have fun. I'm going to put Juicy here to work.”

Iman kissed Marta's cheek in appreciation. “You're still my favorite girl in the world, old lady,” Iman said.

She held up a fist and shook it as she scolded him playfully. “I'm going to show you old.” She pulled him in for a hug and then cupped his face between both her hands. She looked at him seriously and whispered, “Don't you start nothing with that girl that you can't finish.”