Luxe (32 page)

He walked up behind her and fisted her hair tightly, applying pressure to her scalp as he forced her down onto her knees. “You pay before you fire up. Wrap your pretty-ass lips around a real dick. Fuck that glass dick over there for a minute,” he said.

Bleu was dirty. She lived on the streets, sleeping in twenty-four-hour Laundromats and women's shelters, and to support her habit she made runs for the dope boys. The only reason she even still had a working cell phone was because one of the d-boys in particular had a soft spot for her head game. She had become quite skilled at the art of fellatio and he wanted to reach her anytime for her services, so he paid her bill monthly. She maintained by the skin of her teeth. She lived, slept, ate, smoked, on the same blocks. This had been her routine for months, but at least she was alive. At least Cinco's people hadn't found her. Life was hard, but she was still living. Life was bullshit, but she had fared better than Aysha. Or had she? Sometimes she wondered if death was easier than the existence she led. Life had beaten her down so low that to stop herself from thinking about the things she had done she smoked more. It was a cycle and she was stuck in it. There was no glamour about this part of the L.A. lifestyle. This was the struggle … hell on earth.

She grimaced as he pulled her hair, forcing her face toward his exposed member. He reeked of musk as tears flooded her eyes. If she didn't give him what he wanted, she wouldn't get what she needed. It was a business transaction, nothing more, nothing less. Fair exchange. As she closed her eyes and took him into her mouth her heart broke. She remembered when she had valued her body. Her temple, Iman had called it. Now she sold it for $20 rocks and temporary highs. She was lost and she knew it. Her tears slid down her cheeks, landing in pools of regret at her feet.
This wasn't supposed to be me,
she thought.

But what she didn't realize was that it wasn't supposed to be anybody. Crack was a monster and all it took was one hit to trap her in its clutches forever. As she sucked the stinking lowlife in front of her she grew enraged. After she was done, she would smoke, but she would need more, which meant more hustling, more fast talking, or more dick sucking. She was tired of that routine. The highs seemed to get shorter and shorter every time she fired up. So she found herself being degraded more often just to keep up. She was chasing that first-time feeling, that blast, that mental orgasm, but it would never be that potent again. She had killed the pleasure sensors in her mind. Crack had mind-fucked her and now she smoked it trying to achieve a sensation that she would never feel again. It was like her virginity; she would never get that first-time crack high back. So now she was fucked and was at the mercy of the streets. The thought of it all overwhelmed her.
I'm not doing this again tonight. I can't,
she thought as she tried to stop herself from gagging. She looked down at the jeans that were bundled around the man's feet and eyed the plastic Ziplocs full of rocks that lay inside. A gun lay in a holster on the belt loop. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

CRUNCH!

She bit down on his manhood as hard as she could.

“AGHHH!”
he hollered as he pushed her off of him and cupped himself in agony. She scrambled for his pants, picking up his gun first and pointing it at him. She didn't even know how to use it, but he didn't know that. She had no idea that the safety was on, so even if she pulled the trigger she would have no wins.

“Bitch, I'ma kill you,” he groaned as he doubled over in pain.

Her hand wasn't even steady, but her resolve was. She needed his stash. “Kick your pants off all the way!” she said, full of jitters. Her eyes darted around the room as she jabbed the gun at the air as she spoke.

“Okay, okay, bitch … I'ma remember this,” he spat as he kicked off his pants. She inched toward them and didn't even bother picking the pockets. She just scooped the pants up.

“Get in the bathroom,” she ordered.

“Bitch, your crackhead ass got my stash; just take it. You better run though cuz—”

“Shut up and get in the bathroom!” she shouted, frantic. He was showing too much resistance. She kept her distance to make sure that he didn't lunge for the gun, because she knew if he did he would kill her. Her urge had made her take things too far. She seemed to forever be on the run. From Flint, from Cinco's goons, now from this random dealer. She was beginning to think that she attracted trouble. The man held his privates as he walked to the bathroom with a grim look on his face. If looks could kill …

“When I find you, you're done. Better believe that,” he threatened. She pushed him inside the bathroom and then used all her might to push the dresser in front of the door, barricading him inside. She then wrapped the gun up in his jeans and rushed out of the room. She ran full speed, without looking back, and she didn't stop for blocks, bumping people out of her way as she made her escape. She couldn't do this anymore. The street life was too much for her. She needed at least a place to rest her head at night. Going back to skid row wasn't an option. The dealer she had robbed owned those corners. She wouldn't even be able to go back around there to cop, but, thanks to the caper she had just pulled off, she had a few days' worth of drugs to keep her good and high. She would worry about the rest later. Right now she just wanted to find a place where she could smoke in peace.

She found herself roaming to the other side of town. It took her two hours to get there, and when she finally did arrive she was shocked to see that there was a sign that read: FOR SALE BY OWNER plastered in the window. Picante had closed. She didn't know why she had come here. Perhaps because Eddie and Marta were the only people in L.A. she knew who would see her and help her. She didn't know, but it no longer mattered, because they were nowhere to be found. Thunder rolled through the sky as rain began to accompany her disastrous mood. It was fitting. God was crying over the life that he had given her, because she had wasted it. She was a disgrace. Bleu looked up at the building to the vacant apartment that sat on top of the restaurant. Looking left, then right, she started up the fire escape. The apartment was empty except for an old cot that had been left behind. She tried the window.

Thank God,
she thought when she discovered it wasn't locked. She climbed inside, finding shelter from the downpour. There were no lights or air-conditioning to add to her comfort, but she couldn't complain. Just a place to sleep peacefully and a roof over her head were enough. In fact, it was the most comfortable place she had slept in in months. Beggars couldn't be choosers. She was just glad to be off the streets and away from skid row. She peeled off her clothes and settled onto the cot. She had an eight-ball of crack in front of her. It was better than hitting the lottery … hell, it was just like hitting the lottery. She set up her next blast, desperately needing to unwind. She was so used to this routine that it no longer aroused her. It was more habit than excitement, more need than want. Crack was now who she was, not just what she did. Crack was her life. It had consumed her. She sparked the flame of her lighter, and just as she was about to bubble the rock inside the stem her phone buzzed in her pocket, startling her. Bleu fumbled to answer it, dropping her pipe on the floor.

“Damn it!” she shouted in frustration as she got on her hands and knees to find the rock that had scattered. Using the lighter as a flashlight she searched on hands and knees until she located them. She hurriedly put the rock back in the Baggie as the vibration of her phone urged her to answer. She wondered if word had spread on the block about what she had done. No one called her anymore. Iman had stopped using the number months ago after she had refused to answer for him. The last memory she had of him was a voice mail telling her how much he loved her and how sorry he was. She had never returned the call, because sorry didn't make him single. He was still married and he had still lied and, worst of all, he was related to Cinco. She missed Iman and she used to listen to the voice mail all the time, just to hear his voice, but even she had moved on. She had a new soul mate … crack. Since falling in love with the drug she hadn't even pressed “play” on Iman's voice mail. So who was this calling her now? She looked at the screen and her heart dropped into her stomach when she saw the area code 810. “Flint?” she said aloud.

“Hello?” she answered, voice unsure.

“What's up, B?”

His voice caused butterflies to form in her stomach and she sat her butt on the floor.

Tears accumulated in her eyes as she whispered, “Noah? Hey … hey, how are you?” She cleared her throat, suddenly embarrassed, as if he could see her through the phone. “How are you calling me right now? Did you get my letters?”

“I got them, B,” he replied. “I'm out.”

She gasped as a smile crossed her face. “You're out? It's only been a year. How?”

“That don't matter,” he replied. “How's school? When them letters stopped I figured you forgot about a nigga.”

She hesitated. She wanted to tell him that she needed help. She wanted to beg him to come get her. He was the one person she knew who could rescue her from herself. He could love her enough to make her quit and would stick with her through the inevitable downs that accompanied recovery. Noah was her friend, her best friend, and she loved him so much that she didn't want to break his heart. She didn't want him to see her like this. She wanted his thoughts of her to be good ones. So even though she was standing on the edge of death and was in desperate need of his type of love, she didn't pull him into her drama.

She simply replied, “School is good. L.A. is everything I imagined, Noah. I'm doing so good out here.” She cried the most sorrowful tears and she had to cup her mouth to keep herself from whimpering too loudly. Her silent anguish was torture, because she wanted nothing more than for him to come for her.

“That's good, B. I'm glad that you moved on with your life and that you're safe and happy,” Noah replied.

“I am,” she confirmed as she sniffed while wiping her nose.

A silence filled the line as they both withheld things that they really wanted to say. “I'll have to make my way out there to visit you one day, B,” he said.

She closed her eyes, because she knew that the day would never come. It was just Hollywood talk. Their year apart had turned them both into different people. A lot had happened during that time. A lot of bad things, none of which were revocable. Bleu would never let him visit her as long as she was strung out. She wasn't the same girl he remembered.

“One day,” she responded. “I'm glad you're out, Noah.”

“If I asked you to come home, would you?” he asked. “Remember that conversation we had when I went in? The things you said. Do you still feel that?” he asked.

This was it. This was her moment to tell him she needed him. She grimaced and lowered her head. They say if you love something you should let it go. She loved Noah enough to do that. “I met somebody here, Noah.” She knew once she said it he would never broach the subject again. She covered her mouth as she sobbed.

“Take care of yourself, Bleu,” he said.

“I love you, Noah. You too,” she replied.

She ended the call and then let her emotions spill from her soul. This pain, this emptiness, was heavier than anything she had ever felt before. She wanted to call him back, but she didn't. Instead she reached for the crack pipe. She couldn't handle this loss alone. She needed something to cope.

*   *   *

Bleu stayed holed up there for two days straight, smoking through the entire eight-ball in record speed. As she lay on the cot, completely crashing after her binge, she was completely oblivious to the land of the living. She never heard the Realtor as she walked into the space. Bleu hadn't meant to squat for so long. She only wanted the apartment during the night so that she wouldn't have to sleep on the streets. To avoid being caught she had planned to leave during the days, but she was coming down from her high, and the effects left her dragging with depression.

“Excuse me! You're not supposed to be here! I'm calling the police! You're trespassing.”

When Bleu heard the voice behind her she sprang up, out of it, eyes widened in fear. She felt like a cornered animal as she held up her hands. “Please no! No! I'm not trespassing. I know the people who own this restaurant. Please … I'll just leave. You don't have to call the police.”

“Oh? You know the owners?” the woman asked skeptically as she frowned at Bleu's appearance. “We'll see. They're right downstairs. They're on their way up.”

Bleu looked around for an escape, but there wasn't one. She would have to face Eddie and Marta looking like …
a crackhead,
she thought sadly. She shifted nervously as Eddie and Marta came walking through the door.

“Do you know this young lady? Because I'm two seconds from calling the police!” the realtor said, distraught.

Eddie put up his hand to silence the irate woman, and Marta hurriedly came to Bleu's side, her hand over her mouth in shock as she stared at her. Bleu could only imagine how she looked. Her hair was unkempt and matted, her clothes dirty, her lips cracking and ashy. Her skin always had this sheen as if her body was trying to sweat the toxic out. She looked disgusting, and in that moment, as they gawked at her, she was humiliated.

“Hey … hey, Marta. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”

Marta grabbed Bleu's hand, tears shining in her eyes as she fought back her emotions. “Pobrecita,” she said sympathetically. “It's okay,” she said, turning to the real estate agent. “We know her. The
policia
are not necessary.” She patted Bleu's hand lovingly and nodded in determination. “It's okay. Everything will be okay.”