He gave her space, and before she knew it she was in her zone. Books fed her mind. It didn’t matter the type or the subject matter. Studying, reading, writing, adding, subtracting, logic, it all fed her insatiable brain. She wasn’t dumb … she knew that she came from the bottom and that the people born at the top had an advantage over her. But the classroom was a level playing field. It didn’t take money to be smart. Intelligence couldn’t be bought, and in that arena she was more than capable. Physical features faded and were hard to change. If you were ugly, you stayed ugly, but if there was something that her mind lacked, she could change that. She could learn more, acquire new skills. As she dug into her books she felt him watching her, admiring her, but she was on her level. Once she focused in on something it was hard to distract her. Hours passed and she didn’t stop until the pages in front of her became a blur. Finally she closed her book and looked around, but Iman was nowhere in sight.
She heard the clanging of pots and pans as the smell of something divine invaded her senses. She followed the clues to the kitchen to find a man in a chef’s hat working busily over the stove.
“Oh,” she said as she jumped slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone else was here.”
“You’re perfectly fine. You can have a seat in the dining room. I’ll bring dinner right out,” he said, his eyes never leaving the stove. She turned and walked curiously into the dining room, where Iman stood, popping the top off a bottle of champagne.
“I thought you would get hungry, so I called over my chef. I’m not too good in the kitchen,” he said sheepishly as he ran his hands over his wavy hair. She walked over to the table completely impressed. This wasn’t the game of a young man. Dudes her age thought wining and dining meant Applebee’s and a movie. Iman was pulling out all the stops to sweep her off her feet. Little did she know, everything Iman did was on a large scale. He didn’t small-ball. Whether she was present or not, he lived on this level daily.
“Yeah, I am starving, but a pizza would have been fine,” she replied with a smile.
“It’s the simple shit about you that makes me want to shower you with complexity. If I got it I spend it, and when I find someone to spend it on, I don’t take shortcuts. So, nah, pizza is a no-go,” he said.
He took his seat at the head of the table; then Iman nodded at her. “Come here,” he instructed her. She walked to him slowly until she stood beside him. He pulled her into his lap and she laughed.
“The other end of the table is too far. I’m addicted to you like shit, ma,” he admitted.
“Good,” she answered. “I just can’t help but wonder how many other chicks have gotten this five-star treatment.”
“None,” he replied.
She looked at him skeptically, cocking her head and pursing her lips. He was older than her, more experienced. She knew that there had to be someone. With men like him it was always a competition.
“If there was somebody else in the picture, I would tell you. I’m not into making fools out of people,” he said.
She straddled him and wrapped her arms around his neck as she kissed him slowly, her soft lips pulling his full ones into her mouth as her tongue tasted the champagne on his tongue. She had never felt this way before. The closest she had come to love was the connection she felt with Noah, but even that couldn’t compare to the mixture of lust, infatuation, and wanting she felt for this man. Her womanhood clenched as he gripped her ass with one hand while fisting her hair with the other. He handled her with expertise as he alternated between kissing her lips gently and tasting her tongue. Bleu’s body was on fire and she could feel the hardness building, growing, under her as she moved her hips slowly … sensually. Their clothes were the only barriers stopping the flow, and as if he couldn’t take it anymore, Iman lifted her onto the table in front of them and spread her legs wide. The fabric of her panties held up no fight as he ripped them off of her, exposing her shaven treasure.
She gasped when he put his mouth on it. Inexperienced in this level of intimacy, she immediately became insecure. She had never dealt with anyone his age. The furthest she had taken sex was to let a high school boyfriend play with her clit. They had never taken things to the next level, and by the time he had attempted to, she had thought he was too lame to even deserve it. She was untouched, unspoiled, and ashamed that at eighteen she was still hadn’t chosen to give herself to a man. She wasn’t a virgin, Larry had taken her innocence long ago, but she had never given the gift of her womanhood to any other. After living with the man who had molested her, she had grown confused about so many things. She had blamed herself for years for what had happened to her, which made it hard for her to ever allow any random boy to make a move. She was prudish by hood standards. Around her way, chicks got their cherries popped early … fifteen at the latest, and high school boys definitely weren’t about that head life. Suddenly she realized the age gap between her and Iman. She couldn’t even enjoy the magic that he was performing because she was too busy wondering if it was what he was used to.
Does it taste okay? Is it funky? Should I have shaved it bald? Then she thought of her body, the hideous scar that was still healing on her abdomen. She hoped he didn’t think she was childish. She was in her mental, and the fact that her legs weren’t putty in his hands gave her away. Her body was tense. He stopped, and as soon as the tickle on her clit went away, she wanted him to start all over again. He stood to his feet and looked down at her, cupping her face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m not like other girls you’ve been with,” she said, giving him a glimpse of her insecurities.
“And I love that,” he responded.
She slowly let the strings of her dress down as she peeled down the top, exposing her body from the waist up. The scar was jagged and had bubbled slightly from where the doctors had sewn her up. It ran from her pelvic bone all the way up to the middle of her chest. He bent over and she placed her hands on his wavy hair as he planted a gentle kiss on the most hideous part of her.
“Who did this to you?” he asked. Anger flooded him, his gray eyes darkening as he stared at her.
“I got caught up in a robbery,” she admitted. “I don’t know who they were, but I’ll never forget their faces. I still have nightmares about that day.” She shivered slightly as she remembered the searing torture she had felt that day. Iman noticed and he pulled her close.
“You know you’re safe here, right? In L.A., I mean. You’re thousands of miles away from the people that hurt you and not a nigga in this city will touch a hair on your head if I put the word out. All you’ve got to do is give me a reason to put that word out, ma. Say you’re mine. Say you belong to me. I protect what’s mine,” Iman whispered.
“I don’t know if you deserve me just yet,” she flirted, with a smile. She began to slip her arms back into the spaghetti straps of the dress, but Iman only thwarted her plans to dress by pulling them back down.
“It’s ugly,” she whispered, referring to the scar.
“I don’t think anything belonging to you could be ugly, ma,” he said.
His lips covered hers and the fountain that gushed between her thighs told her she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. He was so good at this, however, that it intimidated her. It was as if he had read the instruction manual to her body and he knew what buttons to press to cause her the most pleasure.
She was nervous as she wondered if her amateur ways could allow her to reciprocate. She was insecure and positive that she was an unfit contender in the fight for his attention. He’s going to fuck me and then realize that I’m not even on his level, she thought. She was out of her league and she knew it. He was nothing like the dudes around her way, the ones she ran circles around and dismissed without a second thought. He was a boss. He was a man. He would break her heart with rejection once he realized they were worlds apart.
“I’ve never done this before, not willingly,” she finally admitted, barely saying the words loud en
ough for him to hear.
Girls her age wished they had more experience, but real women knew that men cherished a woman with very little. Finding a woman with none at all was like hitting the lottery. She was uncharted territory and not only did he want to explore her body, but he had an interest in her mind and heart as well. Her words rang in his ears. Not willingly? he thought. He pulled back because he knew what the statement implied. She was wounded, scarred, in more ways than one.
“I’m sorry, ma; we can stop,” he said, his voice deep, guttural, as if it would be the hardest thing he had ever done.
“Please don’t,” she replied. “Just go slow.”
He looked her in the eyes, wanting to take things further. Their sexual chemistry was on 10 and his body urged him to conquer her, but the innocent look in her eyes caused him to stop. He kissed her lips softly.
“I’m not rushing. You can only experience your first time once. I want you to be certain that you want to share that with me.”
The heat that was building between her legs told her that she was sure. This felt like love. Or was it lust? She didn’t know, and because of that she nodded her head in agreement. “Thank you for being patient with me,” she whispered.
“Thank you for giving me something to be patient about,” he replied. “You’re a gem, youngin’,” he said.
The chef came in with their food, interrupting their moment, and Bleu climbed down off the table, slightly embarrassed.
“I’m going to wash my hands for dinner. The bathroom?” she asked as she cleared her throat, her face burning with shame.
The chef chuckled slightly as she headed out. “That way, sweetheart. Second door on the left, past the stairway,” the man instructed.
Iman hid his smile behind his hand as he rubbed his chin in amusement. Everything about Bleu was endearing.
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 bea
utiful 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.”
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