“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.”
* * *
When he saw her, his heart broke into a million pieces. She lay in front of him destroyed, looking nothing like the girl he had met a year before. Iman was a strong man. He had seen many things. He supplied the streets with the very drug Bleu craved. He had murdered, robbed, and seen the ills of the game without flinching, but when he saw Bleu … when he saw his beloved Bleu, his pretty young thing with the sharp wit, ambitious goals, and beautiful smile, laid before him strung out, it broke him. He had to turn around and face the door for a brief moment to stop the tears from leaking out of his eyes. She didn’t deserve this. L.A. had chewed her up and spat her out. Somehow he felt responsible. It had started with her cravings for the life. She had wanted to indulge in all things luxurious. Clothes, cars, hair, diamonds, the night scene. It had been fun for her, but he had seen that path destroy many. He should have spoken up. I could have stopped this before it happened, he thought guiltily. His heart no longer beat the same. The moment he saw her, its rhythm had been forever altered. He looked at Eddie and then at Marta, who both stood solemnly to the side.
“How did you find her?” Iman asked. He had searched high and low for her to no avail. He would have much rather never found her than discovered her like this. It hurt him too badly to witness this.
“She was in the apartment above the restaurant. The real estate agent found her first,” Eddie said.
Iman walked over to Bleu and got down on his knees at her bedside. He rubbed her hair, stroking it softly as he whispered, “Hey, beautiful.”
Her eyes fluttered open, but instead of welcoming his image, she sat up in alarm and scrambled out of the bed in fear as her eyes darted around the room.
“Please, please, don’t hurt me!” she shouted as she held her hands up in defense. She was paranoid and completely afraid as she looked at him with pleading eyes. The fact that she thought he would bring her harm wounded him as he slowly approached. It was as if he were running up on a wounded animal.
“Nobody’s gonna hurt you, Bleu. I just want to help you,” he said, voice cracking with emotion.
He walked up on her and she started swinging, fists and feet flying, thinking that she had to defend herself. She did fear Iman. She remembered what had happened to Aysha. Bleu didn’t know if he had done the deed personally, but he ordered the hits. Same thing, she thought. As she fought him, Iman wrapped her up in his arms, tightly pulling her to his chest so that she couldn’t move. When she could no longer defend herself she simply cried. She let her head fall on his chest as her legs gave out. He scooped her up into his arms. “It’s okay, Bleu. It’s okay. Everything is okay now … I promise you.”
He carried her out to his car and tucked her safely inside. His uncle and aunt came rushing out after them. “Where are you taking her, Iman? She needs help,” Eddie said.
“I’m taking her home,” Iman said, determined.
“You can’t just tuck her away in Calabasas by herself, mijo,” Marta said. “She’s strung out. She needs rehab.”
“I’ll be her rehab. She won’t be in Calabasas by herself. I’ll be there with her. Every minute, until she’s clean,” he said, emotional as he gritted his teeth. He hit the top of his car with a closed fist as he leaned over it, angry with himself for allowing this to happen to her. He couldn’t help but feel like he was the cause. Like once she had found out he was married she had jumped off the edge of the cliff.
“Tan will never allow it,” Marta said. “Don’t get that girl into any more trouble. She has enough problems.”
He nodded and then kissed Marta’s cheek before he rounded the car and got into the driver’s side. He no longer cared about severing ties with Tan. His reluctance and hesitance to divorce her were what had made Bleu run away from him in the first place. Fuck it, if he had to stay married to Tristan in order to keep his connection to the Mexican Cartel he would give it up. He had enough money, enough power, enough love from the streets. He could find a new supplier, or better yet, he could retire altogether. That was every hustler’s dream, right? His mind raced as he sped out into traffic. He looked over at Bleu. He could get her clean and start a life with her. All of these things could happen if he played his hand correctly.
“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked.
“I’ll never hurt you again. That’s my word,” he assured her. She frowned because they were clearly having two different conversations. She was talking about punishment for Cinco’s death. Did Iman not know that she was involved? She studied his face, and the amount of love he had for her shone brightly, oozing out of him as if he couldn’t contain it any longer. It was then that she knew that Iman had no clue what she had done.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be sorry, Bleu. I just want you to be better. I’m going to help you. You’re going to hate me for a while and it’s going to hurt. Your body will hurt, you’ll go through emotions that will make you feel like you can’t do it, but I’ll be right here with you every step. I just want you back … the real you. The smart, pretty, plain girl from Flint, Michigan. You have to promise me that you’ll get clean, Bleu. Do you trust me?”
Bleu hesitated, because she wasn’t sure if she did. “It’s okay to tell me you don’t. I know I fucked that up. I’ll earn it back. I’ll earn you back, but for now I just want you to focus on kicking this shit.”
He reached over and held her hand. It was so bony. Her scrawny fingers felt like they would break if he handled her too harshly. The drugs had eaten away at her. In months she had lost so much weight that she looked sick … almost breakable. He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her wrist while keeping his eye on the road. She could see his love for her. She could feel his energy as it emanated from his hand to hers. The pain in his face at the discovery of her condition plagued him and he couldn’t hide. She teared up just witnessing how much he cared, because she knew that she didn’t deserve it. I don’t want to stop, she thought. It feels too good in a world that’s so bad. I’m going to disappoint him.
“I’ll try,”
she whispered. “It’s hard.” Her voice cracked. “But I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he replied.
28
THE RECOVERY
“Open this door! Iman, please just let me out!” Bleu’s pleas fell on deaf ears as she banged on the wooden door. Iman heard her—in fact, he was sure the entire neighborhood heard her—but he couldn’t let her out. She had already tried to take money out of his wallet and steal his keys while he was asleep. He had to keep her confined in order to wait out her withdrawal. Listening to her cries tore at his soul, but he kept a hard resolve and didn’t respond. “Open this shit up now!” Bleu shouted, getting angry as she hit her flat hands against the door in frustration. Her moods were high and low. One moment she was weak and sulking; the next she was animated and livid. She was out of control and he couldn’t believe that it had gotten that bad in six months. What he didn’t know was that it had been six months of bingeing. She had smoked day and night as often as possible to stop herself from feeling. “Iman!!!” she screamed before giving up and sitting in a heap on the floor as she planted her face in her hands. Her entire body was wet with sweat and she felt as if she would die if she didn’t get out of that room. Iman had made a comfortable stay for in her the west wing of his home. She had every luxury available to her, but with a monkey on her back it felt like a prison. “Ughhh!!” she screamed. She just wanted a hit. One deep pull on a crack pipe would do her so much justice. She missed it so much that she even missed the coolness of the pipe when she placed it between her lips. It had only been three days. The first two had been a daze. She slept, depressed and out of it, as the world seemed to crash down around her. She had no energy to get up and protest, and the cold sweats that soaked her clothes kept her tucked into a shivering ball, bedridden. Her entire body itched and she scratched so hard that Iman had given her socks to put over her hands so that it she wouldn’t scar herself. It felt like something was crawling on her all the time.
Luxe Page 25