Luxe by Ashley Antoinette Page 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.
    â€œYes, UCLA,” Bleu answered.
    â€œYou 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 ?”
    â€œYeah, 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œWe? 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.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œShe was persistent,” Marta answered. Marta turned to Bleu and made the introduction. “Bleu, this is my nephew, Iman.”
    â€œNice 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.”
    â€œHave 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