Chapter 1
Angelique Curtis, Los Angeles, Ca
THE WIND BLOWS through my brown tresses. It's just about that time to hit up my oldest friend's kitchen, so she can work out these kinks. Why do I always drive my Mazda coupe with the top down the day before I put my hair into a ponytail or force my homegirl, Niecy for a "family" discount when I can't afford to pay full price. Must be the principle, right?
The 30-minute drive from my condo in Long Beach to my boyfriend, Carlton's townhome in Los Angeles has just about doubled. Traffic on the 405 has us moving at snail's pace. I could zip by Niecy's house right now. My family used to stay right off Alondra Avenue. Niecy's house was less than a hop, skip and jump away. Only good times growing up in Compton.
Then my father had this addiction. At the age of twelve, I came to the conclusion that he loved gambling more than he loved my mother, two younger brothers, and me, of course. The racetracks are where we lost the home that his grandparents left to us – Scot Free. It wasn't a new house, it was an old home and it had character. To this day, driving down my old street makes my tear ducts burn just seeing the only home I knew before moving to the projects in the North side of Long Beach, during middle school. So, I thought my father stole the house up under us for his addiction? Who was I kidding, when you're in the hood, and nobody loves you, then any given Sunday, someone was trying to steal from our tiny apartment. I was always a sturdy girl, moving from Compton added on more pounds, because I didn't even have Niecy for the peer pressure. I guess it was a blessing and a curse.
There was no comradery like back on my childhood street. But, with my good grades, my mother snuck me into the best schools Long Beach had to offer, even if I had to get on the bus before the sun set fire to my mocha skin. Not desiring to be alone with my thoughts, I turn up the satellite radio. Adele croons into the stereo, making me sigh deeply.
"Lord, I need a love like that," I mumble, listening intently to the words.
Inching my foot off the brake and then back on, I continue to travel through traffic. I'm going to cry myself to sleep tonight if Carlton is not home. Driving in traffic irks me, besides, this is the middle of rush hour. Boyfriend or not, I'm dropping by unannounced. But that's just the psychologist trait. "Crazy know crazy" ain't just a phrase for these mean streets. As a Marriage and Family Therapist, I don't practice what I preach. My relationship theories clash with eras upon eras of evolution: a person's desire to go with what they know. I've invested a little over four years into Carlton, in us. We met right before my 21st birthday; in fact I'll be 25 next week. Forget about that small caveat of falling in love, if this were solely an investment, I'd be making out like a bandit. Not to mention, he has an advanced degree, is from a two-parent household, and he … can … be funny.
As a banker, Carlton spends most of our time together with a Bluetooth glued to his ear. The other? He can be found calculating our entertainment expenses so that I have enough cash to pay for my half. When we first started dating, I was appalled at how he asked me for half of the bill at The Stinking Rose in Beverly Hills. He'd gotten the porterhouse. He's a big guy. But I love a big guy. He didn't even offer one of his garlic shrimp that he'd ordered as an appetizer. I'd ordered the vegetarian Alfredo, on a diet. You'd think I ordered half of his food too, with the bill at such an expensive place. But no, Carlton had explained that the last woman he dated used him for his money and left him with credit card debt. I'm utilizing a behaviorist approach to teach him that this fear is unwarranted. Of course, there are gold diggers in the world, he just needs to disassociate every female from this mindset. Regardless of his faults, the sex is good.
The music fades. Before I can press the next station, one of my favorite chef's names is mentioned.
"They said Chef De León just stormed off the stage like that!" The female personality sounds like she snaps her fingers for emphasis.
"All I know is, Chef Franco de León better bring his sexy ass back," says one of the funniest radio personalities around. "My granny records all his shows. He's got every mama around the nation talking about how they can't cook without him."
"Who you telling," the female giggles. "The old adage ‘Mom's home cooking' went out the window the moment de León came on the scene. These days every mama is looking to him for the goods." She jokes with so much sexual innuendo that it seeps through the stereo. I almost pout, I'm not proud of it, but I've masturbated to Franco's sweet and savory show a few times.
Almost an hour later, I pull over to a key code at the gated community where Carlton lives. After punching in the code, I drive through a lot with miniature Victorian style homes that are all strung together. I park in the visitor area which is a good walk to Carlton's condo. I decide to leave the brown bags of groceries I'd bought and planned on cooking him for dinner. Since we mainly see each other on the weekend, I want to know how things are with me popping in.
My leather boots are begging to come off and my tummy trimming jeans are too, as I walk down the passageway. My breaths come short as I make it down the palm tree studded walkway and ring the doorbell.
My boyfriend opens the door, in a slate gray suit that fits well against his bulky frame. A fresh haircut, and neatly trimmed goatee make his soft face appear more masculine. I'm a cool five-eight, yet heels make me eye-to-eye with my man's six feet.
"What're you doing here, Angelique?"
My arched eyebrows crinkle, and I lack an intelligible response for just popping in. Big girl and all, I got a few looks in the grocery store this afternoon. These puppies are real and every man loves to look. The day we met, Carlton was talking jibberish. Melody and I had just walked out of one of the hottest nightclubs in Hollywood. She was pretending to be one of her husband's floozies, since he sings every once in a while. I was dressed to kill. My ass, my tits, heck, every time my hips strutted to the east and to the west, I was slaying them, and Carlton had a crew of stiff suits with him, heading in. He seemed too boring, too numbers wise, and he barely got my digits.
I'm tempted to allow my breasts to spill over from my v-shaped lilac with lime-green dot blouse I just got at Nordstrom's. Dark wash jeans and cute flowing blouses are the staple for us women with extra love to give. No, I don't dress slutty, as I've said, these puppies don't have to be dangling or playing peek-a-boo for a man to glance. There are enough curves in my ample shape to satisfy without dressing half-naked. I love my baby doll face, having been complimented on it since I was a child, though I can't get past my chubby cheeks. But Carlton never looks down at my chest.
"Hi, honey, I came to cook you dinner." I give an energetic smile. Hopeful that my presence, all of me in the flesh, means something – as I stand at the door. While men would break their necks to get at me, this type of response is what I've come to expect from my man.
"Okay, where's dinner?" He stops talking to me for a second to speak into his Bluetooth. His dark brown eyes are still on me, which always makes my skin crawl, especially since he always looks irritated as he speaks. Then Carlton's tone changes, as he advises me with, "I haven't been grocery shopping – "
"Don't worry, Carlton." I almost snap that there will be no need to calculate how much of tonight's dinner I need to pay for, since I've already bought the essentials for dinner. "All the food is in my trunk."
"Okay, great." He reaches over, kisses my cheek. Before I can fully inhale the body-tingling designer cologne, Carlton turns back around and continues to talk about his client's financial portfolio.
~~~
An hour later, Carlton sits on the stool at the island typing on his Mac laptop.
"Hey, are you finished talking on the phone?" I ask, knowing that Scully is a very particular client. Rich tightwad who will spend hours watching his millions increase and decrease by half a penny. He calls Carlton every other day to ensure his assets are maximized.
Carlton waves a hand to imply that it is evident he is off the phone. He continues to type away. The mumble barely reaches me as he says, "I'm working. The food smells delicious, honey."
I continue to chop and grumble under my breath. I've done a lot of prep work with the eggplant lasagna. With more contentment than I feel, I try, "It would be really nice if we were to cook together."
"Not an option, Jelly," he tosses out that darn nickname my best friend, Melody, gave me. Carlton calls me by the title I love to hate. Mel was the first friend I met in Long Beach. She's the West Coast version of a southern debutant. Her family is the personification of Black Business America. Her father Gerald Bradford, is owner of one of the founding black law firms in California, Bradford and Bradford, which her grandfather founded.