Heavy Love(6)

"I almost died. Now you know I have dreams about that man," I say,  dunking my biscotti into the freshest, most aromatic coffee ever.

"Who you telling," she counters. "Jelly, if I could have been in that  video trying to stop him …  Geesh, Franco can toss me like a rag doll, I  don't give a damn."

The ‘look' rears itself momentarily, on my part. It was an accident on  my part, but damn, she caught it. The one that reads "You have a man  that many women would die for, the love of a lifetime." Melody returns  my sardonic gander. So we mirror each other for a moment. Heck, if we  aren't back in middle school with the bullshit. Melody wasn't much for  boys then, either. They'd flock, not to say that I didn't get any play,  but damn, we'd have these darn staring games when we were arguing about  who she should talk to. She always won, and barely gave a guy a second  glance

Now, usually, Melody and I can have an entire discussion, or heck, even a  silent argument. But instead of countering my mute glare, she tests,  "Jelly, we are celebrating your birthday."

My silver fork spears perfectly sphere honeydew melons. Then the  silverware clinks against the china as I drop it. "And for my birthday, I  want the couple, the marriage, the love I've always aspired to have, be  okay, okay?"

"‘Kay," she shrugs.

"Nope, nah, it's not okay, Mel." I sigh, then I use the line that we  always end up taking turns using in arguments. In Vivica A. Fox's tone  from a movie we've watched a trillion times over, ‘Soul Food,' I say,  "You're my sister, girl."

"I know," she replies, edges of her mouth creeping upwards reluctantly in a smile.

"I love you, Melody. So when is the last time you and Kiel had a simple conversation?"

"We said hello to each other this morning, that was simple." She huffs.

I smirk. "And him sleeping on the couch?"

Her eyes waver. She didn't know that I knew it. "Angelique, I'm not  going there with you today. It's your day, like I said. After breakfast,  we have spa treatments and facials. After that, I have a slew of  strippers I've paid top dollar in an attempt to get you over that  no-good boyfriend of yours. This will be the best effing birthday of  your life, by force if need be."         

     



 





Chapter 4


Franco





EVERY FEMALE I slept with knew there was no future in this. The grind  was much too important. Making a brand for myself didn't include "sweet  and savory" with a change of diapers to boot. No tie downs. No nada.  Then my brand soared, and there was no need for monogamy. Restaurant's  all over. My debut restaurant was named Blanco. The media was in a  frenzy, wondering if my first restaurant was given the moniker in honor  of a beautiful woman by that very name. All the while Carmen, my mother,  and her twin Célia, were enamored for ages at this dedication to a  place they believe to be majestic. Heck, de León in Hollywood opened up,  and Madrid in the Aria Hotel in Vegas were all under construction while  they were still in awe of Blanco.

Laying in bed, one of the piped beams traveling along the cement ceiling  of my loft becomes my focal point as I think. It's been a week since I  ran like a pussy off the set of "Sweet and Savory." The faulty episode  was replaced mid-air with a rerun.

Edward has come by each day since then to let me know how my lawyers are  arguing with The Food Network Channel about the three remaining  episodes of the 16episode season. The only thing I've done in a week is  frequent "Rise & GRIND" the not-for profit chef academy that I've  opened up in Harlem. This place has so many meanings.

Sighing deeply, I begin to climb out of bed. The glossy floor is chilly  beneath my feet. The woman of my dreams has taken a machete, stabbed it  straight through my heart, and fucking used all the strength in that  cunning body of hers to twist and twist. There's a gaping hole, right  beneath my chest. The clouds obscure the sky outside, with the  black-and-gray interior of my bedroom I'm sinking into a perpetual  oblivion. I glance at the cell phone on my night stand before continuing  into the bathroom.

"Nah, don't do it, Franco de León. Don't do this shit to yourself, man,"  I sigh the words to myself all the while realizing inwardly that I'm a  fucking joke. Yet to hear these words, is like putting a Band-Aid over a  machete stab wound. So for good measure, I continue with the credo,  "You are so much better than that."

After a quick shower, I've dressed in all black work out attire. While  lacing up my Jordan's, I glance at my cell phone. It's been on airplane  mode ever since the fiasco at The Food Network Channel. No social media.  No loading a 357 magnum and placing it at my forehead as I search her  name. What she's been up to... Whose fucking her now...

Who the fuck am I kidding? I snatch up the cell phone then amble down the loft steps into an all-black living room.

There's less than 15% juice as the notifications turn back on while the  iPhones service returns. Well just call that my saving grace.

I listen to one of the countless voicemails from my mother, Carmen. It's  customary for us to talk at least three or four times a week at a  minimum. But I haven't got the balls to call her back. She knows  something is wrong, mothers always do.

"Mi amor. Please, my son, call me. Eh..."

Carmen implores me to go back home. Not home as in Madrid where I was  born and raised. But home as in the place that makes you feel like a  fucking happy go-lucky child. The place where all the memories are born.  The place where "remember that time," conversation is good sober or  drunk. The very place where my mother and I would frequent when my padre  was on a power trip.

Cabo de Blanco.

Forty-five years ago, my mother and her twin inherited an Inn which was  transformed from a vast estate overlooking the coast of Northern Spain  from a great great uncle who had no children. Before my mother married,  she and her sister had the bright idea to convert it into an Inn. The  numerous guesthouses lining the shore were an added bonus. I took a few  girls' virginity in those bungalows as a teen.

It's been a while... I reminisce about sweet summers, puppy love, my  first taste of amor and all that wild shit young guys do as I grab the  handle of my Nike bag.

There comes a rap-tat-tat at my door. The signature door knocking of one of my longest friends.

"Ayyyy," I shout, stepping over to the door, slinging the duffel bag  over my shoulder. I open the door, and New York Knicks forward, Orlando  Greene gives a head nod.

"You ready?" I ask. Besides the curly afro, which usually has a  sweatband around it, nothing about him is the same. We work out  virtually every morning during the week, and I've seen him on TV wearing  suits to press conferences or the likes. But today, Orlando is donning a  three-piece royal blue suit with black pinstripes. A tie and  handkerchief set off his tailor-made ensemble.

Orlando's dark brown eyes dart to the side, as he nods, "Yup, I'm  – "         

     



 

Edward, nowhere near Orlando's six foot seven, miraculously appears. He  steps around Orlando with a four-case of coffee. He's usually in khaki's  or jeans, fast talking works well with his Reebok tennis shoes. Edward  is also in a simple black suit, the silk black tie has been wrenched  away, probably sometime during the incessant Bluetooth talking to my  publicist. And while him being here at the crack of dawn can be the norm  when he wants to convince me to invest into another restaurant, I'm  still at odds why there are four cups of joe instead of three.

And then it hits me. Or rather, behind him is a young lady. A beige wrap dress clings on her ample curves.

Those damn glasses make every man in a hundred-mile radius want to be  taught a lesson, dirty or even Sunday school. But not me. Lips tensed, I  ask, "What the fuck is going on?"

"Intervention." Orlando quickly says.

"I am going to fucking kill-" I step toward my manager. Being vertically  challenged works for him today. Ed dips his head, steps past me. He  moves past the black runner-rug that leads from the doorway into the  vast open living room while pointing at the female. "Mrs. Amy Goldsmith  meet Franco, er …  de León, de León meet Mrs. Amy Goldsmith.

"I prefer first names, Franco," she says, megawatt smile on deck while extending her hand.

"I don't know you, you can call me de León. Or Leon. That is all." The  words clip out of my mouth. It's a tone that I don't often use with  females unless a belt is in my hand.

"Well, Franc-Leon," she rubs her hands together realizing that the  gesture of me shaking her hand is not in the cards. Heck, I have no  qualms with being polite, but it's not even five after five am. And she  wasn't invited. My glare goes back to Edward whose gaze is on the  opposite side of this 1500 square foot living room. Large eyes wide and  ready to explain.