Forever An Ex (24 page)

Then I stomped to my desk. And I stomped back to the door. I was a hot-tamale kind of mad! Really? That man thought he could say anything to me? I hadn't even talked to him or my sister in the last six years. They were only in my life because of Dad's diagnosis. I only saw them for the first time in six years because Dad wanted us all there for this Christmas. Without that, I would've gone to my grave never speaking another word to either one of them bammas.

“Ugh!” I screeched.

And what was so ridiculous about this whole thing was that D'Angelo had been trying to get me to go out with him. Ever since Christmas, he'd asked me out at least a dozen times, and though I talked to him a lot by phone, I always nixed the idea. All this time I'd said no, but now I grabbed my office phone and pressed the button where I'd had his number stored.

“What's up, pretty lady,” D'Angelo said the moment he answered. “You good?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” I said as I blazed a trail from my desk to the door and then back.

“So, what do you need today?” he asked. “A new house in Malibu? Or do you need me to help you find someone else? What do you need, 'cause whatever it is, I got you, pretty lady.”

I was still fighting mad, but just hearing this sweet man calmed me down a little bit. “Is it really like that?” I asked him. “Do you think I only call you when I need something?”

“I don't think it, I know it. That's just how it is. When you have a need, you call. But I don't mind. I know my purpose and I play my role. I can satisfy all of your needs, and at least I get to talk to you occasionally.”

“But we talk all the time.”

“Because, I call
you
.” He paused. “You never noticed that? Really?”

“So you're saying I only call when I want something?”

“Yup!” I could imagine him nodding.

“Well, to keep my streak going, I'm calling because I want something.”

“Shoot!”

“Will you have dinner with me?”

The pause that followed was so long that I wanted to say something like
Never mind. That was just an early April Fools' joke.
Instantly, I was embarrassed, but still I said, “Hello?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I was just picking my jaw up from the floor.”

I laughed.

“But that's what's up. I'll be there in ten minutes,” he said.

“No, I said dinner, D. Not lunch.” Even though when I glanced at the clock it was just barely ten thirty. It was even too early for lunch.

“I know. Dinner. But I'm gonna come over there and we're gonna spend the day together because I'm not gonna let you change your mind.”

“No, I can't. Really . . .” But then I realized that D'Angelo was gone. He was on his way.

I sighed, then I smiled. I hadn't been able to get any work done anyway. I might as well hook up and hang out with D'Angelo.

Sitting back in my chair, I nodded. Anthony had done what his brother hadn't been able to do . . . he convinced me to go out on a date with D'Angelo. Even if it was just this once.

 • • •

Like he said he was going to do, D'Angelo swooped into my office, and even though I tried to front like I really couldn't leave, he either didn't buy my story or didn't care.

“You have a million-dollar empire going here,” he said. “You're thinking of franchising. If someone who has built all of this can't take a day off from work . . .”

His words were meant to flatter me, but what I wanted to know was how did he know all of that? A good part of it was public record—so that meant that he'd Googled me. But the part about the franchising . . . I shook my head. I guess I had to get used to hanging out with a friend who used to be a major player in the drug trade in South Central L.A. and who now ran secret missions for some militia group.

“So, are you ready?” he asked me.

He stood in front of my office door, looking like a bouncer, with his legs spread into a wide stance and his arms crossed in front of his muscular chest that couldn't even be hidden beneath his leather jacket. And, of course, he wore his dark glasses so that I could hardly see his eyes, but I knew that he was watching me.

I looked down at the jogging suit that I was wearing. “I'm not dressed to go out,” I said, pointing to what was very often my office uniform. I owned a day spa and a gym; this was all I needed if I wasn't having a meeting.

“That suit cost you what? Two, three hundred? You look fine enough.” He paused. “And, I mean fine in all ways.” Then he held out his large hand with his long fingers and I wondered for a moment what was I doing? Then I remembered, this was because Anthony had come stomping into my world telling me what to do.

Plus, I really did want to thank D'Angelo for all that he'd done.

So, I took his hand, and he led me from my office. I didn't even stop to respond to my gawking assistant, who'd never seen me talk to a guy, let alone leave my office in the middle of the morning holding someone's hand. I chuckled as I imagined Sarah running to the front door and pressing her face against the glass as she watched me climb into D'Angelo's Lamborghini, which he'd parked illegally right in front, blocking the entrance. Her mouth had to be wide open by now.

As we sped off to a destination unknown, at least to me, I settled into the soft leather that seemed to mold itself to my butt. And then D'Angelo pressed one of the buttons on the dashboard that looked like some kind of aircraft flight-control system and said, “Remember this.”

He cranked up the speakers; first, I heard the scratching and then the voice of Dr. Dre:

You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge.

And then Ice Cube:

Straight Outta Compton . . .

“Oh, my goodness,” I said. “This was our anthem at school!”

D'Angelo nodded his head at me and to the beat. “Yup, when N.W.A. hit the streets . . .” He spoke so that I could hear his words over the bass.

And I couldn't help it. As much as I'd learned to really dislike these songs with all of this cursing and calling women out of their names, my head bobbed to the old-school rap song that made all kinds of memories rush back to me.

I was a junior in high school, doing really well, thinking about college and how I was gonna
get
outta
Compton. But every day with my friends, we jammed to this song that became our anthem, and for the next couple of years I was filled with pride for the city where I'd grown up. It hadn't always been that way for me, after I'd heard a television news anchorman call Compton “L.A.'s armpit.”

“You know I don't like music like this anymore,” I said, even though my head was still bobbing and my shoulders were still bouncing.

He laughed. “I hear ya! We can do better than this.”

He punched another button and next came, “‘Oooo, baby, baby. Baby, baby . . . get up on this!'”

Now, as we sped down the 405 Freeway, we jammed to Salt-n-Pepa. It was like D'Angelo had gone all the way to my high school life, bringing back the best of those days. By the time he slowed down the car, he and I had turned Michael Jackson's solo into a collaboration. Now a trio sang and D'Angelo and I bellowed out, “‘I'm starting with the man in the mirror . . .'”

I hadn't even noticed that we'd stopped in front of Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles in Long Beach.

“It's a little late for breakfast, don't you think?” I asked D'Angelo.

“Stop playin'. It's never too early or late for Roscoe's.”

Then he just got out of his car. Now, mind you, we weren't in a parking space. We were double-parked in the middle of the street.

“You're just gonna leave your car here?” I asked him as he held my hand and helped me to rise up from the low ride.

He shrugged. “Yeah, someone'll come and get it.”

“But they don't have valet here.”

“They do for me,” he said, and opened the restaurant's door.

When we stepped inside, one of the waiters rushed over, and without a word, D'Angelo tossed him his keys. Then we were led to the room in the back that I'd understood was used only for special occasions. But clearly, there was something special about D'Angelo.

When the waitress placed our Obama Specials—three chicken wings and a waffle—in front of us, D'Angelo took hold of my hand. “Mind if I bless the food?”

“Go ahead,” I said, trying not to show my surprise. As he said grace, I tried to figure out who was this man?

“All of these blessings, we ask in Your Son Jesus' name, amen.”

“Amen,” I said, and looked up. Clearly, there was so much more to D'Angelo Stewart than just what was obvious, and I told him that.

“Talking to God was the last thing that I expected from someone who I imagined spent more time shooting a pistol than reading a Bible.”

He laughed as though I was kidding . . . I wasn't.

He said, “I've taken many roads in life, and they've all led to God for me.”

“Even when you had a gun in your hand?” I asked. Not that I'd ever heard of any specific shootings that involved D'Angelo.

He said, “
Especially
when I have a gun in my hand.”

I wanted him to expound on that a bit. Tell me what he was into. But the next thing that came out of his mouth was a question for me. “So, do you miss living in Compton?”

That was a hard left turn to get out of telling me more, but I was gonna play . . . for the moment. “Not at all.”

“Me neither,” he said, and then we chatted about our old neighborhood, our high school, and how so much had changed.

“If you ever wanna go back there to live, then you better know what I know,” D'Angelo said. “You better learn some Spanish.”

Less than an hour later, we were back in the sports car (that was waiting for us right outside the restaurant exactly where D'Angelo had left it), and while we sped toward downtown L.A., we jammed now to everything from Public Enemy to Teena Marie. And this time, when D'Angelo slowed the car down, he was the one singing with Keith Sweat, “ ‘You and I together,' ” D'Angelo began. He took my hand and serenaded me, “ ‘Dream that seemed for real, if it's a dream, please don't wake me up . . .' ”

I cleared my throat and looked away from him. “Where are we now?” I asked. Not that I didn't know . . . we were at LA Live; I just didn't know where we were going in this new entertainment complex that had totally revived what used to be the slums of L.A.

“Have you ever been to the Grammy Museum?”

“No!” I said, kinda excited about this.

Just like before, D'Angelo left his car in the middle of the street, and once we stepped inside, he gave his keys to someone who greeted him by name. Then D'Angelo took me by the hand and explained that the museum had four floors, so we wouldn't explore them all today.

As we waited for the elevator, he leaned into me and whispered, “But I'll bring you back here anytime you want, pretty lady.” He was so close, I felt his breath.

I stepped back and inhaled. He stepped back and chuckled. And then we rode up to the Motown room, where we studied all kinds of sixties and seventies photos, put on headsets and listened to original recordings, and then sat and watched a film on the life of Berry Gordy and the history of Motown.

I couldn't imagine where D'Angelo was going to take me from there, but after another car ride, filled with more music from my teen years, we ended up at Universal CityWalk, strolling and browsing through the little shops. When D'Angelo said, “Let's go in there,” and pointed to Bubba Gump's, I shook my head.

“We just ate.”

“That was hours ago.”

“But if I keep up with you like this, I will have reached my caloric limit for the whole week.”

He looked me up and down as we stepped into the restaurant. “You're fine and everything, but I want my woman to be more than a bone.”

“I'm not—”

He put his fingers over my lips before I could protest fully. “I already know what you're gonna say. You're gonna tell me that I'm not moving fast enough and you're ready to jump into bed right now. But I think we should take this slow, okay?”

I looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. Then I just busted out laughing, because what else could I do?

D'Angelo ordered the duck luck coconut shrimp, and when I ordered the pear and berry salad, he shook his head. “I thought I done told you how I like my women.”

“Well then, you need to tell that to your women.”

He laughed, then said, “What do you think about our day so far?”

“So far? How can there possibly be any more?”

“I can go as long as you can, pretty lady.”

I wasn't sure that D'Angelo was still talking about our day, but decided to stay on subject. “It's been cool; I've had a great time. You like music as much as I do.”

“Yup.”

“You eat more than I do, though.”

He chuckled. “I'm a growing boy.”

I had so many comebacks to that because this man was so far from being a boy it wasn't even funny. “Well, I've had a good time,” I said. “Thank you for taking me away for a couple of hours.”

“You say that like this is gonna be over soon.”

I looked at my watch. “Well, it's almost four and I've been away for the whole day.”

“I thought you invited me out to dinner?”

I laughed. “I did. I guess we're just having dinner a little early.”

“Okay, I'll let you get away with that this time 'cause I know you're a workaholic and it was hard to do what you did today.”

“Yes, it was.”

“So, tell me about your house, do you like it?”

“D, I love it. Thank you so, so much for finding that for me.”