Going Broke (14 page)

“Well, I'm sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he said with a smile. “We're even now. I just needed for you to know that men come in all shapes, sizes, and occupations.”

“I know.” I felt like I was being chastised.

“So will you have a seat?” he asked.

I didn't answer. I just lowered my body onto the couch.

He smiled. “I don't know exactly what your man does, but one thing is for sure, he has quite a woman.”

I blushed. “Thank you.” It took me a few seconds to realize that he was talking about Damian. “He doesn't know that, though.”

“How do you know?”

I tried to get comfortable on the couch again. “Well, if he knew that, then we'd still be together.”

He smiled. “I'm not even gonna lie and say that I'm sorry to hear that. But I consider this an even better opportunity now.” He stood to his feet in front of me. “Let's start over.” He extended his hand to me for the third time since I had first seen him. “Hello, my name is Tremel. My friends call me Mel, I'm twenty-seven years old, no kids, no girl, but I do have a job.” He continued, “I may not be the president of my own company, but what I do is legal.”

With my hand still in his, I looked up at him from the couch. “I'm Sarai. I have no nicknames, and I like it that way. I'm also twenty-seven years old with no children, no husband, and also no job.” I looked away and realized how stupid I was to still be judging him because of what he did for a living, when no one would even hire me.

“It's nice to meet you, Sarai.” He smiled. “May I buy you a drink?”

“A Coke would be fine.”

A few minutes later, he made his way back to me with two sodas, two straws, and two hours worth of conversation.

 

 

Born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio, Tremel moved to Miami two years earlier when he encountered Cashes Jackson, an up-and-coming music producer who promised to showcase Tremel's sexy yet melodic singing voice. Cashes guaranteed the moon and the stars above, and told Tremel that he had a deal just waiting to happen.

Once here, Tremel learned that the recording studio Cashes bragged about was just a closet with an old microphone in the basement of his house, and the only connections he had were to an underground radio station that people could only pick up while it was raining.

In Cleveland, he left behind family, friends, and a stable job at his father's construction company to chase a dream that he still couldn't build up the courage to believe had failed.

Not wanting to return to Ohio to announce his bad news, he took the first job he could, as a janitor at Northern Miami Middle School. He also maintained the lawn, painted, and did handiwork in the home of an elderly woman he met at church, in exchange for free lodging in a spare room at her house. He hoped to save enough money to buy time at a good quality recording studio and create an unbelievable demo to help turn his life around.

He sang twice a month at Vocalize, but he was showcasing himself. There was no money associated with his performances. His voice had been compared to Jahiem. His sexy appeal was like Ginuwine, but his lyrics were more the style of Brian McKnight. Though he was not ashamed about what he did for a living, it was not something that he wanted to do long-term. Until something else arose though, he'd do it happily.

 

 

It was a little after three in the morning, when Tremel walked me to my truck. “So after learning more about me,” he paused, “if I asked you for your number, what would you say?”

I grinned as we continued to walk. “I'd say that I don't have a business card, but I could write it down on a piece of paper for you.”

“Hold up.” He stood still and pretended to be a girl. “You don't have a business card? Oh hell naw.” He walked away, then ran back over to me laughing. “May I have your number?”

We reached the truck, and he handed me a pen and a receipt to write my number on. “When can I see you again?”

“I don't know.” I didn't know what to say.

“Well, how about this Saturday?”

“Well, it is after midnight, so it's Friday,” I said. “You mean tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess that is tomorrow.”

“Sounds good to me.” I smiled. “Where are we going?” I was almost afraid to ask.

He thought a while. “To a restaurant you'll never forget.” He ushered me into the truck. “I'll call you to get directions. I'll pick you up around seven. Don't wear anything fancy.” He closed my car door. “Drive safely.” He watched me until I got to the second light and made a left turn to head home.

My phone started ringing when I pulled into parking garage of my apartment. It was after three in the morning. “Who in the world . . .” I looked at the caller ID and didn't recognize the number. “Hello?”

A female's voice came over the phone. “Sarai?”

“Yes.” Then I thought. “Who is this?”

“I'm Stefani.” She paused. “Conrad's secretary.”

“Oh, hi.” I had forgotten to call her. “I'm sorry. I totally forgot to call.”

“That's all right. I was calling to find out how things went.” Then she added, “I know that the first time is always a little awkward.”

“
Awkward
isn't the word,” I said. “But it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.”

“Good,” she said. “And you collected two and one, right?”

It took me a minute to realize that she was talking about the money. “Yes, yes, I did.”

“All right,” she said. “Now that that's out of the way, do you have any plans this coming week?”

“Why? What's going on?”

I felt a million miles away from being one of Conrad's girls, while I was out with Nat, and while Tremel and I were talking, I didn't even remember Doctor Baker. Not until right now.

“Well, the Black Pastors' Association is meeting in Richmond, Virginia. They want six girls there on Monday to stay until Thursday.”

“‘Black pastors'?” I couldn't have heard her right.

“Yes, ma'am.” She laughed. “Believe me, we get calls from people you'd never expect. Do you want to go?”

I thought about the session with Doctor Baker and couldn't imagine anything being worse. “Yeah, I'll go.”

“All right. Let me go over some things with you,” Stefani said. “When we affiliate with churches or church groups, we operate with extra precautions. I'm faxing pictures and profiles of everyone that's going.”

“You need a picture of me?”

“I have one of you.” She giggled. “By the pool in the Bahamas, taken by Mr. Johnson.”

“When did he do that?”

“Honey, he gets what he wants. Anyway, they'll be calling to let me know who wants to see who. So, before they visit you in your room, I'll have already secured the transaction via credit card. We charge the pastors two. Before he's even there, you'll get a call from me. If your phone doesn't ring, then you don't open your door,” she said. “If the transaction goes through okay, I'll call, and you just have a good time. For every one, you'll get fourteen deposited into your checking within two days.”

“All right.” I was overloaded with information.

“By the way, since our clients at times use other names to protect their privacy, you can do the same. Though they have your picture, you're listed as a number, not a name, so you can give them whatever name you want to.”

“Okay.” I thought about the extra money. “So how am I getting there?”

“You're flying out on Monday. I'll call you tomorrow with the details.” She giggled. “In the meantime, just get packing. There is a lot of money to be made up there.”

“Pastors, though?” I asked again.

“Yes, pastors,” she said. “One more thing—We don't need you out of your room at all. We don't want the good guys knowing anything or raising questions. Also, some of the men traveling are traveling with their wives, so this has to be on the down-low.” Stefani finished with, “Get your rest. I'll call you back tomorrow.”

“All right.” I couldn't believe the conversation. “Bye.”

 

 

The next day, Nat couldn't believe that I had gone from wanting to strangle Tremel to agreeing to have dinner with him. I couldn't believe it either. He wanted to be more than a janitor, was actively striving to be more, and that made him even sexier to me.

When I told Nat that I'd be leaving town on Monday, I knew that she'd ask why. I had a lie waiting—“I sent a resume to a station in Richmond, and they want me to fly up for an interview.”

She believed me, wished me luck, and begged me to call her on Saturday after my date with Mel.

On Saturday, I was ready at 6:30. At first, I didn't know what to wear. Tremel had called two hours prior for directions and said not to dress fancy, so I was hoping my black jeans and blue button-down shirt weren't still too dressy.

I was nervous. I didn't know what I was getting into, and because I wasn't in charge of planning the evening, I wasn't sure if I'd even allow myself to enjoy it.

When the security guard called to inform me that I had a visitor, I entertained the shallow idea of asking what type of car Tremel was driving, but I frowned on being so tacky.

I walked to the front of the building and was delightfully surprised to see Tremel leaning up against a newer-model silver Ford F-150.

He met me with a smile. “You look very nice.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He too was wearing jeans and a white polo shirt.

He rounded the truck and opened the door for me. In the seat sat a vibrant bouquet of plum and purple flowers: daisies, mini carnations, Monte casinos, and more.

I was in awe. “Thank you, Tremel.” I picked them up and turned to him, remembering that I told him my favorite color was purple. “Should I go up and put them in water?”

“Naw, we'll need them where we're going,” he said as he helped me step into the truck.

When he got in and started to back up, I was still wearing a purple people-eater smile. “So where are we going?”

He pulled onto the street. “Well, it's a place I've never been.” He made a right, and after a while he said, “It's a place I hope you don't mind going to.” He stayed in the right lane and made another right.

I started to wonder if he knew his way around the area.

“I do know that the chef is off the hook,” he said then threw in a curve ball, making yet another right turn. “I also heard that he's kinda cute.”

I looked at him. “Where are we going?”

We pulled back into my apartment complex.

“A place called
Café de Mel
.” He laughed. “Which happens to be in your apartment.”

He couldn't be serious
. “Are you serious?”

“May I cook for you?” He pointed to the back of his truck.

I saw three grocery bags.

Thank God I had spent the day cleaning in anticipation of our date. “In my kitchen?” I asked.

“If I lived alone, I would've done it at my place.” He looked a little worried. “Is that okay?”

Mrs. White, the lady he lived with, was a grumpy old soul from what he told me. He never brought home company because he was too afraid of what she'd say that the Lord would say about it. When he moved in, she told him that fornication was a thing that had never gone on under her roof, and it wasn't about to start.

“Yeah, it's fine.” It was better than having dinner for three: Mrs. White, Mel, and me.

I held onto my flowers and helped him carry one of the grocery bags.

We walked into my place, and his mouth flew open. “Wow.”

He rested the bags on the counter and walked over to the picture window. “This is nice. You must be paying a grip.”

“Don't remind me,” I said.

As I reached the countertop, my brown grocery bag slammed into the ones he had placed there, and it tipped over. Before I could catch it, I saw five or six orange-red things fall out. I thought they were oranges. “Oops.”

I bent down to grab one and saw legs and eyes protruding. “What the—” It started moving. “Oh my God!” I screamed. “Crabs, crabs, crabs!” I wasn't touching them. I actually ran to the door.

Tremel ran over, laughing. He scrambled back and forth until he had them all back in the bag. “You should've saw the look on your face.”

I was trying to get my heart to beat regularly again. “Did you get them all?”