“I’m more of a hip-hop kind of guy.”
“Who do you like?”
“The legends. Nas, Eminem, Jay-Z.”
“Easy choices.”
“And Justin isn’t an easy pop music choice? He was a Mouseketeer, for god’s sake.”
“That you know.” I roll my eyes.
“Only because my brother–”
“Shh, you’re talking over the song,” I say playfully, liking that we finally seem to be breaking the ice with each other. “This is my jam.”
“Have at it,” he chuckles, turning up the volume.
We arrive at what looks like a relatively newly built shopping area that includes a series of large office buildings surrounded by a block of freestanding stores. There is a pharmacy, a small market, cleaners, a coffee shop, and the clothing boutique he was referring to. The stores are small but modern and give off a high-end feeling. I don’t feel particularly good about walking into the store looking and smelling like I do, but I can sense that with someone as headstrong as Bronx, it’s probably much easier to just go with the flow.
I realize that I should be careful in how I deal with him. Lev said that he would help me, but he never said that I could trust him. Of course, Lev trusted no one, including me, to some extent. That’s probably a trait we both got from Roxanne, although I really try to move through life with a bit more optimism, even after all that I’ve been through.
“We’re here,” he announces, but I don’t exit the vehicle yet. Once I get a good look at the front of the store and its fancy window display, I’m going to have to tell him.
“So… like I mentioned before, I’ve been saving my last few checks to get the money together to pay you or someone like you to find Lev. It’s just that since I’ve left my apartment, I’m in between paychecks, and I want to give Ruby something for her trouble.”
A look of realization hits his finely chiseled face as he drags his hand down and cups his jaw, which is covered in a sexy five-o’clock shadow.
“Not a problem,” he says. “But I still want you to buy something clean to wear if you let me.”
“I really rather go to Walmart or maybe Target? At least there I can get a shirt and some leggings for under twenty-five bucks or something.”
Ignoring my plea, Bronx reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a black wallet with subtle gray LV logos all over it. I have no idea how much it costs, but I know the designer item is pricey.
“We don’t have time to drive over to Target. I made a dinner reservation. Just use this for the clothes.”
He hands me a black credit card with his name embossed in silver letters and probably a bottomless credit limit. I’ve had one credit card in my life and I lost it at a time when I was in between jobs and couldn’t keep up regular payments.
“Are you sure?” I ask him because a credit card in my hands almost feels like a hot potato. Way too hot for me to handle.
He nods.
“I’ll pay you back,” I promise earnestly, still uncomfortable with this until I get a whiff of one of my armpits.
“Not necessary,” he assures me. “I should have been more clear about dinner.”
A small bell rings when the two of us enter the store. A middle-aged woman, who is probably the store owner or manager, warmly greets us.
“Welcome to Kelly’s Closet. I’m Kelly.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything I can help you find in particular?”
I notice that she is trying really hard not to stare at my black eye and Bronx’s tattoos. It didn’t dawn on me until this very moment how this might look to someone on the outside looking in. We kind of look like one of those couples. The kind people talk about when they walk by. Bronx looks like a tough, biker type, and I look like the pitiful girlfriend who he beats up on a regular basis.
“Let her buy whatever she wants,” Bronx says to the boutique owner. His voice was deeper than usual. “She has my card.”
Bronx sits at the front of the store on a window seat, staring outside as the shop owner walks me through the small racks of clothing in her store. She rambles on about clothing trends as she pulls items that she thinks will look good for my “body type”. I inwardly roll my eyes because I know that’s code for fat. I’ve heard it all my life.
