Chapter 23
Iwas trying not to cry. I really was, but when I say this was a man who kept his word? I mean he always kept his word.
My second day in his city, he had several vintage Nina Rapport dresses brought to his house for me to choose from and said I could keep them, as in own them.
What. The. Fuck?!
The great thing about the dresses was that they always kept all sizes in their warehouse. Plus, Nina was rare in that everything she made was sold in extended plus sizes. That was why Patrice loved her so much. I wasn’t skinny by any definition of the word, and while I still didn’t need an extended size, I loved that they were available.
The peacock dress was there, and it was so beautiful; I was afraid to touch it. The vivid colors and precise construction made it absolutely stunning. Then there was the famous pink and red color block dress that made it to the cover of Vogue years earlier. The white tuxedo dress? My god! I was in fashion heaven!
“I love them all,” I breathed, still holding back tears.
“Okay, you can keep them all. Wanna move on to shoes? Purses?” Orlando asked as he sat on the sofa in the parlor watching me lose my shit over his mom’s work.
She designed every piece of clothing in every collection up until her death. Even when she was battling cancer, she designed and showcased her final collection. The company had new designers now, but no one could or would ever create the same magic she did.
“Uh…okay,” I managed.
The shoes…the Everest stiletto, named after the mountain, the GJ—named after the iconic Grace Jones. The Ross, a gorgeous pump adorned in sequins and inspired by the former Supreme. I chose them all. And of course, I copped me a Rapport Hobo bag.
When it was all said and done and the people from the Rapport warehouse were gone, having left my goodies behind, I finally let my tears flow and fell into my man’s arms.
“Thank you,” I sobbed into his chest.
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry the company execs kept turning you down. If I’d known before now—” he began, but I cut him off.
“No, it’s okay.”
“Then why are you crying, baby?”
“No one’s ever done anything this nice for me. Never. I’ve always been the person who did stuff for others, whether I wanted to or not.”
Rubbing my back, he told me, “This is just the beginning, baby. I got you. Whatever you want, whatever you need…I got you, and it’ll always only be the best.”
“I’m mad I didn’t see it. He’s always so damn nonchalant about everything. I mean, you can tell he’s crazy about you, but the whole celebrity lifestyle thing doesn’t seem to shake him,” Rueben observed. He’d flown in the morning of the gala to help me get my total look together.
“Same. Looking back, I can see how unbothered he was. Shit, he still is,” I agreed.
“My girl Bambina done got her a rich nigga that she didn’t make rich. Old ass money, too. No stupid fake rapper shit, either. I’m so happy for you. You deserve it, B!” Bubbles declared, her attention on her tablet. She’d flown in with Rueben just in case she was needed.
“I guess I do,” I said softly.
“Mmhmm. I know you feel dumb for hating on the man now, don’t you, Bubbles?” Rueben said. “Your dramatic ass was acting like the man was going to rob her or something.”
“Stop bringing up past shit, nigga,” Bubbles hissed at Rueben before addressing me. “So…let me ask you this. Why is your man out there getting his ass kicked on the ice for a living when he’s rolling like this?”
“I didn’t ask, but I’m sure it’s because he loves hockey. I do know that to be a fact,” I surmised.
“I guess…” Bubbles sounded skeptical.
“What? I don’t need money and I’m touring right now because I love performing.”
“But you ain’t doing it for free.”
“Hell naw because it ain’t free to do it. If it was, I would. Besides, he gets paid to play hockey, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
“Ignore Bubbles and show me this dress so I can come up with a makeup look,” Rueben stated, and as I led him to the room we’d been sleeping in—not the master, of course—he mumbled, “This nigga really got money.”
* * *
I looked good and I knew it. The dress—the peacock one—was so gorgeous, and it fit me like a glove. The front was covered in vibrant blue and green feathers while the back was navy blue, simple, and see-through. I wore a blue thong underneath and nothing else. Rueben fashioned my hair in a fro-hawk that stood tall on my head and gave me smokey eyes and a bold red lip. Instead of sunglasses, I wore my prescription spectacles with light blue tinted lenses. My jewelry was courtesy of one Edmund Orlando Rapp, a gorgeous diamond choker, a matching bracelet, and a huge sapphire and diamond ring he’d had delivered while Rueben was working his magic. I looked like a princess!
When I presented myself to Orlando in the parlor, he gifted me the brightest smile and said, “If I could paint, I’d paint you right now. You’re art, baby.”
“You can’t paint? I was sure you could do anything, everything,” I returned.
“Nah, I tried and failed miserably.”
“Well, you’re great at everything else, especially loving me.”
“Oh, I was born to do that. Ain’t even gotta try.”
Taking him in from his sleek black tuxedo to his crisp white shirt and black bow tie, I blew out a whistle. “My man is fine as hell. I am one lucky rapper.”
Offering me his arm, he said, “I’m the lucky one, baby,” and then, he led me out to the waiting car, a stretch Lincoln Navigator.