Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz Page 0,35

those nights, when I stole Mom’s Buick, I headed for a jam session or a club. And it was in one of those clubs where I met an amazing green-eyed girl.

A JEWEL

I’d just sat in on drums in a club in the San Fernando Valley. I was taking a break when this cocoa-skinned girl with piercing emerald eyes and a seductive smile came up to me. Her face was beautiful. Her body was slamming. Her voice was alluring.

She said she wanted to talk.

Wow. Great.

She asked my age.

I told her and asked hers.

Fourteen.

I was surprised; she looked older.

She said that she was old for her age. She asked if I had a girlfriend.

No.

She thought I was cute. I liked hearing that, but something in her voice sounded off.

Initially, it seemed like she was hitting on me—an exciting first in my life—but then her demeanor changed. After we spoke for fifteen minutes or so, tears filled her eyes and she began to cry. I wanted to know what was wrong. That’s when she blurted out the truth: she told me I was a nice guy and she couldn’t do this to me.

Do what?

Lie.

Lie about what?

Lie about the fact that she was coming on to me when she really wasn’t.

I was confused. I asked her to explain.

She said it was all about my father.

My father?

Yes. Jewel told me she was being controlled by a pimp who had told her to get next to me so she could then get next to my father. Her pimp saw my dad as a potential steady customer for Jewel.

That statement blew my mind. I had no notion of my father dealing with prostitutes. Why would a pimp target Dad? Jewel told me that the pimp knew Dad from the music studio scene.

Jewel had a good soul. I could feel her heart. I could see the purity in her eyes. In spite of the fucked-up assignment she’d been given by her pimp, she had managed to break through the darkness and come out into the light. I saw her for who she was.

Our talk got deeper. She told me that her original abuser had been her dad. She had been passed around at parties to sleep with her father’s friends. I was horrified—and also strangely motivated. I had to save her.

I say that not to sound like a hero: heroics were the last thing on my mind. All this was gut reaction. She was as beautiful inside as out. I had to help this girl. I told her that she had to get away from her pimp. But how? She was working out of a seedy motel on Ventura Boulevard in a bad part of the Valley. He kept her under close watch. I told her that no matter how close his watch, she had to get out. I had to get her out. Tomorrow.

I formulated a plan. Tomorrow night I’d steal Mom’s car again to go get her. She said that was risky. I said that remaining this guy’s slave was even riskier. She was afraid of him. I was, too, but something had to be done, and done right away. It had to happen tomorrow night. But what if she had to work? I told her to say she was sick. I’d be there to get her at midnight. I’m not sure she believed me, but she gave me the address of the motel anyway. She was desperate for help.

Next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jewel. In spite of the power her pimp held over her, she’d been honest with me. Her pimp’s scheme to snare Dad pissed me off. I didn’t want to think about what it said about my father, so I didn’t. I just concentrated on my plan.

The hours dragged by. I turned on the radio. Did I really know what I was doing? Was I ready to tangle with some killer pimp? No. The idea was to avoid the killer pimp. But what if he turned up? Better not think about that. Better just to think about the job at hand. I was resolved and ready.

That night, I did the usual crawl through my folks’ bedroom to grab Mom’s car keys. My parents didn’t stir. I slipped away and drove over to the Valley. I was nervous as hell. If the cops stopped me, I had no driver’s license. If Jewel’s pimp caught me, I had no gun. Hell, I didn’t even have a knife. I also had no real plan