Chapter Eleven
Eleven
At closing, Jamilah heard an Ice Cube verse in her head.
She agreed with him. Today was a good day.
Rashad had cooked the chicken to perfection, so much so that a table of women asked to compliment the chef.
Jamilah figured at least one would rather commingle than simply compliment, but she followed the law she’d laid down with Rashad and told herself it was none of her business.
Over the next few days, she and her new hire continued to vibe.
The other staff welcomed him with open arms. He fit right in.
It wasn’t all smooth sailing for Jamilah, though.
There was still the issue with her dad, who was thankfully engrossed in a suddenly hot cold case.
He’d texted and asked about Rashad’s replacement.
So far, she hadn’t responded so she wouldn’t have to lie.
What she had done was talk to Rashad and her meager staff about the late October cater.
She’d hoped Blair could be of more assistance, but Prime Rib had her locked down.
Jamilah had even looked into hiring a catering chef, but what they charged ate up more of her profits than she could afford.
Rashad’s food tasted great, and he’d cooked for large groups; however, Jamilah wasn’t totally convinced that his experience was enough for this event.
The next few months of Side Chic’k staying open hinged on the catering gig’s success.
She wouldn’t get a second chance to make a first impression.
After closing Saturday night, she decided to be honest with Rashad and voice her concerns.
“There’s no doubt you can cook,” she said, after sharing with Rashad the proposed party menu. “I’m concerned about your being able to handle the menu, especially the high-end meats.”
Rashad removed his bandanna and shook out his locs. Jamilah wondered if he knew how sexy that move was and how it had shifted her thinking to a whole other kind of beef.
“If I can make cheap meat taste amazing, don’t you think I can do the same with a more expensive cut?”
“So far I’ve tasted Asian cuisine and fried chicken, so honestly, I don’t know.”
The next day Rashad arrived carrying a plastic grocery bag.
“What’s that?” Jamilah asked, after he’d placed his ever-present notebook under the counter.
“Besides cooking, hip-hop is my other passion. I write rhymes.” He walked to the fridge, placed the grocery bag inside, and pulled out a pan of chicken that had brined all night.
“Your loving hip-hop doesn’t surprise me, and I noticed you always carry that notebook. But I was talking about the bag you just placed in the fridge.”
“A little something for later,” he replied nonchalantly. “Wanna cook a dish for you after we close, if you don’t mind.”
“I might mind. What is it?”
“Little surprise for you. Don’t worry. All I need is a skillet, a few condiments, and what’s in that bag.”
Business was slow. The day dreary. The temps were unusually cold for October in the Show Me State.
When there was an hour left to closing and no customers in the past thirty minutes, Jamilah released Shasta, told Caylen to start clearing the dining room, and asked Rashad to begin closing down, too.
She returned to the cash register and began tallying up the day’s meager receipts.
Soon, a heavenly scent of beef and something else—pork, maybe—wafted from the kitchen.
Her mouth watered, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She looked out at the empty dining room, walked over to lock the front door, flipped over the Closed sign, and headed to the kitchen.
“Wait. Stop!” Rashad commanded.
“What are you making?”
“It’s a secret. You can’t come in here right now.”
She gave the room an investigative sniff. “A hamburger?”
“Can’t fool you, huh?”
“Seriously, Rashad?”
“Go handle your business, Boss Lady, then have a seat. Thought you might enjoy something besides chicken for a change.”
Crossing her arms, she leaned against the doorjamb. “I don’t exactly appreciate you making my chicken establishment smell like a burger joint.”
The lopsided grin he gave her dissolved her anger faster than dry yeast in hot water. “I think after being served, you’ll forgive me.”
Five minutes later, Rashad entered the dining room and set a plate on the table.
“Jamilah…for you.”
She walked over and sat down, examined the simple sandwich as though it held the nuclear codes.
“Not much to it,” she said, lifting the top bun. “Mustard and pickles. That’s it?”
He shrugged, sat down. “That’s it.”
She picked up the sandwich. “Pork and beef?”
“Jamilah. Eat.”
Loving an alpha man like she did, how could Jamilah do anything other than take a bite?
She did and was shocked. What looked like a simple sandwich wasn’t simple at all.
There were layers of flavor, hidden, unexpected.
She took another bite, barely stopping herself from mewling like someone had stroked her G-spot.
“What’s in here?”
“You like it?”
Jamilah felt that the way she licked her lips just then made it obvious, but she answered anyway.
“It’s delicious. I mean, really really good. I’m tasting things I can’t see, like a bacon jam, um, even a sour cream-like tang, and something smoky. I’m not even gonna lie, Rashad. This is the best burger I’ve ever eaten.”
“Good. Let’s talk about the catering job.”
While closing up, Jamilah reiterated the menu she’d planned. Rashad made suggestions. Without even realizing she’d made a decision, Jamilah began tweaking what they’d offer. Rashad’s burger had done the convincing. She’d roll the dinner dice with him.
That burger, and their conversation, rolled away the clouds from a super slow Saturday.
Once again she felt hopeful, optimistic.
Pulling off this catering event might lead to more offers, which would help sustain them until business picked up.
Her mood light, she hurried Rashad out, telling him that she wanted to take a quick inventory before leaving.
They said good-bye. She turned the music to a Quiet Storm station and was humming a Sade classic when her phone rang.
Her father.
His text she’d ignored.
She’d completely forgotten about it and steeled herself for what he’d say.
She tapped the Speaker button and walked to the pantry. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, Jamilah. I texted earlier.”
“I saw that. Was gonna call you after work.”
“I just want to confirm that you got rid of the felon. That we no longer have a criminal in the kitchen.”
“Actually, Dad, no, I didn’t fire him.”
“What do you mean you didn’t fire him?”
“Rashad still works here.”
Silence as Jamilah imagined him processing her defiance.
“I know he has a record, but before you go off, let me explain.”
“There’s no explanation for willingly being around someone with a rap sheet.”
Her father’s words that painted Rashad as dishonorable made Jamilah want to defend her cook’s honor.
“Rashad was upfront with me about his criminal history. I know he used to sell marijuana and was recently released from prison. His background isn’t squeaky clean. But I like him, Dad. He seems like a good guy.”
“What do you mean you like him?”
Meaning that she’d let him place his hot dog between her buns. Hypothetically, of course.
“He’s not a bad person. In fact he comes off as a good person who did a bad thing.”
“A bad thing? The word a implies a singular incident. That’s not Rashad. His running with the wrong crowd goes back to include time spent in juvie.”
He read off a list of infractions, including the theft and gun charges that Rashad had previously shared with her.
“Dad, everything isn’t what it seems. Those charges, well, what’s on paper doesn’t tell the whole story.”
“Are you defending this guy?”
“I’m saying sometimes the law declares you guilty by association.”
“You dare to lecture me about the law?”
She heard him take a deep breath, his raised voice becoming calm once again. “In this world, baby girl, you are who you hang around. You don’t know how it works in the streets. I kept you shielded from it.
“I know I wasn’t always available when you needed me. That I worked too many days and too many hours. But I thought I taught you better than to hire a criminal and, even worse, to keep him working for you after knowing the facts.”
“He doesn’t come off as a criminal.”
“Of course not. People like him are some of the most charismatic individuals walking the earth. How do you think they’re able to operate successfully?
Maybe I shouldn’t have worked so hard to keep you sheltered, but, baby, trust me.
In my twenty-plus years on the force, I’ve met men like this Rashad character coming and going.
You do not want to get involved with the likes of him, in any capacity. ”
“He’s a great cook,” Jamilah countered. “Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance?”
“Absolutely. Just not there, with you.”
The thoughts from the other night returned. About Jamilah, the people pleaser, doing what others wanted rather than standing up for herself. She stood a bit straighter, squared her shoulders, as if a straightened spine would provide the backbone needed to stand up to her dad.
“I respect your opinion, Daddy, but I don’t agree. Rashad is a good guy and a great cook. And I… I need someone with his level of experience.” She told him about the catering gig. “Cooking that amount of food isn’t a job that just anyone can handle.”
“But it’s no problem for a man just out of prison? He’s still on parole, Jamilah. Hasn’t even been out three months.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’ve made my decision. Rashad is helping out with my next catering gig and is Side Chic’k’s new chef.”
Every second of silence that ticked by increased Jamilah’s nervousness and probably ticked up her blood pressure, too. Her angst was warranted.
“I think you’ve forgotten a few things,” he said, with a deceptive cool, calm collectedness that had shook more than one confession out of a guilty man.
“Like who helped with the start-up money to open your business. Who cosigned the loans. Whose name is on the lease. I don’t want to play hardball, but I will.”
There it was. The trump card. Jamilah’s bravado backbone slackened. She was so frustrated and angry she could all out boohoo. But she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. She had a business to run.
Returning to the kitchen to make a list, she asked him, “Are you threatening to shut down my business?”
“I’m helping you face facts. What are they?”
By rote, Jamilah regurgitated what her father had told her.
“Rashad’s a criminal, a felon.”
“One still on parole.”
“Yes, and birds of a feather flock together. We are who we hang around.”
“Which is why you can’t have any wannabe thug working at your place of business. Have you talked to Ed?”
“Yes, I’ve talked to him.”
“Good. Maybe he can help you out until you get someone else. Meanwhile, Rashad White needs to be fired. ASAP.”
Jamilah’s stomach dropped, the one full of the best burger she’d ever had.
“Is he still there, by any chance?” James continued.
“No. He left right before you called.”
“You do see my point of view on this, don’t you? Hiring a felon was a mistake.”
“I can admit that now is not the time to take chances, especially when I’m trying to increase our profits and return to a full-time schedule.”
“That’s right, Jamilah. Public perception is everything.”
“Agreed.”
“Do you need me to be there when he’s terminated?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Jamilah said, on emotional autopilot, agreeing with her dad from muscle memory. “When delivering the bad news, I’ll make sure we meet in a public place that’s well-attended and safe. Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”
“Let me help you do that,” Rashad said, stepping out of the hallway and into the kitchen.
Jamilah jumped. Her hand flew to her throat. “Rashad.”
“You don’t have to fire me. I quit.”
“Jamilah! Is that him? Is he back there?” James’s voice boomed throughout the small space.
“Only long enough to get what’s mine.” His voice was deceptively quiet, but Rashad was close enough to Jamilah’s cell phone for James to hear.
“Man, if you so much as lay a hand on my—”
“Whoever this is, fuck your judgmental ass and whatever you think you know about me. You don’t know shit.”
With that he walked over to a shelf beneath the counter and picked up the notebook that Jamilah hadn’t noticed still being there. Without another word or look in her direction, he walked out the door.
“Rashad, I’m sorry!”
“Is he gone?” James asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Jamilah picked up the phone, walked down the hall and to the back door. The space next to her Lexus was empty, much like her heart felt right now.
“He’s gone, Dad.”
“Disrespectful sonofabitch, he’d better be glad I’m across town.”
“I don’t think he would have said that if he knew my dad was speaking.”
“Men like him will say anything. Do anything. He quit not a moment too soon.”
Just like that the irresistible felon-turned-fantastic cook Rashad White was out of her restaurant and presumably her life, the move her father wanted, that both of them agreed was for the best. Was it really? Jamilah asked herself. And if so, why did she feel like crap?