Chapter Twenty
Twenty
Rashad stood at the stove, one of his favorite places to be, stirring up a variation on a dish that had helped secure his reputation as a bona fide cook behind the wall.
The ability to create restaurant-quality cuisine using only the prison commissary and a hot pot, the only cookware option when in his cell instead of the kitchen, had set him apart from the other inmates and was great for bartering.
Cooking and the talented pen that made him a credible rapper had given him a level of respect and camaraderie among the men, regardless of race or gang affiliation.
His cooking skills were also what made Francisco decide to mentor him, to set Rashad up so that on the outside he could always get a job.
He poured a bowl of whipped eggs with a touch of cream into a skillet of sautéing peppers and mushrooms. Thick, crispy pieces of slab bacon replaced the pig skins he would have used from the commissary.
Ramen noodle seasoning packets, a staple of both prison cell cuisine and in Rashad’s cooking, were added, along with cheese and ketchup, another secret weapon for those with limited funds or food.
He placed a top on the concoction. Once the eggs were almost set and the cheese melted, he crumbled French fried onion rings over the top, another cell secret, and turned off the burner.
Moments later he, Charles, and Anna sat enjoying his breakfast fare.
“I tell you what, man,” Charles said, after following a large forkful of the omelet with an equally voracious bite of toast. “If you can cook like this using humble ingredients, I can’t wait to see how you’d throw down with an unlimited budget.”
“Delicious as always,” Anna added.
“Pluck, I’d cook this way even with a lot of money. I like the creativity. Plus, not wasting food is one of the forty-two laws of Ma’at.”
“Oh Lord, not the encyclopedia,” Charles groaned, his way of teasing Rashad about all the knowledge he acquired from reading so many books.
“Speaking of the Lord,” Anna segued, “the committee can use both of y’all’s help. We’ve got an exciting fundraising idea for next year, probably around the Fourth of July.”
Rashad stood, placed Charles’s clean plate on top of his, and headed toward the kitchen. “What is it?”
“A Soul Train line.”
“Soul Train,” Charles grunted and reached for his juice. “How is that going to make money?”
“We’re hoping through corporate sponsorships. We’re going to break the world record.” Anna gave the guys a brief rundown of their plans.
“What, you’re gonna try to be Damita Jo and that guy who was the breakdancing brothah?”
“I think you’re going back to the seventies,” Anna quipped. “Before my time, old man.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Did too.”
Rashad smiled at their back-and-forth while wondering if he could ever have a solid love like theirs. Jamilah crossed his mind for the hundredth time since the kiss. How her lips felt. How she smelled. What she’d offered him. Turning down that sex had been harder than doing the three-year bid.
He headed downstairs to grab his notebook before heading out. “Sounds like fun,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Count me in.”
On the way to Side Chic’k, Rashad’s head bopped to the silent beat of his current rhyme in progress, one inspired by Jamilah and a certain eighties throwback he’d heard Charles and Anna dancing to last night.
He woke up with the hook from that R and B classic by Babyface playing on loop inside his head.
The sexy smooth groove and how the beat lay deep in the cut begged to be rapped over, for bars to be laid down on top.
The lyrics invoked a double, even triple entendre—whipping up something delicious in the kitchen, being P-whipped by a woman’s charm, and/or the overwhelming appeal of a fine female to get into a man’s bedroom… and his heart.
With Charles and Anna’s muffled conversation and overhead footsteps in the background, he’d fleshed out a second verse to add to the first.
In the kitchen whipped up getting gripped up for last call
Shorty walked into the room with a badaboom that made giants fall
Tried to play it off like a hungry man turning down a meal
Couldn’t fake the funk gotta get a chunk of that whip appeal…
“No one does it like me…”
He rapped the lines aloud in the car, reaching the chorus of the Babyface classic as he pulled into a spot behind Side Chic’k.
Minutes later, hair tucked, hands washed, he turned the streaming channel from his usual hip-hop go-to and continued the old-school vibe.
After checking inventory and going over the kitchen notes he’d placed at the back of his notebook, his own bible of sorts, he began prep.
Because of how the catering crowd had raved about his extra crispy chicken wings, Jamilah agreed to switch to his method.
He mixed up his signature dry brine and began the manual rubbing and massaging that made his meat so tender.
The actions were comforting, routine. He’d already made a roux for the green bean casserole and warmed up potatoes for salad when he heard the back-door lock release.
It had been years since his heart raced at the thought of seeing a girl. His sprinted.
Jamilah came around the corner looking naturally fabulous. Her messy curls, black jeans, and blinged-out Side Chic’k sweatshirt were all warmth and sunshine against the cool, gray day. And completely above his pay grade.
“Hey, Rashad! Wasn’t sure it was you in here.”
“Who else would it be?”
“Somebody who likes something besides rap.” She walked over and grabbed an apron off the hook. “Am I rubbing off on you?”
“I like all kinds of music. Just for the record, you can rub off on me anytime.”
Later he’d question this act of madness, but he walked over and greeted her with a quick kiss. Like they were a couple. As though it was the most natural thing to do in the world.
She kissed him back but said, “We probably shouldn’t do that here.”
“What, are we on camera or something?”
“Security cameras are outside, not in here. Yet.”
“You lock the door?”
At that exact second, Rashad’s spidey senses kicked in. He reflexively stepped in front of Jamilah.
“Yo, who is it?”
Footsteps now, slow and deliberate. Since a felon possessing a gun was illegal, Rashad would have to depend on what the good Lord gave him. He’d been in his share of street fights and wasn’t too worried about a brawl. An armed robber would prove different. His fists were no match for a bullet.
He felt Jamilah’s hand squeeze his biceps as the footsteps drew closer.
“It’s me, Jamilah,” a familiar voice said.
Rashad’s brow creased. Where had he heard that voice before?
Jamilah gasped softly before giving him the answer.
“Daddy? What are you doing here?”
Detective James Carver stepped into the kitchen, hand resting on his weapon. “I was just about to ask a similar question. What is he doing here?”
Rashad’s back straightened. His chin lifted. The stance of a warrior, one chief to another. He’d stared down too many officers to count. Felt different when they looked like you, but his motto was the same with James as it was with any other man.
Don’t start none. Won’t be none.