Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
It had been another busy week. Gusto stayed busy.
The holiday season was in full swing. Tips were good, but Jamilah was exhausted.
Even so, she checked the Side Chic’k website nightly for catering inquiries.
There’d been a few but no deposits yet. Jamilah squashed her disappointment and kept hope alive.
Rashad was having a different experience.
The cards he’d passed out at Monique’s party were paying off.
He’d snagged three catering jobs in one week.
They were small, but heck, a win was a win.
One for a nonprofit organization, another for a sorority, a third for a church.
That Thursday, she called him to hang out.
When he failed to pick up, she didn’t leave a voice mail.
She woke up to the text he sent after she went to bed.
Just saw your missed call. Phone was off. See you tomorrow
Questions quickly rose unbidden. Where had he been?
Who was he with? Why was his phone turned off?
And the final, most important one, what was it to her?
Rashad didn’t owe her an explanation. They hadn’t yet put a name on what they were doing, but whatever it was didn’t make him accountable to her for his whereabouts.
Why’d she have to go and make things so complicated?
Resisting the urge for more shopping therapy, Jamilah went to the gym instead.
Certain muscles screamed and complained from lack of use, but the workout was sorely needed.
Helped clear her head. A short time later, she pulled into the lot behind Side Chic’k, next to Rashad’s SUV, and just like that, anxiety returned.
An unexplainable nervousness hit her gut.
Last week’s sex romp and the camaraderie that followed suddenly seemed like a long time ago.
For all the confidence it had taken to start and run her own business, and the latest brave act to not kowtow to her father, Jamilah still dealt with feelings of abandonment and insecurity.
Walter knew about these issues and still stayed with her, even if he did use these same points to maintain a type of control.
Time and distance softened the memories of his emotional turmoil and caused her to consider the unthinkable: Had breaking up with him been a mistake?
Locking these thoughts in a vault for safekeeping, she stepped into Side Chic’k, hung up her coat, and entered the kitchen. Nerves turned to squiggles of desire. One thing about it—no one turned her on like Rashad.
“Hey,” she said, with as much don’t-give-a-shit as she could muster.
“Hey, you. My hands are three inches deep in this flour. Come give me a kiss.”
“You want one of those?”
The question came out in a pitch higher than she intended, making what she’d meant to come off as flippant sound desperate instead.
He looked over his shoulder but said nothing, just walked over to where she slipped into an apron and kissed her on the cheek.
“Sorry I missed your call last night.”
“No big deal.”
“Believe it or not, I was right here in our hood. You ever heard of Poetry on the Vine?”
“Nope.”
“Poetryls is the name they use on social media. Anyway, it’s an event that happens on Thursday nights at a jazz bar. I noticed a sign last week after deciding to drive around a block or two and check out my surroundings.”
“Sounds interesting. How was it?”
“Pretty cool. It had been a while since I hung out with other artists, folk spitting and rapping, doing their thing. You should come with me sometime. I heard some nice work.”
Hearing Rashad’s explanation made Jamilah feel badly. One missed phone call and she’d thought the worse.
“How’d it go with your father?”
“It didn’t.”
“Still not talking?”
“He answered my call but had no time to talk. He’s working a case. Said he’d call later.”
“That’s progress, right?”
“I hope so.”
Rashad nodded, refocused on the dish being prepared. Jamilah relaxed, a little. She wasn’t the most intuitive person, but something felt different about Rashad. He was quieter, more introspective, as though something else besides rap and her father’s opinion was on his mind.
“Tell me about your catering gigs.”
He became more animated while sharing menu plans. Shasta, Everett, and Caylen arrived. Personal conversation was shelved to handle a surprisingly busy lunch crowd. Dinner traffic was respectable, too.
After closing, as Rashad and Jamilah walked to the back door he asked, “You hang out down here much?”
“Hardly at all. I should probably change that.”
“Ever been to that jazz bar I mentioned?”
“The Corner? Yeah, but not lately.” Jamilah set the alarm and walked out the door Rashad held for her. “There was an amazing jazz singer named Ida McBeth who used to perform there. She was one of my dad’s favorites.”
Rashad followed Jamilah to her car. “Maybe your dad and I can go there and, you know, hang out.”
Jamilah gave him a look. He chuckled. “Okay, maybe not.”
“Unfortunately Ida passed away a few years ago. The thought of you and Dad getting along sounds like a dream. But before that happens, we might see hell freeze over.”
She got ready to open her door. Rashad stopped her. “Boss lady, I’ve got a question. What do you know about the empty space next door?”
“Why, are you getting ready to open up your own jazz and spoken-word bar and knock out your competition down the block?”
“Would you be mad if I did?”
“Not as long as chicken or any of the sides we serve isn’t on the menu.”
“What? No chicken? Not even wings?”
Jamilah again went for the door. “I’m cold.”
“My bad.” Rashad opened it. “Does the guy you rent from own both places?”
“I think so.”
“Do you have his number?”
“You sound serious.” His look confirmed that he wasn’t joking.
“Unlock the other side.”
She did. He climbed in, rubbing cold palms together.
“So…check this out. I’d have this venue, right. Not just poetry like the place down the street. Mine would feature hip-hop—”
“Of course.”
“All sorts of music, really. I’d want a DJ in the mix.
It would be a mash up for mostly Gen Xers, Millennials, creatives and geeks, from me hanging with Leon,” he conspiratorially added.
“A cool spot with positive vibes. No gang stuff. No violence. A place where people our age can socialize and have a good time, and not just on Thursday night.”
“You’ve really thought this out. You’re seriously thinking about being my competition?”
“Or your partner. Don’t you think we work well together?”
He squiggled his brows, then leaned over and kissed her. What began as an innocent peck quickly deepened. If not for the fact that her newly acquired chef was scheming to set up shop mere feet away, she’d be more open for tongue dancing.
“Wait, Rashad. I want to hear more. How long have you been working on this?”
“All my life, in one way or another. But more recently since I came here for the interview and saw the next door space empty.”
“Where would you get the money for renovations?”
“I have connections.”
And just like that, the ghost of her father began yapping inside her head.
I thought I taught you better than to hire a criminal… 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…
“What kind of connections?” Even though she tried to ask it casually, the question sounded like a plate of suspicion, with a dollop of judgment on the side.
From the change in Rashad’s demeanor, he’d eyed her meal.
“Oh, you know. Drug dealers. Burglars who can do a lick or two to cover their part of the investment.”
“Rashad, the last thing you want to do is bring criminal activity anywhere near here. Think about your parole!”
“I was just kidding, Jamilah.” There was no humor in his voice.
“Oh.” She laughed nervously. “A joke. Okay.”
He shifted to face her more fully. “I believe I told you during our first conversation that I’ve committed to changing and am no longer about that life.”
Jamilah was too embarrassed to look at him. “You did.”
“But you don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, you did, just not in those words.”
She placed a hand on his arm. He yanked it away.
“I didn’t mean what I said in the way it came out. I just don’t see how someone who only works a few days a week with a catering gig here and there can pull off something like that.”
The hole got deeper. Jamilah changed tactics, tried to claw her way out.
“Rashad, I know you’re smart, talented, an amazing cook. You can probably do anything you set your mind to.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“Yes, I do. Old habits die hard, as do stereotypes that have been etched in my head. Forgive me?”
He released a deep sigh. “Okay.”
Jamilah lightened her tone, put a smile in her voice. “Where are you headed? Do you want to come over?”
“Not tonight. I’ve got some planning to do.”
With a light kiss on the lips, he opened his door.
“Good night, Jamilah. Drive safe.”
Jamilah watched him walk away, knowing she’d messed up.
As she backed out and headed for home, she forced away the discomfort.
Told herself to stop overreacting. He needed the job at Side Chic’k.
Steady employment was a condition of his parole.
His plans were plausible, even enticing, but lofty as heck.
Even with her high credit score and respectable savings account (which at this moment was quite disrespectful), she’d had to go to three banks and finally her father before securing a loan.
Given Rashad’s background, borrowing money would be almost impossible.
With his limited experience, she also doubted investors would line up.
It was a harsh reality, but the world they lived in and one that made her feel more secure about Rashad continuing at Side Chic’k.
He’d learn those hard lessons, and when he found out, she hoped to be the one to make him feel better and love all of the hurt away.