Chapter 6 Zahara
ZAHARA
I stood at the kitchen window, waiting for Cookie to finish plating table nine’s order, but my mind was a thousand miles away. Or rather, a hundred miles north at whatever prison was holding Meech.
Saturday. Three days away.
Yusef didn’t even remember Meech. How could he? Yusef had been about two when Meech got locked up. Now he was twelve, brilliant, talented, everything his father would never be. What was I supposed to say? “Hey, baby, remember that deadbeat I never talk about? Time to go meet him in prison!”
The whole thing made my skin crawl.
I’d decided already—I wasn’t going inside.
Prime could force me to bring Yusef to the prison, but he couldn’t make me sit across from Meech and pretend everything was fine.
Yusef could go in. He could have his little father-son visit or whatever Meech thought this was going to be.
But me? I’d wait in the car. In the parking lot.
Anywhere but across a table from the man who’d…
“Order up!” Cookie’s voice cut through my spiral.
I blinked, refocusing on the steaming plates in the window. Catfish, collards, mac and cheese. The usual.
And then, uninvited, another image pushed its way into my head. Prime pressed against my back, his breath hot on my neck, his massive hand pinning both my wrists. The solid weight of him, the heat, the way my body had betrayed me with that shiver—
Stop it.
I hated him. That’s what I needed to remember. He’d broken into my apartment, threatened me, stalked me for a week like some kind of psychopath. The fact that he was fine as hell with those copper-toned muscles and that criminally perfect face didn’t change the fact that he was working for Meech.
He was the enemy. Period.
Even if my traiterous body didn’t seem to get the memo.
“Zahara!” Asia’s voice snapped me back to reality. She was standing next to me, one hand on her hip, looking annoyed. “Girl, what is wrong with you today? You’ve been standing there staring at those plates for a full minute.”
“Sorry, I—”
“Don’t be sorry, be fast. Take your plates to the mayor’s table before Larry comes out here with his sweaty self and starts yelling.”
My stomach dropped. “The mayor?”
“Yeah, girl. Vivica Banks herself, posted up at table six with some suits. Acting like the Queen of fuckin’ England.” Asia rolled her eyes. “And you know she tips like shit, but Larry’s treating her like royalty. So move. Now.”
I grabbed the plates, my hands suddenly unsteady. Vivica Banks. The mayor of DC. Beloved by half the city, tolerated by the other half. And from what I’d heard from the other servers, she was a nightmare to wait on—demanding, condescending, and cheap with tips.
Just what I needed today.
I balanced the plates and made my way across the dining room, keeping my face neutral.
Table six was in the corner, the “VIP” section that Larry reserved for people he thought were important.
Vivica sat at the center like a queen holding court, her hair perfectly styled, her suit expensive and sharp.
Two men in equally expensive suits flanked her, both of them looking at tablets and talking in low voices.
“Good afternoon,” I said, setting the first plate down carefully. “Catfish for you, ma’am.”
Vivica didn’t even look up. She was scrolling through her phone, her manicured nails clicking against the screen.
“And salmon cakes for you, sir.” I placed the second plate in front of one of the suits.
“Is this fresh?” Vivica’s voice cut through the air, sharp and cold.
I paused, the last plate still in my hand. “Yes, ma’am. Everything’s made fresh daily.”
She finally looked up at me, her dark eyes sweeping over me in a way that made me feel small. Like I was something stuck to the bottom of her designer shoe.
“Fresh,” she repeated, her tone dripping with skepticism. She picked up her fork and poked at the fish like it might bite back. “This doesn’t look fresh.”
One of the suits shifted uncomfortably. The other pretended not to hear.
“I can have the kitchen remake it if you’d like,” I offered, keeping my voice steady even as my jaw tightened. I was trying my best. I couldn’t afford to lose anymore hours.
“I’d like competent service,” Vivica said, setting her fork down with a delicate clink. “But I suppose that’s too much to ask these days.”
I felt heat crawl up my neck, but I forced a smile. “I apologize, ma’am. Would you like something else from the menu?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Just bring me sweet tea. And make sure it’s actually sweet this time.”
“Of course.” I set the last plate down in front of the second suit, who at least had the decency to mumble a thank you.
As I turned to leave, I heard Vivica say to one of the men, “This is what happens when standards drop. You get service that matches.”
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood and kept walking.
Back at the server station, Asia gave me a sympathetic look. “She get to you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Girl, you don’t look fine. You look like you want to throw that sweet tea in her face.”
The thought was tempting. So tempting. But I couldn’t afford to lose this job, no matter how much Larry disgusted me or how rude the customers were. Yusef’s music camp. The deposit on a commercial kitchen for Sweet Zin. My dreams of getting out from under all this.
I couldn’t risk it. Not even for the satisfaction of telling Vivica Banks exactly what I thought of her.
“I just need to get through today,” I said quietly, filling a glass with sweet tea from the pitcher.
“Mmm-hmm.” Asia didn’t look convinced. “You’ve been off all week. Something going on?”
“Just life.”
“Well get it together, girl,” she replied.
I carried the sweet tea back to Vivica’s table, set it down without a word, and walked away before she could find something else to complain about.
Three more hours. I just had to make it three more hours without snapping at a customer, without thinking about Saturday, without remembering the heat of Prime’s body or the threat in his voice.
By the time Larry flipped the “CLOSED” sign at 9 PM, my feet were screaming and my face hurt from forcing smiles at customers who treated me like I was invisible. I was in the back, counting my tips, when Cookie called me into the kitchen.
“Zahara, come here for a second.”
I walked in to find her leaning against the prep counter, wiping down her hands with a towel. Cookie was in her late fifties, had been cooking at Grits since before Larry took over, and didn’t take shit from anybody. She was also one of the few people here who treated me like a human being.
“What’s up, Cookie?”
She reached under the counter and pulled out a small container. Inside was one of my red velvet Zinnamon rolls, the cream cheese glaze still glistening.
My heart stopped. “Where did you get that?”
“You left it in the staff fridge a couple days ago, remember? I tried one yesterday.” She grinned, showing the gap between her front teeth. “Girl, that thing was so good I almost cried. Where’d you learn to bake like that?”
“I’m self-taught,” I said, still nervous. “It’s just something I do on the side.”
“Just something?” Cookie laughed. “Baby, that’s a gift. Listen, I want to sell these as a special this week. Put them on the menu, see how they do.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious. People come here for soul food, right? Well, these rolls got soul. They got flavor. They’re different.” She set the container down. “How many can you make?”
My mind was already calculating. Ingredients, time, space. “If I have access to the kitchen after hours… maybe three dozen a day? Maybe more if I prep ahead.”
“Perfect. Let’s start small. Bring me three dozen Friday, we’ll price them at $12 each, and see what happens.”
“Sounds good.”
“But here’s the thing,” Cookie said, her voice dropping lower.
“Let’s not tell Larry you baked them until they sell out.
That way, he can’t take credit or try to lowball you on the price.
Once they’re gone and customers are asking for more, then we tell him.
Make it seem like his idea to keep them on the menu permanently. ”
I stared at her, this woman who barely knew me, who was willing to scheme against our boss just to give me a shot.
“Cookie, I… thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Just bring me those rolls.” She winked. “You can use the kitchen after we close. Fat-ass Larry usually goes home around 9:30, or he heads to the strip club. Either way, you’ll have the place to yourself until about 6 AM when the morning prep starts.”
“I’ll be here,” I said, already mentally running through my recipe. “Tomorrow night. I’ll bring everything I need.”
“That’s my girl.” Cookie squeezed my shoulder. “Now get out of here. Go home to that baby of yours.”
I took the bus home, my mind buzzing with possibilities. If they sold well, if Larry agreed to keep them on the menu, if customers kept coming back…
This could be it. This could be the break I needed. I hated taking the bus, but my car needed new brakes. It’d been sitting for the last couple of months.
When I got to my building, I headed straight down the hall to Brandi’s apartment.
I was so caught up in my thoughts about the Zinnamon rolls that I almost missed Yusef when Brandi opened the door.
He was sitting on her couch, his backpack at his feet, looking small in a way that made my chest tighten.
“Hey, Yu,” I said, walking over to him. “You ready to go home?”
He nodded but didn’t look up.
That’s when I saw it. A dark purple bruise on his left cheek, the skin around it slightly swollen.
I dropped to my knees in front of him, my hands immediately going to his face.
“Yusef. What happened? Who did this to you?”
He pulled away, his jaw tight. “Nobody.”
“Don’t lie to me. Was it those boys again?”
“I said it’s nobody!” His voice cracked, and I saw the shimmer of tears in his eyes before he blinked them away.