Chapter 7 Prime
PRIME
I grabbed both. Added fresh salmon. Threw in bags of frozen vegetables, fresh ones too. Rice, potatoes, cooking oil, seasonings—the good kind, not that dollar store shit. Fruit that actually looked like it came from a farm instead of sitting in a warehouse for three weeks.
I told myself it was practical. The kid needed to eat. Yusef—twelve years old, skinny as hell, living off sugar cereal and Pop-Tarts. That wasn’t right. A growing boy needed protein, vegetables, real nutrition. It wasn’t about her. It was about basic common sense.
But sitting here now in Rashid’s favorite cigar lounge, waiting for him to show up for our meeting, nursing a glass of Banks Reserve cognac, I couldn’t stop thinking about that apartment.
Her apartment.
It wasn’t what I expected. I’d gone in there prepared to see chaos—dirty dishes, clutter, the kind of mess that came from a woman who couldn’t get her life together. Single mother, dead-end job, baby daddy in prison. I’d built a whole picture in my head before I ever stepped foot inside.
But Zahara’s place wasn’t like that at all.
It was small, yeah. Cramped. The kind of two-bedroom you get in Southeast when you’re stretching every dollar just to keep a roof overhead.
But it was clean. Spotless, actually. And decorated, not with random shit from Target, but with intention.
African textiles draped over the couch in rich browns and golds.
Moroccan lanterns casting warm light in the corners.
A small bookshelf stuffed with cookbooks and business guides.
Plants on the windowsill that were actually alive, actually thriving.
It felt like a home. Like a sacred space someone had carved out against all odds.
And Yusef’s room, I’d glanced in there while I was casing the place, had been the real surprise. Chess trophies lined up on a shelf. Certificates for piano recitals. A keyboard in the corner, sheet music stacked neatly beside it. Books about music theory and strategy games.
The kid had hobbies. Real hobbies. Ones that would get him his ass kicked in most hoods. The kind that marked you as soft, as different, as a target.
I would know.
That’s what made me go to Whole Foods like some kind of simp.
Not because I felt sorry for her—though maybe I did, a little.
But because I saw those trophies and thought about a kid trying to be himself in a world that would punish him for it.
A kid who needed fuel for his brain, not just his stomach.
A kid whose mother was clearly trying, even if she was failing at the basics.
Even if she’d made the dumbass decision to get knocked up by a lame like Meech.
That’s what I kept coming back to. Women and their terrible fucking taste in men. How did someone like Zahara—smart enough to be studying business plans at the library, together enough to create a home out of nothing—end up with Meech’s baby? What the hell had she been thinking?
Meech was a lame. Always had been. Even Rashid admitted that. So what had drawn her to him? The thrill? The danger? The same stupid shit that made women pick the worst possible men to build a life with, then act surprised when it all fell apart?
My mother had done the same thing. Picked my father—ambitious, charismatic Alexander Banks Jr.—and then spent the rest of her life resenting what that choice cost her. Resenting me for being the reminder of it.
Women always did this. Chose men who looked good on paper or felt good in the moment, then acted like victims when those men turned out to be exactly who they’d always been.
Zahara wasn’t any different. She’d chosen Meech, let him knock her up, and now she was paying for it. Working dead-end jobs, struggling to feed her kid, living in a tiny apartment in the hood while Meech sat in a cell upstate.
Her choices. Her consequences.
So why the fuck did I leave those groceries?
I took another sip of cognac, letting it burn down my throat.
The cigar lounge was quiet tonight, just a few older men in the corner playing dominoes, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.
Rashid would be here soon. He’d want an update.
Want to know if I’d handled the situation with Zahara, if she’d agreed to bring Yusef to the prison on Saturday.
She had. Because I’d made sure she understood she didn’t have a choice.
But I hadn’t told Rashid about the groceries.
Didn’t plan to. Because how would I explain it?
How would I explain standing in her kitchen, seeing the empty cabinets, and feeling something twist in my chest?
How would I explain those trophies making me think of a fat kid with a stutter who loved music but learned to love violence instead?
I couldn’t.
“You look tense, baby.”
Destiny’s voice cut through my thoughts before I saw her.
She materialized at my table like she always did, all curves and confidence, her bartender uniform doing nothing to hide what she was working with.
Honey-brown skin, long braids pulled back into a high ponytail, lips painted a deep burgundy that I knew tasted like cherries and trouble.
She set a fresh glass of the family’s liquor in front of me, even though I hadn’t ordered it. “On the house. You look like you need it.”
“I’m good,” I said, but I took the drink anyway.
“Mmm-hmm.” She leaned against the table, her hip cocked, eyes traveling over me in a way that was anything but subtle. “You always say you’re good. Even when you’re not.”
Destiny and I had history. I’d hit occasionally when I was in town, but didn’t give much else.
“I got a meeting here,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Business.”
“So you got time before they shows up.” She traced a finger along the edge of my glass. “When you gonna stop playing hard to get, Prime? We both know how this ends.”
“It already ended.”
“Did it?” She smiled, slow and knowing. “Because last I checked, you still got my number. Still text me when you need me late at night.”
“That was once.”
“Three times. But who’s counting?” She straightened up, but didn’t move away. “Look, I’m not trying to pressure you. I know you got your whole ‘I don’t do relationships’ thing going on. But we’re good together. You know we are.”
“Destiny—”
“I know, I know.” She held up her hands. “You’re not ready. You got shit to figure out. You need space.” She said it like she’d memorized my excuses. “But I’m just saying, whenever you are ready? I’m here.”
“You shouldn’t wait for me.”
“I’m not waiting.” She leaned down, her lips close to my ear, her perfume wrapping around me. “I’m just… keeping the option open. For both of us.”
Then she was gone, walking back to the bar with a sway in her hips that she knew I was watching.
I downed half my drink and tried to refocus.
But my mind drifted to Destiny’s words. Whenever you’re ready.
I wasn’t ready. Didn’t know if I’d ever be ready. Relationships required things I didn’t have; softness, vulnerability, trust. All the shit Grandma Rita had tried to teach me while Vivica beat it out of me and the streets finished the job.
Destiny deserved better than what I could give her. They all did.
The TV mounted above the bar caught my attention. On the local news was my mother, standing at a podium with the DC skyline behind her, looking every bit the polished politician she’d become.
Mayor Vivica Banks.
I turned the volume up on my phone app that controlled the bar’s TVs from my booth. One of the perks of knowing the owner.
“…and that’s why I’m committed to reducing crime in our city,” Vivica was saying, her voice smooth and practiced. “Too many of our young people are falling through the cracks. Too many mothers are losing their sons to violence and incarceration. As your mayor, I promise to…”
I muted it. Couldn’t stomach another word.
Fake-ass bitch.
She stood up there talking about saving young people from violence and incarceration like she gave a fuck.
Like she hadn’t been the one to make sure her own son got tried as an adult.
Like she hadn’t used my case as a stepping stone in her political career, proving to the city that she was “tough on crime” even when it was her own flesh and blood.
Especially when it was her own flesh and blood.
My father had been dead for eleven years when I caught my first body.
I ain’t remember him, but Vivica remembered him because she saw his face whenever she looked at mine, and she hated it.
Vivica and my father had a tumultuous relationship when I was conceived.
He was always cheating, which caused her to be bitter, which is why she threw herself into her political career, neglecting me so that my grandmother had to watch over me.
When I was in middle school, I never fit in.
This ain’t some sob story. Some niggas are born tough, some are made.
I was a fat kid who stuttered and really liked music.
My lil-fat ass wanted to be a singer when I was a kid.
Ridiculous. But back then, singing was the only time I didn’t stutter.
And my grandmother encouraged it. She bought me a keyboard and a guitar. But Vivica thought she was making soft.
If I ever came home with a bruise or a busted lip from being bullied, she would hit me in the exact same place, to teach me a lesson.
She was ruthless in her attempts to toughen me up.
Quest and Justice tried to stop her, but she couldn’t be tamed.
My grandmother tried to come to my defense, but Vivica hated me.
Hated that I looked like my father and hated that I fell short in actually being like him.
My pops was a ruthless and violent businessman, and I was nothing like him. Not then.
Little did Vivica know, I was a late bloomer
I’ll never forget the day I finally proved that evil bitch wrong.