Chapter 8 Zahara
ZAHARA
I stood in Yusef’s doorway, watching him sit at his keyboard, fingers moving over the keys with a grace that always surprised me. He was playing something classical—Beethoven, maybe. Something sad and beautiful that filled our tiny apartment with a richness it didn’t normally have.
But all I could see was the bruise.
It had darkened overnight, spreading across his cheek in shades of purple and yellow. My baby’s face, marked by cruelty. By boys who saw his gentleness as weakness. By a world that punished kids for being different.
Yusef was my heart and I swore to protect him, but I felt like I was failing at that.
He was a beautiful kid, despite looking exactly like his ain’t-shit daddy.
He had mahogany skin, a short high-top with tapered sides and coils at the top.
A haircut he pressed me to maintain every week.
And I didn’t mind because a fucked-up lineup would be bait for bullies.
He wore black-rimmed glasses and had braces that cost me a fortune on a credit card that I was currently getting sued for not paying. But Yusef was worth it.
He was soft-spoken and nerdy. I didn’t think these were bad qualities, but he was being raised around boys who came from harsh households. Boys who lived by the sword, so to speak.
Violence pulsed in their veins as a means of survival.
And these insecure nigglets didn’t have a light of their own, so when they saw one, they tried to stomp it out.
I wished I could afford to send him to a better school.
Or at least to self-defense classes to help make him more well-rounded.
But shit was tight right now. I needed my baking business to take off so that I could give him more resources.
My chest tightened.
“Yu,” I said softly.
He stopped playing, looking up at me. “Yeah?”
“I have to go to the restaurant. Do some prep work for tomorrow. I’ll be back in a few hours. You gonna be okay?”
“I’m good.” He gestured to his keyboard. “I’m gonna keep practicing.”
“Don’t let anyone in the apartment. Nobody. You understand?”
“I know.” A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. “I’m twelve, not five.”
“I know. I just…” I trailed off. What could I say? That I was terrified every second he was out of my sight? That I felt like a failure for not being able to protect him? That seeing that bruise made me want to burn the whole world down?
“I’ll be fine,” he said again, softer this time. “Go. Do what you gotta do.”
I kissed his forehead, careful to avoid the bruise, and grabbed my bag.
Grits was dark and silent when I let myself in through the back door.
Larry had given me a key months ago—not out of trust, but because he was too lazy to open up for deliveries himself.
The alarm code was taped to the wall behind the register.
Smart. Larry was such a genius. Anyone could access it. I rolled my eyes.
I flipped on the kitchen lights and got to work.
Three dozen red velvet Zinnamon rolls. Cookie wanted them by morning, and I wasn’t about to disappoint the one person at this job who actually gave a damn about me.
I’d prepped the dough at home, let it rise in my fridge. Now I just needed to roll it out, spread the filling, cut and bake. Simple. Routine. The kind of work that let my mind wander.
But tonight, my mind kept circling back to the same things. Yusef’s bruise. The rent increase. Prime with his judgmental eyes and his groceries. Saturday looming like a storm cloud.
I worked the dough with more force than necessary, rolling it flat, spreading the cream cheese filling thick. The cinnamon and cocoa mixed together, the smell already making my mouth water. These rolls were my best work. Rich, decadent, the kind of thing people would pay good money for.
If I could just get a real shot. A real kitchen. A real business.
As I cut the rolls and arranged them in pans, I realized something. This kitchen. After hours. No Larry breathing down my neck, no customers rushing me, no one judging my every move.
I could do this multiple nights a week. Bake in bulk. Sell at the farmers market on weekends. Build my business without needing to rent expensive commercial kitchen space.
It was risky. If Larry found out, he’d fire me. But if I was smart about it, if I cleaned up perfectly, if I only used ingredients I brought myself, if I was careful…
The idea took root, growing stronger with each roll I placed in the pan.
This could work. This could actually work.
I slid the first batch into the oven and set the timer, already planning. Three nights a week. Maybe four if Yusef had sleepovers at Brandi’s. I could make dozens of rolls, maybe branch out to my peach cobbler ones, the bourbon pecan…
The back door opened.
I screamed, whirling around, my hand instinctively grabbing the rolling pin.
Prime stood in the doorway, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who’d just broken into a closed restaurant.
He was dressed in all black—black jeans that fit him too well, black shirt that stretched across his chest in ways I shouldn’t be noticing.
Those eyes locked on mine, and my breath caught despite my anger.
“What the fuck!” My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might crack a rib. “How did you… the door was locked!”
“I have my ways.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him as if this were his business. The space suddenly felt smaller with him in it, the air charged with something I didn’t want to name.
“Are you stalking me?” I backed up against the counter, still gripping the rolling pin. The cool metal pressed into my lower back. “Because this is textbook stalking. Breaking and entering. Harassment. I could call the cops.”
“You could.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and I hated how my eyes traveled over the definition in his forearms, the way his muscles flexed. Those unsettling eyes moved over me slowly—taking in my flour-dusted tank top, my jeans, my bare feet. “But you won’t.”
The way he looked at me made my skin feel too tight.
“Why are you here?”
“Making sure you didn’t run.” His voice was low, almost a rumble. “Saturday’s coming up. Wanted to make sure you were still planning to honor our agreement.”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
“People say a lot of things.” He pushed off the wall, moving closer. Each step deliberate, predatory. “Then they disappear. New city, new name. Happens all the time.”
I gripped the rolling pin tighter, hyper-aware of how close he was getting, how I could smell his cologne now—something woodsy and expensive. “I’m not running. I have a job. A life. A son who goes to school here.”
“Baking.” He stopped just a foot away, his eyes dropping to my flour-covered hands before traveling back up to my face. His gaze lingered on my lips for half a second too long. “That why you were studying all those business plans at the library? Starting your own thing?”
The fact that he knew about the library made my skin crawl. And burn. How long had he been watching me? How much had he seen?
“Get out.” My voice shook with anger and something else. “I don’t need you checking up on me. I said I’d take Yusef on Saturday, and I will. Now leave.”
“I’ll take you home.”
“I have a car.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “Your car’s been sitting in that parking lot with busted brakes for a minute. I know because I checked.”
Of course he did.
“Then I’ll take the bus.”
“At midnight? To your neighborhood?” He shook his head, and I watched the movement of his locs, the way they brushed against his shoulders. “Nah. I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t need—”
“It wasn’t a request.” He headed for the door, then looked back at me over his shoulder. “Finish up. I’ll wait.”
The drive was silent at first, but the tension was suffocating. I could feel him in the driver’s seat, too aware of his hands on the wheel, the way his thigh muscles flexed when he pressed the gas. I kept my eyes on the window, but my body was attuned to every movement he made.
When we pulled up to my building, his phone rang. I glanced down and saw a girl’s name flash across the screen: Farah. He looked at it, and something flickered across his face.
“Bye,” I said flatly, reaching for the door handle. “Go answer your girlfriend’s call.”
“Jealous?” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, and God help me, it did something to my stomach I didn’t want to acknowledge.
“Of what?” I shot back, even as my pulse quickened. “There ain’t much to be jealous of. Whoever she is has to tolerate an asshole.”
“Could you tolerate me?” His smirk widened, his eyes dropping to my mouth.
Heat flooded my face. “You’re delusional.” I pushed the door open. “And you’re not as impressive as you think you are.”
“Really?” He leaned back in his seat, spreading his legs slightly in a way that drew my eyes before I could stop myself. All cocky confidence and raw masculinity. “Because you been thinking about me. I can tell.”
My mouth went dry. “I’ve been thinking about how much I hate you. There’s a difference.”
“Hate’s just love painted in fire, sweetheart.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “And you’re burning up right now.”
“Don’t call me that.” I turned to face him fully and realized my mistake. We were too close in the confines of his car, his presence overwhelming. “You’re not a boss. You’re not impressive. You’re just a man who works for Meech, doing his dirty work like a good little errand boy.”
The smirk vanished, something dangerous flashing in those eyes. “I don’t work for your dusty-ass baby daddy.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’re the one showing up at my door, threatening me, stalking me—all because Meech told someone to tell you to. That’s not a boss. That’s a puppet.”
His jaw tightened, and I watched the muscle jump. Watched his hands grip the steering wheel. “Don’t be mad at me because you didn’t choose better.”
“Excuse me?”
“Meech. You should’ve chosen better. But women like you never do, do you? Always picking the worst possible men and then crying victim when it blows up. Oh, he’s a narc, he’s abusive…” He mocked my voice, and rage flooded through me, dousing whatever heat had been building.
“You don’t know shit about me.”
“And you don’t know shit about me.” His voice was sharp, cutting, but his eyes… his eyes were still on my mouth.
“Nor do I want to.” I grabbed my bag, but before I could move, his hand shot out and caught my wrist. Not hard. Not painful. But firm enough to stop me.
“Let go of me.” My voice was barely a whisper.
“You hate me.” His thumb brushed over my pulse point, and I knew he could feel how fast my heart was racing. “But your body doesn’t seem to agree.”
I yanked my wrist free and slammed the car door so hard the whole vehicle shook.
I was halfway to the building entrance when I heard his window roll down.
“You’re welcome for the groceries.”
I didn’t respond. Didn’t turn around. Just kept walking, my heart pounding, my hands shaking with rage and want and confusion.
Behind me, I heard his engine start. Heard him pull away.
And I hated that part of me wanted to turn around and look.
Hated even more that my wrist still burned where he’d touched me.