Chapter 16 Zahara
ZAHARA
“If you think I’m gonna let you exploit my son and take him off my hands on Sunday while I work so he can earn a few dollars—you damn right! Yeah, I’m cool with Nigel helping you out on Sunday,” Brandi replied.
“I just didn’t want you to be upset if you found out I was using him for child labor,” I laughed.
“Girl, you know I don’t care about that.
That boy needs to learn some responsibility.
And he can earn a few dollars, that’ll keep him out of the house while I work all day at Grits.
Besides, he needs to stay out of my pockets.
His father’s been really stepping up lately, but that kid keeps needing more and more every day. ”
“That’s good his dad’s coming through.” I knew that Nigel’s father was a small time hustler around the way. He didn’t move major weight, just enough to keep them in designer here and there.
“Yeah, he is. Bought Nigel some new Jordans last week. The boy been wearing them everywhere, even to bed.” She laughed. “But for real, Z, this is good for him. Nigel needs to see what hard work looks like. You’re doing me a favor.”
I hung up feeling lighter than I had all week. Having help at the farmers market would make things easier. And maybe having Nigel around would help pull Yusef out of whatever dark place he’d been in since the robbery.
Sunday morning came too early. I’d been up half the night baking the last batch of rolls at Grits, sneaking in after close like I’d been doing all week.
My Instagram page—@SweetZin—had blown up from 100 followers to over 1,000 in seven days.
I never showed my face, just the desserts.
Close-ups of the red velvet Zinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting dripping down the sides.
The peach cobbler rolls dusted with cinnamon sugar.
The bourbon pecan ones that I’d just perfected.
People were going crazy in the comments. Where can I buy these? Do you cater? Take my money!
And now I was about to find out if the hype was real.
I knocked on Yusef’s door at 6 AM. “Yu, time to get up. We gotta load the car.”
Silence.
“Yusef.”
“I’m up,” came his muffled reply.
Twenty minutes later, we were loading insulated bags filled with trays of rolls into the back of the Uber I’d ordered.
Yusef moved slowly, mechanically, his face still showing the bruises from last week.
I’d kept him home all week, couldn’t stand the thought of sending him back to that school.
But I also hated leaving him in the house all day while I worked.
He was a good kid, though. Never got into trouble. Just… sad. Stand-offish. Not himself.
Nigel showed up right on time, all energy and smiles, bouncing up the steps in brand-new Jordans that probably cost more than my rent.
“Morning, Ms. Z!” He was the only one of Yusef’s friends who called me that. “I’m ready to work!”
“Morning, Nigel. Thanks for helping out today.”
“No problem!”
“Nice shoes,” I complimented staring at his shoes.
“Yeah, my dad bought them for me, but my mom said I gotta earn my own spending money from now on. So this is perfect!”
I watched Yusef glance at Nigel’s shoes, then down at his own worn Nikes—a pair I’d gotten on clearance six months ago. The look on his face made my chest ache.
I knew part of why Yusef got bullied was because of his clothes. They weren’t name-brand. Weren’t flashy. They were clean and functional, but in a school where kids judged you by your sneakers, that wasn’t enough.
I wanted to buy him Jordans. Wanted to buy him all the things that would make him fit in. But I could barely keep food in the fridge.
“Alright, boys, let’s load up,” I said, pushing the guilt down.
We packed the Uber to capacity—me in the front, the boys in the back with trays balanced on their laps. The driver looked skeptical but didn’t complain when I tipped him an extra twenty.
The farmers market was already bustling by the time we arrived at 7:30. Vendors were setting up tents, testing sound systems, arranging displays. The band was doing a sound check in the center square.
I’d rented a small vendor space near the entrance—prime real estate that had cost me $75 I couldn’t afford. But if this worked, it would be worth it.
“Okay, boys, let’s set up.”
Nigel jumped right in, helping me unfold the table and drape it with the burgundy tablecloth I’d bought from the dollar store. Yusef moved slower, but he helped arrange the trays, making sure each roll was perfectly positioned.
“These look so good, Ms. Z,” Nigel said, staring at the display. “Can I have one?”
“After we sell some, I’ll give you both one. Deal?”
“Deal!”
Yusef just nodded.
I stepped back to look at the setup. Four dozen red velvet Zinnamon rolls. Two dozen peach cobbler. Three dozen bourbon pecan—my test batch to see if people would pay premium for them.
Hand-written signs with prices: $8 for one, $20 for three, $75 for a dozen.
My hands were shaking. This was it. This was my shot to prove Sweet Zin could be a real business. That I could build something for us. Something sustainable. Something that didn’t require me to hide and sneak and scrape by.
“You nervous?” Nigel asked, noticing my fidgeting.
“A little.”
“Don’t be. These are fire. People gonna love them.”
He was right.
Within thirty minutes, I had a line. People who’d followed me on Instagram showed up first, excited to finally try the rolls they’d been seeing all week. Then word of mouth took over. Customers walking by would stop, drawn in by the smell of cinnamon and butter and vanilla.
“Oh my God, these are incredible!”
“Do you cater? I need these for my daughter’s birthday party.”
“Can I order a dozen for next weekend?”
“Are you on DoorDash? Uber Eats?”
I wrote down names and numbers as fast as I could, Nigel handling money while Yusef carefully boxed up orders. By 10 AM, I’d sold out of the red velvet rolls. By 11, the peach cobbler was gone.
All I had left were the bourbon pecan—the expensive ones—and people were still asking for more.
“Ms. Z, we did it!” Nigel was grinning, counting the cash in the lockbox. “You made bank!”
I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe this was actually working.
For the first time in weeks—maybe months—I felt something like hope.
I was boxing up the last bourbon pecan roll when I felt it. That prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The feeling of being watched.
I looked up and froze.
Prime.
He was standing about twenty feet away, near the strawberry vendor, his eyes locked on me. He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t moving. Just staring with an intensity that made my stomach flip.
Next to him was an older woman in a beautiful African print dress, her hand on his arm. His grandmother, I assumed.
“Ms. Z?” Nigel’s voice pulled me back. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” I handed the customer their box, forcing a smile. “Thank you so much.”
When I looked back, Prime was walking toward me. No, not walking. Moving with purpose. Like a predator who’d spotted prey.
My heart started racing.
“Boys, go take a break,” I said quickly. “Get yourselves something to drink.”
“But we just sold—”
“Please. Go.”
Something in my voice made them both scatter.
Prime reached my table just as they left. Up close, he was even more overwhelming. Dark jeans. Black T-shirt that fit him like it was custom-made. Those ocean eyes scanning my face, my setup, everything.
“Prime.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “What are you doing here?”
“Could ask you the same thing, Goddess.”
That name. That damn name that made my knees weak.
“I’m working. Building my business. What does it look like?”
His eyes dropped to my display. “Sweet Zin. This is yours?”
“Yeah.”
“Congratulations. Looks like you sold out.”
“Almost. Just need to—”
“Where’s Yusef?” His tone shifted, more serious. “I saw him earlier but—”
“He’s fine. Taking a break with his friend.”
“His face looked worse.”
My chest tightened. “He got jumped again. At school. They took the camp money.”
Prime’s jaw clenched. “Who?”
“He won’t tell me. And before you say anything, I don’t want you getting involved—”
“Too late. I’m already involved.” He stepped closer, and I should’ve stepped back, should’ve put distance between us, but I couldn’t make myself move. “You can’t keep—”
The sound of screeching tires cut through the air.
Everything happened in slow motion and at lightning speed at the same time.
A car—a black sedan—came tearing through the market entrance, weaving wildly, horn blaring. People screamed. Vendors dove out of the way. The car was headed straight for the center of the market. Straight for us.
I froze.
Prime didn’t.
He grabbed me around the waist and threw us both to the ground, his body covering mine as the car barreled past, missing us by inches. I felt the rush of air, smelled burning rubber, heard the sickening crunch of metal as the sedan plowed into a brick building about thirty feet away.
For a moment, there was silence. Complete, shocked silence.
Then the screaming started.
But all I could focus on was Prime. He was on top of me, his body pressed against mine, one hand cradling my head, the other braced on the ground beside me. His chest heaved against mine. His face was inches from mine, his eyes wild with adrenaline and something else—something darker, more intense.
“You okay?” His voice was rough.
I couldn’t speak. Could only nod.
His eyes dropped to my lips for half a second before moving back to my eyes. “Zahara—”
Reality crashed back in. I pushed at his chest. “Get off me.”
“Wait—”
“I said get off.”
He moved immediately, helping me to my feet. My legs were shaking. My hands were trembling. But I stepped away from him, putting distance between us, trying to ignore the fact that my body was still humming from the contact.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his hands hovering like he wanted to touch me but knew better.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” I repeated, harder this time. I couldn’t have him on top of me, making me feel these things. I couldn’t let any man get close to me because if I did, they could discover the truth. And the truth could ruin me.
Prime’s attention shifted to the crashed car. Smoke was starting to pour from the hood. People were gathering around but keeping their distance, unsure if it was safe.
“Stay here,” Prime ordered.
“Prime, wait—”
But he was already moving toward the wreckage with that same lethal purpose. He reached the driver’s side door and yanked it open. A man tumbled out—middle-aged, disheveled, reeking of alcohol even from where I stood.
The man could barely stand. He was mumbling something incoherent, trying to push Prime away.
“You fuckin’ drunk?” Prime’s voice carried across the market. “You coulda killed someone!”
“I’m… I’m fine, man. Car just—”
Prime grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the side of the car. Hard. The sound echoed.
“You’re fine? You drove through a fucking farmers market full of families and kids and you’re fine?”
“It was… it was an accident—”
Prime drew back his fist and I saw what was about to happen.
I ran.
“Prime, don’t!”
His fist stopped mid-swing. He looked at me, his eyes still wild with rage.
“He’s drunk,” I said, moving closer. “He’s not worth it.”
“He almost killed you.”
“But he didn’t. Because of you.” I reached out, my hand on his arm. “You saved me. Now let it go.”
“Zahara—”
“Please.”
The word came out softer than I meant it to. More vulnerable.
Prime’s jaw worked, but slowly—so slowly—he lowered his fist. He shoved the drunk man down to sit on the ground, then turned to the gathering crowd.
“Someone call the cops. And an ambulance.”
People scrambled to obey, pulling out phones.
Prime turned back to me, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. Raw. Unfiltered. Possessive.
“You could’ve been killed,” he said quietly.
“But I wasn’t.”
“Because I got to you in time. What if I hadn’t? What if—” His hand came up to my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “Fuck, Zahara. You’re shaking.”
I was. I hadn’t even realized it.
“I’m okay. You made sure I was okay.”
His hand lingered for a moment before I stepped back, breaking the contact. Breaking whatever spell was forming between us.
“Thank you,” I said. “For… for saving me. But I need to check on Yusef and Nigel. Make sure they’re—”
“Z!” Yusef’s voice cut through the chaos. He and Nigel came running up, both of them wide-eyed and scared. “Are you okay? We saw the car—”
“I’m fine, baby. I’m fine.” I pulled him into a hug, then Nigel too. “You both okay?”
“We were on the other side. We didn’t—” Yusef looked at Prime, recognition dawning. “You saved her.”
Prime’s expression softened slightly. “Yeah. I did.”
“Prime!” His grandmother’s voice rang out. She was making her way through the crowd with her cane, looking equal parts furious and worried. “Prentice Alexander Banks, what in God’s name is happening?”
“There was an accident, Grandma. Everyone’s okay.”
“An accident my behind. I heard you about to beat someone.” She reached us, her cloudy eyes moving in my direction. “Is this the young lady you were talking to?”
“Yes, ma’am. This is Zahara.”
“He… he saved my life,” I said, still processing everything.
“That’s what Banks men do. Protect what’s precious to them.” She patted my arm. “You take care, baby. Something tells me we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Prime’s eyes locked on mine. “We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“There’s everything to talk about.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “I just watched a car almost kill you. I felt your body under mine. I saw the fear in your eyes. Don’t tell me there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Prime—”
“You felt it too. Don’t lie to me.”
I had felt it. That electric charge when he was on top of me. That safety. That rightness.
But I couldn’t afford to feel it.
“I have to go,” I said, avoiding his eyes. “Come on, boys. Let’s pack up.”
“Zahara—”
“Thank you for saving me. But that’s all this is. Okay?”
I didn’t wait for his response. Just turned and walked back to my table, my heart pounding, my body still trembling from adrenaline and something I refused to name.
Behind me, I heard Rita say, “She’s running.”
And Prime’s response: “Let her. Won’t change anything.”
I pretended I didn’t hear. Pretended my hands weren’t shaking as I packed up my things. Pretended I wasn’t hyperaware of his eyes on me the entire time.
But I felt it. Felt everything.
And that’s exactly what terrified me.