Hours flew by as I worked, comparing loan options, crunching numbers, sketching possible layouts for a storefront. By the time I looked up, it was nearly five-thirty. I knew I didn’t have the money yet, but as they say—stay ready so you won’t have to get ready. All I needed was one opportunity and I would be well on my way.
“Shit,” I muttered, gathering my things. If I hurried, I could make it home right around my normal time. I texted Brandi andtold her I was running late, but I would tell her when I was in the house.
The bus was crowded with evening commuters, and I stood swaying with the motion, holding the overhead rail. My mind was still buzzing with business plans, but reality kept intruding. Eight hundred dollars by Friday. I was still over four hundred short.
My apartment building came into view, a weathered brick structure that had seen better days but was clean and mostly quiet. As I climbed the three flights of stairs, my legs aching from being on my feet all day, I ran through possible solutions.
I reached into my purse for my keys as I approached my door, then froze. Something wasn’t right. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light visible through the crack.
My heart jumped into my throat. Had someone broken in? I never left my door unlocked. Never.
I pushed it open slowly, my hand trembling. The first thing I saw was a pair of expensive-looking men’s boots by the door. Taft boots. Not scuffed work boots or beat-up sneakers; these were high-end leather, the kind that cost a few hundred dollars.
My purse slipped from my shoulder, landing with a soft thud on the floor. I should run. I should grab my phone and call the police. But Yusef would be home soon, and whoever was in my apartment could race after me.
I moved forward cautiously, my keys clutched between my fingers like makeshift brass knuckles. When I reached the kitchen, I stopped dead in my tracks.
A man sat at my small kitchen table, facing me like he’d been waiting. Tall, broad-shouldered, long dreadlocks, he looked completely at home as he ate a bowl of Yusef’s Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Each slow spoonful felt intentional, his gaze fixed on me the entire time.
Before I could back away, he spoke, “Don’t scream,” his voice was deep, calm. “And close the door behind you.”
When I looked closer, I found myself staring into the most unsettling blue-green eyes I’d ever seen. They didn’t belong in that face—copper-skinned, strong-jawed, framed by sandy-brown locs. Those eyes locked onto mine, pinning me in place like a butterfly to a board.
“Who the fuck are you?” I managed to whisper, my voice barely functioning. “And why are you eating my son’s cereal?”
4
ZAHARA
I stared at the strange man eating cereal in my kitchen like he paid the rent in this shit-hole, my blood pressure spiking so high I swore I could hear it rushing in my ears. Who breaks into someone’s home and just… has a snack?
“Who the fuck are you?” I repeated, gripping my keys tighter between my fingers, ready to gouge out those unnervingly beautiful eyes if he made one wrong move.
He took another deliberate spoonful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, milk dribbling down his chin before he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Those ocean-colored eyes never left mine as he chewed, swallowed, then pushed the bowl away.
“You ain’t got shit but sugar in this house,” he said, gesturing around my kitchen. “I can see you have a son, but he needs some real food if you want him to grow and be strong. All you got is junk.” He flicked the cereal box with his finger, making it topple over. “No protein. No vegetables. Just processed shit that’ll stunt his growth.”
The audacity of this man had me speechless for a solid three seconds before my voice came back with a vengeance.
“Who the FUCK are you?” I demanded again, my voice rising dangerously. “You break into my house, eat my food, and nowyou critiquing my grocery choices? I’ll ask you one more time before I call the cops—who are you and what the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
He stood up slowly, and I took an involuntary step back. This man was tall, taller than I’d realized when he was sitting. His shoulders filled the small space of my kitchen, and when he took a step toward me, I felt the air leave my lungs. He towered over my 5’7” frame, forcing me to crane my neck just to maintain eye contact. Up close, I could see the definition in his arms, the way his muscles strained against the fabric of his shirt. His chest was broad, tapering down to a narrow waist. This man was built like he bench-pressed cars for fun.
“Prime,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through the small space between us. “Prime Banks. I got a message for you from Meech.”
Meech’s name hit me like a slap. My entire body went rigid, and I took another step back, bumping into the wall.
“I don’t want to hear shit Meech has to say,” I spat, my voice shaking with anger. “Get the fuck out of my apartment right now before I call the cops.”
He moved even closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive that shouldn’t have smelled as good as it did. His proximity made my heart race, but not just from fear. I was acutely aware of how massive he was compared to me, how his presence seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room.
“Go ahead,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Call them. I can have you tied up in the back of my car before the operator even hangs up.” He reached out and touched my chin, tilting my face up to look at him. “You think I came all this way to play games?”
I slapped his hand away, refusing to be intimidated despite the fear crawling up my spine. “So you’re Meech’s errand boynow? That’s what you do? Break into people’s houses and threaten them for a man locked up in prison? Is that what passes for a career these days?”
His eyes narrowed at my tone, but a slow smile spread across his face. “Got a mouth on you, don’t you?” He leaned closer, his massive frame practically caging me against the wall. “Talking real big for somebody cornered in their own kitchen.”
I tilted my chin up, refusing to be intimidated even as my heart hammered against my ribs. “Working for a lowlife like Meech? That’s what you doing with your life? Running his errands while he rots in prison? Pathetic.”
