“You are. I can tell.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Your body language says different. The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. The way you respond when I get close.”
“That’s called revulsion.”
“Nah. That’s called attraction. And you don’t like it because you think you should hate me.”
“I do hate you.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Goddess.”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Make me.”
The challenge hung in the air between us, electric and dangerous. I wanted to snap back, to put him in his place, but the truth was he was right. I was attracted to him. And I hated myself for it.
The rest of the drive passed in charged silence, both of us pretending the conversation hadn’t happened.
The prison loomed ahead, all concrete and razor wire and despair. Prime pulled into the visitor parking lot, killing the engine.
“We’re here,” he said quietly.
I looked back at Yusef, still sleeping. I reached back and gently shook his shoulder. “Yu. Wake up, baby.”
He stirred, blinking groggily. “We there?”
“Yeah.” I tried to smile. “You ready?”
“No.” But he unbuckled his seatbelt anyway.
Prime got out first, then opened Yusef’s door. But I stayed put, my hands gripping my phone in my lap.
Prime noticed. “You’re not coming?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Meech only needs to see his son. Not me.”
His eyes narrowed, studying my face. Then he leaned down, his voice low. “Has he hurt you?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Zahara—”
“He hasn’t hurt me,” I said firmly. Not physically, anyway. “Just take Yusef in. I’ll wait here.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he straightened up. “Come on, man. Let’s go.”
I watched them walk toward the entrance, Prime’s hand resting protectively on Yusef’s shoulder. He looked so small next to him. So young.
