Yusef’s steps faltered, and I felt him instinctively move closer to me. I squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.
“I’ll be right here the whole time,” I promised.
We sat at the designated table, the metal chairs cold and uncomfortable. Yusef’s fingers drummed nervously on his knees, his eyes fixed on the door where inmates would enter.
The dooron the far side of the room buzzed open, and a stream of orange-clad inmates filed in. Yusef sat up straighter, his body tense as a bowstring. I watched his eyes scan each face until they settled on Meech, who shuffled through last.
My first thought was that prison had fucked him up. A jagged scar ran from his right temple down to his jawline, puckered and angry against his dark skin. It wasn’t the clean kind of scar you’d get from proper medical attention.
My second thought was what did Zahara ever see in this nigga? From what Rashid told me, he was a small time dealer and got popped for armed robbery. He was just a soldier working for a boss, but didn’t have boss material. Demetrius was Rashid’s sister’s son. Rashid had moved out of the area and wasn’t there to help mold him, so Meech fell through the cracks. But he was always a bottom feeder, never worthy of someone like Zahara.
Meech spotted us immediately, his eyes narrowing as he approached. He moved with an exaggerated swagger that annoyed the fuck out of me, like he had something to prove.
“Where the fuck is Zahara?” he demanded before he’d even reached our table, loud enough that several visitors turned to look.
Yusef flinched beside me.
“Watch your mouth,” I said quietly, keeping my voice level. “Your son is right here. That’s who you wanted to see, right?”
Meech’s eyes flicked to Yusef, then back to me, his jaw tight with anger. “That wasn’t the deal. She was supposed to be here too.”
“There was no deal. I brought your son to meet you. Be grateful and sit down, lil nigga.”
“What?!”
“Don’t make a scene. You wanted to see your boy, sit down and talk to him,” I demanded. Other inmates turned to see the commotion between us. I had just punked this nigga, putting a target on his back. I ain’t give a fuck though. Something told me that he had done something to hurt Zahara. Therefore, he deserved whatever prison would deal him.
His eyes flashed with anger, and I saw his hands curl into fists on the table.
“You don’t know me,” he growled.
“I know enough.” I turned to Yusef, who was watching this exchange with wide eyes. “This is your father, Yusef. Demetrius Johnson.”
Yusef swallowed hard. “Hi,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Meech seemed to remember himself, forcing his features to relax as he focused on his son. “Damn, boy. You got big. Last time I saw you, you was just a baby.”
“I’m twelve now,” Yusef said.
“Twelve,” Meech repeated, shaking his head. “Time flies when you locked up.” He studied Yusef’s face. “You look like your mama. Got her eyes.”
Yusef nodded, uncomfortable with the attention.
“What happened to your face?” Meech asked, pointing to the bruise.
“Some kids at school,” Yusef mumbled.
Meech’s expression darkened. “They jump you?”
Another nod.
“You fight back?”
“Not really.”
Meech looked disgusted. “Your mama ain’t teaching you to stand up for yourself? What kind of?—”
“That’s enough,” I cut in. “You’re here to get to know your son, not criticize his mother.”
