Chapter 1 #2
He smiled wider. “So I’m bothering you?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether my food comes out before you say something corny.”
Somebody behind us laughed.
His eyes lit with amusement. “That’s pressure.”
“Life is pressure.”
“What you order?”
“Lemon pepper.”
“Wet or dry?”
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s personal.”
He laughed then, a real laugh, low and warm, and I hated how much I liked it.
“I’m Eric,” he said.
I should have said nice to meet you like a normal person.
Instead, I said, “I thought they called you Eazy.”
“They do.”
“So why you giving me government?”
“Because you look like you’d judge me for leading with Eazy.”
“I already judged you.”
“Fair.”
I fought a smile and lost by half an inch.
He saw it too.
Lord, men like him didn’t need encouragement. A half smile was basically a signed lease.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Monica.”
“Monica,” he repeated, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth.
It felt too good.
I looked away. “Don’t wear it out.”
“I might.”
Before I could decide whether to be flattered or file a complaint, a commotion started outside.
At first, it was just voices. Loud male voices, overlapping and sharp. Then a shove. Then somebody yelled, “Man, get out my face!”
Everybody inside turned toward the window.
I sighed. “See? This why I don’t leave the house after work.”
Eric’s expression changed, the humor fading but not into fear. More like focus.
The door swung open, and a young guy stumbled backward into the restaurant, almost knocking into the man waiting by the wall. Two others followed him, both hyped up and talking with their hands.
“You think it’s sweet?” one of them snapped.
“I ain’t say that,” the young guy said, backing up.
“You ain’t have to.”
The woman behind the counter yelled, “Not in here! Take that mess outside!”
Nobody listened.
Of course not.
Because when have angry men ever respected a woman just trying to sell wings?
The argument pushed closer to the waiting area. I stepped back, but there wasn’t much room. My shoulder bumped the drink cooler, and my purse slipped down my arm.
One of the guys moved too fast, swinging his arm out as he yelled. He didn’t hit me, but he came close enough that I flinched.
Before I could react, Eric was in front of me.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Just there.
A wall in a black T-shirt.
“Chill,” he said.
The room changed again.
The guy looked up at him and immediately lost some volume. “This ain’t got nothing to do with you, Eazy.”
“It do when you almost hit her.”
“I ain’t touch her.”
“And you not about to.”
My heart did something stupid.
I hated that.
I hated that my body had been handling life alone for years, but one calm sentence from a man built like a security system and suddenly my chest wanted to write poetry.
The young guy who had been backing up looked embarrassed. “My bad, bruh. My bad, miss.”
I nodded, still behind Eric.
The other dude muttered something, but his friend grabbed his arm. “Come on, man.”
They backed toward the door, still talking but no longer performing. A few seconds later, they were outside.
The woman behind the counter pointed toward the door with a pair of tongs. “And stay out there unless you ordering!”
Everybody slowly returned to normal, because in the hood, chaos had a short attention span.
Eric turned to me.
“You good?”
I opened my mouth to say yes, but my pride got there first.
“I was handling it.”
He looked around me at the drink cooler, then back at me. “You was about to fight him with a peach soda?”
“I could’ve shaken it up first.”
His lips twitched. “My fault.”
“Thank you,” I said, quieter.
His face softened. “You sure you good?”
That second question got me.
Because the first “you good” was polite.
The second one felt like he actually wanted the truth.
I adjusted my purse. “Yeah. I’m good.”
He nodded, but his eyes stayed on me like he didn’t fully believe me. Not in a pushy way. In a “I see you trying to be tough” way.
I did not appreciate being perceived.
“Monica!” the woman called.
I moved toward the counter, grateful for an excuse to breathe. “That’s me.”
She handed me my bag. “Lemon pepper, fries, extra ranch.”
Eric looked offended. “Extra ranch?”
I grabbed the bag. “Don’t start.”
“I ain’t say nothing.”
“You said it with your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows concerned.”
“Tell them mind their business.”
He laughed again, and I turned before my face betrayed me.
Outside, the evening had gotten darker, the streetlights glowing gold against the brick buildings. The guys from the argument were gone, but the block still felt busy. Cars rolled by slow, music thumping, people posted up near the store like they were paid to supervise traffic.
I walked toward the side alley where I had parked.
And yes, I knew better than to park there.
But good parking and good men had one thing in common—when you finally found one, somebody else was already in the way.
I had almost reached my car when I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned quickly.
Eric lifted both hands. “Easy, Monica.”
“Don’t sneak up on women in alleys.”
“I ain’t sneak. You walk fast.”
“I’m short. We have to.”
He looked toward my car, then back at me. “I’m walking you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need protection.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why are you walking me?”
“Because I want to.”
I stared at him.
That was the problem with direct men. They didn’t leave you enough room to twist their words into something you could safely reject.
I clicked my key fob, and my headlights flashed.
Eric looked at the parking space. “You parked like this on purpose?”
I gasped. “Excuse you.”
“You and that pole real close.”
“That pole was flirting with my bumper.”
“You want me to back it out?”
“No, I can drive.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“You implied.”
“I observed.”
“You observe too much.”
“Only what interests me.”
There he went again.
I opened my car door just to have something to do with my hands.
Eric stood a respectful distance away, but somehow he still felt close. The gold chain around his neck caught the streetlight. His tattoos disappeared under the sleeve of his shirt. His expression was calm, but his eyes were doing way too much.
“You always this helpful?” I asked.
“With pretty women who almost get caught in wing spot violence? First time.”
“I knew that pretty part was coming.”
“You wanted me to lie?”
“I wanted you to have restraint.”
“I’m working on it.”
I tried not to smile. Failed again.
He noticed again.
Annoying.
“Let me get your number,” he said.
I laughed. “Oh, just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“No soft launch? No fake conversation about the weather?”
“It’s hot. The parking bad. The wings smell good. You fine. I want your number.”
I blinked at him.
The man was efficient. I had to respect it.
“You don’t know me,” I said.
“I’d like to.”
“You could be crazy.”
“You met me inside a wing spot during a public disturbance. I feel like I already had a chance to show my character.”
“Or your performance skills.”
He tilted his head. “You this suspicious with everybody?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
That caught me off guard. “Good?”
“Means you got sense.”
I looked at him for a second too long that time.
Because he wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t offended. He wasn’t doing that thing some men did when your boundaries bruised their ego.
He just stood there, patient and sure, like whether I gave him my number or not, he still knew exactly who he was.
That was dangerous.
“I don’t usually give my number to men I meet outside,” I said.
“We met inside.”
“Technicalities are the devil’s playground.”
He smiled. “I’ll give you mine then.”
“Why?”
“So you can decide when you not hungry and less hostile.”
“I’m not hostile.”
“Your face said different.”
“My face has been through a lot.”
“I can tell.”
For some reason, that didn’t feel like a joke.
For some reason, my chest got quiet.
I should have gotten in my car. I should have said goodnight, gone home, eaten my wings, and pretended I hadn’t just met a man who looked at me like he wanted to learn me slowly and kiss me stupid.
Instead, I held out my hand.
“Give me your phone.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he handed it over.
I typed in my number before I could talk myself out of it. Then I saved my name as Monica, Not Hostile.
When I handed it back, he looked at the screen and laughed.
“That’s what we doing?”
“That’s what you started.”
He tapped something on his phone, and a second later, mine buzzed in my purse.
“There,” he said. “Now you got mine too.”
I got into my car, mostly because if I stood there any longer, my common sense was going to start packing a bag.
Eric leaned slightly toward the open door, still not too close.
“Text me when you make it home.”
I gave him a look. “You bossy?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I’m intentional.”
“That’s what bossy men call themselves when they got good credit.”
He grinned. “You gonna text me?”
“I might.”
“Monica.”
There it was again. My name in that voice.
I looked up at him.
“Text me,” he said, softer. “So I know you made it safe.”
My stomach fluttered.
Disrespectful.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
He stepped back, letting me close the door.
Backing out was humiliating because my car really was too close to the pole, and I had to do a seven-point turn while Eric watched. I refused to look at him, but I knew he was amused. I could feel it in the atmosphere.
When I finally pulled onto the street, I glanced in my rearview mirror.
He was still standing there.
Watching until I drove off.
Not like a creep.
Like a man making sure.
I turned up my music and told myself I was not impressed.
Then my phone buzzed at the red light.
I looked down.
ERIC: You made it home yet, Monica?
I stared at the screen.
I had not even made it three blocks.
This man was ridiculous.
I should have ignored it.
I should have focused on the road, my wings, and the peaceful single life I had worked so hard to make look intentional.
Instead, I smiled so hard my cheeks betrayed my whole independent woman ministry.
“Lord,” I whispered, shaking my head, “why he already spelling my name right?”