He Loved Me From the Block (Loving A Thug #8)

Chapter 1

Monica

I Wasn’t Looking for Love, Just Lemon Pepper Wings

I knew the day was going straight to hell when my first client showed up forty-seven minutes late with Starbucks in her hand and the nerve to say, “Girl, traffic was crazy.”

Traffic?

Ma’am, you live six minutes away and your edges still had sleep in them.

But because I was saved on Sundays and self-employed Monday through Saturday, I smiled like I hadn’t already mentally charged her a late fee, inconvenience fee, and a “you tried me before noon” fee.

“Go ahead and lay back, boo,” I said, patting the lash bed. “We still got time.”

That was a lie.

We did not have time.

I had three clients, two balloon orders, one centerpiece emergency, and a cousin downstairs screaming loud enough to make the shampoo bowls nervous.

“MONICA!” Tameka hollered from the salon below me.

I closed my eyes for half a second.

Lord, today I am your child. Tomorrow I might be on probation.

“What?” I yelled back, trying not to poke my client in the eye with tweezers.

“DID YOU TAKE MY HOT COMB?”

“No!”

“You lying!”

“I don’t even press hair!”

“You got pressing spirit!”

My client snorted.

I gave her a look. “You move and these lashes gonna be cousins, not twins.”

She froze.

That was my life. Beauty, chaos, and customer service with a sprinkle of spiritual warfare.

My name is Monica Hayes, but most people called me Mo.

I was twenty-nine, single, cute when I felt like it, and allergic to nonsense unless it came with a direct deposit.

I lived above my cousin Tameka’s salon, which sounded convenient until you realized my alarm clock was gossip, blow dryers, and somebody always yelling, “Who parked behind me?”

I did lashes upstairs and did event decorating on the side. Balloon arches, baby showers, birthday backdrops, repast tables when folks wanted grief with gold accents—I did it all. My mama used to say I had a gift for making ugly spaces look like God still had a plan.

That was probably because I had spent most of my life trying to do the same thing with my own heart.

But we were not talking about that.

Especially not today.

Today, I needed money, peace, and lemon pepper wings from Big Ray’s on 23rd Block.

By six-thirty, I was done. Not finished. Done.

There is a difference.

Finished means the work is complete. Done means your bra is attacking you, your feet hate you, and you have started answering questions with your eyebrows.

I walked downstairs to Tameka’s salon, where she was standing behind the front desk with a comb in one hand and attitude in the other.

Tameka was my cousin, best friend, and unpaid emotional damage consultant.

She had a short copper pixie cut, lashes long enough to sweep a porch, and the kind of mouth that could clear a room or start a revival.

“You look hungry,” she said.

“I am hungry.”

“You look single-hungry.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“That means you don’t just need food. You need somebody to text you, ‘You ate today, baby?’”

“I can ask myself that.”

“And do you answer?”

“I ignore me like everybody else.”

Tameka shook her head. “See? Sad.”

I grabbed my purse from behind the desk. “I’m going to Big Ray’s.”

“At this hour?”

“It’s six-thirty.”

“Exactly. The block be waking up after six.”

“The block has bills too. It needs to rest.”

“Monica, don’t go down there looking all good and acting clueless.”

I looked down at my outfit. Black fitted jumpsuit, cropped denim jacket, gold hoops, fresh lashes, gloss, and sandals. It was not a date outfit. It was a “I work in beauty and refuse to look like my problems” outfit.

“I’m not looking all good,” I said.

Tameka stared at me.

“What?”

“You got on lip gloss.”

“I always wear lip gloss.”

“And that jumpsuit got your shape sitting up like it got somewhere to be.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m getting wings, Tameka. Not a husband.”

“Women always say that right before they meet a man with tattoos and unresolved family issues.”

“Then pray for me.”

“I already did. God said you hardheaded.”

Before I could respond, Mrs. Pearl came from the back like she had been summoned by the word husband.

Mrs. Pearl owned the building, rented the salon to Tameka, and rented the upstairs apartment to me.

She was in her sixties, wore red lipstick every day, and knew everybody’s business before it became their business.

“Where you going with them hips and no patience?” she asked.

“To get food.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Why y’all acting like Big Ray’s is a singles ministry?”

Mrs. Pearl smiled. “Baby, love can find you anywhere. The grocery store. The gas station. Jury duty. I met my second husband at a tire shop.”

“What happened to him?”

“He got on my nerves.”

Tameka nodded. “That’ll do it.”

“I’m leaving,” I announced.

Tameka pointed her comb at me. “Text me when you get there.”

“Okay.”

“And when you leave.”

“Okay.”

“And if somebody talk to you.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you gonna run their name through three databases and ask me if his mama got a Facebook.”

“That’s called loving you.”

“No, that’s called being nosy with Wi-Fi.”

Mrs. Pearl lifted one finger. “If he got gold teeth, ask if they permanent or weekend.”

I walked out before either one of them could put more fear in my spirit.

The air outside was warm and thick, the kind of Southern evening that hugged your skin and messed up your hair at the same time. The city was glowing under streetlights, traffic humming, music floating from cars, somebody arguing on a porch like rent was due in emotions.

23rd Block sat ten minutes away, depending on traffic and whether the Lord had touched the red lights.

It was one of those streets everybody knew.

Barbershop. Corner store. Wing spot. Sneaker boutique that was never open on time.

A mural of somebody’s cousin who “had a good heart” even though he owed half the neighborhood money.

Big Ray’s had the best lemon pepper wings in the city and the worst parking known to mankind. The building was brick with a yellow sign, a line always out the door, and a parking lot designed by somebody who hated women.

I circled twice before finding a spot near the side alley.

“Thank you, Jesus,” I whispered, squeezing into a space so tight my car and the pole were basically in a situationship.

When I got out, I checked my reflection in the window. Hair still cute. Gloss still glossy. Jumpsuit still minding everybody’s business.

I walked toward the entrance with my purse tucked under my arm and my face arranged into my official public expression: approachable enough not to look mean, but not so approachable that somebody felt encouraged.

Inside Big Ray’s, the smell hit me first.

Grease. Lemon pepper. Hot sauce. Fried catfish. Hood healing.

The woman behind the counter looked tired and powerful, like she had been telling people their order wasn’t ready for twenty years and would continue until Jesus came back.

“Name?” she asked.

“Monica. I called in.”

She looked at the tickets. “Ten minutes.”

That meant fifteen to thirty.

I stepped to the side and pulled out my phone. Tameka had already texted.

TAMEKA: You there?

ME: Yes.

TAMEKA: Anybody fine?

ME: Girl bye.

TAMEKA: That wasn’t a no.

I was typing something disrespectful when the front door opened and the energy in the whole place shifted.

I didn’t look up right away, because I was grown, not thirsty.

But the room got quieter.

Not silent. Just… aware.

You know when somebody walks in and the air decides to act different? Like even the grease paused?

That.

I glanced up.

And there he was.

Tall. Broad. Brown skin. Black T-shirt fitted across his chest like it had made a commitment. Tattoos down both arms. Thick beard. Fresh cut. Gold chain sitting heavy around his neck. Calm eyes. The kind of eyes that didn’t scan the room because they already owned their space in it.

He was fine in a way that felt inconvenient.

Not cute. Cute is safe. Cute opens your pickle jar and asks what your favorite color is.

This man looked like he could open a jar, fix your tire, ruin your attitude, and have you rethinking your five-year plan by breakfast.

I looked back down at my phone immediately.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I came for wings.

He stepped up to the counter.

“Ray got my order ready?” he asked, voice deep and smooth.

The woman behind the counter softened so fast I almost reported her.

“Eazy, you know Ray still back there moving slow.”

Eazy.

Of course his nickname was Eazy.

Because apparently the Lord had jokes.

He leaned against the counter, smiling a little. “Tell him stop playing with my food.”

“You tell him. I’m not arguing with that man today.”

He chuckled, and unfortunately, it did something to my nervous system.

I turned slightly, pretending to study the drink cooler. I did not care about him. I cared about whether I wanted peach soda or fruit punch.

That was all.

“Excuse me.”

His voice was closer now.

I looked up.

Mistake.

Up close, he was worse. His eyelashes were disrespectful. His lips were too full for a man who probably already knew exactly what to do with them. His cologne was clean, warm, and expensive enough to make me feel underqualified.

“Yes?” I said.

He pointed toward the cooler behind me. “You standing in front of the drinks.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

Smooth, Monica. Very sexy. Very mysterious.

I moved to the side.

He reached past me, close enough that I could see the detail in the tattoo on his wrist. Some kind of crown with dates under it. His arm brushed mine lightly, and my skin had the nerve to notice.

He grabbed a water.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No problem.”

He looked at me for one second too long.

I raised an eyebrow. “Something else in the cooler?”

His mouth curved. “Nah. I was just wondering if you always look this mad while waiting on wings.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You sure?”

“I’m hungry. That’s different.”

“Dangerous combination.”

“Only for people who bother me.”