Chapter 2
Eric
Some Women Look Good. She Felt Like Peace.
I knew I was in trouble when I watched Monica pull off and I was still standing in the parking lot like I had lost something.
Me.
I had lost me.
Thirty-three years old, grown, business owner, respected on both sides of 23rd Block, and there I was, standing outside Big Ray’s with my food getting cold, watching a woman almost hit a pole twice and still somehow make it look cute.
That didn’t make no sense.
Neither did the fact that I texted her before she even hit the corner.
You made it home yet, Monica?
I knew she hadn’t.
That was not the point.
The point was I wanted her to know I was thinking about her safety before she even had time to pretend she didn’t care.
I went back inside Big Ray’s and Ray himself was standing by the counter with my bag in his hand, looking at me like he had caught me stealing church money.
Ray was big, bald, and always sweating like the fryer personally disrespected him. He had owned Big Ray’s since before I was old enough to cross the street by myself. He knew everybody, fed everybody, and cussed everybody out equally.
“You done playing security guard and Romeo?” he asked.
I took my bag. “Appreciate you.”
“Don’t appreciate me. Pay me.”
“I already paid.”
“You paid for wings. Not for holding up my doorway flirting with that girl like this is BET.”
I smirked. “You watched all that?”
“Everybody watched all that. You big as a refrigerator standing in front of that little woman like you was Secret Service.”
“She almost got hit.”
“She almost got hit because them fools don’t know how to act. But you ain’t had to look at her like that afterward.”
“Like what?”
Ray leaned against the counter and narrowed his eyes. “Like you already saw her in your kitchen wearing one of your shirts.”
I didn’t answer fast enough.
Ray threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, you sick.”
“I’m going home.”
“No, you going home to stare at your phone and reheat them wings you let get soggy over a pretty face.”
“She more than pretty.”
That came out before I could stop it.
Ray got quiet for half a second, then grunted. “Mmm.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Ray.”
He handed another customer a bag before looking back at me. “I knew your daddy. I knew your mama too. And I know that look on a man when something done got under his skin before he got permission.”
I shifted my jaw.
Ray didn’t know everything.
But he knew enough.
“I just met her,” I said.
“Love don’t clock in.”
I frowned. “Ain’t nobody say nothing about love.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I walked out before the old man started preaching over hot sauce packets.
Outside, the block was still alive. Cars rolling slow.
Men posted by the corner store. Somebody’s speakers shaking windows.
A group of women laughing near the nail shop, bright hair and louder perfume.
The city had a rhythm after dark. If you knew it, you could tell the difference between regular noise and trouble.
Tonight had both.
The little situation inside Big Ray’s wasn’t random. I recognized one of the boys. Young dude named Marlo, ran with some fools who thought being reckless was the same thing as being respected. The other one, the one backing up, looked like one of Quan’s little friends.
That was a problem.
Anything connected to Quan had a way of becoming my headache by sunrise.
I got in my truck and set the food on the passenger seat. My phone lit up in the cup holder.
For a second, I thought it was Monica.
It was Dre.
I ignored it.
Then he called again.
I answered on speaker. “What?”
“Well, good evening to you too, Brother Love.”
I sighed. “What you want?”
“I’m hearing reports.”
“That fast?”
“Eric, this is 23rd Block. News travel faster than child support rumors. I heard you met a woman at Big Ray’s and almost proposed by the soda machine.”
I pulled onto the street. “Who told you that?”
“Community sources.”
“Ray?”
“Ray. Also Peaches from the laundromat. Also some dude live-streaming his plate.”
I rubbed my beard. “I hate this block sometimes.”
“No you don’t. You building a lounge on it.”
“That don’t mean I want everybody narrating my life.”
“They said she was fine.”
I didn’t answer.
Dre made a sound like an auntie finding out somebody pregnant. “Oh, she was fine-fine.”
“She was cool.”
“Cool? Men only say ‘cool’ when they trying not to say ‘I saw my future and she had lip gloss on.’”
“Dre.”
“What’s her name?”
“Monica.”
“Monica what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know her last name but you blocking wind for her in public?”
“She almost got caught in something.”
“And your chest got involved?”
“My chest was available.”
Dre laughed so loud I turned the volume down.
Dre Carter had been my best friend since we were thirteen, which meant he knew too much and respected too little.
He was the type of man who could make a bad situation funny and a good situation complicated.
He helped me run King’s Auto Spa, my detailing business, and he was supposed to be helping with the final touches on my lounge, Loyalty.
Supposed to be.
Mostly he flirted with vendors and said, “I’m networking.”
“I’m at the lounge,” he said. “You coming through?”
“Yeah.”
“Bring my food.”
“You ain’t ask for nothing.”
“That never stopped you from being generous.”
I hung up on him.
My phone buzzed again at the red light.
This time, it was Monica.
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: I have not made it home yet, sir. I am at the light. Please relax your security spirit.
I smiled before I could stop it.
ME: Just checking.
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: Checking aggressively.
ME: You hungry and dramatic.
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: You met me during a crisis. Don’t diagnose me.
ME: You call that a crisis?
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: I almost had to fight in sandals. Yes.
I laughed, sitting at the light like a fool.
ME: Text me when you get inside.
Three dots popped up, disappeared, then popped up again.
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: You always this bossy?
ME: Intentional.
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: That sounds like bossy with a savings account.
I shook my head.
She had a mouth on her.
Not nasty. Not bitter.
Sharp. Funny. Quick. Like she had spent a lot of time learning how to keep people from getting too close with jokes and side-eyes.
I knew that kind of defense.
I had my own.
Mine just looked like silence.
By the time I pulled up to Loyalty, Dre was outside standing under the half-lit sign with his arms folded like he owned something. He didn’t. He owned ten percent of the business and one hundred percent of the stress.
The lounge sat between an old beauty supply store and a tax place that was only open when people started panicking in February. The building used to be a pawn shop, then a fish market, then a place nobody officially admitted was a gambling spot. I bought it cheap because folks said it was cursed.
It wasn’t cursed.
It just needed somebody willing to clean it out and stop letting dusty men in tracksuits play dominoes on folding tables.
I wanted Loyalty to be different. Grown. Smooth. Hood enough to feel like home, classy enough to make people act like they had sense. Live music, poetry nights, Sunday brunch, birthday dinners, no foolishness.
At least that was the dream.
Dreams looked real cute until you had to pay contractors.
Dre walked up to my window as soon as I parked.
“Where my wings?”
I opened my door. “You still on that?”
“Friendship comes with sauce.”
“You got money.”
“Rich people always say that.”
“I’m not rich.”
“You richer than me.”
“That don’t mean rich.”
He followed me inside. “So tell me about Monica.”
“No.”
“You gatekeeping women now?”
“I just met her.”
“And already texting. Look at God.”
I glanced at him. “How you know I’m texting?”
“Because you walking like your phone got perfume on it.”
I ignored him and stepped into the lounge.
Even unfinished, it looked good.
Dark walls. Gold accents. Black leather booths. A small stage in the corner. Bar top polished and ready. The lighting still needed work, but when the amber lights hit right, the place glowed. Like the block had put on cologne and decided to behave.
My father would have liked it.
That thought hit me and settled heavy.
I didn’t talk about my father much. He had been one of those men everybody respected but nobody fully knew.
Worked two jobs, kept his shoes clean, didn’t say much unless it mattered.
He passed when I was twenty-one, leaving me with grief, a little bit of anger, and a lesson I didn’t understand until later.
A man’s name means something.
That was why I named the lounge Loyalty.
Not because the block had always been loyal.
Because I wanted to build something that was.
Dre snapped his fingers in my face. “You thinking too hard.”
“I’m thinking about tomorrow’s inspection.”
“No, you thinking about Big Ray’s Beyoncé.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“Oh, defensive already. That’s cute.”
I put my food on the bar. “Did the electrician finish?”
“Mostly.”
“What does mostly mean?”
“It means lights work unless somebody turns on the ice machine.”
I stared at him.
He lifted his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Shoot the invoice.”
Before I could respond, the front door opened.
Quan walked in.
My little brother had on designer slides, ripped jeans, and a hoodie even though it was too warm for all that. He was twenty-five with a baby face, fast mouth, and the kind of confidence only young men with no real consequences seemed to carry.
He also had trouble following him like a shadow.
The minute I saw him, my stomach tightened.
“Where you been?” I asked.
Quan looked around. “Dang, hello to you too.”
“Where you been?”
“Handling something.”
Dre made a low sound and suddenly became interested in the bar shelves.
I stepped closer. “What something?”
Quan shrugged. “Nothing major.”
“Nothing major had dudes arguing inside Big Ray’s?”
His eyes flicked.
There it was.
I knew it.
“What you got going on with Marlo?” I asked.