Page 2 of This: Blake & Emon

“Another day? You fuckin’ wish. Bite down. This is going to hurt,” she instructed with a slight smile on her face. In the last ten minutes, he’d called her baby and love, and she liked it but had no time to address it because what the hell was going on? This man was obviously in the same life that had taken her father away, and she’d seen this way too many times.

She paused for a moment, seeing her reflection in the window behind him. She caught the spitting image of Donald “Soulja” Bishop staring back at her. The same full lips, and the same warm brown eyes that could shift from gentle to steel in a heartbeat. It had been seven years since she got the phone call, letting her know that her father had been shot. And still, every time she treated a wound like this, she wondered if someone had been there to help her daddy in his final moments. If another nurse’s daughter had tried to save him before he bled out.

“Hol’ up,” he said, grabbing her hand and bringing her out of her thoughts before she poured the alcohol on his wound. She looked down at his hand on hers and then back up into his eyes. She felt a jolt of electricity from his touch and, by the burrowing of his brows, he felt it too. “Emon,” he let out before the stinging of alcohol ripped his body in two.

“Nice to meet you, Emon.”

As he bit down on the towel, she could hear the faint tune of him humming one of her favorite gospel songs, “Now Behold the Lamb,” through gritted teeth as she cleaned the wound.

“Church boy, huh? Didn’t expect that,” she said, trying to distract him from the pain but also feeling very judgy. He caught it but was used to people thinking the worst about him.

“You don’t even know me, love. Just because the streets know me don’t mean heaven don’t.” His eyes held hers steadydespite the pain. “What about you? You sitting here judging, but I heard you playing gospel music when I came in.”

“Sounds like you don’t know me either.” She smiled, surprised by his words. Most men would’ve gotten defensive and tried to prove something, but Emon just stated facts and let them stand.

“Nice to meet you too, Blake,” he managed through another wave of pain. “Something tells me this ain’t the last time we gon’ see each other.”

And despite herself, despite everything she knew about men like him, she hoped he was right. Good girls would forever love bad boys.

Chapter 2

Emon hadn’t planned anything that happened a week ago, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Besides, he couldn’t stop thinking about the one who had put her life on the line to save his. He didn’t have any intention of hurting her, but she didn’t know that. Yet she put her fear to the side to help him. He appreciated that and wanted to somehow show her that.

He stood in the mirror, glancing at his wound, envisioning her wincing as she poured the alcohol on his open wound. Only his mother had ever shown that kind of concern for his pain before. Now here was Blake, a stranger, looking at him like his hurting actually mattered. He couldn’t get that out of his mind either. Wasn’t even sure if he wanted to.

He didn’t know stumbling into the wrong apartment would change everything. There was a spot in The Grove on the Hill where men like him could get patched up without questions. No hospitals, no paperwork, just an old army medic who took cash, remained nameless, and kept his mouth shut. ‘3B, brick building on Parker’ was all he needed to know. But Parker Avenue had two identical brick buildings, and blood loss was a hell of a navigator. His first time needing the services, and he’d ended up somewhere better.

Simple mistake that turned into destiny. Maybe.

Blake, her name, kept rolling off his tongue. It was easy. It was different. She was different.

Thanks to her care, the wound was healing cleanly. For someone who hadn’t finished nursing school yet, she had steady hands and knew exactly what she was doing. She gave him antibiotics and a place to rest. He traced the healing area carefully, remembering how she’d hummed gospel music while cleaning and dressing it, probably to calm them both.

It gave wife.The thought caught him off guard. He wasn’t the type to be thinking about settling down, especially not over a woman he’d just met, but there was something about the way she carried herself.

His phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. Another message from his cousin Giovanni about the dice game situation being settled. The shooter wasn’t going to be a problem anymore. He’d made sure of that the minute he could stand up straight. But that life, those types of moves and risks, felt different now. Heavy. Dumb. Reckless. Like maybe he had something more to consider.

Emon pulled on a fresh white tee, careful not to disturb the bandage. His reflection showed a man at a crossroads. The gold fangs and tattoos told one story, but the three legitimate businesses he’d built told another. He’d worked too hard to let street shit drag him backward. The car washes were thriving, and Be Fed, his community pantry, was making real change in the neighborhood. That was what he needed to remain focused on, not cracking nigga’s heads in a game of craps because of boredom. He didn’t need the money, just the rush.

But Blake... she made him want to be better than even that. Something about those big brown eyes of hers saw past his image, past his reputation. She’d taken one look at him bleeding on her couch and saw someone worth saving.

“You need to let that go,” he muttered to himself, running his hand over his fade, but telling himself that was pointless. He already knew he was going to figure out a way to see her again. A woman like that didn’t just fall into a man’s lap by accident. That was divine timing.

The way she moved around her apartment that day, confident and caring, had stirred something in him he’d never experienced. The urge to protect, to provide, to prove himself worthy of someone like her fucked with his mental. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw her standing there with that knife trembling in her hand, trying to be brave while probably scared as hell, yet she’d still chosen to help him. That kind of heart was rare in his world. He knew better. He knew she was too good for him. He knew she’d never fuck with a man like him. And for good reason.

However, his mother’s words from Sunday dinner echoed in his head, clear as the day she’d said them: “When you find the right one, Son, you’ll know because she’ll make you want to stand taller, straighter. Won’t be about impressing nobody. She’ll make you want to grow into the man God already sees in you.”

The seed had been planted, and Blake Bishop might just be what was meant to bloom from it. He had a feeling she was, but feelings had led better men than him astray. Life had taught him to move cautiously, to question coincidences, to doubt anything that seemed too good to be true. And Blake? She seemed too good to be anything but trouble. He didn’t need the drama he knew would come with showing interest in a woman like her, educated, family-oriented, with a brother who’d probably rather shoot him than see him near his sister.

But he liked what he saw. More than liked it. He was feeling whatever this was, feeling her. For now, that thought alone was enough to keep him smiling. Now he just had to figureout how to see her again without feeling like he was reaching too high. Yeah, he’d built something legitimate, but women like Blake didn’t typically give men like him a second glance, at least not for anything real. She had options, educated men, doctors, lawyers, the type who’d never bled out on somebody’s couch. Never put her in danger. The type who matched her on paper.

He’d never been a man that doubted himself, but she made him wonder if he had any business wanting more than that one chance encounter with her. No one had made his heart race like this before. That voluptuous ass, thighs to match, and the way she moved had him mesmerized. Those beautiful eyes and perfect brown skin… she was everything. And even with all his usual confidence, thinking about her saying no had his chest tight in ways no street situation ever could.

Back in the day, he’d been known for more than just his business sense. He’d been that nigga. The one mothers prayed their sons wouldn’t become and their daughters wouldn’t notice. Making money was an art form to him; he painted with whatever colors were available, legal or not. He never cared about that. He cared about not seeing his mother struggle. That led to a few stints in juvie but never in prison. He was thankful for that, but his reputation for handling his business and leaving no doubt about what happened when people tried him still floated in the air, making people turn their noses up.

If there was a hustle to be found, his name was tied to it. Need something? Emon could get it. Want something moved? He knew just who to call. Want to place a bet? His odds were always fair, even if the game wasn’t. Never anything too grimy. He didn’t touch work that destroyed the community, but enough that he knew he owed something back to the streets that raised him.

He’d been young and hungry, using his natural charm and street smarts to navigate a world that expected him to fail,but that life came with an expiration date, and he’d been smart enough to see it coming. Now he’d flipped those same skills into legitimate power moves. The same hustle that built his reputation now built businesses his mama could brag about.

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