Lost in LA

by Amy Craig

  “Nolan, I told you, it’s not”—she watched him turn and walk back toward the water—“your problem.”

  “Hey, Rikard, can you grab the Bronco and meet me at the rental spot where Ocean Park meets the beach?” He nodded and gave the man directions to find his keys. “I appreciate it,” he said before he hung up.

  “Is this an old Bronco or a new Bronco?” Wylie asked, making light of the situation.

  Nolan looked at her and his posture stiffened, no longer as carefree and confident as the man who strode through town without shirt or shoes. “Does it matter?”

  “Sure. An old one would be pretty cool. Authentic, as long as it’s in good shape.”

  “And a new one?”

  “Well, I’d be a little worried about your life choices and the outlook for your food truck. Maybe you’re not very good with your money.”

  He laughed and lengthened his stride. “If it’s an old one, you’re in for a bumpy ride. They steer like tanks and the death wobble is enough to make you second-guess the quality of American engineering. Don’t even get me started on the braking systems.”

  “So it’s a new one.”

  Nolan smiled. “Not exactly.” He scanned the busy sidewalk and the groups of tourists evading men on bicycles and women with untrained dogs. “Let’s save that analysis for another day. I have another proposition for you, partner.”

  Wylie tensed, wondering if she had misread the entire situation. Rusty’s bar might have been a coincidental meeting, but Nolan’s appearance on the beach began to lean toward suspect behavior. She stopped short and scanned the street for support. What impression did I give him? I knew I shouldn’t have worn that top.

  Nolan held up his hand like he could read the tension in her shoulders. “Come pick up some shifts at the food truck. I talked one of my roommates into covering for a prep chef, but I know he’d rather spend his days on his own start-up.”

  She turned her face toward the ocean. “You don’t have to take care of me. I’m a grown-ass adult.”

  “I’m not trying to take care of you,” he said. “I’m trying to meet a need.”

  The tension and vulnerability of the last two days flooded her eyes with tears, but she blinked to disguise them. “That’s not necessary. Rusty’s job pays well enough. I’m going to get by on tips. I’m going to get an apartment where I control the lease and have a say about who comes and who goes. I’d never treat someone like Dottie did.”

  Nolan reached for her arm but dropped his hand before he made contact. “Dottie?”

  “My old roommate. We never connected and she threw me out as soon as she got a better offer. Shouldn’t we have formed some type of mutual respect after four months of living together?” A tear rolled down her cheek. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Are you crying?”

  “No, of course not.”

  He cupped her elbow. “I don’t think anything’s wrong with you, Wylie. Maybe the problem lies with Dottie.” He tapped his head. “Maybe there’s nothing there.”

  Trying not to laugh, she took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. His touch sent awareness spiraling up her arm, but the upheaval in her life made the complications of a relationship seem monumental. She stepped to the side and rubbed her arms, forcing him to release his hold. “I’m usually not this needy and vulnerable. It’s like I had momentum in my life and someone pulled the rug out from under me. You don’t have to pick up the pieces and help me put my life back together. I’m more than capable of doing it myself.”

  “Never mind what Dottie did. You’re learning to trust your instincts, and you’ll pick a better partner next time. On the other hand, my instincts say Rusty’s club is one step away from an implosion. The people working there don’t have any loyalty to him. They’re just in it for the money and that’s a bad combination in a bad part of town.”

  “That’s not true,” she said, thinking of the two former strippers who’d taken her under their wings. “They’re hoping the club becomes a big draw.”

  “Does that mean they’re going to stick it out and support the community when tips get thin? Put in extra hours to do maintenance work? Let Rusty know when someone’s stealing from the till?”

  “No, probably not.” She wiped away a rogue tear and pulled out her inhaler to relieve the tightness in her chest.

  “It’s okay to cry when you’re frustrated.”

  She shook her head. “It’s the spring tree pollen.” Or the stress of watching my life collapse around me and feeling powerless to stop it. “I barely notice my symptoms this time of year. It’s nothing like ragweed and asthma peak week in September.”

  Nolan nodded. “I’m just saying, let Rusty get his feet wet before you pick up any more shifts out there. The man’s sitting on a tinderbox and he’s too blind to see it.”

  “Who turned you into the wise man on the mountain? It’s just a pretentious bar.”

  He stared at her. “Yeah, and you’re just one person in a crowded building with poorly lit exits. Who’s going to save your ass when shit goes down?”

  She thought of the women who’d loaned her the clothes and makeup she needed to attract attention and tips. Nolan’s right. Their matronly instincts probably rank below their need for self-preservation. Aren’t we all looking out for ourselves? She thought of Penny Lane’s quiet generosity. What happens when you remove money from the equation of friendship?

  “In the meantime, come work with me. Better yet, come live with me. We’ve got an open room in the shared house where I live.”

  Wylie bit her lip as the offer came too close to what she needed. Her instincts told her to give him the Downward-Facing Dog and flee to protect her self-interest, but she remembered the way he’d smiled as his stream of friends had paraded into the club. He’s not demanding change as a condition of his interest. He’s trying to solve problems. He’s offering me options. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  She laughed at the proud boast. Wouldn’t that be a luxury? “Then what gives?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re the first social media influencer to take me up on my offer of a partnership. Most people just want something for free without putting in the effort.”

  “I don’t think the promotion is going to amount to much.”

  “Yeah, but you’re willing to try it. And I have a feeling you’ll keep trying things until you find a way to win. I admire that attitude. So many people spend their life complaining instead of taking action. It’s something I’ve been guilty of in the past.”

  “But now you’re reformed?”

  He laughed. “Well, it’s a work in progress. Please don’t worry about the housing situation. It’s not the intersection of a reality-show compound and a juiced-up dating show. My roommates and I choose to live together so we have more time to run our businesses.” He looked at the empty street and shrugged his shoulders. “What other option do you have?”

  “I have options,” she said, but her voice wavered. “I can move in with my parents.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What are you, sixteen?”

  She crossed her arms and wondered how a man could stand on the street, bare-chested and open to a world of possibilities, while her tiny world felt like it might be on the verge of caving in. “I’ve spent a lot of time on Craigslist in the last few days. Converted garages, tool sheds and outdoor tents are starting to look very appealing to me.”

  He shook his head. “That’s hardly glamping.”

  “You don’t get it,” she said. “I told you I want to control the lease.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t like feeling inferior to my last roommate. She held all the power.”

  “Power’s only a bad thing if you don’t trust the person who wields it.”

  Wylie shook her head. “I barely know you and I’ve never met your roommates.”

  “You know where I work and what my lips taste like.”
<
br />   She raised her eyebrows.

  “That last bit of knowledge came at your own volition,” he said.

  “So you’ll use that against me?”

  He laughed. “No, but Cynthia will vouch for me.”

  “Oh? Did you negotiate with her for further tips?”

  Nolan shook his head. “Not my style, but I’m saying you know more about me than you would know about a stranger who walked off the street to answer a sublease advertisement.”

  “The promise of control is, like, the one thing that’s been keeping me sane at night,” she admitted. “What does it say about me if I give it up?”

  “It says you recognize a better deal when you see it.”

  She blew her bangs from her eyes. Just a shower, a washing machine and a solid lock on the door that keeps me from jerking awake every time something goes bump in the night. She took a deep breath and considered how much she could afford to spend on the luxury of a good night’s sleep. She had left Dottie’s apartment determined to control the high ground, but Nolan’s invitation felt like a luxury she wanted to afford. “I don’t need much. How much is the rent?”

  Nolan smiled. “Seventeen hundred dollars.”

  It’s a dump. She practiced her poker face. He’s beautiful and it’s a dump with corrugated tin walls. “And the deposit?”

  He scanned her yoga ensemble. “Three hundred.”

  She shook her head, sensing a trap. “That’s below market.”

  He shrugged. “Take it up with the landlord. You can’t get into too much trouble sharing a space with five other people. They’ve all got too much on the line to step out of bounds.”

  What if I want you to step out of bounds? She considered her options and recent experiences with Dottie. I wanted a place of my own. The woman’s loyalties stung, but her eviction notice had pushed Wylie to scrutinize the insecurities of her new living situation. “Who is the landlord?”

  Nolan started walking toward Ocean Avenue.

  She fell into step to avoid losing the possibility of his offer.

  “We’ve never had any problems with management and repairs. You’ve just got to pass the review board.”

  She rolled her eyes, knowing her freelance finances would never pass corporate screening metrics. I knew this was too good to be true. She stopped walking and shook her head to put an end to this conversation. “The review board’s probably super strict.”

  He looked back over his shoulder and smiled as he also came to a stop. “Review board might be an exaggeration. It’s a southern California house full of millennials trying to incubate new businesses. We vote on everything from toilet paper ply to the size of our grocery budget. Just convince the other roommates you have something to add to their community. I’ll show you around the house and you can meet the people working from home. If you don’t like it, split.”

  The allure of trading automotive upholstery for a bedroom door gave her the courage to bury her insecurities. “I’d be willing to consider it.” She smiled, shielding the truth of how much she needed his offer to work out before she lost her courage and started pricing bus tickets to Oregon. “Yoga never goes out of style. If there’s a lawn or something, I can teach classes on my off days.”

  Nolan nodded and started walking again.

  She cleared her throat and hurried to catch up. “I mean, I’m willing to give it a shot if they’re willing to consider me. It’s got to be a mutual fit.”

  “Good call, Mini Mako.”

  Wylie frowned and struggled to connect the pieces of their conversation. “You said it’s a business incubator. What’s next for you after the food truck?”

  “I want to expand the truck into an established restaurant,” he said.

  “Of course you do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She rolled her eyes and looked at his haircut, wondering if her move would level the ground between them or set the pendulum in motion. She thought of Cynthia’s established yoga studio and Rusty’s ambitions for the club. Is everyone further along with their plans? Nolan’s self-awareness and generosity felt too good to be true. She decided to test his reserves and try knocking him back. “You have to sell a lot of sweet potato fries to maintain that haircut.”

  Instead of taking offense, he laughed. “People have done a lot more with less.”

  She almost missed her step.

  Chapter Five

  She watched Nolan wave to a suntanned blond man wearing a button-down shirt. The man stood near a polished 1970s Bronco with all-terrain tires and milky green paint. The vehicle reflected the sunlight like a piece of polished jade. The truck’s stainless-steel hardware gleamed and the headlights shone behind clear glass.

  Someone took a lot of time to restore the old body and outfit it with modern gear. She imagined Nolan covered in grease with a wrench in his hand. His muscles supported her fantasy, but she doubted his passion for food trucks extended to restoring classic cars. So where did he get the truck? She watched him shake hands with his roommate—one of them a poster boy for corporate stewardship and the other still shirtless from his mid-morning run.

  “Rikard, this is Wylie, my new friend.”

  Friend? What else would he say? Homeless charity case? She shook off the questions and looked at Rikard, knowing she had to impress the blond if his approval stood between sleepless nights and a real room and board. “Wylie Winidad,” she said as she offered her hand.

  The man shook it, but his look lacked the warmth of Nolan’s first and second looks. If anything, Rikard reminded her of the kind of man who relocated to Los Angeles but still checked the smog levels every morning. She ignored his critical assessment and hoped her wind-blown hair and hard-earned muscles marked her as a local with something to offer instead of a naïve transplant who still needed explanations of the Santa Ana winds. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

  “What exactly are we rescuing you from?”

  “My car got towed.”

  “She’s interested in the empty bedroom,” Nolan said at the same time.

  Rikard raised his eyebrows and focused on his roommate. “And you decided to screen her application wearing only a pair of running shorts?”

  Nolan laughed, but the sound of his amusement died in the wind as the men looked at each other and Rikard waited for a response. Wylie expected Nolan to defend his invitation, but Rikard’s stance shifted and he shook his head before he opened the Bronco’s passenger side door and claimed the back seat. “Whatever.”

  She looked at the powder-coated Bronco and realized she would be riding shotgun if she climbed inside the vehicle. Trying to lighten the mood, she looked at Nolan and called him out on the extravagant ride. “It’s worse than a new Bronco. It’s a custom-build.”

  He smiled and crossed his arms, seemingly ready to defend himself. “So what does that say about me?”

  “Did you do it yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Then your daddy has money.”

  “Not exactly.” He widened the gap of the passenger door and raised his eyebrows.

  Wylie considered her options and climbed into the vehicle, admitting that pride kept her from phoning her parents, but two nights of sleeping in the SUV had enhanced her willingness to embrace life’s gifts where she found them. So Nolan’s got some money and maybe a good heart. I don’t mind being his cause of the week if it gets me out of this mess. It’s not his fault that I have none.

  Nolan claimed the driver’s seat and she winced as he pressed his sweat-caked skin against the vehicle’s pristine interior. It’s his truck. She typed the address of the tow yard into her phone. Let him worry about staining the leather. After giving him directions, she shifted to find a comfortable position. “We should be there in twenty minutes.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the man who kept his face turned to the wind. She could imagine him sitting in the driver’s seat of a Frankenstein truck, his sleeves rolled up as he locked eyes with a parallel driver an
d revved his engine. Hey, man, my Bronco is worth more than your Porsche. The second the light changed, they would careen through the supercharged nightlife of an urban drag race, but who would win? I have no taste for men who risk their lives at a hundred miles an hour. She resolved to be polite. “So, Rikard, where are you from?”

  “Everywhere.”

  She looked to Nolan for backup, but he kept his gaze on the road and let her fend for herself in the open-topped truck. Turning in the seat until the seatbelt curtailed her movement, she focused on Rikard. “How many everywheres?”

  The blond turned away from the scenery and looked at her. “I grew up in a Denver suburb, went to college in Ithaca and followed a finance job to New York City. Does that make it three?”

  “But you’re here now. I’m counting four.”

  He nodded and mimicked Nolan’s focus on the traffic.

  The wind pushed his hair away from his face and he looked younger for a moment, maybe less than forty. ‘I’m not trying to take advantage of him,’ Wylie wanted to say, but she held her tongue against the unspoken accusation.

  Rikard took a deep breath. “I knew all my neighbors in Denver, but the residents of the New York apartment building turned out to be geriatric holdouts who refused the collegial comfort of independent living facilities.” A smile teased the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t consider myself a nomadic millennial, but apparently I have lousy taste in leasing agents.”

  “Were they sweet geriatrics?” She smiled. “Like, did they bake cookies and ask you to change lightbulbs?”

  “No,” he said, “they barely acknowledged me. One day I came home from work and realized I didn't know any of their names—not even the name of the doorman. The residents complained so often that management tended to fire the contractors before they could settle into the job. Not like it would have mattered, though. I was working so much that when I got time off, I would kind of just sit at home or scroll my phonebook, wondering what had happened to my college friends.”