I stood at the hostess desk scanning the dining room for Nola. I saw a handful of waitresses moving about the room and serving customers, but I didn’t see her. After seating the couple that walked in ahead of me, the hostess returned. She had a huge smile on her face and straightened her back to give me a better look at her perky tits. Normally I would have said something slick that would’ve made her want to drop her panties as soon as she got in my car, but I wasn’t here for that. I was looking for Nola.
“Table for one?” she asked, bending forward so I could get a closer look at her breasts.
“No, actually I’m looking for someone. She works here, her name is Nola.”
The redhead frowned. “Nola?”
“Yeah, she’s a waitress here. I’d like to sit in her section if I can.”
The girl smiled. “I’m kinda new and I don’t remember everybody’s name just yet, but I’m good with faces. What does she look like?”
Gorgeous, fucking gorgeous, I wanted to say. “Medium height, golden skin, dark curly hair, almond-shaped eyes, and she looks like she could be,” I paused, remembering the way Nola smiled up at me before she left, “Spanish or Persian or Black, or maybe a White girl with a tan.” Fuck…I was rambling.
“So, she’s a pretty Black, Persian, Spanish, White girl with curly hair and almond eyes?” Hearing her say the words made me feel like an idiot. “Well, honey, that’s half of L.A.!”
I sighed, rethinking my plan. If Nola had given me her last name I could’ve looked her up, and….no, no, I clearly was not thinking straight.
I couldn’t just show up on her doorstep with a bouquet of flowers or a box of chocolates hoping she’d let me in. That would be creepy as hell, and I don’t buy girls flowers anyway.
“I know,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound completely psycho. “But she said she worked at Pink Taco, so I took a chance.”
The hostess stared at me for a moment, then her eyes went soft. “Let me go ask around.”
She disappeared into the dining room and I felt something I haven’t experienced in a long time: nervous.
I’m a pretty confident guy; some would even call me cocky, because I usually get what I want. Something about Nola told me things might not go my way this time. But damn if I wouldn’t try.
I saw the hostess walking back toward me, followed by a cute honey-colored girl who, ironically, could have been Persian, Spanish, or a White girl who spent a lot of time in the sun. But it didn’t matter how cute she was; she wasn’t Nola.
“Is this your Nola?” the hostess asked.
The dark-hared girl grinned, stared me up and down, and then licked her lips. “I certainly hope so,” she said a little too eager.
I’d seen that look a million times before. I could have had her if I wanted, but I didn’t—she wasn’t Nola.
I dug deep for my most charming smile, trying to let them both down easy. “I’m afraid not, but I certainly see why you thought so.” The girl blushed, but I was unmoved. “So…no Nola, huh?”
“You might want to try the other Pink Taco,” the cute girl said.
“The other Pink Taco?” I asked, puzzled.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. I punched the name of the restaurant into my GPS and didn’t bother to see if there was more than one location.
“How many are there?” I asked, hoping there weren’t a million Pink Tacos scattered across L.A. But shit, I already knew I’d go to each one if I had to.
“Just two,” the hostess said. “This one, and the one in Century City.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Only two.
“Thanks ladies,” I winked, then hurried out the door on the way to the other Pink Taco to see my Nola.
And yes, she was already mine. I just had to let her know.
3 Nola
I raced into work hoping my boss wouldn’t notice I was a half hour late. The busses in L.A. were notoriously slow, and traffic was unpredictable, but Ross didn’t seem to care that it took me nearly an hour to get to work even though UCLA was just three miles away.
I ran through the door and to the back of the restaurant, threw my things in a locker, checked my assignment, and then hustled out onto the floor. Tara gave me a sympathetic wink. She’d been covering my section until I arrived, but after taking my first order Ross met me at the computer.
“Your shift started a half hour ago, Nola. You can’t keep coming late.”
“I left campus early, I swear. But traffic on Wilshire was insane. I think there was an accident.”
“This is L.A., there’s always traffic. If you can’t get here on time then I can’t keep you around.”
“But I need this job, Ross,” I pleaded, hoping he would notice how serious I was.
“Last time,” he boomed, unaffected by my puppy dog eyes. “Next time you’re late don’t even bother showing up.”
Ross stormed away and I fought back tears. I couldn’t cry at work, especially not where everyone would see me break down. I bit the inside of my cheek and focused on my breathing, trying to get my emotions under control.
If I lost my job, my life would seriously fall apart. I wouldn’t be able to pay my tuition and I couldn’t make my rent. I’d be out on the street with no degree, no job, and no future.
Just like my mother.
The thought sent a chill down my spine.
My mom had dropped out of college when she met my dad, dizzy with his promises to take care of her for the rest of her life. At the time, he was an up-and-coming soul singer who had just inked his first major record deal and was flush with cash. They met after one of his shows in Chicago, and according to my mother, had spent most of the late ‘80s and early ‘90s touring the world and burning through my father’s royalties. Even when she found out she was pregnant with me nothing changed.
“I refused to let you slow me down, Nola darling,” my mother had said plainly when I was seven. I was packing up my little suitcase for what felt like the millionth time and asked why we had to move again. “Your father and I have been on the road for the last decade, and we still have so much to see,” my mother said. Then, she broke out in song, snapping her pale fingers to the beat. “Ain’t no stopping us now! We’re on the move!”
She was right. The party carried on clear until I was ten, and only came to a screeching halt when my father got a bad batch of heroine and overdosed. After that, I thought we’d settle down somewhere nice and quiet, but my mother was restless. We moved from Chicago to Miami to New York, before shuffling around Texas where rents were cheap and the men seemed unable to resist my mother’s charms.
And I totally get it; my mother is a gorgeous woman. Despite her crazy partying, hard drinking, and a long line of paramours, most people mistake her for my older sister—only she’s porcelain-skinned and blonde, and I’m tanned with a mop of brunette curls. I may look like my mother’s raven-haired twin, but I told myself we couldn’t be more different.
Sandy Jane, my mother, was flighty, irresponsible, and a complete fuckup. I wasn’t. I colored within the lines, got good grades, and fought like hell to keep from falling down the same dark rabbit hole that swallowed both my parents.
I filled up my lungs with as much air as they could hold, and then slowly exhaled. “Get it together, Nola,” I told myself, trying to get my head in the game. I returned to the busy dining room intent on putting the last few minutes behind me and making enough tips to finally pay my cell phone bill.
As I walked toward my next customer, I manufactured a smile and tried to push Ross’ warning to the back of my brain. He couldn’t possibly be serious about firing me; I was one of the best waitresses at Pink Taco. The customers loved me, I rarely messed up orders, and I never complained. Ross wasn’t stupid enough to let me go. At least, I hoped he wasn’t.
When I got to the table I smiled, but kept my eyes on my order pad. “Welcome to Pink Taco. What can I get for you this evening?”
“Hey, Nola.”
My head snapped up at the famil
iar sound of his voice.
“Scout? What are you—“
He cut me off. “Dreaming just wasn’t enough.”
He gave me a generous smile and the beating in my chest quickened. Was he here…for me? It had been four days since I saw him at the party, not that I was counting—okay, maybe I was. But as I watched Scout’s eyes snake their way up my body, pausing on my curvaceous hips and round breasts, I still wasn’t convinced he’d come to Pink Taco just for me.
I glanced at the empty seat across from him. “Are you waiting on someone?”
“No,” he grinned, “it’s just me.”
“Okay then.” I sighed and my lips curled into an instant smile. I was a little too happy he’d come to the restaurant alone, but why?
Sure Scout was handsome, but I’d met plenty of good-looking guys since I’d been in L.A. Most of them happened to be pretentious jerks who juggled more women than circus acts, but something about Scout felt different and familiar.
Usually, I was on autopilot at work, but he threw me off my game. I felt the overwhelming urge to slide into his booth and go swimming in his big brown eyes, but I couldn’t afford to give Ross any more reasons to fire me. Instead, I chewed my bottom lip and reminded myself to be professional.
“What can I get for you, Scout?”
He shrugged, and then beamed up at me. “What I want isn’t on the menu.”
“Oh, uh, how about you, umm,” I stammered, completely flustered by Scout’s intoxicating charm. He stared at me, seemingly amused and totally aware he was turning me into a blathering idiot. Still I kept talking. What else could I do?
“Drinks. Yes, yes, that’s it.” I sighed, thankful I remembered what the hell to do. “Can I start you off with a drink?”
“Sure. I’ll take a beer.”
“What kind? We have a pretty wide selection of imported and domestics. We also have a few craft beers and beer cocktails, and…” I rattled on “I mean,” I took a breath, “what kind of beer would you like?”
He stared at me and held his smile. “Surprise me.”
“Umm, okay,” I said, thrown for a loop. Usually male customers were particular about their beers, refusing to drink some brands or demanding others, but Scout didn’t seem to care at all. I watched him for a moment trying to figure him out, but nothing about him made sense.
Scout looked like a Calvin Klein model, with a tapered crew cut and sparkling chestnut eyes, but he didn’t act like it. No pretentious attitude, no you-know-you-want-me looks, no entitlement. He wasn’t an asshole even though everything about his appearance—his designer jeans, crisp button-down shirt, and gorgeous face—told me he should be.
“Have you had a chance to look at the menu? Can I get you started with an appetizer, or dinner?”
Scout’s eyes flickered under the dim lights, holding my gaze. I wanted to look away because I was certain my cheeks were flaming again, but I just couldn’t stop gazing into his eyes.
“Surprise me.”
“What? I don’t understand.” I cocked my head to the side. “Do you just want a beer or do you want to eat as well because it’s still happy hour and we have some really good specials. We have nachos, really good hot wings, and, of course, tacos.” Oh no, I was blabbering again. “Any of those interests you?”
“Nola, you can bring me anything. Pick something, I trust your judgment.”
“Anything?” I was still confused. Who goes into a restaurant to order just anything?
“Anything,” he said, unmoved.
“Okay, then, I’ll get started on that right away.” I turned on my heels and started walking away from Scout’s table, but then something hit me. “Wait,” I said, turning back, “do you have any allergies? Because I’d hate to pick something that’ll send you to the hospital. That happened to me once, you know. This guy didn’t tell me he was allergic to nuts and ordered the brownie and almost went into anaphylactic shock right at the table and—”
He chuckled, seemingly amused by my nervous chatter. “Nola.” He said my name with a smile in his voice and I stopped droning on. “Seriously, I trust you. Bring whatever you think I’d like.”
I considered his words for a moment. “Fish? Chicken? Beef? Anything?”
Scout chortled, shaking his head. “Anything.”
“Alright then. I’ll be right back with your drink.”
I walked to the computer to put in Scout’s order, but froze. What the hell was I going to choose? As I ran through the options, I scoured my brain for the perfect dish. Salads were out of the question. Scout didn’t appear to be one of those annoying vegans who only ate tofu, kale, and fake cheese. Even fully clothed you could tell he worked out a lot, and probably ate copious amounts of meat to keep his muscles rock-hard.
Then it hit me: lobster. Scout looked like a guy who had eaten a ton of lobsters, probably at his parents’ summer home on Martha’s Vineyard, or at cocktail parties like the one I’d worked, or afternoon teas with his upper crust friends. Of course, I’d never been to those types of events. While Scout had probably grown up with a silver spoon planted firmly between his teeth, my mother thought eating Thanksgiving dinner at the Sizzler was the height of sophistication.
I punched in Scout’s order, and then ran past the bar to grab a beer. I picked out a bottle of Day of the Dead, a quirky Mexican brand, and headed back to his table.
“Here you go,” I said, handing Scout the bottle, which had a skeleton couple on the label. He studied the macabre design, and I shrugged nervously. “I took a chance.”
Scout put the amber bottle to his lips and I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he drank. For some inexplicable reason I wanted to plant my lips at the base of his neck, but forced my eyes back to his handsome face instead.
“Perfect,” he said, showing off his pearly whites.
“I’m glad you like it!” I stood for a few awkward beats suddenly unsure what I should do. Was I supposed to make small talk? Ask him why he came? Talk about his day? Most 20-year-old women knew how to talk to men, or at least pretended, but apparently I’d missed that little life lesson growing up.
Before I could think of something clever to say, Ross appeared at my back. “Nola? Can I speak with you for a second?”
“Uh, sure.” I turned my attention back to Scout and smiled. “Your food should be out shortly.”
He nodded and I trudged over to speak to Ross, already dreading whatever it was he had to say. It couldn’t possibly be good. His eyebrows were furrowed and his mouth was drawn into a tight, rigid line.
“Hey Ross, what’s up?”
“Is this a single’s bar?” he asked, incredulous.
“What?”
“You and Romeo over there,” he gestured toward Scout, “knock it off.”
“Knock what off, Ross? I don’t understand.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re over there cheesing in Romeo’s face while your other customers are flagging down the other girls. Get it together, Nola. You’re already on thin ice.”
Ross stomped away and I glanced around the busy dining room. All of the waitresses were zipping about the room with heavy trays of food and drinks, looking completely harried. Had I left them hanging? For Scout?
I shook off the thought and told myself to get it together. I kinda hated Ross; he was a pompous asshole who thought he was better than the rest of us because he was the manager. But I loved most of my coworkers, who were a mix of students like me, or new grads just trying to make ends meet. Ross was right, lavishing attention on Scout wasn’t fair to the other girls. I had to stop.
My eyes, on the other hand, weren’t cooperating. I glanced at Scout’s table, and to my surprise, he was looking at me, his face a mixture of concern and something else. Pity? Did he feel sorry for me because I got chewed out or because I was a waitress? I hoped it wasn’t the latter because I refused to become anybody’s poor, lowly charity case—no matter how handsome they are.
I pushed thoughts of Scout to the
back of my brain and threw myself into work, taking orders, clearing tables, and smiling wide. I couldn’t have Ross on my back for anything—being late or paying too much attention to Scout, so I stayed away from his table, which was way harder than I thought it would be.
The food runners delivered Scout’s lobster enchiladas, and I resigned myself to stolen glances while I served the rest of my customers. When he was almost done with his meal, I decided to stop by his table.
“Hey Scout, how’s everything?”
“It’s fine, except—“
“You don’t like the lobster enchiladas? It’s kind of a different taste, but I thought you might like it. Guess I was wrong,” I offered a sheepish smile.
“No, those were great actually. It’s just—“
“Oh shoot, another beer. I totally forgot to ask if you wanted another one. I got so swamped with the other customers and my boss was—“ I stopped rambling. “Would you like another beer?”
He shook his head. “No, that’s not it either. I was—“
“Dessert! Would you like to look at our dessert menu? We’ve got some good ones. Fried ice cream, cheesecake—“
“Nola,” he said, his voice firm, but not angry or pushy. “The food was great, and I don’t want dessert.”
I scrunched up my face. “Then I don’t get it. What was wrong?”
“You.” He smiled.
“Me?” I was confused, what the hell was he talking about? I’d gone along with his crazy idea to choose a beer and pick his food, which he said he enjoyed, but I was somehow the problem? Seriously? “I…I don’t understand.”
I ran the events of the evening through my head and nothing seemed off, other than being yelled at by my boss for paying too much attention to Scout. Maybe he didn’t like it—or me—after all.
“I’m sorry you felt my service was inadequate,” I said, rattling off the company line. “Please let me know how I can make it up to you.”
“Have dinner with me, Nola.”
“Wait. What?” I eyed him suspiciously. Did he expect me to have dinner with him to make up for being a bad waitress? The customer was always right, but I wasn’t about to whore myself out just because I forgot to bring him another beer. “I don’t think that’s appropriate, Scout. I can comp your drink, or if you really didn’t enjoy your meal my manager can see to it that it’s free.”
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