When You're Ready

by Danielle, Britni

  “Wait, what?” I looked at him like he was crazy. “You can’t just make me work a double shift two days in a row, Ross. I’m pretty sure that’s against the law.”

  A smirk crossed his lips and he shrugged. “Maybe, but no one else can take them. Besides, you’re always on my ass about giving you more hours, so you’re on. You’ll be working from Noon to 12 on Saturday and Sunday. Don’t be late.”

  He scooted over to his computer, began typing, and ignored me. It was clear he thought our chat was over and he wanted me to leave, but there was no way I could pull two double shifts and get my paper done. I could use the extra money, but I needed to pass Professor St. James’ class even more.

  “Ross, you know I would totally work the whole thing if I could, but I really need to get an A on this paper and I don’t have a lot of time to work on it. If I don’t pass this class I’ll lose my partial scholarship, and—“

  He held up his hand again, quieting me. “Nola. I understand you’re between a rock and hard place, but so am I.”

  “Maybe Roxy can—“

  He knitted his brows and drew his lips into a tight line. “Not a chance.”

  “Okay, maybe Nancy? Or Janie? Or Isabella? Or—”

  “Look, you’re in a jam. I get it, so am I. But you’re working, and that’s that.”

  “But I can’t,” I shrieked, louder than I wanted, causing his head to jerk toward me. I swallowed hard and softened my tone. “I mean, I was planning to spend the weekend researching and—“

  “Listen Nola. You’re already on thin ice with the lateness and the backtalk.”

  “Backtalk? What do you even mean?”

  He gestured toward me. “This…this attitude. You may get away with it with your little college boyfriends, but you can’t have it your way around here.”

  My eyes grew wide. “My what?”

  “You heard me,” he glared at me, like I was some kind of insufferable fool.

  “This isn’t fair. Ross!” my voice rose again. “I always work my shifts and I never take a day off or anything. I just can’t work any extra hours this weekend.”

  “You mean you won’t. You can, but you won’t. Correct?”

  “Yes. I mean, no,” I stammered. “It’s not like that. I have to work on this paper, or else—”

  “I sympathize with you, I do. But if you’re not here at noon on Saturday don’t bother coming in at all. I’m sick of bending over backward for you, Nola.”

  I gasped. “What?”

  Ross had clearly lost his mind. I had never asked him for any special favors, never complained, and certainly didn’t require any special accommodations. Excusing the times I was five or ten minutes late certainly could not be described as “bending over backward,” especially when I usually stayed way past my shift was over just to help out. It was official; he’d lost it.

  “You heard me,” he said. “You think you can waltz in here whenever you want…”

  “Whenever I want? You make it sound like I’m late everyday. Sure, I’ve been a few minutes behind a few times, but it’s not because I don’t care. I take the bus, Ross. You know that.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t ‘waltz in,’” I said using air quotes. “I run in and get straight to work.”

  Ross shrugged again like he was bored. “Whatever. See you at noon.”

  “Ross—“

  “Noon or not at all. Your choice, Nola.”

  “Some damn choice,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all, Ross.”

  I stumbled out into the hallway and took several deep breaths. I could feel the tears gathering behind my eyes again, but refused to let Ross break me down. I’d done enough crying for one day, anyway.

  I needed a plan. I had to figure out how the hell I was going to write a 20-page research paper that would wow Professor St. James and work two back-to-back double shifts.

  Just thinking about what I was up against felt impossible; I needed some reassurance I could actually pull it off. I fished my phone out of my pocket and fired off a quick text to Scout.

  Nola: Still down to help me with my paper?

  Before I could slip it back into my apron he’d replied.

  Scout: Yup, I’ll bring the coffee.

  Nola: Good! But we’re going to need something a lot stronger than coffee.

  Scout: Uh oh, what happened?

  Nola: I’ll explain later, ok? Thanks, Scout :)

  Scout: Anything for you, baby.

  Anything, huh? I wondered if he actually meant it.

  11 Scout

  I checked my phone for what was probably the millionth time to see if Nola had sent me another message. Unfortunately she hadn’t. Compared to the boring-ass business dinner I had been subjected to, Nola’s texts felt like notes straight from heaven.

  She had me worried, though. I knew Nola was exhausted when I dropped her off at work, but hearing she also had to take orders from drunk, obnoxious, assholes who were hoping to convince her to sleep with them made my blood boil. Nola was fucking gorgeous in a way that she didn’t even realize, and it drove me absolutely nuts. Hell, it probably drove most guys nuts, which is why I kept glancing at my phone every couple of minutes.

  “Hey man, do you have somewhere you need to be?” Ethan asked from across the table. He was another tech nerd turned millionaire, but unlike me, he’d had a Waspy, middle-class childhood and dropped out of Stanford to start his first company.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Dude, you’ve been looking at your phone all night. What’s up? Hooking up with that model again?”

  “Who?” I asked, looking at my phone trying to decide if I should send Nola another text.

  “The hot blonde you hooked up with at AREA a little while ago.”

  I thought back to the night Ethan dragged me to the ultra trendy West Hollywood club. We were trying to woo a potential investor, but instead I ended up making out with a girl I’d met in VIP.

  She looked like your typical L.A. girl—perfect tan, expensive dye job, pricey stilettos, and super skinny with artificially huge breasts. When Ethan introduced us I wasn’t all that interested because I had been with countless girls just like her. They were fun for a time, but about as deep as a kiddie pool and were only interested in what they could get from a guy like me. I had no plans to take her home, but when she offered to give me head in the back of my Range Rover, I didn’t turn it down.

  When she was done, the girl put her number in my phone and teetered back inside the club to keep partying with her friends. I left and never called.

  I shook my head, I hadn’t even thought about her until Ethan brought her up. “Nah, man, not her. Hanging with someone else. She gets off at midnight, so we need to wrap this up,” I said, stealing a look at my watch.

  “Why don’t you invite her to come party with us? You’ve been glued to your phone all evening, so I know she’s hot. I know I don’t have all the muscles and tattoos, but do you think she’d be into a guy like me?” He grinned and I had to stop myself from punching him in the face.

  “Not on your fucking life, Ethan,” I growled, despite the fact that I had passed him my leftovers plenty of times before. “Not this time.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Chill, man. Relax.” He started chuckling before suddenly turning serious. “Wait. You’re not going soft are you?” I frowned at him, but didn’t say a word. “Holy shit! Scout Clayborne is pussy whipped!” Ethan howled with laugher.

  “Don’t make me kick your ass, man. You know you can’t fight worth shit.”

  I sipped my drink trying to figure out what the hell I felt for Nola. Ever since I met her I couldn’t get her out of my head, but pussy whipped? I had never been in love before, never even believed it really existed. I mean, if my parents didn’t give a shit about me, how could I expect anyone else to, especially a girl I just met? But something about Nola made me think it m
ight be possible.

  Ethan finished laughing and drained his drink. “The playboy has finally met his match, eh? Damn man.” He shook his head again. “I think we’ve talked enough business for one night. Go get your girl.”

  * * *

  Nola walked out of Pink Taco looking tired, but somehow, still beautiful. Her shoulders sagged and she rubbed her neck before taking out a wad of cash and counting the bills.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” I said, wondering how often she counted her money in public.

  “Scout?” She walked toward me still holding the bills in her hand. “What are you doing here?”

  “First, put that away. You can’t be out here with a bunch of money in your hand.” She started to speak, but changed her mind and put the cash in her bag. “Second, it’s midnight, right? I came to give you a ride home.”

  Nola cocked her head to the side and stared at me. “First, I told you that wasn’t necessary. I’d figure it out.” She covered her mouth and yawned before continuing her sentence. “And second,” she crossed her arms like she was about to cop an attitude. “Thank you.”

  Nola broke into a huge smile and I couldn’t help but match her grin. I thought she was going to give me shit for showing up at her job unannounced, but she looked too exhausted to be upset. I grabbed her hand and we walked to my car. When we got inside, Nola handed me a ten-dollar bill.

  “What’s this?”

  “Gas money,” she said with a straight face.

  I broke out laughing. “Seriously?”

  “I give Tara gas money for taking me home sometimes. Since we don’t know each other that well yet, I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage of you or something.”

  “Nola, I showed up at your job to give you a ride because it’s late and I was worried about you. How could you be taking advantage of me?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno. I just don’t want you to think I’m trying to get over on you. We’re friends, Scout. I want you to know I appreciate you.”

  Friends. The last thing I wanted to do was be Nola’s fucking friend. Thinking she needed to pay for my gas was bad enough, but now she just wanted to be friends?

  I tore out of the parking lot and headed toward her apartment, speeding down the empty streets reeling from the F-bomb. I had enough friends back in Pacoima; I didn’t need to add a gorgeous one to the mix. Besides, I didn’t want to be Nola’s BFF. I wanted to be her man.

  I gripped the steering wheel and punched on the gas as we headed down Wilshire. I had to convince Nola I could be more than just a friend, more than some guy who gave her rides from work and helped her with her paper. I had to make her realize how serious I was about getting to know her and opening my heart—whatever was left of it anyway.

  By the time we got to La Brea I decided I would be Nola’s friend— until I could show her I wanted so much more.

  “Hey, you okay?” Nola asked. I turned to glance at her and saw her eyes knitted in concern.

  “Yeah, I’m cool. Why? What’s up?”

  “It’s just…you’re squeezing that steering wheel so hard it might break off in your hands, and you’ve been speeding like one of those crazy pizza delivery guys in that commercial.”

  “What?” I asked, thrown for a loop.

  “You know those commercials where the pizza is bouncing all around while the guy does like 100 miles-per-hour? That’s you right now, Scout.”

  I winced, but didn’t say anything.

  “Look, I really appreciate you giving me a ride tonight…and earlier today. And yesterday,” she said, and I loosened my grip on the wheel. “It means a lot to me. I owe you big time.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Nola shook her head and placed her hand on my arm; I flinched. “Scout, it’s totally not nothing,” she snapped her finger, “I know. I’ll make you dinner. Just as a thank you.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yeah, it will be awesome! Let’s see,” she tapped her chin, “what’s your favorite meal?”

  I glanced over at her and she was looking at me expectantly. “I don’t really have one.”

  “What?” she gasped. “How can you not have a favorite meal?”

  I shrugged, it had just worked out like that. Growing up, I ate so infrequently anything I had instantly became my favorite meal because I never knew where the next one was coming from. Explaining this to Nola, however, was out of the question.

  “What did your mom cook the most when you were younger?”

  “My mom didn’t really cook a lot,” I said flatly, not adding the part about her being too busy scoring drugs to care about whether I lived or died.

  “Mine either, actually. My dad cooked a lot. He was really good at it, too. Did your dad cook?”

  Yes, crack, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “Not really.”

  “So what did you eat growing up?” She asked, and I suddenly felt uncomfortable with her innocent line of questioning.

  I hunched my shoulders and floored it again. “Mostly stuff from a box. Hamburger Helper and whatnot.”

  I saw Nola watch me from the corner of my eye. “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to cook you a real meal.”

  We pulled up in front of her apartment and for once, I couldn’t wait for Nola to leave. I hated that she saw me as just a friend, but I was even more bothered by the wound she’d opened up about my parents. I didn’t like thinking about them—or the shit they’d put me through—at all. And I didn’t want to unload my parental baggage on Nola. Not right now; I hadn’t even won her over yet.

  She put her hand on my thigh and my dick instantly began to swell, betraying the anger I felt receding in my chest. Thinking about my parents pissed me the hell off, but somehow, Nola’s touch made all of that bottled up rage dissipate into thin air.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  I leaned my head against the headrest and stared at her. “Talk about what?”

  Her eyes softened and she sighed. “Sorry, Scout.”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” I said, hoping my cock would go down.

  “Yeah, I do,” she said, her voice as sweet as maple syrup. “I should have paid attention to the signs.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You and your parents. You guys aren’t cool, right?”

  I looked away from her, focusing on a cat scurrying across the street outside of my window instead.

  “Hey.” Nola grabbed my face and brought it back to her direction. “I’m sorry, okay? I know what it feels like when people ask you about your family and that’s absolutely the last thing you want to talk about because it hurts too much.”

  “You don’t understand,” I mumbled, on the verge of spilling my guts.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  I slid her palm to my lips and kissed it. I wanted to tell Nola everything, wanted to show her the cigarette burns my parents left dotted across my legs and chest. I wanted to explain why I still stayed up all night coding even though I had more money in the bank than I would probably be able to spend in this lifetime or the next. But I was scared.

  If I peeled back the layers and let Nola into the darkest, most painful parts of my life I was afraid I’d lose her too.

  “Nola, I—“ I started to speak, but she shushed me, placing a finger to my lips.

  “It’s okay. Whenever you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here.” She grabbed her bag and kissed me on the cheek. “Goodnight, Scout. Thanks for the ride…and for everything.”

  Nola opened the door, but before she could get out of the car I grabbed her hand.

  “My parents,” I started, but quickly stopped, too scared I’d be the one in tears this time. I leaned my head back again and exhaled loudly. “They were completely fucked up.”

  Nola closed the door and stroked my hand while I sat there trying to figure out what the hell to say. I could feel the words building in my throat while
all of the ugly emotions I’d swallowed over the years bubbled in my gut, threatening to come spewing out.

  I didn’t want to talk about my parents, had told myself I would never mention them again if I could help it. But I couldn’t squash the desire to crack myself open for Nola. I wanted her to see the real me. I needed it.

  Nola traced her fingers over the back of my hand, making small soothing circles. To my surprise she didn’t ask me a bunch of questions I wasn’t prepared to answer, she just waited until I was ready to say more.

  “I grew up in the valley, Pacoima actually. Are you familiar with it?”

  “No…not really.”

  “Well, back in the day it had a lot of gangs, crime, and drugs. And not a lot of White people,” I chuckled in spite of myself, remembering how I was called a bolillo, or white bread, for most of my childhood. “My parents were heavy into drugs. Cocaine at first, and when that got too expensive, crack.” I stole a glance at Nola to see if she was planning to run. Her eyes met mine and they were still gentle and caring and she didn’t look like she was itching to leave. “They were always high or drunk or some combination or both, so I was on my own a lot. I got into a lot of trouble when I was younger—fights, stealing stuff, smoking weed, that sort of thing—and a lot of kids in the neighborhood gave me shit about being White.”

  “Because you didn’t fit in,” she said just above a whisper.

  I nodded.

  “I can totally relate.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she said, still rubbing her thumb along my hand. “I’ve never really fit in anywhere. I was always too White to be a considered a real Black girl, and too Black to be considered White.”

  “Then you understand. It seemed like every time I stepped outside of my door people ragged on me about one thing or another. If it wasn’t because I was white, then they ribbed me about my crackhead parents. And it if wasn’t that, they talked about how poor we were. I couldn’t catch a break, so I got really, really good at throwing punches.”

  “At least you had that.”

  “Yeah, it almost got me killed a few times, but I made it.”

  “And look at you now,” Nola smiled. “You survived.”