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Besides, I told myself, after dealing with Professor St. James’ antics I needed to see a friendly face.
    “So I’ll see you there in, what, a half hour?” he asked.
    I tried to calculate how long it would take me to get from UCLA to the Getty Center on the metro. It was only a few miles away, but with traffic and the constant stop-and-go of the bus, who knew how long it would take.
    “Let’s make it an hour.”
    “Great!” he said, and I could hear the excitement in his voice. “I’ll see you there.”
    “Hey Scout,” I said, my face spreading into a smile. “Lunch is on me.”

 
    5 Scout
     
    She finally called, and I almost missed it.
    I had crawled into bed just after seven a.m. and fallen into a restless sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I wondered if I should run back to Nola’s job to see her again, but I didn’t want to scare her away. I had enough baggage I’d have to convince her to accept, I didn’t need to add “stalker” to the list.
    Before my phone rang I’d drifted into a semi-deep sleep and didn’t want to give up my first real chance at rest, but something told me to pick it up. And I’m glad I did.
    As soon as she said hello I knew it was Nola. She sounded so nervous and cute thanking me for the tip. I wanted to tell her I’d give her anything, but I knew I couldn’t come on too strong. Not yet at least.
    Listening to her voice in my ear made me want to race to her campus, bring her home and lay her down in my bed, just so I could wake up to those beautiful hazel eyes.
    My house was up the hill from the Getty, so I had a little time to prepare for our date. Normally I didn’t care what I wore around a woman, it didn’t seem to matter anyway. But this was different; I actually wanted to impress Nola.
    I jumped in the shower, soaped my tired muscles and washed my hair. When I got out, I scanned my closet for the perfect outfit. I had to laugh at myself; I was behaving like a teenaged girl. If my boys saw me now they’d never stop cracking jokes on me.
    I grimaced. What would Nola think of my friends?
    My boys were a ragtag bunch of guys I’d grown up with in Pacoima. A few had gone off to college and had gotten out of the neighborhood, most worked two or three jobs to survive, and some made their living just on the other side of the law. But I loved them all; they were my brothers.
    I pulled on a pair of jeans and marveled at how lucky I’d been. When I was 16, I got into a back alley brawl with this kid from another neighborhood in the hopes that I’d win a few hundred bucks.
    Everyone had bet on the fight, and although I had never trained, I had enough pent-up rage to take on half of his friends. The fight was a bloody affair, I broke his nose, and I had a huge gash in my forehead before we were done. But like most things, I won. Instead of wasting the money on a shit-ton of weed and partying with my boys I bought a secondhand laptop and fell in love with coding.
    It was like I was addicted to my computer. I dropped out of high school to hang out with my friends during the day, and stayed up deep into the night writing code. It paid off. A texting app I built sold for $100 million a few years ago, and since then I’d been making shit and learning how to earn more money from the sum I already had.
    I’m a long way from the days when I used to go to bed hungry, get into fights, smoke weed, and collect tattoos with my friends. I had a lot of skeletons in my closet, I just wondered if Nola could accept them.
    I searched for a shirt and pulled on a soft cotton V-neck. I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered what Nola would think of my tats. The first two times I’d seen her they were covered up by long-sleeves, but now they were on full display. My torso was covered in ink; it told the story of my life. I hoped I could share that story with Nola, but I didn’t want to scare her. She seemed so innocent and pure and wide-eyed. I’d seen enough horrible shit to last me