Page 20 of Ready or Not (The Nape #I)

The smartest thing would’ve been to wait for Tony to hit me back up.

Abuela always told me patience was a virtue, yet here I was in Williamsburg contradicting my better judgment.

Chasing a possible clue about Solène’s whereabouts, I was like some feen chasing their next fix. I knew better than to act the way I was acting, but desperation had a way of rearranging my boundaries.

I refused to repeat the pattern of having another fling not work out, leaving me holding a bag full of regrets and “what ifs.”

I refused to listen to a constant narrative where I wasn’t enough for someone to stay.

Not this time.

Not with her.

So yeah… I was out here in the fucking heat of Brooklyn, sweating bullets through my shirt as the sun beat down on me like it had a vendetta. However, it was better than sitting at home replaying our last moment for the thousandth time.

“Did the noon class already finish?” I asked the brunette dressed in bright pink at the white counter.

Yun’s Pilates was the first place I started digging. While it wasn’t much to go on, it was worth checking out.

"You're looking for someone specific?" she teased, her voice dripping with something else I didn’t have time to unpack. Giving me a once-over before sensually biting her lip, she leaned forward, her bright blue acrylic nails tapping an uneven rhythm that matched my rising impatience.

Was she trying to… Breathe, Des. breathe.

“Yeah,” I nodded, ignoring the way her eyes looked at me like I was her meal. “I was hoping to catch her before she went home.”

“Oh,” she purred. “You sure you’re not just here to see me?"

"I'm sure."

She tapped her nails again like she was savoring the moment as she looked at me over again. Seconds—or what felt like hours passed before she finally let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head.

“Did it end or?—”

“Noon class just ended about fifteen minutes ago,” she finally said.

“If your friend was here, she’s already gone.

Most of the girls leave pretty quickly..

. unless they're hanging around for the juice bar or whatever.

" She gestured vaguely toward the other side of the street, where a small crowd gathered near a neon sign flickering Refuel .

I clenched my jaw, biting back the urge to snap for having wasted my time. Instead, I nodded curtly.

“Thanks.”

Her lips curled into a smirk, as if my frustration amused her. “You sure you don’t want to leave your name or... I don’t know your number? In case I see her?”

Ignoring the blatant invitation in her tone, I shook my head. “I’ll take my chances.”

The smirk faltered for just a second before she shrugged and leaned back from the counter, clearly deciding I wasn’t worth more of her time.

Good.

I had enough distractions to deal with.

Got a juice bar to check out.

Of course, it couldn’t be this easy.

I spent my entire afternoon checking every potential business around the pilates studio that gave the vibe Solène might stop at.

The juice bar? A bust.

The little artisan bakery two doors down? Nada.

A vegan café down the street? Useless.

Even an artsy little shop two blocks over, with vinyls, turned out to be nothing but a waste of precious time. Williamsburg was turning into a maze of dead ends, each one mocking me for thinking I’d find her so easily.

If Abuela could see this right now… she’d be laughing her ass off, shaking her head and muttering something about me being a fool for chasing after someone like this.

But papá would’ve nodded—he always said a man should fight for what matters to him, no matter how foolish it might look to everyone else.

And right now? She mattered.

The sun was starting to dip low, painting the sidewalks in gold as my stomach growled its protest for the last thing I ate was some coffee and a baconegg&cheese.

People buzzed around me, wrapped in their own lives.

Tony still hadn’t answered my calls—probably ‘cause he was either high or trying to sleep off last night’s festivities.

I checked my watch, frustrated that I spent four hours wandering a part of Brooklyn I barely knew for a clue that probably didn’t exist.

Four hours chasing fantasmas.

I should quit and go home.

Pack it up and admit that Solène—for now—was a phantom I wasn’t catching.

I was operating on fumes and needed more than blind hope to get anywhere.

Cursing under my breath, I opened my phone to call for a ride home. I was ready to give up, but my screen lit up with a call, Tony’s name flashing across it like some cruel cosmic joke.

Gracias, Madre Mía.

Remind me to light a candle for you later, I swiped to answer faster than a broke man catching a dollar in the wind. "Took you long enough, perra."

"Fuck you too," came Tony's scratchy voice on the other end, clearly still half-asleep. I could hear faint music in the background—some reggaeton track echoing through wherever he was. “The fuck you call me so many times for? You in trouble or something?”

“You got Naomi’s number?” I asked, cutting straight to the point. “I need it.”

He paused for a second, maybe longer, giving me that telltale silence that meant he was either thinking too hard or about to give me shit. “You calling me like it’s life or death just for Naomi’s number? You serious right now? On top of that… no hi or hello?”

“Don’t piss me off. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day, pendejo.”

“Fine, fine,” He groaned, the sound strained and heavy, like I’d just asked him to move a mountain.

“But why Naomi? Why the hell you looking for her number—wait… is this about her friend, Solène? Cause I seen that Naomi texted me a couple of hours ago asking for yours. Something about her friend. Y’all looked cute together last night. ”

Wait… Naomi wanted my number for Solène?

Was she trying to reach out to me, too?

My stomach flipped, hope sparking like a faulty lighter. For a moment, I stood frozen in the middle of the crowded Brooklyn sidewalk, my mind racing as I processed my best friend’s words.

Could this finally be the break I was looking for?

“Yo, Des. You still there?”

“Yeah… She texted you?”

“Maaaan,” he said, his voice still groggy.

“She was all like, Oh, can you send me his number? She didn’t give me much more detail than that, but I could tell she was serious ‘cause she usually ghosts me for days before texting back about anything.

This was the first time I've seen her hit me up that many times in an hour.”

“Please tell me you sent it to her." I was going to lose my mind if he hadn’t followed through.

"Nah, I figured I'd check with you first," he said, dragging the words in that lazy drawl of his. "Didn't wanna just hand it out like that, y’know?"

"Jesús," I hissed. The heat slapped me again like a disapproving abuelita’s chancla, but I barely felt it over the tight coil of frustration winding in my chest. "You could’ve solved this hours ago??"

“Vato, slow down,” He yawned loudly, the sound crackling through the phone like static. “I just woke up. Besides, how was I supposed to know it was urgent? Not like you sent me a heads-up or anything."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, crossing the street to dodge a group of teens on skateboards. “I’m gonna smack the shit out you. I called like six times!”

“Aight, main, Aight. Calmate,” he muttered, sounding more amused than concerned. “I’m on it. Hold your damn horses.”

I heard faint clicks as he typed—agonizingly slow.

"You sent it yet?" I snapped, already mentally chewing through the seconds he was wasting.

"Patience is a virtue, hermano," he drawled lazily, finishing with a loud tap of his screen. "And... done. Naomi’s got your number now. Happy?"

Relief punched through my chest like a sledgehammer, loosening the knot of tension I'd been carrying all day. I was finally close to my answers—or at least a lead. "Finally. You're almost useful for once."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, stifling another yawn. "I expect a thank-you in oxtail pizza next time we hit up that spot in Bed-Stuy."

"Don’t hold your breath,” I tucked the phone back into my pocket, ignoring the growing heat on the back of my neck.

Did Solène tell Naomi about last night?

Is that why she’s looking for me?

The questions swirled in my head, colliding and twisting until they tangled into an impossible knot.

But what if— I sighed, and shook off the brew of doubts before they could settle.

What-ifs wouldn't get me anywhere.

Neither was standing here in the middle of the street. It was better to go home than to let my mind wander in circles. If she really wanted to talk, then I’d hear from her soon enough. Running around like this—winding through endless blocks, chasing nothing—I was just wearing myself out.

Reaching into my pocket again, I pulled out my phone to check Uber prices and winced at the surge fare.

Typical.

Looks like I’m doing the train.

Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I crossed the street to enter the L subway station.

I could already feel the nasty heat of the subway platform wrapping around me like a simmering stew.

The stale air underground was somehow worse than the street, clinging to my skin and making every step feel heavier.

I grew restless, my fingers brushing the edge of my phone screen like I could will it to buzz with a message from Naomi.

The train wasn’t due for another six minutes, and every second dragged like I was stuck in molasses.

Finding a pillar to stand against, I leaned back and stared at the pavement across the tracks, my mind spinning faster than the approaching train could ever go.

Sweat trickled down the back of my neck in salty rivers, clinging to the edge of my white shirt.

The screech of an incoming service announcement crackled overhead, but I barely registered the garbled voice.

My focus tunneled into the black void beyond the tracks, where faint yellow headlights flickered.

Five minutes left.

My hands itched to check my phone again—just to make sure I hadn’t missed something in those moments since Tony’s call.

Logic told me Naomi couldn’t have sent anything this fast. Hell, she might not even be next to her phone right now.

Yet the raw, stubborn part of me refused to accept that waiting patiently was my only option.

Four minutes.

My legs flexed, my shoulders twitching as commuters around me floated in and out of the station like people living lives I couldn’t touch or care about.

A man in a Yankees cap drifted by holding a duffel bag that smacked someone’s shoulder, generating a stream of muffled curses.

A couple argued quietly near the stairs—her arms crossed defensively over her chest, his fingers twitching midair like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t know how.

A rat scurried across the tracks as the eerily familiar screech of another train echoed deeper into the tunnels.

Three minutes.

The train lights grew brighter now at the end of the tunnel. My hand moved against my better judgment, lifting my phone from my jeans pocket to check yet again. No missed calls. No messages. Nothing but a blank notification screen mocking me.

I cursed under my breath and shoved it back in place.

Staring wouldn’t make anything happen. Still, Naomi’s text—or lack thereof—had my thoughts spinning into endless theories.

Did Solène change her mind before reaching out?

Did Naomi forget that Tony sent her my number?

Or worse, did something happen that none of us could’ve planned for?

Two minutes.

The air shifted as the approaching train churned it into a warm gust. Around me, commuters began drifting closer to the edge of the platform, positioning themselves without thought or care about what might come next in anyone else’s world.

Just monotony.

Steps to follow and routines that would reset tomorrow like clockwork.

One minute.

The lights of the train grew blinding as it rounded the bend, the sound of its grinding wheels rising.

My chest felt tight, every heartbeat echoing with an impatient thrum that matched the rhythm of the train's approach. It wasn’t just frustration anymore.

It was the heat, the noise, the weight of waiting for something I couldn’t control.

I thought about skipping it—letting this train come and go while I paced this sticky, filthy platform like some idiot waiting for answers from a line that might never call back.

However, what would that solve?

Another twenty to thirty minutes until another train crawled through, and then what?

More standing around like a dumbass?

No. I’d get on, head home, and let Naomi do whatever she needed to do.

Solène could make her move if that’s what she wanted.

Her friend had my number now.

The screeching brakes screamed louder as the train came to a halting stop in front of me. Doors hissed open. People pushed against each other with nonchalance as they filed in and out like cattle—heads down, eyes glossed over, thoughts hidden behind AirPods or cheap knockoffs.

And then, just as I stepped forward to board, a flash of terracotta hair caught my eye through the shifting bodies on the other side of the platform. My breath hitched with a sharpness that felt like swallowing chivo picante down the wrong hole once the person turned—because there she was.

My Butterfingers.