Bad Idea: The Complete Collection
Nicole French
Contents
Bad Idea
I. Special Delivery
II. Stay
III. Vivir Sin Aire
Epilogue
Lost Ones
I. Saudade
II. “I Got You.”
III. The Tango
IV. Homeward
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
True North
I. The Bitter and the Sweet
II. VALIÓ LA PENA
Epilogue
After Party
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Nicole French
Broken Arrow
The Other Man
Legally Yours
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or rendered fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2020 Raglan Publishing.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-950663-13-2
Bad Idea Copyright 2017 Raglan Publishing.
Lost Ones Copyright 2018 Raglan Publishing.
True North Copyright 2018 Raglan Publishing.
After Party Copyright 2019 Raglan Publishing.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite book retailer and purchase your own copy.
Bad Idea
Book One of the Bad Idea Series
I
Special Delivery
Chapter One
Layla
BOOM!
The 6 train stops with a thunderous jolt and a screech of breaks. A minute later, I jog up the stairs of the subway stop on Park Avenue and Twenty-Third, following the herd of people exiting the station.
Straight up Park is the elegant architecture of Grand Central Station; the other way, the looming buildings of the Flatiron District. It’s one-thirty on a Monday, and people scurry on and off their lunch breaks. I hear Spanish, some kind of Creole, English speakers with myriad accents, all jumbled together with the horns and throttle of the cars making their way through the impermeable Manhattan traffic. A few of the nearby corners boast coffee carts and nut vendors, the smells from which waft through the frigid January air. This is New York, chaotic and colorful, a city I have come to adore since moving here to start college.
I glance around for a coffee shop. That’s the one thing I miss about Seattle: decent coffee on every corner. The cheap stuff from the carts here makes my stomach hurt if I have too much. Since I already had two cups before my eight o’clock class this morning, I’m at my limit for what Quinn, my roommate, dubs “Borough Battery Acid.”
“Excuse me, miss.”
A deep baritone voice interrupts my thoughts, and I twist around to get out of the owner’s way. The stereotype about people in New York is that they’re mean, but that’s wrong. It’s just that there are certain social codes everyone here knows—codes like “don’t stand like an idiot in the middle of a busy sidewalk,” “don’t stand in front of the subway car doors during rush hour if you’re not getting off at the next stop,” and “never, ever drive through a crosswalk when pedestrians are present.” “I’m walking here!” is a real saying; I’ve used it myself. In a city of almost eight million people stuffed into a few small boroughs, no one has the patience for those who don’t know the rules.
Yeah. It’s a lot different than Washington.
“Sorry,” I say quickly as I step to the side.
The speaker is obscured by a tower of boxes stacked on a creaky dolly, which he’s trying to maneuver through the crowds.
“No problem, sweetie.”
He pushes by, providing an excellent view of a set of wide shoulders and a prize-worthy ass in tight blue cargo pants. Seriously, the way some men’s butts look in uniforms should be illegal. Sometimes I wish that catcalling were normal for women to do, not just men. It would level the playing field a bit. Plus it would be really satisfying to whistle after someone who looks like this guy.
Curious to see if his face is as good-looking as the rest of him, I watch to see if the hot delivery guy will turn around. But he just continues doggedly about his business like everyone else.
I shrug and check my watch again. Time to go. A small deli on the corner catches my eye. It’s not exactly espresso, but it will do the trick. My stomach will just have to deal.
* * *
“Fox, Lager, and Associates, how may I help you?”
The receptionist’s voice rings out loud and clear while I wait in the small conference room behind the donut-shaped desk. The office is cool and modern, with blonde wood floors and furnishings capped with brushed metal fixtures. The name partners, Steven Fox and Gerald Lager, pose with boy bands and pop singers in dozens of photos lining the walls along with gold records from said artists.
I was hired take the place of the regular night receptionist while she’s on maternity leave. It’s the kind of job I hope will look good on law school applications in a few more years. I’m the perfect candidate: nineteen, in my second year at NYU. Major...yeah. That’s a different story. I’m supposed to be an attorney one day—my promise to become pre-law was the entire reason they agreed to send me to NYU.
I sit alone at the long oval table, peering at the pictures and trying to distract myself from first-day nerves. The perfect, white-toothed celebrities only make me that much more self-conscious. This is an entertainment firm, where everyone works for perfect-looking people and looks like they could be one of them. April, the current receptionist, could be doing spreads at Vogue. I, on the other hand, with my petite, curvy stature and thick wavy hair, don’t look much like a fashion model. Anything but, really.
“Layla?”
Karen, the office manager and my new boss, stands in the doorway. Even at first glance, you know Karen is the kind of woman you don’t want to mess with. A thirty-something woman with a business degree and a penchant for very high-heeled shoes, Karen was born and raised in the Bronx and is the third child out of five from a family of Puerto Ricans who operate a lot of the hot dog carts in Central Park. She was the first of her family to go to college, and she didn’t mess around, graduating summa cum laude from NYU’s school of business. These are all such critical elements of her personality that she divulged them to me during my interview. It was a scare tactic, I guess—she thinks I’m just a rich kid from the suburbs, and she wanted me to be afraid of my boss.
Well, she got what she wished for. Karen scares the hell out of me. Still, maybe we’re more alike than she realizes. Like my dad, a native of Brazil, Karen takes major pains to erase any implications of her less than affluent upbringing. She wears shoes that no office manager in Manhattan has any business buying, and the waterfall of straight, caramel-colored hair is most likely the product of a very sleek and expensive way of taming hair that probably looks naturally a lot like mine—wavy and unruly.
She obviously works really hard to fit in here. It reminds me of my dad’s insistence on trading in his BMW every year whether we need to or not, or the way he refuses to let anyone call m
e anything other than American. I’m not Latina, I’m American. I’m not Brazilian, I’m American. He’s terrified of anyone thinking of me or us as something different.
I pull at the hem of my H&M skirt as I stand. I don’t look terrible, but my skirt is slightly wrinkled after I sat in class all morning, and my gray sweater is pilling everywhere. My parents might have money, but they don’t share it with me. My dad, for all his pretentions, is also a big fan of the “bootstraps” mentality. He pays for my tuition, but beyond that, I’m on my own.
“Are you ready?” Karen asks.
The only thing Karen can’t mask is her speech. A thick Bronx accent curves over every word. But accents don’t bother me. I’ve been deciphering my dad’s Portuguese-laced English my entire life.
I nod, holding up a pad of paper and pen. “Absolutely.”
Karen leads me through the halls while lecturing me on my duties. The office is constructed like a horse shoe, with Karen’s and the partners’ offices lining the exterior arc. Inside the shoe, junior associates, assistant, and one intern all sit around small wooden desks, which are blocked off from the front lobby and reception area by the conference room in the middle of everything.
I listen, take notes, and look curiously around at the groups of assistants with headsets and the few attorneys whose doors are open. Every so often, Karen stops and squints her eyeliner-laden lids as if examining me for character defects or an inability to understand the basic tasks of answering phones and keeping things stocked. I just nod, jot a few more details on my legal pad, and we continue with the training.
We circle back to the lobby, where April is answering phones.
“April will continue training you through your first shift,” Karen informs me, tapping her long, manicured nails on the lacquered wood bar rimming the reception desk. “After that, you’re on your own. Think you can handle it?”
Her condescension grates, but I’m not about to tell her that. She seems like the type who, when it really comes down to it, wouldn’t mind breaking a few of those pretty nails on someone’s face if they cross her the wrong way.
I blink and smile. “Got it.”
* * *
The job is cake. If I have nothing to do in between phone calls, I’m allowed to study or read. No problem here; what college student doesn’t want to get paid to study?
Sometime around six o’clock, April’s giving me the low-down on office gossip when the elevator doors open. Although during my shift several clients and couriers have already arrived, some of them even recognizably famous, this is the only person who causes April to tense. Her pale, porcelain face flushes a girlish pink.
Immediately, at least three instant message windows appear on her computer from some of the assistants in the back:
Jenny: Is he here?
Marie: It’s six—who just arrived?
Paula: Damn, I’m on a call!
I look at April. “What’s going on?”
She shakes her head and swallows audibly, like something is caught in her throat. Before I can ask again, April pushes her blonde hair behind her ears and somehow finds a way to speak to the person walking into the lobby.
“Oh, ah, hi, Nico,” she stammers almost a little too loudly.
I suppress a chuckle and shuffle my training notes instead of greeting this Nico person, whoever he is. Give me a break. I’ve met at least four genuinely famous people today—one of them a Top-Forty pop star—and I didn’t flinch. What’s this guy got that he makes a bunch of hotshot lawyers act like clucking hens?
But when I do look up, it’s like the air evaporated from my lungs, like I’ve been hit hard by a sack of bricks. As if someone has slapped me hard across the face. Or submerged my body in a bucket of numbing ice water. My vision actually blurs, and I can’t feel my legs.
It’s a really, really good thing I’m sitting down.
He is so unbelievably beautiful. I say that instead of sexy or handsome or good-looking because these words don’t cover it. They’re too external, too superficial for the charisma that radiates from the man in front of me. His appeal could obviously make a nun toss out her habit, and I’m no nun. Neither, from the way she’s squirming uncomfortably in her seat, is April.
On paper, he would probably come across as average. Obviously no big success career-wise—just a twenty-something FedEx courier, dressed in the same dark blue and purple uniform as the rest of them. He’s not terribly tall either, maybe five-ten or eleven in boots. I estimate that in heels I’d be eye-to-eye with him, maybe an inch or two shorter.
But his lack of height is tempered by a pair of broad, toss-a-girl-over-them shoulders and biceps that ripple clearly, even under the thick fabric of his uniform. His FedEx shirtsleeves are rolled up over a set of muscular forearms, and his skin is tanned and smooth, the color of the coffee and rich cream. A fringe of short black hair just sticks out from the edges of his FedEx cap, the bill of which is curled over a pair of black eyes that twinkle mischievously beneath thick lashes.
Then he smiles. I’m seriously not sure why the building didn’t blow a fuse—that grin adds about ten thousand watts to this room alone. It’s the most thoroughly panty-dropping smile I have ever seen. And Holy Mary, Mother of God, it’s not even pointed at me yet.
Like I said: a sack of bricks.
“How you doin’, April?”
If his smile causes all the blood to drain out of my head, his voice makes it all flood back in again. I’ve heard that voice before, and now that I think about it, I recognize the shape of those big shoulders too. It’s the guy from the street, Mr. Ass of the Year. And his front side definitely matches the promise of the back.
His voice holds traces of the same accent that Karen has, but his is softer somehow, muted in his velvety baritone. It’s a gorgeous, deep voice, the kind you want whispering in your ear in some dark alley while he’s got you pressed against a brick wall, hands up your skirt, hot mouth against your ear while he—
Whoa. Steady, girl. You’re at work.
I know I’m staring, but it takes me a few seconds to shut my mouth and make sure I can actually move my legs. April has obviously learned to recover faster. Even though she’s barely said anything, she’s already standing up. My feet are still numb.
“Not bad, Nico.” April giggles at him. “Today’s my last day on the night shift. Will you miss me when I’m gone?”
“Of course I will, hon, of course I will,” Nico croons. “Is this the new girl?”
His jet-black gaze briefly sweeps over me from my head down to my waist, which is likely all that’s visible from where he stands. He gives me an inquisitive half-smile. I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.
“Yeah,” April’s saying, but I can barely hear her. “This is Layla.”
Chapter Two
Nico
Holy shit. And I mean, wow. Holy. Shit. Sitting in front of me is one of the hottest girls I have ever seen. Wait, no. Hot is the wrong word. She’s not hot like a video girl—she’s covered up, for one thing, and for another, she doesn’t look like she’s been injected full of silicone.
Beautiful? I don’t know. Beautiful doesn’t seem to cover it either. For once I’m glad of my bad habit of chewing on my lower lip, because if I didn’t, I swear to God, my jaw would have dropped to the fuckin’ floor when I saw her.
The girl looks a little out of place in this office full of skinny, rich, white people and the models and actors they represent. Don’t get me wrong—the fancy law firm, or whatever the fuck this place is, is one of my favorite spots on my route. The secretaries like to flirt, and Karen, the office manager, parades around in her too-tight pants. I get free coffee, sometimes a celebrity sighting. By the time six o’clock rolls around, I am in serious need of some relief from the monotony of delivering packages all day long, and the staff at Fox and Lager are usually willing to provide it.
But this girl is different. For one, you can tell she’s not wrapped up in the dumb fantasy of the city
yet. I don’t mean that starry-eyed look new people have when they’re first here. No, she’s got that in spades. I mean that assumption that New York City is the only place in the world worth living. People live here long enough, and they can’t be happy anywhere else.
She’s young. Too young for me, I can already tell. She almost looks like she could be from my neighborhood. She’s got a head full of hair that’s begging to be grabbed, full lips that make an O-shape that’s sending some nasty thoughts straight to my dick, and soft, fair skin that’s just a shade darker than April’s. But then she blinks, and I get a look at those baby-blues, eyes that skewer straight through my gut. Holy shit.
I’m about to dive into those sapphire beauties when Karen steps out and starts clattering across the hardwood floor. I swear to God, I have never seen this chick in anything less than five-inch heels. The woman sways her hips like a burlesque dancer on ecstasy and makes RuPaul look like Martha Stewart.
April stops talking as Karen approaches. Both she and the new girl are scared of their boss. I get it. Karen’s got that hard edge like so many of the girls I grew up with, and I don’t blame her. New York’s a harsh place to grow up, especially for a girl. Too many boys thinking they’re men. Too many men thinking women are their playthings, or even worse, their punching bags. With two sisters and a single-mom at home, I’ve had a front-row seat to some of the shitheads this city has to offer.
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