Shama ribs me right back while she wraps another piece of hair around her curling iron. “Hell, no. Helps keep things fresh! Maybe you need to invite FedEx behind the desk again, huh?”
I already told her about yesterday’s interlude, when Nico was literally touching the skin two inches above my breasts. They were heaving. My breasts were actually heaving, like I was some idiotic character in a bad book about pirates and fair maidens. Heaving bosoms. Christ.
“You should have pulled his hand lower.”
Shama winks at me in the mirror, and I can’t help but crack up. She has a bit of an exhibitionist streak, and I wouldn’t put a quickie in the DJ booth past her.
We make a damn fine posse. Shama wears a white mini-dress that makes her skin and hair glow. Jamie and Quinn are both dressed in tight jeans and shimmery tank tops beneath their jackets. I’m wearing a short LBD that hugs my body, and a pair of thigh-high black boots that show off my legs. Shama lends me some of the gold bangles she brought back from her trip to India last summer, and I wear a pair of gold hoops to match. I feel sexy and sophisticated—much different from “office” Layla.
When we stride into the bar like we own the place, I know my efforts haven’t been in vain. At least three groups of guys all turn our direction, and at least two of them start preening like peacocks to catch my eye.
I pay them no attention while the girls and I find a table. Shama slips away to say hi to her man and returns within a few minutes with a round of beers, which we all accept eagerly.
“Truth or dare?” Quinn points the neck of her beer bottle in my direction.
Okay, so it’s juvenile, but we use it as a way to break the ice with random strangers. Plus it’s hilarious. Maybe not the best way to come off as “sophisticated,” but right now I’m thinking we should just get the goofy out of our systems before we go to AJ’s.
After Jamie requires Quinn to do the chicken dance in the middle of a slow song for a solid minute, Quinn earns her right to choose the next victim. She points at me, and I can tell it’s going to be something good.
“Dare,” I say obediently. There is really no point in choosing truth; we tell each other everything anyway.
“All right, Barros,” she says, tossing her brown ringlets over her shoulder. “You’re so hot for FedEx Guy that the pheromones are practically oozing out of your pores. I think you need to expel some of that excess energy before we embark on Mission ‘Court the Courier.’ Your dare, should you choose to accept it, is to make out with one of the men in this room for at least a minute. I’m talking solid tongue twister here, babe.”
I blanch as Jamie and Shama whoop their support for the plan. There’s only one guy I’m interested in making out with tonight (although I’m not planning on it happening for a while longer), and he isn’t present. But maybe Quinn has a point. It might do me some good to release this pent-up energy.
“Fine,” I relent to the girls’ cheers.
I stand up, smooth my skirt, and straighten my boots as I survey the room. Who’s half-decent looking and would be game for some fun without getting too handsy? Peering around, I light my eyes on Mike, a guy I hooked up with once at a party freshman year. We made out on a couch for a while before the cops shut everything down. Thirty minutes without going past first base. I smile. He’d be game.
“Target acquired,” I inform my friends, then weave my way to where Mike stands at the bar.
I can feel the girls’ eyes on me as I approach him, and the competitor in me relishes the attention. I do well under pressure. But it’s more than that. Am I this girl, deep down, who goes around kissing strangers, especially when I already know there’s only one person I want to be kissing? Not really. But sometimes it feels good to be something different from what I think I am. From Layla, the straight-A student. Layla, Daddy’s good little Catholic girl. Layla, future lawyer.
Sometimes it feels good to be a little bad.
“Hey, Mike.” I tap him on the shoulder.
He looks like every other guy in this bar in a striped button-down shirt, tailored jeans, and a carefully manicured chin-strap. His hair is gelled so that it looks like he just rolled out of bed, but sleek, like it’s been covered in oil. I actually hate this style—these kinds of dress shirts look like pajamas, and I can’t stand to touch hair with more product in it than mine. Every douchey investment banker and business student in Manhattan likes this look; it’s about as generic as you can get.
Mike turns with a puzzled look that evolves into mild recognition.
“Layla,” I prompt. “Remember, we met at that party last year in Brittany Hall…”
His recognition clearly grows, and his brown eyes widen with appreciation as he looks me up and down. If I didn’t already know I look good tonight, Mike’s expression would tell me.
“Yeah,” he says. “I remember. How’re you doing? Been a while.”
He’s close enough that I can smell the beer on his breath. His eyes are a little glazed, and the tip of his nose is red. Good, he’ll be more likely to play along.
“I’m good, really good. So listen,” I rush on before he can ask me another inane question. I’m not interested in flirting, just getting my dare over with so we can go. It’s almost eleven, and Quinn wants to go to another bar before AJ’s.
“What’s up? Can I get you a drink, by the way?”
“No, thanks. I have one at my table. But I do have a favor to ask.”
Mike cocks an eyebrow. “Sure, what’s the problem?”
“Well, I kind of made a stupid bet with my friends. See, I told them you and I kind of hooked up at that party, and they don’t believe me because they thought you were cute. I sort of bet them twenty bucks that you maybe wouldn’t mind doing it again right here.” I lower my eyelids in that come-hither look that works so well with guys like him. “Right now.”
Mike gulps visibly, and I’m satisfied to see a familiar hunger as he stares at my lips.
“Could you help a girl out?” I step closer and float a hand up his arm.
He looks at it, and then looks back at me. “Uh, sure,” he says after taking another big gulp of his beer. He wraps a slightly awkward hand around my waist and tugs me close. “I think I could do that. If you give me your number this time.”
I don’t say anything, just give him a sly smile. He leans in for the kill, setting his lips on mine and pressing his tongue into my mouth. It’s pleasant—I remember it from last time. Enough to stir some tingles in my toes and make my breath come up short. But if I can still count the seconds in my head to a minute without hesitation, the guy isn’t that good of a kisser. That’s the thing about a great kiss: when it happens, you shouldn’t be able to think at all.
And fifty-nine, and sixty! I pull away.
“Thanks again,” I say, leaving him slightly confused and catching his breath. “Why don’t you write down your number and I’ll call you some time?”
“You’re going so soon?”
He’s obviously disappointed; I step beyond his reach before I start to feel the evidence of his excitement against my leg. Yeah, no thanks.
“Girls’ night.” I raise my hands as if to say, “What can you do?”
He nods as if he understands entirely, then scribbles down his number on a bar napkin. “Call me. We can hang out again. For more than just a minute.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I tuck the napkin into my small black purse and give him a quick salute before weaving back through the crowd to where the girls are all cackling like crazy into their drinks. Their triumphant expressions make it easier to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach, like I’ve just done something wrong.
“Happy? That poor guy thinks I’m actually into him now.” I pull out the napkin and push it on the table to Quinn. “Maybe you could use this instead.”
Her face is bright red from laughing so hard, and she fights to catch her breath before she answers. “Oh, God. That was so worth doing the chicken dance. So. Worth. It.”
A pair of twinkling black eyes under a curved brim flashes through my mind. I want to get out of this bar right now.
“All right, babe, your turn,” Quinn interrupts my brooding. “You earned it, that’s for sure.”
I drain the rest of my beer. “I think I’m going to reserve my call for next time. Shama saw her man. Can we go?”
Chapter Six
Nico
It’s always this time of year that I regret this job. I started working the door four years ago, after I’d been boxing enough that my shoulders got big. K.C., my best friend and a badass DJ, hooked me up with a job at his first regular gig, and it snowballed from there. I’m not huge or anything, but apparently, I have a knack for scaring off assholes and, according to K.C., attracting enough hot girls to get the party started.
Whatever. It’s an extra two hundred dollars in my pocket every week. And usually I don’t complain about a job that’s this easy until it’s the middle of January and I’m sitting on my ass in twenty-degree weather. That two hundred dollars can go fuck itself. I’ll stay poor in my nice, warm apartment.
Two people leave the bar, and I let in another two—this time a man and woman, clearly on a date. She’s got curly black hair that reminds me a little of Layla’s on the first day I saw her. I hope she does her hair like that again. I liked it.
I shake my head, realizing I am already so pussy-whipped that I am thinking about a girl’s hair. Maybe it’s better she and her friends didn’t show tonight after all.
A blast of freezing wind whips off the river, just a few blocks away. It hasn’t snowed in several weeks, but gray-colored sludge leftover from the last storm is still piled at the ends of the sidewalks, leaving icy sinkholes that are easy to mistake for concrete. Everyone in the line is moaning and groaning because of the wind. Whatever. They should try sitting in it for six straight hours.
“Jesus!” A sharp voice echoes down the street. “I don’t care how cute this guy is, he is not worth losing body parts. I am not about to get fucking frostbite so you can get laid, babe.”
I smirk as a group of girls join the line snaking down the block. They’re all dressed in tiny skirts and skin-tight shirts. We’ll see how long they last.
“Ugh,” another one complains. “Okay. I’ll walk up there and see if I can do anything.”
I snort. The club is packed tonight, and there is a line of people waiting. Good luck, ladies. I don’t care how short your skirts are, you’re not getting in.
“Hey, man. Can we, um, offer you a little extra to get us out of the cold?”
The next two people in line are a couple of douchey-looking bros who probably work on Wall Street. One of them is holding out a too-obvious twenty in his sleazy little palm. I look down at the cash, and then back at his smarmy face.
“Sorry,” I reply shortly. “We’re at capacity. I can’t let you in.”
“I could make it worth your while, dude. I’m sure guys like you could use a little extra cash.”
The other guy holds out a hundred folded up into a square. He gives a little nod, like he’s trying some kind of Jedi-mind trick on me. I hate that a part of me wants to take it, because the fact is, I could use the money, especially this week. But if the fire marshal comes, I lose my job, and that’s a lot more money. Not to mention, I don’t appreciate these kinds of bullshit assumptions. They don’t know me. They don’t know what I need or not. Fuck these guys. For real.
“No can do,” I bark again. “Back behind the line.”
The two guys grumble, but do what I say. I check the time. Fuck. It’s just after midnight, but with the crowd like this, I have at least three more hours of this shit to deal with.
“Um, Nico?”
I look up again, full of irritation. “What?”
Bright blue eyes, beacons in the dark. Long black hair that’s even straighter than usual. And a coat that’s hanging open to reveal a dress that is way too short and that she makes look way too good.
Layla.
“Hey!” I jump off my stool. “NYU!”
Before I can stop myself, I pull her into a quick embrace and kiss her cheek. Big mistake. There’s that coconut scent again, plus something that’s just...her. Flowers? Soap? Something warm and sweet that I can’t put my finger on. One whiff triggers an express line to my cock, even in this fucking cold.
“You made it,” I say as I step back.
She looks stunned, but looks me up and down anyway. Not much to see. I’m in my big black parka and a black knit hat that covers my ears—about as basic as it gets.
“Not too far from campus for you?” Shit, was the kiss too much? Is she going to say anything?
She shakes her head, like she’s exiting a trance. “Nah,” she says with a smile. “We were in the area anyway, so I thought we should stop by. My roommates and me, that is. But it’s all full, isn’t it?”
At that moment, the thick steel door opens, and two couples leave the club, arms wrapped tightly around each other’s waists, laughing as they grope for each other’s mouths. I feel a momentary twist of jealousy at the sight of them.
I turn back to find Layla watching me.
I grin.“Not full anymore. How many you got?”
“J-just four,” she stutters as another gust of wind blows down the street. Those boots are sexy, but she’s got to be freezing.
“All girls?”
She rubs her arms and nods.
“As cute as you?”
She flushes and gives me a shy smile. Even in this cold, it makes me melt.
“Perrrfect,” I say. “Bring ‘em up, sweetie.”
She waves to the girls at the back of the line, and they scuttle up to us.
“Nico, these are my roommates: Jamie, Shama, and Quinn,” Layla says, pointing to each as they pull out their IDs.
I take a cursory glance at each one. They’re all fakes, but good fakes. Fakes that won’t fuck over the bar owner if by chance an undercover cop shows up. It doesn’t happen a lot, but definitely more than it used to. One of the many changes after 9/11.
“Hey, man, what the fuck!” protests one of the investment-banker douches who tried to bribe me.
I turn and glare.
“You got a problem with these ladies, my friend?” I ask in a don’t-fuck-with-me voice that you only learn if you grew up in certain neighborhoods in this city.
Too bad this dude doesn’t get the message. He’s been too busy nursing his entitled ass out in Connecticut or someplace like that to learn basic commonsense in New York: Don’t piss off the doorman.
“We’ve been waiting for over an hour in this fucking weather, man.” This idiot just doesn’t know when to stop. “It’s not cool to let in a bunch of skanks just because you want some easy pussy.”
“Excuse me? What the—”
One of Layla’s friends—I think the one named Quinn—starts to snap back at the guy, but I’m already done. It’s motherfuckers like this that make me want to leave this city and never look back. I have the guy shoved against the icy brick wall of the building before anyone can say another word. Grant, the other bouncer, stays by the door. He knows I can handle myself.
“Listen, you pencil-dick, Gordon-Gecko-wannabe fuck,” I pronounce as evenly as I can. I have an audience with the girls, not to mention the line of people that have become really, really quiet. But I don’t care. “You will apologize to my friends here, and you will do it nicely. And then you will get the fuck out of here before I have to
beat some manners into that slimy little mouth of yours. You got that?”
The banker murmurs a quick apology before skulking away with his friend. Most of the people look awkwardly in other directions, obviously not wanting to be the next person tossed out of the club line. Layla and her friends just stare with open mouths. Shit. So much for a good impression.
“Sorry about that,” I say uneasily as I sit back on my stool. “Those kind of entitled assholes think they can say whatever they want. I, uh, hope it didn’t ruin your night.”
All four nod, like they’re too stunned to respond. Fuck. I don’t usually lose my temper like that anymore, but something about that guy, and the way he was talking about Layla and her friends...I don’t know. It just got to me.
“Uh, how much do we owe you for the cover?” Layla squeaks.
Immediately, I soften. “Nothin’, sweetie. It’s on me. You girls go on and enjoy yourselves, okay?”
The girls murmur their thanks, clearly shaken up by what they just saw, and file through the door now held open by Grant. But I can’t help it. I don’t want Layla to go in thinking I’m some kind of thug, so I grab her hand and pull her back. Her eyes are still big, and the shock in them makes me feel very small. She looks down at my clutch on her fingers.
“You look really nice tonight, Layla,” I say quietly. I use her name, not “sweetie” or “NYU.” I want her to know that I see her.
She opens and closes her mouth a few times. I really fucked up. So much for the chance I was hoping for.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“Come out and say hi again if you have a second.”
Then I let her go. Because the way this night has gone, I doubt she’ll have a second for me again.
* * *
Layla
The dancehall group lives up to the hype. For the next hour and a half, I actually forget that I’m here to flirt with the doorman, throwing myself into the music with my roommates and having the time of my life. I love dancing for the same reason I love playing sports. It forces you to live in the moment, controlling every movement of your body as you lose yourself in your surroundings. You can’t think about anyone or anything else.
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 5