Except to her, this little thought keeps saying in the back of my mind. And, apparently, K.C.
“Why didn’t you just tell her the truth?” K.C. asked me last night when I got back from the bar. “Tell her what you’re thinking, or just move the fuck on.”
Apparently, Flaco texted him while we were out, told him I wouldn’t shut up about Layla. I don’t even remember. I had too many beers trying to forget her helpless face. They didn’t work.
So K.C. called me, half-drunk himself where he was out at another hot party in LA Another party, another room full of actresses and models. But he still calls me—that’s friendship.
“Otherwise just switch buildings with Flaco. Then you don’t have to see her no more, bada bing, you’re done.”
I had to roll my eyes. K.C. only ever talks like a character from Goodfellas when he’s trying to impress some girl with his New York charm. On cue, I heard a giggle through the phone.
“Besides,” K.C. continued. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea, mano. And one particularly hot fish been asking about you a lot lately.”
I begged off when I heard more laughter on the phone, but the conversation stayed with me all through today too.
He’s talking about Jessie, of course, the waitress/actress I hooked up with when I visited K.C. in December. She’s tall and blonde and basically any guy’s wet dream. And up until two weeks ago, we were still talking. A few flirty phone calls, a few hot texts. She even sent me a couple of dirty pictures in the mail. But it’s been over two weeks since we last talked. Not since I walked out of an elevator and tripped over two eyes the color of the sky.
Two blue eyes that looked at me yesterday like I made her ill.
Luckily, it’s a short and sweet Mass to accommodate the loads of other guilty New York Catholics also here to get their marks, just like me. I’m relieved when we are told to move forward to receive our blessing. I just want to get out of here.
Then I see her. At first I do a double-take, not sure if I’m imagining her thick black hair and slim form, or if it’s really her. But then she turns, and I take in her profile, the small, straight nose, the rose-petal lips. The cheekbones that are a little more defined than normal. The body that would make any man forsake Jesus himself just to get a look.
Layla.
She looks tired still, and it looks like she’s lost some weight. Her cheeks are a little hollowed out, and the circles that are always kind of under her eyes are just a little darker. Even dressed for comfort in black pants and a shapeless gray sweater, with her hair down in messy waves, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Christ. I really am a lost man.
“Psst!”
I cut in line so we’re walking next to each other. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and tap her on the shoulder. She starts, then sees me and relaxes. I can’t even pretend I’m not thrilled to see her. I smile like an idiot, even if she’s staring at me with shock and confusion.
“Hey, NYU,” I whisper, catching a few glares from other churchgoers. I couldn’t give a shit. “Fancy seeing you here. You feeling better, sweetie?”
She glances around, like she’s scared we’re going to get caught by the priest. It’s cute. I’ve been kicked out of Mass too many times to count, but I could see Layla as one of the little kids in the front pew, dressed in white with her hands tucked in her lap. I’ll bet she never even got detention.
“A bit,” she whispers back. “Do you…do you come to Mass often?”
It’s a polite way of asking if I’m actually religious. We haven’t talked about it at all––I didn’t know she was Catholic, and I definitely didn’t say anything to her about it. Suddenly, I’m filled with the fear that she regrets the entire weekend. Some of the sluttiest girls I’ve ever met were Catholic, but the nice ones don’t sleep with boys they just met within twenty-four hours of their first date. For some reason, the idea of Layla as a nice Catholic girl is really disappointing.
I turn, and she’s eying me curiously as if she’s thinking the same thing.
I smirk. “Nah. I go with my mom sometimes on Sundays, but usually I’m in bed. Today I’m in the doghouse because I forgot to take her to church for her blessing this morning. So if I don’t go today, she’ll be on my ass for weeks about not having ashes on my forehead. She checks, you know. Ash Wednesday, and she’s like a motherfu—um, a drill sergeant.”
“My dad does the same thing,” Layla whispers back with a hushed giggle. “He’s scared I’m going to get corrupted in the city. Do you know he called me at four-thirty in the morning—well, his time, anyway—to remind me to go? And I have to send a picture to prove I was here.”
She rolls her eyes, which just makes me grin again like an idiot. I don’t know. Maybe I feel some relief, knowing she doesn’t totally hate me. That she’s not here to confess everything we did. Because a world where I’m not allowed to worship Layla’s body is not a world I want to live in.
“Parents,” I say. “Can’t live with ‘em, but they force you to anyway, right?”
Fuck, this girl turns me into a corny bastard. What kind of line is that? I sound like a Will Smith song.
But Layla giggles aloud this time, earning more glares from the people in front of us. My chest feels like it’s about to explode.
“Couldn’t we just steal some dirt or something off the ground outside?” she asks. “I’ll swipe your forehead if you swipe mine.”
I feign outrage. “That is totally sacrilegious, NYU. And nasty, girl. Do you know what kinds of things people do in this city? I don’t want none of that near my forehead.”
She giggles yet again—fuck, I just want to hear that sound on repeat—but sobers up as we move forward to the priests in front of the lines, each holding a cup of ashes. Paired together, I suddenly feel like we’re about to receive a blessing before taking our vows. And I can’t lie—the idea of doing just that makes a whole bunch of other things flash through my mind. Layla in a white dress. Layla carried over across the doorway of a house. Layla pregnant, and then holding our child.
Jesus fucking Christ. I have got to get it the fuck together.
We obediently bow our heads as each priest quietly intones the words of Genesis 3:19: “Remember that thou are dust, and to dust thou shalt return.” Two quick swipes cross my forehead, and I’m officially marked as a child of Christ.
Layla bobs and crosses herself before filing off to the side to leave the church. I do the same and follow her outside as we both tug on our coats.
In the bright light of the afternoon, I watch curiously as she takes out a few pieces of bread and tears off a piece. She chews it slowly, like it might make her sick, then swallows it with a swig from her water bottle. To my surprise, she offers me the bag.
“I’m good,” I say, surprised by the food. “Wow, sweetie, you really do the whole thing, don’t you? I, uh, had no idea you were so devout.”
She’s fasting. After being sick for three days, she’s fasting.
Layla just shrugs. “Meh, not really. My parents are hardcore Catholics, so it’s kind of habit now.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “My mom does it too. She says it’s fine to have milk if you need it to get through the day, though.” I’m trying to stay light-hearted, but Layla really doesn’t look that good. She shouldn’t be fasting when she’s sick. “You a good Catholic girl, NYU? Should I be worried about corrupting you, or has that ship already sailed?”
She laughs out loud at that one, and doesn’t bother to hide it since we’re not in the church anymore.
“Maybe it’s because I haven’t been to Mass since Christmas with my parents, and I’m feeling a little guilty,” she admits with a smirk.
I can’t help myself. “You been naughty, huh?”
Almost immediately, a blush appears in her cheeks, and she can’t meet my gaze. I know exactly what she’s thinking about––the feel of me, my hands, my lips, my cock, all doing things to her that no nice Catholic girl shoul
d let me do, things the priest inside would no doubt condemn. And now I’m thinking of them too, with a sudden need to adjust my pants outside a fucking church.
“Excuse me!”
Other people exiting St. Andrew’s push past us with some nasty glares, even pushing Layla a few steps closer to me. I should let her be, but all I can see is the way she’s staring at my lips right now like she wants to suck them off my face. And fuck if I wouldn’t let her, church or no church. In the mood I’m in, I’d take her right on the altar.
So I lean close to her ear so that my lips brush the soft skin by her earring. Her scent is everywhere, it shoots straight to my dick. Fuck, I want her. The weekend didn’t do anything to get rid of that need. Three days later, and I still want her more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.
“Don’t worry,” I say in a low voice I can’t quite control. “I liked you naughty, NYU.”
That’s me, Nico Soltero. Asshole and glutton for punishment.
Just as I start to drift my lips around the edge of her earlobe, she steps back. Her cheeks are even redder now, and she’s licking her lips, even shaking a little. But instead of saying anything, she reaches into her messenger bag and pulls out a disposable camera. She snaps a photo of me, and then of herself.
“For my dad,” she says in a voice that quavers. “I need to be good.”
Good. Fuck. She hasn’t mentioned her family much, but I can see they put a lot of pressure on her. And I am one hundred percent sure that the conservative Catholic father who will receive that photograph won’t want a bastard street urchin like me hanging around his daughter.
I’m an idiot. It’s better that things are ending now, before they get too out of hand. I’m capable of ruining Layla’s life, and that’s the last thing I want to do. Already she means too much for me to do that.
“Understood,” I say, leaning in to kiss her one last time on the cheek before she can step away. Hey, I said it’s better things are ending. I didn’t say it would be easy. “I’ll see you at six, all right?”
“Sure,” she mumbles with another confused look.
I take a few steps back, even though every nerve in my body is screaming to stay close. I turn away, already thinking that I should take K.C.’s advice and switch buildings with Flaco. The less I see of those big blue eyes, the better.
Still, I can’t quite do it. But Layla can. When I turn around to tell her one last thing––I don’t even know what to say, just something to keep her talking to me, smiling, laughing, anything––she’s gone, disappeared through the crowds on her way to work.
I stand there like an idiot for a good minute, hoping to see her shiny black hair, before I’m able to shake off the dread that’s settled in my bones.
“Get a fuckin’ grip, Soltero,” I mumble to myself, startling an old woman coming out of the church.
Nodding at her politely, I clap on my FedEx hat and check my watch. It’s one forty-five. Time to get back to work.
* * *
Layla
“Eyes up, Layla.”
I snap my head up to find Karen staring down at me over the wood desktop. There’s less than an hour and a half left in my shift—and I’m having a hard time staying awake.
“What’s going on with you?” she asks sharply. “Are you still sick?” She snarls it, as if she thinks I was lying about the last two days.
I glance around the lobby. No one is here; it’s been a slow day, and I suspect people are doing less business because of the snow outside, which has been coming down hard since about three o’clock. It’s going to be a bitch to get home.
To top things off, I’ve also been feeling progressively worse as the afternoon has passed. Having eaten nothing but a slice of bread for breakfast and the baguette for lunch, I’m feeling seriously low-energy and want nothing more than a quick dinner and my bed. My sore throat seems to have returned, and I’m starting to feel a bit nauseous too, probably from low blood sugar.
Being sick also makes me crabby, and for a split-second I consider asking Karen what the hell she thinks is going on with me, considering I’ve been out with the flu for two days and probably still look like death. But instead I smile demurely and say, “I’m sorry, Karen. I’m just tired. I’ll perk up, I promise.”
“You weren’t sleeping at your desk, were you?”
I shake my head. I wanted to, but it was only a momentary resting of my eyes, right? “No, I was just thinking about something. I have midterms in a few weeks, so I’m trying to get ahead on some stuff. There’s this one concept for my English class that’s got me stumped—”
“Okay, okay, fine.” She’s irritable, and keeps checking her watch as she teeters back into her office. According to one of the assistants, Karen has a new boyfriend, so she’s always waiting for him to call. When he doesn’t, she gets bitchy. Clearly, he doesn’t call much.
I glance at the clock. It’s five minutes to six, which means a certain FedEx courier is due any minute. I sigh. I feel like shit and not at all like summoning enough bravado to deal with his suggestive banter and not profess my undying love in the process. It was hard enough not jumping him outside a church. Christ, if my dad knew the kinds of thoughts that were going through my head about him, I’d be on the first plane back to Seattle.
I pick up the phone and dial one of the legal interns.
“Hey Ann, I need a bathroom break. Could you man the desk for a few minutes?”
A few minutes later, I’m hiding out in the utility closet across from the bathrooms when the elevator bell rings, and I hear Nico’s big voice echoing through the lobby. Ann returns his greeting with an irritatingly obvious giggle, which makes me want to run out there and kick her out. They continue to make polite, if flirtatious conversation, and I’m surprised that Karen doesn’t come out to join them. I grip the edge of the utility door, gritting my teeth while Ann tells Nico all about the classes she’s currently taking at Cardozo, where she’s in law school. He makes a joke I can’t quite understand, causing her to laugh like a freaking hyena.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, he’s not that funny!” I mutter, knowing full well I’ve definitely exhibited equally hyena-like laughter. That’s just the effect Nico has on women.
“You okay out there, Layla?” Nate, another intern, enters the utility room to make copies. I jump and pretend that I haven’t been crouched at the door like a crazy stalker, eavesdropping on the FedEx guy. In the background, Ann says goodbye to Nico just before the elevator doors close.
“Fine and dandy,” I tell him. I grab at a couple of pens in a plastic bin near my head. “Just getting some supplies for the front desk.” I smile and dart out of the closet before he can question me further.
Ann stands up with a smile when I arrive and take back my seat.
“You can have me trade places with you any time,” she says with a dreamy smile. “That dude is smoking hot!”
I shrug as if I don’t know what she’s talking about. “I guess. I never really noticed.”
“Right,” she says, clearly disbelieving. She leans in so she can speak quietly. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” Before I can deny her tacit accusation, she reaches up and grabs the large paper bag perched on top of the desk. “He brought you this.”
She gives me a conspiratorial wink and walks to the back hallway before I can reply, leaving me sitting with the paper bag on my lap.
I pull it open and find a carton of matzo ball soup, a potato knish, and a carton of milk, along with various utensils to eat everything, all purchased from the Jewish deli around the corner. The soup is still hot and smells amazing, but I know there’s no way Karen would be okay with me eating something like this at my desk. Ignoring the way my stomach is growling, I put the food back in the paper bag for later, but leave the milk out when I see the small note taped to the side.
Thought you should make your one meal of the day a good one. I hear soup is good when you’re sick, and you looked hungry. Don’t make me worry about you
, beautiful.
—Nico
I blink at the stark scrawl on the lined yellow paper, suddenly unable to keep the tears from clouding my vision. It’s a small gift, but it’s so thoughtful. How am I supposed to ignore him when he’s like this? How am I supposed to let him go when he tries to take care of me?
Reluctantly, I crumple the note up, although I shove it into my purse instead of the trash. For a few moments, I stare at the milk, debating about whether or not to drink it as if the actual nutrients running through my bloodstream might cause me to fall even more for this man than I already have, which I definitely don’t want. Then my stomach growls again. It’s been a long time since that bread.
“Fuck it,” I whisper, and tear into the carton, downing the whole thing in just a few seconds. It’s just milk, right?
But as I count the minutes passing by until I can leave at seven, the rest of the paper bag full of sustenance catches my eye. And I know it will never be just milk with him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Layla
The soup helps more than I want to admit, and by the end of my shift, I’m ready to do more than just go back to the dorms. One of the benefits of sitting in bed for two days is that I’ve actually managed to get ahead on my homework. For once, I have nothing to do before class tomorrow. So even though I should probably go home and rest, I decide to take advantage of the fact that the snow has stopped and walk all the way home.
Walking is probably my favorite part about living in this city. I feel safer in many parts of Manhattan at any time at night than I do on the quieter streets of Seattle, or even the suburb where my parents live. I can walk down Fifth Avenue at one a.m. and not feel scared. There are always people around, always lights on, always cars passing and trains running. One day maybe I’ll get sick of the craziness of it all, but right now, the cacophony is just what I need to drown out the warring arguments in my head.
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 19