I sigh and clap the phone shut. Fuck. I don’t want her to leave like this. I’m just not sure I can live in a world where Layla Barros hates my guts. I start the Jeep, suddenly full of decision. I may not be able to follow Layla back to New York, but the fuck if I’m going to let her leave thinking I’m some two-timing asshole. If I really step on it, maybe I can catch her.
Thirty minutes later, I’m jogging into the airport and scanning the ticketing area for a head of black hair and a pair of blue eyes. United? Delta? I shake my head, trying to remember which airline she took coming down here. It doesn’t mean she’s on the same one back to New York, but I’ll take that chance. Rich people like her family can afford to prefer one airline over another.
I have to find her before she goes through security. Fuckin’ 9/11. Never thought I’d miss the days when people could run all the way to the gates, but I’m about two seconds from buying a ticket myself just to get through security.
Security. That’s a thought. I follow the people funneling out of the ticketing area toward the clogged security checkpoint. It’s not too crowded here tonight, which makes it a little easier for me to spot her, just as she’s handing her ID and ticket to the security agent. Her brown-black hair, wavy around her shoulders, gleams under the fluorescent lights.
“Layla!” I shout over the crowds. Several heads turn as I weave around to get to her. “Layla!” I call, over and over again.
Finally, she hears me. It’s useful sometimes having a voice that’s deep, that carries. I can boom like a cannon when I want. Her blue eyes are wide with surprise as she pulls her ticket and ID out of reach of the agent.
“Stop,” I say, half out of breath as I reach her. I’m blocked by the thin barrier strap.
She just stares. “What are you doing here?”
“Ma’am?” says the ticket agent, and taps her hand impatiently on the desk. “There’s a line.”
Layla shakes her head. “Oh, right. Sorry.”
She follows me over to a bank of chairs, towing her suitcase like she’s in a trance. We sit down, and she stares at me suspiciously. She also looks tired again. Did I do that, or was she like that before?
“What are you doing here?” she asks again.
“I...shit...hold on...” I’m still trying to catch my breath. I’ve been sprinting around since I parked the car. I’m in good shape, but the combination of running and the adrenaline rush takes its toll.
Layla glances back at the line of people. “My flight leaves in forty-five minutes. I need to get through security.”
“Just...wait a second...fuck...” I take a deep breath as I whip off my hat and turn it backwards. I don’t want anything to keep me from seeing her face. Then I take both of her hands, holding them firmly with mine. I’m not letting her leave until I say whatever I’m going to say.
“Why are you leaving now?” I ask.
Okay, it’s not what I practiced in the car for the, but I need to know. I was planning on having a week with her, not just one fucked-up afternoon.
Layla bites her lip, which is trembling. “It’s...it’s just too hard. This place. I don’t belong here. Not with my mom’s ridiculous, stuck-up family. And not with you. You’re...you’re taken, Nico.”
“I am not taken,” I snap. “Jessie is full of shit. She was just trying to make you jealous.”
“And why is that?” Layla asks sharply. Her blue eyes glint with a bit of steel.
That’s my girl, I think to myself, in sort of a proud, distant way. She’s sweet, but she’s learning not to take shit from people. Not even me.
I take another breath. “Okay. I’m not going to pretend there’s nothing between her and me. But it’s always been casual, Layla. Usually it’s...” I sigh. “Usually it’s just when I’m missing you.”
“You fuck another woman because you miss me?” Layla’s voice cuts through the noise of the airport. “That’s gross. You’re using her. Should I go fuck other guys just to get over you?”
“Fuck no,” I start to growl, but manage to hold myself back.
The truth is, I have no say over who Layla gets with. I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to think about it. I imagine if I had been in her spot, if I had watched some dude walk up to her, call her pet names, tell her they were out of contraceptives. Fuuuuuuck. Mine, I’m thinking, from some primal place that doesn’t have a conscience.
But I don’t have a right to feel this way. Not anymore.
“You can do whatever you want,” I say hollowly. “And so can I. You’re right about Jessie, I don’t need to be using her, and I don’t. We’re friends with benefits. She knows the score.”
“Does she?”
“Yes,” I insist.
Layla and I stare at each other. I’m still holding her hands, only now they’re in a death grip. She pulls them away and shakes out the spots where her skin turned white. Then she stands up and puts her backpack on.
“I can’t do this right now,” she says. “I have enough drama in my life. I just...I just need to get back to New York.”
“Layla.” I stand up and take her shoulders, forcing her to look at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t...I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“I know,” she says, but continues to avoid my gaze. “You never do.”
Those beautiful blue eyes are welling up with tears again, and it just about kills me that I put them there. I want to do anything but let her leave. I want to take her home with me and hole up in my room and pretend that nothing out there can hurt her, can hurt us. Not school. Not her family. Not Jessie. When it’s just us, everything is fine.
I slide a finger under her chin and tip it up so she can’t look anywhere else but at me.
“Please,” I say. “Stay the week.”
I’m working hard to be gentle, even though there’s a big part of me that wants to toss her over my shoulder and carry her out whether she wants to come or not. But Layla is fragile right now. More than anything, she needs to know I care.
And then, because I can’t do anything else, I kiss her, right here in the middle of the airport. I can’t avoid the electricity that seems to shoot through us when we touch, that turns to a thunderclap whenever we kiss. What starts as gentle turns hungry in about two seconds, and suddenly, airport or not, Layla is devouring me just like I’m devouring her. The three months we’ve been apart come roaring back—three months of longing, three months of loneliness, three months of reaching to the other side of my bed only to find it empty. I barely register the thud of her bag as it drops to the floor, followed by my hat as her hands weave into my hair. My hands drift down and get solid handfuls of her ass—fuck, this ass that dreams are made of—and suddenly we’re practically tearing at each other in front of hundreds of strangers.
“Mmph,” she groans unintelligibly into my mouth, a half-pained sound that sends a lightning bolt straight to my dick.
“Fuck your flight,” I grumble in her ear as I kiss along the line of her jaw. “I’ll buy you a new ticket. Goddammit, Layla, just let me take you home.”
She stiffens in my arms. “What home?”
Shit. How does a kiss that lasts maybe ten seconds make me completely forget about the rest of my life? I’m not this kind of person, the guy who plays two women, who tries to fuck one and mess around with the other. Fuck me.
“Your home?” she demands. Where you live with...her?”
Layla presses a hand on my chest and shoves me away. There are new tracks of tears on her cheeks, which she swipes at angrily and then stoops down to pick up her backpack. Taking hold of her carry-on, she faces me again.
She’s so angry. My baby’s fierce, even when she’s mad at me. Maybe especially when she’s mad at me. Her blue eyes glitter like the Pacific at night, just when the moon is rising over it. I wanted to show her that moon tonight.
“You’re an asshole,” she pronounces in an even voice that still manages to shake me to the core. “Go back to your home. Go back to Jessie.”
>
Then she turns and starts walking down the long hallway, passing this security checkpoint, I’m guessing to find another so she can get the fuck away from me.
I want to chase her down all over again. I want to show her that yeah, maybe I’m an asshole, but I’m her asshole, that I’d never do anything to hurt her if I could help it.
But instead I just watch her go, watch the defiant sway of her hips in those shorts that really should be illegal. Watch the way she occasionally paws at her face, wiping away tears I put there. As much as a part of me wants to beg her to stay another day, a week, a month, a lifetime, I know it’s best if I don’t. Letting her walk away gets harder every time I do it. I’m not sure how many more times I can.
Chapter Six
Layla
It’s twelve o’clock when I tumble into Shatzi’s, the Jewish deli around the corner from campus, and set my giant bag of books on the floor with a loud thump. My roommates, Shama, Jamie, and Quinn, all look at the stack with big eyes.
“Damn, babe,” Quinn remarks. “Did you bring the entire library to lunch with you?”
I roll my eyes as I take a seat. “This is what I get for starting a major so late in the game. I have to catch up. Portuguese and Spanish, through level three. And my other two classes are seriously reading-intensive.” I let my face fall into my hands. “What the fuck was I thinking?”
“The Wretched of the Earth?” Shama picks up one of my books curiously.
Quinn frowns. “The sounds like a ball of laughs.”
“It’s interesting,” I say, taking the book back from Shama and paging through it. “It’s this account of the psychological effects of colonialism. Frantz Fanon wrote it about his experiences during the French-Algerian war.”
“Why are you reading about Algeria as a Latin American studies major?” Quinn shakes her head, as if she still can’t believe my choice. I still can’t believe it myself. And although my dad’s sudden departure at first put the same sour look on my face about it, once I realized that my major is exactly the opposite of anything he wanted me to study in college, I came back to it with a renewed sense of purpose. It means I’ll probably have to take classes through next summer to graduate on time, but the good thing is that a few of my general education classes from freshman and sophomore years will count.
I got lucky too. After spending most of my summer taking intensive Spanish at the local community college when my parents weren’t looking, I was able to place into an intermediate Spanish class this semester. It’s going to be hard, and I already know I’ll be imagining Nico the entire time. But he’s right. I can’t let what’s happening with my family dissuade me from my original goals––to learn about myself. My dad already took that from me once. He’s not taking it again.
I shake my head. In the last two weeks, I’ve been doing everything I can not to think about Nico. Ignoring his calls, which have finally dropped off. Pretending the punching bag I take my frustrations out on at the gym is his stupid, gorgeous face.
The first few days back were the hardest, when I was here alone. But as my roommates, Quinn, Jamie, and Shama, all arrived and we started to settle into our new dorm on Union Square, it’s become a little easier. Classes start on Monday. Nothing like a bunch of food for my brain to distract me from my heart.
“It’s for my African Diaspora class,” I say, taking back the book. When Quinn’s confused frown deepens, I shake my head. “Quinn. There are black people in Latin America. Lots of them. Afro-Latino history is a major part of the regional history.”
Quinn looks at Jamie and Shama for support, but neither of them meets her eye. Quinn turns back to me.
“But you’re not black. Was this the only class that was open?”
I sigh, irritated. “Do you have a problem with me taking a Black studies course, Quinn?”
There’s an awkward silence. Shama watches the tension between Quinn and me while Jamie picks at something invisible in her pastrami sandwich.
“I just think it’s weird,” Quinn says finally. “You decide all of a sudden that you’re going to learn about your culture. But this isn’t your culture. You’re paler than I am, and that’s saying something.”
I scowl, and Shama shakes her head. “Oh my God,” she murmurs to herself.
“What?” Quinn asks. “It’s not like Shama just stood up today and said, I’m going to major in Chinese because India’s in Asia too. It’s a huge continent.”
Shama buries her face in her hands. I just glare.
“Half of my family comes from a Latin American country, Quinn,” I say. “And even if they hadn’t, it doesn’t mean I can’t learn about this stuff if I want to. Maybe you should take the class with me.”
“And have a bunch of liberal guilt shoved down my throat? No, thank you. Besides, this isn’t you learning about yourself. Or anything practical, for that matter. It’s you learning about him.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demand.
“You know exactly what it means,” Quinn counters. “I just hope you’re not doing this for Special Delivery, Lay. FedEx guy doesn’t care if you know about his mixed racial background.”
“Quinn!” Jamie finally pipes up. “I think we should talk about something else.”
I stand up. My chair squeaks loudly, even over the din of the diner. Quinn stares at me. Then, finally, she exhales heavily.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business anyway.”
“No,” I say, slowly sitting down. “It’s not.”
“I know,” Shama says as she pounds a hand unnecessarily hard on the bottom of a ketchup bottle. “Let’s talk about where we’re going to go tonight. It’s our first night out together now that everyone is back. What’ll we do?”
Both Quinn and Jamie hum with agreement. I sigh. I’m still annoyed, but Jamie’s right. We should just let it go. The semester starts on Monday, and we’re supposed to be celebrating. I don’t want to ruin it by fighting with Quinn.
“Okay,” I say. “But it better be someplace good.”
* * *
Old habits die hard. Despite best-laid plans to do something out of the ordinary, we end up at our favorite bar near campus, Fat Black’s, where the bouncer takes a look at our fake IDs and waves us in without a second glance. I don’t actually mind. It’s just so nice to be back in New York, like coming home after a long trip away. The heartbreak of summer starts to fade away with the familiar smell of stale alcohol and the sexual energy crackling around the bar.
The girls and I don’t skimp, either. Working at Nordstrom had its perks, including a discount that helped me beef up my wardrobe. I should have known my dad was leaving just by the way he gave me money for the school year. By the way my mom suddenly put extra money into my savings every now and then. Unlike the last two years at NYU, I’m actually starting the school year ahead of the game financially.
I’m guessing by the effort we’ve all put into tonight that my roommates haven’t had many chances to go out this summer either. Shama and Jamie visited each other a few times, since they only live a few towns from each other in Jersey, but Quinn spent most of the summer taking an MCAT prep course in Boston. Everyone has on their finest “come fuck me” gear—short skirts, high heels, and we spent the last hour and a half doing and redoing each other’s makeup.
Shama’s boyfriend, Jason, is DJing, although for the first time, she doesn’t immediately say hi to him. Normally she’d want to take advantage of the fact that the elevated DJ booth blocks on the dance floor from seeing anything below the waist. Instead, she takes a seat on the barstool next to me and sends covert glances his way.
“What gives?” I ask nodding to where Jason is watching her from the booth.
She glares at him, then turns to me. “Oh. That.” She shakes her head. “I found an email from an old girlfriend on his computer last night. Asking him to hook up.”
I suck in a breath. “You don’t think they...”
&
nbsp; Shama gives a small shrug that just about breaks my heart. “I don’t know. We barely got to see each other this summer. I came into the city a few times, but he was working so much he couldn’t even get out to Jersey.”
I frown at Jason, who is now bent over his turntables. This isn’t good. Our yearly schedules are one of the things that sometimes gets in the way of dating people who aren’t also students. I get that Jason works a lot, like most people trying to make a living in this expensive city, but not visiting his girlfriend once in three months? That’s messed up.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Shama says as we turn around to the bar. “I just want to drink. Have a couple of guys buy me drinks. Make him jealous so I can yell at him or have makeup sex or whatever ends up happening later.”
The four of us order a round of cheap shots, then another, and it doesn’t take long for the room to start spinning. And while the alcohol quiets the ache that seems to throb inside me no matter what, it also makes me really, really...horny. Um, yeah. I said it.
It’s been more than three freaking months since I’ve had sex. And the side effect of making out with Nico on the beach is that it awakened a beast inside me. A beast that really, really needs to be fed.
“That one,” I whisper to Shama, who, after nearly two hours of intermittent dancing and drinking, is the only one of our foursome left sitting with me at the bar. Quinn has cozied up with a business grad student in the corner, and Jamie has disappeared to find her new boyfriend, Dev.
Shama follows my gaze across the bar. “Who?”
Before I can say anything, Quinn and Jamie reappear with their companions. Quinn pops up on the stool next to me while the business student waves over a bartender.
“Who’s that guy?” Quinn asks, her voice slightly slurred.
“Who?” Jamie giggles as Dev suddenly becomes very interested in touching her neck.
Quinn nods over my shoulder. “The guy across the room. The one who looks like Antonio Banderas with glasses. He’s staring at you, babe. Do you know him?”
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 41