Bad Idea: The Complete Collection

by French, Nicole

  * * *

  “What did he say when you told him what happened?” Dr. Parker’s face was kind and patient. Everything my father is not.

  I stared at my hands, braced in my lap. “I didn’t tell him.”

  There was a long pause. Then: “Would you like to tell me why not?”

  I sighed. No, I wouldn’t. But I knew I should. Dr. Parker didn’t ask questions she didn’t think I needed to figure out. And unfortunately, the hard ones usually ended up helping the most.

  “I…I don’t really want to hear what he would have to say,” I whispered.

  She said nothing, just waited for me to gather my thoughts. I wove and unwove my fingers, suddenly remembering the old nursery rhyme I used to play with my dad. The one he would do to get me to go to church. Here is the church. Here is the steeple. Open the door, and look, all the people.

  It was a rhyme that always made me laugh, until he launched into his lecture on piety. That I needed to be one of the people inside, or else I’d burn with everyone else. My father, so concerned with my mortal soul, seemed to have given up on his own in the end.

  “He will tell me I earned it,” I said. “That I brought it on myself.”

  One word about last year would deliver endless lectures over the crackling line from Brazil. It would be questions about what I did to provoke it, just like the police asked me. What did I wear, what did I drink, when did I skip church, who was I hanging out with? But most of all, the conversation would spell out his disappointment. That his daughter would never let this happen to her. That we get what we earn.

  The worst part is, I asked myself those questions too, all the time. No matter how many times Dr. Parker told me it wasn’t my fault what Giancarlo did, I still wondered what I should have done to stop it.

  It was the same reason I never said that I had lost the watch he had given me. The last thing he had given me, one that, after months of silence, explicitly recognized me as his daughter. His blood.

  * * *

  I shake my head, then clasp the watch around my wrist. Nico blinks, trying to gauge my response.

  “How…” I shake my head, overwhelmed. “When did you do this?”

  A dimple appears with a shy smile. “About a day after I put you on the plane.”

  “But this must have cost you…Nico, it’s too much.”

  The watch was taken in exchange for a debt of a thousand dollars. I sincerely doubt the pawnbroker would have taken anything less than that plus interest.

  “I…I don’t know.” He rubs the back of his neck, like he’s nervous. “I needed to do something, you know? To make things right again. This was a start.”

  The memories from last spring darken the morning light before either of us can stop them—I see them playing clearly across Nico’s face, and feel them just as clearly on mine. The dingy apartment. The stained floors. The slam of bodies on wood and plaster. Blood dripping down my face.

  My chest squeezes again. My breath recedes.

  No. Not this morning.

  So I do the only thing I can think of that will banish the shadows and protect this light. I tackle Nico.

  “Thank you,” I say as I cover his face with kisses. “Thank you so much. This is crazy. You’re crazy.”

  He laughs, the bright sound bouncing around the high ceilings, and I nuzzle into his neck, eager for the light he exudes to permeate through me.

  “It’s done, all right? I had some cash from selling my truck. It’s fine.”

  “I’ll repay you, I promise. Every cent.”

  He shakes his head. “No way. It’s a birthday gift.”

  “It’s too much. I have to do something to show you how grateful I am.”

  That sly smile reappears. “I’m sure I can think of some ways.”

  I set my chin on his chest, enjoying the solid feel of him. “So what’s your plan today? Saturdays are laundry day, right?”

  Nico lies back on the pillow and nods. “Laundry. Cleaning. Pay my bills. Shit like that since I’m usually ready to drop by the time I get home during the week. You want to meet up later for dinner?”

  Reluctantly, I shake my head. “I can’t. Shama should be here by tonight, and I promised her we’d hang out. Chicks before dicks, you know.”

  Nico pouts. “I’d ask if I could come over later, but I doubt it would be the best impression to jump off with, having your boyfriend stay over on day one, huh?”

  Sadly, I nod. Shama’s my friend, and we’ve shared an apartment before. But things are different now. She’s seen me spiral away with a man, and I doubt she’d be comfortable with me jumping straight into something intense all over again, even if it is with Nico. But the thing is, I don’t want him to leave. I want to sleep like this every night, wound up around each other, and I want to wake up in the morning to his bright smile. Still, that’s a little too much to say to him on literally our first day back together. It’s a little much for anyone.

  Nico appears to have the same reluctance as he stretches out his limbs across the bed. It’s not a huge mattress—just a double bed—but it’s certainly better than the saggy pullout he’s been sleeping on since May or the twin mattresses the college gave us in the dorms.

  “Coooooñoooo,” he yawns, almost looking like a cat. “I’m already gonna miss this bed tonight. Shit. I need to start looking for an apartment too. I can’t deal with my siblings anymore.” He rubs his face. “Maggie is driving me crazy. It’s the oatmeal, man. She decided last month that oatmeal is the best thing for Allie to be eating in the morning because, I don’t know, it’s high in iron or some shit like that. But Allie’s five, so she hates it, right? And every damn morning I have to listen to the two of them squawk like chickadees about fuckin’ cereal. With no damn door to shut.”

  I chuckle. “The apartment’s feeling small, huh?”

  Nico groans. “You have no idea. I got spoiled over the years with my own place. My own room.”

  “It doesn’t seem quite fair that you get stuck with the couch,” I remark. “You’re the one who pays for it, right?”

  Nico sighs. “Gabe’s been putting in some, actually, and so has Maggie. We basically split it three ways now. I can’t afford to pay for everyone anymore. Wanna know something, baby? The FDNY doesn’t pay shit the first year and a half.”

  “Well, then there’s no way you’re paying for dinner every time we go out,” I reply as I stroke a hand over his smooth skin.

  “Nah, it’s fine. I got it—”

  “No.” I say it gently, but firmly. “That’s not what I need from you anyway.”

  Nico opens his mouth, then closes it. “I just want to get off the couch. Oatmeal. Too much Marc Anthony. Listening to Gabe beat it every night before he falls asleep.”

  “Wait, what?” I turn bright red. “You listen to him what?”

  Nico grins. “I swear to God. I love my little brother, but that’s all he does: study and jerk off in my bedroom. Do you know he talks to himself when he’s doing it? He’s like a cheerleader. I can hear him muttering, ‘get it, papi, get it.’”

  I’m laughing hard now. “You don’t know he’s doing that to get off. Maybe he’s revving himself up for a test or something.”

  Nico gives me a look like I’m crazy. “You think I don’t know when my baby brother is jacking it? Trust, I wish I didn’t know what that particular groan sounds like. But we grew up sleeping next to each other, NYU. That shit is ingrained.”

  He contorts his features into a fake-orgasm face, and I dissolve into giggles all over again. Nico grins, clearly pleased by the response.

  “You’re one to talk,” I tell him once I’ve recovered. “You look pretty tortured when you do that too.”

  In response, one side of his face quirks with an impish half smile. “What’s the saying? ‘Hurts so good’?”

  He rolls over and cages me against the pillow with his arms. The sunlight makes his tan skin look awash in gold; the twisting lines of his tattoos shimmer.

  �
��You can hurt me like that anytime you want, mami,” he rumbles, low and suggestive before pressing his lips to mine.

  We sink into the kiss together, and it’s not long before I feel another part of him ready and willing between my thighs. Half of me is dying to surrender to it, open my legs and take him inside where he fits so perfectly, feels good in a way that really does border on torture. But at the same time, the word “hurt” causes me to stiffen, and Nico senses it.

  “Ah,” he mutters as he pushes off me. “Another time, then.”

  I grimace and bite my upper lip. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

  “Hush. You’re fine, baby.” He kisses me one more time, then rolls back to his side of the bed. “Besides, I’m a patient man. Most of the time, anyway.” He sits up, then pauses, looking over his shoulder. “It’s not me, is it? I don’t gross you out all of a sudden, do I?”

  “No,” I insist, sitting up myself and tugging his arm until he faces me again.

  His handsome features are drawn with sudden doubt and vulnerability that makes my stomach drop. This is exactly what I was afraid of.

  “Nico, I swear. It’s hard to explain. I want you like crazy, you know? I just…it’s like when we get started, something just…”

  I trail off, unable to finish the sentence as sudden tears rise. I feel defective. Like I broke something last spring, and now I’m starting to wonder if it will ever be fixed. I thought for sure that when I came back, when he touched me, it would. And truthfully, I do feel better when we are together—better than I’ve felt in so long. But there’s a wall I can’t quite climb yet. And I don’t know how to start.

  “Hey.” Nico strokes my shoulder, and then his fingers float around to clasp my chin. His lips touch mine, and tenderly, he opens up another long, lingering kiss that seems to last for hours. “However I can get you, remember? That ain’t ever gonna change, Layla.”

  His words, his patience soothes. I bury my nose into his chest, the divot between his strong pectoral muscles. The tattooed compass under my cheek thumps with his heartbeat, and I close my eyes while his hands play up and down my back. He wants to do more, I know. But for now, he seems content to just be together. Finally, we have the time to do that. It will take some time to trust. To get used to the fact that maybe, just maybe, I’m not going to lose him all over again.

  I’m just about to say as much when the angry cry of the buzzer cuts through the apartment. I look up, confused, while Nico glares in the direction of the door.

  “Who the fuck is that?” he growls, clearly as annoyed as I am to have the moment ruined.

  I swallow and get out of bed, pulling on a pair of shorts before going out to the entry to answer.

  “Who is it?”

  “Layla?”

  I frown and press the button again. “Yes?”

  “Dude! It’s Shama! Let me up!”

  “Oh my God! Of course!”

  I buzz her in, then scurry back to the bedroom to get dressed. Nico is already pulling on his clothes from last night, staring at his wrinkled shirt and pants with disgust. They are covered with dust left over from setting up the furniture yesterday.

  “Jesus,” he mutters, brushing off the black material. “I look like I spent the night in a sawmill.” He looks up. “Is it too soon to ask if I can keep a change of clothes here, baby?”

  The shy hope on his face makes me want to tackle him back to the bed all over, but instead, I just step up on my tiptoes and give him a quick kiss. “Of course. I’ll free up a drawer for you.”

  He grunts, kisses me again, then goes back to fixing his clothes while I pull on a sundress. Nico looks me over with appreciation and shakes his head ruefully.

  “All right,” he says. “I’m gonna go, let you guys have your time. Are you free for dinner at Alba’s tomorrow night? I know everyone wants to welcome you back.”

  Again, the thought warms. A year ago, I would have found spending the evening with Nico’s family terrifying. To them, I was la blanquita, the rich white girl slumming it with their brother, to whom they were very loyal. And with good reason, since Nico has basically carried all of them on his broad shoulders his entire life.

  But in the spring, something changed when Nico carried me into their apartment and put me into the care of his sister and mother, both of whom had their own stories of abuse. What Nico’s family lacks in money, they more than make up for with love and community. They had taken care of me when no one else would. Shared their stories. Given me a safe space. In their own ways, his mother, brother, and sister rescued me last spring just as much as he did.

  I grin. “Absolutely.”

  Nico grins right back. “Perfect. You wanna come to Mass too? You’d probably make my mother the happiest person on the planet. If you can deal with her and Alba planning our wedding, that is.”

  Immediately, a flush blooms over my face. Wedding? That sounds like a great way to send most twenty-eight-year-olds running for the hills. But to my surprise, Nico’s dark-brown eyes don’t waver as he waits for my answer.

  I nod. “Of course. Just let me know what time to show up.”

  His wide smile makes the warmth in my chest bloom throughout the rest of my body. A knock sounds at the front door, and with a kiss to Nico’s cheek, I skirt through the empty living room to answer with Nico at my heels. I open it to let Shama in.

  “Hey!” she cries out, practically tackling me with a hug the second I open the door.

  We twist around and around while Nico pulls in her two suitcases. When she finally lets go, Shama looks at Nico curiously. “I was wondering if you two had reconnected yet. Not wasting any time, huh, FedEx?”

  Nico returns from her room looking less than pleased by the nickname, giving Shama a tight smile before he kisses her on the cheek.

  “How you doin’, Shama?” he says, his voice low and rumbling. “You have a good summer?”

  Shama nods, her dark eyes twinkling. “I did, yeah! I had an internship at this advertising company in Philadelphia, and after that, I went to Florence with my folks for a few weeks. Oh my God, Italian men are crazy hot. Actually, a lot of them look kinda like you, FedEx.”

  Shama looks Nico up and down, assessing him openly. For a second, I see what she must see: a disheveled, obviously muscled man dressed completely in black, with his arm tattoo snaking over his elbow from one sleeve. That, combined with the black stubble dusting his absurdly strong jaw and eyes that are so dark they’re almost black, makes him look anything but harmless.

  Nico rolls his eyes. “I think that’s my cue.” He lands a brief kiss on my cheek. “See you tomorrow, beautiful.”

  When the door closes behind him, I turn to Shama. I already know this afternoon is going to be spent recounting the last strange twenty-four hours, and I’m not quite ready to have my mental state of mind pulled apart.

  “Well,” I say with a shrug. “I guess I should show you around.”

  “That’s right,” Shama says as she follows me inside. “And then…it’s time to dish!”

  Chapter Seven

  Nico

  When the thick green door closes behind me, I immediately want to pound my way back inside. Is that fucked up? I feel like a Neanderthal, for real. She’s been back for three days, and it’s a little scary how much I just want to stay with her. She’s doing her best to make a new home for herself. I don’t care how pathetic it makes me: I just want to be a part of it. I don’t want to leave.

  But it’s not only that. The fear on her face last night just about killed me. It’s not that she doesn’t want to be close—we spent the entire night wrapped around each other like vines. But anytime things got to that point where a little bit of fury, a little bit of crazy entered into our touch, she’d pull away.

  Maybe other guys would be running for the hills, but that’s not an option here. Layla is my heart, my soul. My other half. I know it, and I’m pretty sure she knows it too. So really, it’s taking everything I have not to go
back in there and face whatever crap is going on in her head together.

  I want to spend the rest of the weekend making her remember what we are together. I want to lie there straight through the next two days until I have to be back at the academy. Call off from AJ’s tonight just to hold her and touch her until I can chase that terror away whenever things get just a little too much.

  She’s scared. To an outsider, it might be nothing. We’re just getting used to each other again, right? It’s only been a few days. So, it shouldn’t feel as terrible as it does that she froze the way she did, refused me the way she did.

  But I know her. We’ve been laughing, joking, flirting all damn summer. It’s been three months of foreplay, and last night, I was about ready to explode. I thought she was too. There is nothing—nothing—more I wanted to do last night than give it to my girl. I mean really give it to her, not just with my body, but with my whole fucking heart and soul. Here we are, finally with our chance to be together, and there’s this hulking ghost between us, taunting with his shadows.

  I shake my head. She’s not hiding anything, is she? No, we’re past that. After everything we’ve been through together, I know Layla just wants to move forward.

  And so every thought I have keeps spiraling back to one:

  Fuck that guy.

  Seriously. Fuck that guy. Fuck that Lurch-looking, drug-dealing, nineteen-fifties-glasses-wearing Don’t-Cry-For-Me-Argentina motherfucker who beat up Layla last spring and turned her into a scared mouse. It’s his ghost she sees. On the street. In the club. In our fuckin’ bed. Yeah, that’s right. Our bed. Because the fuck if anyone else but me is gonna end up there ever again.

  I clench my fists, resisting the urge to shove one through the new plaster in the hallway. Because the thought of that guy interfering with what used to be magic every damn time makes me feel like committing murder. I take a deep breath and start jogging down the stairs. I’ll run out this frustration for as long as I have to. And then, tomorrow, the next day, however long it takes, Layla and I will face it. Together.