I twist my lips guiltily. “I think she just wanted a second alone, Mags. We can be a little much, don’t you think?”
I nod to where Gabe and K.C. are busy punching each other in the shoulders, like they’re actual brothers instead of surrogate ones. Selena is lying facedown on the floor while Allie braids her hair. No one has even started putting away the mess of games that are out.
Maggie doesn’t say anything. She knows what I mean.
“She’s not quite herself yet,” I admit quietly, folding my hands together.
“I can see that,” Maggie replies. “She was really different at Thanksgiving last year. Sad then too, but in a different way.”
K.C. and Gabe shout something at the screen, but I’m not even watching anymore. It was right here in this room, filled at the time with family and friends celebrating the holiday, that Layla let me teach her salsa in front of all of those people. Then she cried in my arms on the balcony. Then let me hold her for hours. Back then she was mourning the loss of her family, but not the loss of her innocence. She wasn’t completely broken. Not yet.
I have to close my eyes while anger punches its way up and then recedes. I hate that she’s like this—one minute sunshine, the next a rain cloud. I hate that there’s nothing I can do to help. I want to make her happy, connect with the one person on this planet I’m supposed to be with. She needs time, more time to heal, but it’s so fucking hard when she has to hold me at arm’s length to do it, and all I want to do is come close.
“You know what helped me the most?”
I look at my sister, whose face has been marred like Layla’s, also by a man who was supposed to love her. Maggie was pretty once. When she was younger, she was one of those girls who would laugh louder than everyone else. Her moods were always a little crazy, but when she smiled, so would everyone else. Now she’s as stoic and hardened as ever. It’s a look I understand. Everyone from my neighborhood looks like that sometimes. It’s a look of self-defense, one that knows better than to be vulnerable, because that’s how you get hurt.
But it’s also a look I never, ever wanted to see on Layla. At some point, the numbness she has is going to turn into that hardness. And it’s going to kill me.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Do you remember showing me how to throw a punch after…what happened with Jimmy?”
I squint. I remember showing Jimmy what I could do with my fists, but not much more than that. I was too angry to think about what I was doing. “Sort of. I took you to Frank’s.”
Maggie nods. “Yeah. You showed me how to use my legs and make a fist that wouldn’t break my thumb when I hit someone. We did it for maybe an hour? I don’t know.”
“Yeah, yeah. I remember that now.”
“Well, it helped,” Maggie continues. “The next time I saw Jimmy, I clocked him in his stupid face. He never saw it coming. And I think that’s why he never did it again neither. Not just because he knew you would fuck him up. But because he knew maybe I could too.”
I almost choke on my water, imagining Maggie, who’s maybe five foot three with heels, coming at her ex, a guy at least as tall as me, with a balled-up fist. “Mana, you never told me that.”
She shrugs. “Broke his nose too. We got into some fights after that, but Jimmy always knew he would get as good as he gave. He never hit me again.”
I look at her for a long time, but she keeps her gaze on Allie. My siblings are a lot stronger than they seem. It’s easy to look at Maggie and see someone who kept going back to a man who mistreated her, just like our mom did. It’s easy to think that she was weak, even though she was also doing it to keep a family for her daughter. In the end, she got them both out when they came to live with me for good. That alone took more strength than I give her credit for.
I forget sometimes that I’m not the only one who grew up fast in our house. That they don’t need me to take care of them the way they used to.
“My two cents: give her something to hit,” Maggie says. “See the way she’s scrubbing that pan in there? She’s not just sad, Nico. She’s angry. And right now, she has nowhere to put it.”
We both watch Layla in the kitchen, the way her small shoulders tense as she goes to fucking town on the pan. Maggie’s right. Layla’’s wielding the sponge like a weapon, and her rose-petal mouth is twisted together, her forehead bunched.
It’s a look I know well. Really, really well. Anger and me, we got a long history together. And for once, that history makes me happy. Because as I watch my girl take out her frustrations on the dirty dishes, I finally feel like I might have a way to help her.
Chapter Ten
Nico
“Where are we going?” Layla wonders when I steer her across Tenth Avenue instead of back toward the train.
It’s dark outside now, and a few blocks away, the bars around the heart of Hell’s Kitchen echo through the streets, even though it’s a Sunday. I sling an arm around Layla’s shoulder, trying to ignore the way she tenses slightly before melting into my side. I bury my nose in her hair and inhale her flowery scent. I don’t know what goes into her shampoo, but it’s addictive.
“I want to try something with you, baby,” I say. “Do you trust me?”
Her blue eyes dart up at me suspiciously, but she nods. “Yes. I do.”
I guide her toward the unlit end of the street, then up Eleventh, past some new nightclubs that have taken the place of the old, empty warehouses that used to be here when I was a kid. But the next corner is the same as it used to be. Still darkened, without the benefit of a streetlight. An old concrete building with crumbling sides. It’s the first place I ever lived without my family, other than juvie. The first place anyone ever gave me a chance to be something more.
“Come on,” I say as I push on the scratched glass door. “I want to show you something.”
I hold her hand tightly as we walk into the gym. Even though Frank died a few years back, Nate’s kept it pretty much the same. Still three rings, one after another. Still a row of heavy bags hanging from creaky chains on the back wall. Still a bunch of training equipment on the right side, bathrooms to the back. And beyond that, the storage room where I used to sleep. I wonder if it still has the cot, ready for some other poor kid to get his chance.
“What the fuck. Nico motherfuckin’ Soltero. How did we get so blessed to see you twice in one weekend?”
I turn around as Nate jogs over from the front ring. At this time of night, barely anyone is here. Only the hardcore boxers, the ones who aren’t pro yet, but want to get there. Nate still competes, but it looks like he’s on his own tonight. Even his trainer is gone.
“Hey, man,” I say after we slap hands. “This is my girl, Layla.”
“Oh! NYU, huh? I’ve heard a lot about you.” Nate extends a quick, sweaty handshake, and Layla, still a little shy, accepts and murmurs a quiet greeting back.
“Can we get on the back ring for a bit?” I ask. “I want to show Layla some stuff.”
Nate nods. “All yours, man.”
He flickers a kind smile over Layla. I do my best to ignore the way it skims over her curves, which are fully on display in a pair of leggings and her t-shirt. I know I can’t help the way men look at her. And Nate’s good people. I’ve known him for almost ten years, back when Frank was training me and let me be Nate’s sparring partner. I might as well ask him to poke out his eyes than not notice my girl. But it doesn’t mean I like it.
I lead Layla to the back of the gym, past the last few fighters still here. We take off our shoes, and then I hold up a rope to let her in. She steps onto the padded blue surface. I jog to the storage room and return with some equipment: a spare set of wraps, gloves, and some punch mitts. I approach Layla and turn her to face me.
“Hold your fingers out, sweetie.”
I turn her palm up so I can weave the long strips of fabric around her knuckles, through her slim fingers, around her wrist, and back up. The repetitive movements are kind of hypnotic. When
it’s done on one side, I switch to the other. She watches silently as I do the same to my own hands, then put the gloves on. She still hasn’t asked me what we’re doing here, a fact that kind of kills me. The Layla I know would be questioning every damn thing. Not in a critical way. She was curious. Naive, maybe. But never afraid to ask.
“These are a little big,” I say quietly as I pull the Velcro tight around her wrists. “They’ll work for today, but we should get you some in your size.”
When I’m done, I look her over. With the massive boxing gloves hanging off her thin arms and her eyes all big and wary, she looks like a cartoon bunny. A scared, beautiful cartoon bunny.
So what does that make me? The big bad wolf?
“All right,” I say as I grab the mitts and slide them over my hands. “First up, let’s fix your stance. You want to be on the balls of your feet, and hold your body at an angle, with one foot just ahead of the other. Good, good.”
I adjust her a little bit, then mimic the stance back. I bounce back and forth between my feet, and she automatically starts to do the same.
“Okay, so, rule number one is: protect your face. Frank—that was my old trainer—used to tape my left hand to my neck so I wouldn’t let it down. That’s how important it is. Here’s where you want to put your hands.”
I hold the mitts up around my face, and Layla mimics me awkwardly, clenching her lower lip with her teeth as she practices. She’s so damn adorable, I almost bat the gloves out of the way so I can kiss her, but hold off. There will be time for that, and maybe more if this works the way I hope.
“All right, baby. Let’s start with a jab. Turn your wrist like this. Then, real fast, just tap the mitt with your knuckles, and pull them back to your original position. Try it.”
I hold up the mitts, ready to take her punch. Looking uncertain, Layla looks at the pieces of foam. Then, she offers a weak punch with her right glove. It’s…pathetic.
“NYU, come on now. I know you can give better than that.”
Layla’s not a boxer, but she’s no slouch after playing soccer for as long as she did. I’ve had her legs wrapped around me enough times to know exactly what kind of muscle she’s got going on down there. It’s firm, but just soft enough so that when you get a really good handful…
I shake my head. Stop it, you asshole. This is not the time to be thinking about that.
She frowns. “I don’t like it when you call me that, you know.”
“What? NYU?”
She nods. “It makes me sound like a spoiled princess.”
I cock my head. “Well, then, maybe you should stop acting like you’re afraid to break a nail.”
She scowls harder. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I stifle a laugh and drop the mitts. “Baby, you’re not going to hurt me. You wouldn’t be able to do it even if I didn’t have these things on, I promise.”
She still looks doubtful. I sigh, then take a chance. Maybe another strategy will work.
“Yo, Nate!” I call out. “You got a second, man?”
From one of the heavy bags, Nate lopes over to the ring. “What’s up?”
“You mind showing my girl a quick combo? I want her to see what it looks like when it’s done right.”
Nate shrugs, then steps into the ring. He’s covered with sweat, and I try not to notice the way Layla’s eyes bug out a little while he starts throwing punches at the mitts. We run through a few basic combinations, ones we’ve been doing to warm up with each other for years. He’s a lot better than me now, of course, but until I left for LA, we’d still get in the ring here and there.
Layla watches, transfixed, and she mimics the movements slightly with her gloves. It’s adorable, even though I don’t love the way her eyes catch on Nate’s muscles. It’s distracting enough that at one point, he pushes past the mitt and lands a soft cross on my chin, waking me from my daze.
“You’re getting soft, Soltero.” He chuckles with a wink at Layla. “You getting love handles too?”
Without another thought, I tear off my shirt and toss it in the corner. Nate’s cut, sure, but I’m not exactly a doughboy over here. That’s what a summer at the academy, heaving fuckin’ tractor tires and running incessant laps around Randall’s Island, will do for you.
“My turn,” I say, tugging off the mitts and hurling them at him.
Nate laughs while he puts them on. He knows exactly how to push my buttons. I turn to Layla for her gloves, and enjoy the way her tongue slips out of the side of her mouth a little while she watches me put them on. That’s right, baby. Now who’s got drool-worthy abs, huh? I remind myself to keep my sit-up regimen going no matter what. If it’ll make her look at me like that, I’ll do planks until I’m eighty.
“No wraps?” Nate asks when I turn around. “You’re looking to break a knuckle.”
“Fuck you,” I shoot back. “Okay, baby, this is what you want to do. Ignore this joker’s shitty form. That’s why he got knocked out in his last fight.”
“Oh, you just had to go there, didn’t you?” Nate shakes his head. “All right, pretty boy. This ain’t the heavy bag like yesterday. Let’s see if you remember how to do this for real, huh?”
I whip through a bunch of punches and combination moves, much more complex than the ones Nate was doing. He blocks them like the pro he is, but I can see his muscles straining with the effort to keep up.
It feels good. I’m out of practice, having done barely anything in the gym since starting the academy. My muscles strain, even though they’ve been working hard in other ways all summer. After just a few minutes, I’m drenched in sweat and breathing hard.
“Last three, two, one,” Nate calls before I smack the mitts one last time with a loud pop that tosses Nate back a few steps.
I step away, breathing hard and wiping sweat off my forehead.
“Fuckin’ waste,” Nate says, shaking his head as he pulls the mitts off and tosses them into the corner. “Why you never went pro, I’ll never know.” He mops his head with the towel he brought in, then steps out of the ring. “Don’t let him push you around, beautiful. Just clock him in the kidney, and you’ll bring him to his knees.”
And before I can toss him another for calling my girl beautiful, Nate skips back to the other side of the gym to continue his regimen, laughing all the way. I turn back to Layla, unsure of what I’m going to find as I take off my gloves. I just wanted to show her the moves, show her she could do it, but I ended up showing off a little instead. I just wanted her to stop looking at me like she’s scared.
Well, mission fuckin’ accomplished. Except now the way that Layla’s staring at me with her mouth open, a wrapped hand at her heart, does absolutely nothing to stop a whole bunch of energy straight to my dick.
“Holy shit,” she breathes. “Nico, that was…incredible. I didn’t know you could move like that.”
I bite back a grin as I towel off my face. “It was just a little warm-up.”
She shakes her head, her blue eyes dark and heavy as they drift over my body. “I, um…I don’t think I could ever do that.”
I finish mopping off my chest and arms, then toss the towel on the mat and grab the mitts. “Sure you can. I just wanted you to see that you can give it whatever you got, baby. I can take it, okay? Let it go.”
It takes her a bit, but soon she starts hitting the mitts with a satisfying pop every time. I guide her through some of the other basic punches—cross, hook, uppercut—until she can do them on command. Layla’s a natural athlete. She picks up the moves quickly, and it’s not until Nate comes back and slaps the mat that I realize just how long we’ve been going at it.
“Hey,” he says before leaving. “I’m done for the night. Lock up when you’re finished, all right? You still have your key?”
“Yeah. Thanks, man.” I turn back to Layla, who’s breathing hard.
Her t-shirt clings a little to her stomach, more than a simple white t-shirt should. She’s red in the cheeks, and tiny tendrils of hai
r stick to her forehead and neck. She looks crazy fuckin’ beautiful. And also tired.
“You want to go?” I ask.
She inhales heavily, but shakes her head. “No-no. I’m…can we keep going a little while longer?”
I’m tired. She’s tired. We’ve been at this for over two hours, and my stomach has been growling at me for half that time, having already burned through the three servings of mofongo I had at Alba’s. But the look on Layla’s face––a look of pure determination––is worth every rumble.
I nod and hold up the mitts. “Let’s go, baby.”
* * *
Layla
It must be close to midnight when I finally can’t throw another punch. I don’t know why I wanted to keep going like I did. It was seriously addictive. Every time my fist hit the weird foam blocker, it was like I was punching through the haze of doubt, anxiety, worry, fear that always seems to hug me close. The heaviness of the last year starts to break down. Pop! There went last week. Pop! The week before.
“Oh, God,” I groan as I flop backward onto the mat.
Nico collapses next to me. Allowing me to remain still, he gently removes my gloves, then the hand wraps. My knuckles are going to be black and blue in the morning. I couldn’t care less. I haven’t felt this exhausted, this sated, in, well, years.
No, since the last time Nico and I slept together. It was after Thanksgiving, when he’d made me feel more adored than I’d ever been in my life, and then taken me back to my apartment and demonstrated every bit of that devotion all over my body. I try and fail to ignore the lines of sweat dripping down Nico’s naked torso. His muscles ripple as he sits up to toss the wraps and gloves into the corner, and when he twists back to me, he pauses.
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 81