Bad Idea: The Complete Collection

by French, Nicole

  I shrugged. “It’s still an impressive achievement, especially considering how many voters don’t like hip hop.”

  “Impressive, maybe.” Carlos shrugs, his big shoulders rippling under the moon. “But a real artist has their own voice. They need to speak their truth.”

  His words echo my truth, the truth that was driving this whole crazy trip I was about to begin. “So what’s the documentary about?” Carlos asks.

  “I...I don’t know yet.” I stare at the weave of the kilim rug, wondering who made it. If it’s authentic, lifted from a souk in Marrakech, or if it’s a knock-off from Bangladesh. Both places sound worth exploring with my camera. “I’ll have to see what I find.”

  The other truth is, I want to create my own art, but I don’t know if I’m really an artist. I won’t know if I have a real voice, a real truth, until I try to speak at all.

  The idea is terrifying.

  Carlos sighs and looks up at the stars. “I’ll never get tired of this.”

  I look up too, welcoming the change of subject. “The stars? I guess there are a few out tonight. Better than most nights.”

  He nods. “You can’t see them in New York at all, ever. It’s the only thing I like better about the West Coast.”

  I nod. After spending four years at NYU, I remember yearning for my parents’ house in New Jersey. The glow of Manhattan obscures everything but its own corona.

  “So where’d you grow up, Sparks?”

  “Montclair,” I say. “Not far from the city, but close enough.”

  He whistles. “Montclair is nice.”

  I nod. “Yeah, it is. I was lucky.” I consider my parents, who still live in the same split-level house where I grew up. Still have the same La-Z-Boy furniture that smells faintly of cardamom and coriander. Every day, my mother cooks and cleans, tending to her empty nest while my dad goes to work. In another few years, maybe he’ll retire.

  “What about you?” I ask. “You’re from the Bronx, right?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, the Kitchen. Forty-ninth Street.”

  “Really? That’s funny.” I smile. “I actually have a friend who grew up on that street too. Well, he’s my best friend’s husband. You don’t know a Nico Soltero, do you?”

  For a second, Carlos gives me a funny look, and again, I’m struck with that faint sense of déjà vu.

  “Ah, I’ve heard the name,” he says. “It’s a big city, though.”

  “He and Layla are the best,” I continue. “They live in Riverdale now with their kids. Tiny happy little family.”

  “You sound a little jealous.” Carlos lies back on the rug.

  I sigh and lie back again too. Above me, Cassiopeia spreads her arms wide like she wants to give me a hug. It really is a magical night. Usually you can’t see more than the brightest of stars here.

  “Maybe I am a little,” I admit. “I don’t know. I’m not in a hurry to get married or anything, but I think it would be pretty amazing to have the kind of partnership they have. It’s hard to explain if you don’t know them, but from both sides, it was love at first sight. They had their hard times, but I have never met a couple more devoted to each other.”

  My parents suddenly spring to mind with their quiet dedication. Not all love is passionate—they are a good example, an arranged marriage that evolved into a beautiful partnership over the years. That’s not something I could ever do, but I respect them for it.

  “It would be pretty amazing,” Carlos agrees. “Ambition has its own price. It’s tough being alone.”

  I turn. “Are you really alone? It seems like there are always people with you. Or who want to be.”

  Carlos just shrugs. “You can be with all sorts of people and still feel alone.”

  I ponder that for a moment, considering who has been around him. Video girls. Techs. That kid Joaquin who seems to exist just to pump him up. I definitely spotted a few people trying to slip him tapes or cards. To DJ Cairo, the hitmaker.

  I wonder if anyone knows his real name.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I can see that.”

  For a few more minutes, we gaze up at the stars, and it’s like the crew bustling around us doesn’t exist. All I can feel is Carlos’s warm shoulder against mine, sense the gentle shift of skin on skin as our breath causes our bodies to move.

  For a moment, I don’t want to leave L.A. at all. Not if I could stay on the beach with him.

  Whoa. Where in the hell did that come from?

  “All right, guys, ready?”

  We stand up to find Blake poised with a couple of camera guys. The hair and makeup team come in to fluff my hair and straighten my dress (blue this time).

  Carlos gives me another shy smile. “Ready to finish this thing, Sparks?”

  Unaccountably shy myself, I nod.

  “All right, guys, this is the seduction scene. Third verse, Cairo,” Blake calls out.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your vacation,” Carlos says, reaching for my hand. He pulls me close while the lilting beat we’ve all come to know so well starts. “I...I didn’t mean it to be like this. But I didn’t know I needed you until you walked into the room.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but find I don’t know what to say. I’m caught in the depth of his dark eyes, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. But I need to leave L.A. I can’t stay here just to get burned.

  “I—”

  “Let’s go!” Blake shouts from behind a camera.

  And I watch as Carlos launches into another lip-sync, moving his lips while sound emits from speakers next to the camera. It reminds me that this is fake. None of these moments are designed for anything but performance. And this world is something that after tonight, I’ll be leaving behind forever.

  Still, Carlos’s deep eyes never leave mine. And as I watch his mouth move silently in time with the music, I find myself wondering how I’m going to feel knowing he might never look at me like this again either.

  Chapter Seven

  K.C.

  “Room 714.”

  That was what she whispered after Blake called, “That’s a wrap.” Right before she pressed a piece of plastic into my palm.

  “For what?” I asked just before she disappeared.

  She turned and grinned, looking almost devious under the remnants of the moonlight. “For the after party, of course.” And before I could reply, she slipped into the wardrobe tent to change out of the slinky blue dress, leaving me to wonder just what this party might be like.

  Shocked the fuck out of me, lemme tell you. Two days ago, this woman hated me. For two days I’ve been staring at her whenever I wasn’t looking at the camera. Wondering why I dreamed about her nagging voice at night, threaded with the husky sound of my name coming through her lips.

  But now I know.

  Because she’s not a strange woman. She’s a someone.

  Layla. Nico. Pretty little family in Riverdale.

  It wasn’t until she mentioned their names that I realized why Shama seemed so familiar. It’s because we’ve met before, at my mother’s freaking apartment, no less. Thanksgiving. Almost ten years ago.

  She didn’t remember me either, but back then, I was still just a skinny, pale-faced asshole with a goofy grin and some corny-ass game. It’s amazing what a trainer and a few extra years will do. I also had no (major) name for myself yet, and she and Layla had just finished school. Money was coming, but fame was a long ways off.

  And Shama...damn...yeah, she looked different back then too. Her hair was shorter, her cheeks were a little rounder, smooth with the naivety only someone just out of their teens has. But she was beautiful. I remember that. And she still had that attitude.

  I palm the card back and forth in my palm before sliding it into the back pocket of my jeans. She wants one night before she leaves. A game with a famous musician. Take advantage of this cat-and-mouse game we’ve been playing for two days before she takes off.

  I’m undecided on the ride back to my own hotel on Wilshire. Undecid
ed while I shower off the residue of the video and change into a pair of black pants and a black t-shirt, keeping just the chain my mother gave me.

  I stay undecided while I tell Joaquin that he’s done for the next two days. As I sneak back downstairs to grab a taxi. When I stop at a supermarket for a bouquet of cheap pink roses, champagne, and some strawberries, like I do for a lot of the girls I meet at events.

  And yeah, I’m still undecided when I find myself standing on the seventh floor of the Marriott, turning the card key over and over in my palm while I stare at the numbers next to the door.

  714.

  Then, before I make my decision, the door opens.

  Shama stands there, looking ten times more gorgeous than she did on the beach. Gone is the makeup, the jewelry, the glitzy fuckin’ dresses. She’s in nothing but a t-shirt and these little shorts that ride up her smooth brown thighs. Her hair is tossed over her shoulder, wavy and slightly wet after a shower. A drop of real water, not makeup, still glistens on her cheek. After two straight days of work, she looks tired. But also relaxed. Back on vacation.

  I blink. I know what this is. I might have the feeling like once we cross the line we’ve literally be dancing around for days, the earth is going to shatter, but the reality is, Shama has a flight tomorrow morning. She’s leaving L.A., maybe for good.

  And I’m leaving too. After this video is done, the tour starts. The promotional blitz. I’ve got real money to make, a project to finish, and it’s not going to help if I’m pining after some girl I can’t have.

  But there’s no doubt in my mind anymore.

  We have one night.

  And the fuck if I’m not going to make the most of it.

  Suddenly the roses, the champagne, the strawberries—all of it seems cheap. Every bit of game I have seems ridiculous.

  I consider the painting that hangs in my apartment in New York—the picture of a woman’s nipple that I thought was a sex magnet when I was twenty-three. Nico still teases me about that thing. Apparently when he brought Layla to the apartment one weekend, she took one look at that thing and ran in the opposite direction.

  Smart girl.

  I wonder if that’s when he knew she was worth the trouble of settling down. A woman who knows her worth is a woman worth having.

  Who said that?

  Papito, please. Ah. Ma. Yeah, I should have known.

  I press the Santa Cecilia medallion to my lips. I haven’t taken it off since my first communion. A gift from my mother, who knew I had my own gifts to share with the world. The patron saint of music to guide me through this crazy life. Maybe she knew I was going to have it before I did.

  A woman who knows her worth, papi, is a woman worth having.

  “Ahem.”

  Shama’s husky voice pulls me out of my daze. A woman who knows every inch of her worth, from the top of her shiny black head to the tips of her perfectly painted toes. Shama knows she’s worth the fuckin’ world. I knew it the second I heard her voice. That’s what I needed on the record. That worth.

  “H-hi,” she says. But then she straightens. That confidence—it’s so much more than swagger—is back. “Are you coming in?”

  But I don’t answer. I just stare for a few seconds longer, taking in this beauty in front of me.

  And then I kiss her.

  Chapter Eight

  Shama

  His kiss begins suddenly, and at first, I’m frozen, stunned by the grasp of his hands and the feel of his body fully pressed against mine. Tall. Hard. Extremely solid.

  It’s not like I didn’t know what I was doing, inviting him up here.

  What was the harm in giving in to a fantasy for once in my life? Especially when I was leaving the very next morning?

  But then he walks me into the room. The door slams shut behind him, the bottle and flowers he carries fall to the carpet, and my body springs to life.

  “Oof!”

  “Fuck,” he hisses as my hands slide into his thick, cropped hair.

  My mouth opens to his, accepting his tongue, his full lips, his bites, and licks. He tasted like caramel and just a hint of the Hennessy that was floating around the set tonight. Only one word runs through my mind, fast and hurried like an electrical current.

  Carlos.

  “Get this off,” I mutter, yanking his shirt over his shoulders, revealing the finely toned chest and delicious set of abs that have been taunting me for days. Only this time I can actually touch them.

  “Play fair,” he says and he steals another kiss. His hands reach down to take ample handfuls of my ass, and he groans against my mouth as he squeezes. “Goddamn, I’ve been wanting to do that for fuckin’ days, Shama. You know that? Days.”

  “Is that right?”

  I smile against his mouth, before nipping his lower lip. He captures my mouth with his eyes, and I sink into it. Because holy hell, the man can kiss. His tongue is hypnotic, twisting me into a trance so within seconds, I barely know where I am.

  “You drive me crazy, you know that?” he growls as his hands travel up and down my sides, squeezing here and there, mapping the terrain of my body as he peels my clothes off. Soon I’m standing in front of him in nothing but my underwear and bra. He takes a step back.

  “You look like you’re examining a piece of art of something,” I remark.

  His eyes travel back up to meet mine, and that wicked grin makes another appearance as he reaches down lazily and unbuckles his pants. “I am.”

  I try and fail to ignore the way my heart gives an extra thump when he says it. But before I can say anything else, he backs me up against the wall, reaching down to lift me against it. He fuses our mouths together and grinds between my legs. I mean...wow. That’s not just a belt buckle down there, if you know what I mean.

  “What?” I ask as he pulls my panties to the side. “Am I not good enough for the bedroom?”

  He stills. Shit. If I had a dollar for every time I killed a guy’s mojo after opening my big mouth, I’d...well, I wouldn’t have had to work quite as long as I did.

  But Carlos doesn’t move away. Instead, he smiles again. It’s not the same smile as before. There’s no swagger there, no game. This is charming, almost shy. It brings out a dimple in his left cheek I didn’t see before in the bar, and his full lips purse together while his dark eyes twinkle, like he’s trying to figure out exactly what to say.

  “You’re too good for the bedroom, if that makes any sense,” he says, then drops my feet to the floor, takes my hand, and leads me past the bed and out to the balcony.

  We’re on a corner, looking out to the beach. Maybe people could see us if they really wanted, but there are no lights here other than the moon slicing through a few clouds in the summer sky. Carlos pulls me close and kisses me again, kisses me until I’m dizzy and can’t breathe right. Whoa. Those lips. Fucking hell, that shouldn’t be legal.

  “Sit,” he says, gesturing at the big lounge chair. “I’ll be right back.”

  He disappears into the bedroom, and I wait, wondering what he’s rustling up in my little hotel room. I’m just starting to wonder if I should go in there after him when the doors reopen, and Carlos emerges carrying my comforter and at least three of the massive pillows from the bed. I get up to help him, but he sets the pillows by my feet and proceeds to spread the comforter onto the balcony floor.

  “You know they don’t clean these things regularly after use, right?” I ask him.

  “They do at this chain,” he says with a smirk. “Ma was a maid for a long time, and she worked for this hotel in New York. I used to help her for extra money when I was younger.”

  The idea of him cleaning rooms is…charming. And disarming. Though I knew that Carlos, like a lot of artists, didn’t come from much, it’s hard to imagine when he pretty much drips wealth.

  “They are not going to be happy about cleaning that,” I say.

  Carlos stands and shimmies out of his black pants, revealing arousal that hasn’t faded under a pair of plaid bo
xers. “Send me the bill, pretty,” he said. “Just get down here with me.”

  Slowly, I slide down next to him and allow him to gather me into his arms.

  “You make me...you make me…” he says again and again, in between kisses that smear across my shoulder, neck, between my breasts.

  I clasp his head to my breasts, urging him on. “I make you what?”

  His mouth finds mine again. “You make me want to be better. Live better,” he says in between an avalanche of kisses. “I want to be good enough for a woman like you.”

  Oh, hell. This is going to be one hell of a night if he keeps saying things like that.

  You have to leave, Shama. You’re on a plane in the morning.

  “You are good enough,” I manage to get out as I slide my hands over his strong, defined arms, then reach down for the waistband of his boxers. “You’re perfect.”

  He groans as my hand wraps around him, then presses me backward so he cages me against the ground. The roar of the ocean sounds below us, and the stars twinkle over him, but all I can sense is him.

  “Please,” he gasps as I guide him between my legs. “Please. Fuck, Shama. I need you so bad. I––fuck!” he exclaims as he finds the entry he desires. He fills me in one deep thrust. “Tell me,” he orders. “Tell me again. Tell me you need it too.”

  He’s long, but not too long. Big, but not too big. I arch against his movements, my legs wrapping around his waist of their own accord.

  “I...need...it.” The rhythm he’s setting makes it hard to speak at all, but I manage it for him. I’d manage just about anything. If he would just ask.

  He sits up, takes hold of my thighs and spreads them wide so he can watch himself pound into me. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

  My eyes shut tightly as I take every rough pound, every harsh lunge he has to give. This isn’t what you’d call making love––it’s not sweet and soft; it’s not gentle and slow. But it doesn’t feel easy either, the way a fling should. It’s intense and furious, like the waves pounding on the sand. Like we both know there isn’t a moment to lose.