When I look up at him again, his eyes pop open, two hazel stars as a supernova flashes through us both.
His thumb slips between us, brushes lightly over my clit. And in that moment, that’s all I need.
We fall apart together in cries of desperation that neither of us expects. But above, the stars just twinkle on, like they knew this would happen the whole time.
Chapter Nine
K.C.
I didn’t sleep. Not after she climbed on top of me about five minutes after we finished together the first time. Not after I spent an extra ten minutes tasting her everywhere until she shouted my name for the whole city to hear. Not after she conked out on my chest right there on the balcony, then woke up and surprised me with the best fuckin’ BJ of my life. And definitely not after we fell into this crazy daze, a new song still ringing in my ears. Music. Our music. This melody in my head that seems to be her.
Santa Monica twinkles below us, the ocean a black, dark space beyond the promenade. For the first time since I was a kid, I’m sleeping on the floor, wrapping up this incredible, irreplaceable woman and staring at the ocean she’s about to cross. Wishing to God I was going with her.
Absently, I pull the Santa Cecilia medallion to my lips and kiss it for good luck.
I’ve worked too hard for this day to leave it all for some girl. And even if it was a good idea, I’m still contractually bound. To a tour. Promotions. Appearances.
Too much to leave without paying a massive price.
But…
“When’s your flight?” I ask. The sun is starting to peek over the horizon.
Shama stirs on my chest. I watch the elegant lines of her shoulders ripple a little as she stretches to check her watch.
“In about five hours,” she replies. We have some time.”
Time.
“You really want to go all the way over there?” I’m a dick for asking, but I can’t help it. “Seems…hot.”
Hot. In India. Way to fuckin’ go, Captain Obvious.
Shama just chuckles. “Yes. It will be hot in some places.”
“What are you going to film? In Delhi, I mean?”
She sighs. “I honestly don’t know. I need to see what I see first. See what speaks to me. I’ll stay with some family first while I get my bearings. And then I’ll go where inspiration leads, I guess.”
“What if…” I toy with her hair, combing out some of the tangles I put there. No, you can’t say it. I shouldn’t. She’s doing her own thing, and I’m doing mine. I don’t have time for more than one night. I’m about to spend the next year on the fuckin’ road.
Most people ain’t her, mano. There’s Nico again, telling me what’s what. And you know, he’s right.
I open my mouth to tell her that I knew her before. But instead, something else comes out:
“Come with me instead.” I blink, shocked by the words, but also by how much I mean them. Quickly, I recover. “You could do your documentary everywhere we go. Do it on the tour or something. But we’ll be on the move. Shama, you’d get to see the world, just like you want. And you can film anything, everything. Te prometo. I promise.”
My words become babble, a ridiculous string of nothings in Spanish and English. Anything to get her to reconsider her plans and come with me instead. I’m crazy. This is crazy. I barely know this girl, and she barely knows me. But nothing has ever felt more right than holding her like this. Sometimes you don’t know you’re searching for something until you’ve found it. And I can’t be the only one feeling what I’m feeling. I can’t be the only one who sees beyond just tonight.
Shama sits up, unabashed as the blanket falls from her shoulders. But I’m too entranced by her face to be distracted by her curves or the beautiful shadows of her body. I could go another round or four with her. But everything I need right now is on her face.
And it’s going to break my head.
She cups my cheek and runs her thumb over my lips.
“Carlos,” she whispers, and her eyes glimmer, almost like she’s about to cry. “Carlos, I know. I so, so want to…”
I swallow. “But the answer is no.”
Slowly, she nods, and I watch as a tear slides down her cheek. Sadly, she shakes her head. “I’ve been waiting years to do this,” she says, her voice cracking over the words. “Years. I can’t...I can’t just back out now, you know? This is the first time I’ve ever done something just…for me.”
I get it. Fucking hell, do I get it. How many people did I leave behind in New York every time I flew out to L.A. for months, even years to get my career going? How many hearts have I broken, never willing to settle down because if I did, I would have ended up just another bodega owner or janitor in New York, working two or three jobs to get by.
You only get so many chances in this life to be yourself. I’m not about to take hers.
“Don’t cry, Sparks,” I whisper though the words only bring out more tears. “Not for me, pretty. I don’t deserve your tears.”
She hiccups back a choked sob and gives me a grim smile. “You deserve anyone’s tears, Carlos,” she says. “Least of all mine. I hope you know that.”
I press a kiss to her lips, and pull her close so she’s lying on top of me. “I believe it now, Sparks. I think you could get me to do just about anything. That’s what you’ve been doing all weekend too.”
She laughs, then lets me pull her down for another kiss that turns into something more than just a peck. I keep doing it, let her slide down, feel how much I want her again. She guides me inside her, wincing slightly as she lowers herself onto me, then tips her head up with pleasure.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I whisper, though I’m already starting to thrust from underneath her.
Another tear falls. She doesn’t fight them, because we both know this is goodbye.
“Shut up and take it, Carlos,” she mutters, laughing and crying all at once.
I slip a hand around her neck and pull her down for another kiss. If these are our last moments, I’m going to make them good. “Whatever you say, Sparks. Whatever you need.”
Epilogue
One Year Later
Shama
The cab pulls up to the townhouse in Riverdale, a shabby, yet spacious home in the Bronx that houses two of my best friends.
I’m tired. Not just from the multi-day flight that somehow got me back to New York from the tiny town in Bali where I finally finished my documentary on South Asian indigenous music. I’m fall-down exhausted from the entire year I just spent documenting tiny indigenous communities all over South Asia, getting their native music forms on camera for the docu-series commissioned by none other than HBO halfway through the year.
Thank you, Gary, I suppose. I never wanted to produce that last music video in LA, but it changed my life. In multiple ways. One call from the A&R executive kicked off the career I never knew I wanted—as a music documentary filmmaker.
The other way, of course, was Carlos.
It’s not like I never heard from him again. I had a cell phone, after all, and when I returned to a city here and there to send my films back to New York, I’d always be cheered by the sudden flurry of texts and emails. Carlos would give me the news along with pictorial reminders of just what I was missing out on. Carlos onstage, usually shirtless, while he gave the crowd what they wanted. Carlos standing next to his record, first certified gold, then platinum. Carlos at the Grammys, accepting his first-ever award as a performer, not just a producer. “Porque” won Song of the Year. And I won’t lie. I cried a little when I watched him thank me on a scratchy broadcast I managed to track down in Hanoi.
“I’ll hold onto this until we meet again, Sparks,” he said, holding up the shiny gold statue and blowing a kiss to the camera just before the music played him off.
But the texts and emails, just like everything else, eventually petered off. I spent a month riding a bike around Indonesia while “DJ Cairo” was back in the studio. Naturally, we were both relegated to a me
mory, a lark at the beginning of a vacation, at the end of both of our previous lives. One magical night that might have ruined me forever, but which I wouldn’t give up for anything.
I knock on the door and wait eagerly as tiny feet pitter-patter to the door. It swings open, and almost immediately, I’m bowled over by Mateo, my godson.
“Auntie Shama!” he cries as he wraps his thin arms around my waist.
“Hey, you!” I love this kid so damn much. Even though he’s almost eight, he’s never too big for hugs.
“Shamashamashamashamashama!” Mateo’s sister, Coco, squeals behind him, and like a flea, the doll-like four-year-old plasters herself to my legs. “Did you get me a present?”
“Coco!” the deep voice of Nico bounds through the hallway as he comes to collect his kids. He scoops the little girl up and sets her on his hip. “Mija, you got better manners than that.”
“What’s up Special Delivery?” I say as I accept Nico’s kiss to my cheek.
Nico scowls at the old nickname, a remnant of his days at Fedex. “Trouble,” he says as he stands back to let me into the house. “Always giving me shit, girl.”
“Where is she? Where’s my best friend?” calls another familiar voice.
I look up to see Layla running down the stairs, and a few seconds later, I’m tackled by my best friend.
“Ahh!” she cries as she rocks me back and forth. “Look at you. You look amazing!”
“Thanks, dude,” I say, squeezing her back just as hard. “I also look like I haven’t slept in two days—which I haven’t. I need to crash for about a decade, but I wasn’t going to miss your birthday. Speaking of.”
I pull out a little box from my purse and hand it to her. Layla opens it and lifts the delicate gold bracelet.
“Oh my god, Shams,” she murmurs. “This is too much.”
“It’s not. I got it from this amazing artist in Bangalore,” I said. “Hold out your wrist. I’ll help you put it on.”
She does while Nico shepherds the kids out the back door to the deck, where a bunch of other party attendees are mingling. As Layla admires her gift, I spot some familiar faces, mostly people from college and some of Nico’s family. Another man stands with his back to the door. His shoulders look familiar in that Giants jersey.
I shake my head and turn back to Layla. It’s been way too long since that night in Santa Monica. One whole year of nothing but me. Every pair of shoulders looks like Carlos.
I need a drink. And a date.
“I see you checking out K.C.,” Layla says slyly.
“Who?”
“Nico’s best friend.” She nods toward the deck. “He’s back in town.”
“No, I wasn’t checking anyone out. Just…remembering.”
Layla frowns. “Remembering what?”
“Oh, you know. That guy just kind of looks like Carlos. That DJ whose video I did before I left.”
I peer at him again. He still hasn’t turned around, but I can’t shake the image now.
Layla looks back and forth between me and the guests. “Carlos…you mean Cairo?” Her eyes widen. “Oh, my God, Shama. You mean you didn’t…you didn’t know that—”
I frown. What is she talking about? I told her all about my little tryst with Carlos. None of this should be a mystery. “Know what?”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times before she stands up straight and grabs my hand. “You know what? Let’s just join the party.”
But I’m stuck on the guy, and suddenly, I don’t want to go out there. I don’t want to meet some new guy who reminds me of the one I haven’t been able to get out of my head. I’m too tired for a poor substitute. Especially when it’s for someone I can never have.
“I’m just going to get a glass of water,” I try, but my friend isn’t having it.
“Don’t be rude. It’s my birthday. You have to do what I say.”
She leads me to the tiny backyard, and then, to my horror, reaches out and taps the Giants fan on the shoulder.
“Shams,” she says with a sneaky smile, “you remember K.C., don’t you?”
But I can’t answer. My throat is caught in my chest.
DJ Cairo.
Carlos.
A complete and total stranger, but also someone I know...very well.
“K.—K.C.? You’re K.C.?”
His dark eyes are diamonds, sparkling under the lights. The dimple in his left cheek appears. The one I still see almost every time I close my eyes.
Carlos smiles, warm and bright but without surprise. He knew I’d be here tonight.
“Kevin Carlos,” he says softly. “Or at least, that’s the name my mother gave me.”
I turned to Layla. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I hiss.
She shrugs. “I thought you knew.”
“Almost everyone important to me calls me K.C.” Carlos says.
“Almost everyone,” I whisper.
He takes a step closer. “That’s right. All except one.”
I blink. An awkward Thanksgiving is coming back to me. Nico’s little brother and player-looking best friend spend the entire evening hitting on me before I escaped to my parents’ house. We were just in college. It was eons ago. We were both younger. So much…different.
And yet, still the same.
“Shama.”
Our friends fall back into the party, but all I can see is him.
“Where...where did you go?” I ask. “I stopped hearing from you. After the Grammys, you stopped—you forgot about me.”
“My tour ended.” He takes yet another step closer, his broad shoulders lumbering. “I went back into the studio. I had all these rhymes. Beats in my head. Sounds like the ocean.” One more step. “Like us.”
He holds out a flash drive, and I know without asking what it contains. Songs, rhythms. New music this incredibly talented man has concocted.
I don’t want to tell him that he’s been in my ears for the last year. That after I left L.A., I downloaded his album once it was released, plus every artist he ever produced. I listened to our song, “Porque,” on repeat every night for a month. No music I recorded could erase the rhythms we made together.
His hand touches mine, and by instinct, our fingers entwine. In the periphery, I can see people watching us curiously, but Carlos’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Sparks?” he asks.
My bottom lip quivers. “What?”
One step, and he’s only a few inches from my face. His hand cups my chin, and his thumb gently brushes over my cheek.
“I could never forget you, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I came back to New York to wait. Because I knew when you got back from whatever you needed to do, I needed to be here. For you. I spent a year apart from you, Sparks. I’m not doing it again.”
I look around, though my vision can’t focus.
“But...but what if you have to go away again? What if I have to go again? I left the industry for a reason, Carlos.”
“Shama, who are you kidding? Even when you left the business, you were still in love with music. Your whole series is about it.”
I blink, now genuinely shocked. “How did you know that? It doesn’t air for another three months.”
That smirk returns, the one that makes me want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. But mostly, I realize, the latter.
“I haven’t missed anything you’ve been doing, Shama,” Carlos says. “A few phone calls from my agent made sure I was always in the know. It’s beautiful work, Sparks. It really is.” He slips a hand around my waist. “I’m so fuckin’ proud of you.”
It’s not until he says it that I realize how much I needed to hear it. That I needed to have someone validate this long path I’ve been on to find myself.
“So what do you say, Sparks?” Carlos whispers. “You ready to continue this journey together or what? I’ll be recording for another three months or so…and then I’m going to need someone to film my next tour.”
I open my mouth to argue, but find
I can’t. He’s right. Music calls to me. Films calls to me. He calls to me. And all the questions I ever had about him melt away as I realize that his arms are where I’m supposed to be. That maybe it’s not about whether or not we grow apart, but whether we can grow together.
I press a kiss to his lips, and his hands cup my chin while his mouth teases mine. A few whistles sound in the background, but he doesn’t release me until he’s good and ready.
“So what do you say, Sparks?” he asks again, this time when we are both out of breath.
“What else, you idiot?” I’m grinning so hard that tears are about to fall. “I say yes.”
The End
Thank you so much for reading the Bad Idea Series!
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About the Author
Nicole French is a lifelong dreamer, Springsteen fanatic, and complete and total bookworm. When not writing fiction or teaching composition classes, she is hanging out with her family, playing soccer with the rest of the thirty-plus crowd in Seattle, or going on dates with her husband. In her spare time, she likes to go running with her dog, Greta, or practice the piano, but never seems to do either one of these things as much as she should.
For more information about Nicole French and to keep informed about upcoming releases, please:
Visit her website at www.nicolefrenchromance.com/.
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