Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  On the street, more groups of kids walk past, chattering loudly in a patois of Spanish, English, and what sounds like bits of Creole thrown in there. They look so comfortable with each other, speaking languages that wouldn’t be considered legitimate by anyone else but the people who live in this small corner of New York. And yet...they are languages, nonetheless.

  “There’s a good Brazilian barbecue place in midtown,” Nico jerks me out of my thoughts once again. “We should go there sometime.”

  He’s looking at me with a kind expression. I wonder for a moment if he can read my thoughts.

  “Are you talking about Marcio’s?”

  “Yeah, you been there?”

  I nod. “Yeah, my dad and I went when I started school. It was okay. They didn’t really have very good side dishes, and that’s the best part. No farofa or beans or anything. It was just meat and a salad bar.”

  Nico furrows his brow, and I’m taken by how adorable his face becomes when he’s confused. He usually looks so sure of himself, his dark features lightened by the constant smile and laughter he’s never afraid to display. He twists his full lips around as he ponders my remark.

  “What’s fa-dow-fa?” he asks in a poor imitation of my accent.

  I almost laugh, he’s so damn cute trying to pronounce a Brazilian word.

  “Farofa is a side dish made of ground yucca. It’s usually cooked with things like pork rinds and egg and beans. Salty and so good. But most Brazilian places in the US don’t ever have it. Actually, the best barbecue I’ve had in the US is in Boston—they have a pretty big Brazilian community up there. We went there to look at schools when I was applying, and my dad and I went out for churrasco. Not as good as in Brazil, but not bad.”

  All this talk of barbecue makes my stomach growl, and it’s right then that the waitress returns with our food—two massive steak sandwiches in toasted hoagies, piled with thinly sliced French fries on the side. She also sets down two sodas with a lightning-fast comment to Nico, who replies in kind with what must be a big, booming joke. His bright smile and deep voice has her in giggles, and as she shuffles off, I catch her glancing back at him in a way that doesn’t hide her attraction. I sigh; I think I’m going to have to get used to that. I also think I’m going to have to learn Spanish.

  I look back at my food and take a sip of the soda. At the taste, I raise an eyebrow.

  “Ginger ale?”

  “Hangover,” he says through a mouthful of sandwich. “Thought you could use it.”

  “I don’t have a—” I start to say, but stop when I realize he actually called that one correctly.

  As giddy as I am about being with my new man today—not to mention the fact that he is going to stay my man until further notice—my head is undeniably foggy in the aftereffects of too much to drink last night and not enough sleep. I look down at my sandwich and realize the best thing I can do is eat, if only to soak up the remnants of the alcohol still in my system.

  “Wait, baby, hold on.” He brushes my hands off the sandwich and takes off the top of the hoagie so he can press a handful of French fries on top before replacing the bread. “You gotta eat it like that. That’s how everybody eats ’em here. It’s the best. Trust me, NYU.”

  Gingerly, I hold the now stuffed sandwich up and take a small bite, and then a bigger one.

  “Well?” Nico’s expressive features are wide, eager to see what I think.

  I grin. “Dude. That is really good.”

  “Ha, HA!” He laughs, slapping the tabletop. “Didn’t I tell you, baby?”

  I feel somehow like my ability to enjoy this sandwich is a test of some sort, which I just passed with flying colors. I am triumphant.

  We drink our ginger ales and polish off the rest of our sandwiches, with Nico eating the last third of mine. I can eat a lot, but it was way too much, even for me. He drops some cash on the table to pay for the meal, waving away my efforts to split the tab with him.

  Nico walks me to the subway station and waits with me just outside the turnstiles for the train. People pass us on their way downtown. People who look like him, and people who look like me too. Sort of.

  “Well, NYU, what do you think?”

  He hooks his thumbs in the pockets of my coat and pulls me close, so we are almost forehead to forehead, allowing me to look into those gorgeous chocolate eyes of his. This close, I can see that they have small flecks of gold that glisten under the lights of the station. Nico smiles, but I see a hint of trepidation. He’s waiting for something, but I don’t know what.

  “What do I think about what?”

  Unnerved myself now, I lick my lips, which are still salty from the sandwich. Nico’s gaze follows the motion, then snaps back up.

  “Here. My neighborhood. My place. You think you wouldn’t mind visiting me up here in the ghetto?”

  Oh. He’s worried I might feel his neighborhood isn’t good enough. Guilt floods through me. Sure, I feel a little out of place here, but that has nothing to do with the economic class of the neighborhood. To begin with, Dominican City is hardly a slum; it’s just middle-class New York. It’s a million miles from Seattle suburbs, but that’s exactly why I like it here.

  “Please,” I say with a snort and a light slap on his chest. “You and I both know this is the last thing from a ghetto. Plus, that sandwich alone is enough reason for me to come back.”

  That earns me a quick laugh, and he gives me a thorough, relieved kiss, slipping a little tongue in there for good measure and a mischievous squeeze of his favorite part of my anatomy.

  We hear the train approaching with a groan down the track, so Nico gives me one more quick kiss before turning to go. I don’t want to leave, but I’m dying to change out of this dress, and I really need to get some homework done. And maybe take a quick nap.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, beautiful. Go study,” he rumbles in my ear, and I swear the vibration I feel is from more than just the train.

  I pass through the turnstile and into the waiting car. Through the scratched window, I smile as Nico blows me a kiss. Then he turns back up the stairs to the neighborhood that he navigates with such ease and comfort. And I go back to my neighborhood, where I may or may not belong.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Layla

  On Monday afternoon, after I’m done with classes, Nico insists that we meet for lunch instead of waiting until six to see each other. I agree, knowing there’s no guarantee we’ll get a chance to talk, and even if we do, it would only be for ten minutes or so. Even though it’s only been a short time since the cheesesteak, I’m about ready to tackle him across the bistro table. I never knew watching a man eat a club sandwich could be such a turn-on.

  We chat amiably while I dip my spoon into a cup of tomato-basil soup and Nico wolfs down his sandwich before my shift starts at two.

  “I’m just glad to be out of that room,” I say, leaning back in the chair. “I had some serious cabin fever after studying for the past two days.”

  “You look better than you have in a while,” Nico says after he polishes off the last of his sandwich. “Too skinny, but definitely better.”

  I look down. I have probably lost close to ten pounds in the last two weeks, which has made my clothes start hanging off my hips in a way I don’t like, but I still wouldn’t necessarily call myself skinny. True, I’m currently borrowing a bunch of Jamie’s clothes because I no longer have the curves to fill out mine, but I’m no Victoria’s Secret model.

  “You’re crazy,” I tell him as I dip my spoon into my soup for another bite. “Don’t like what you see anymore?”

  His eyes darken at the suggestion, and he gives me a look of such pure and unadulterated lust that I actually drop my spoon onto the table with a loud clatter of metal on metal.

  “What do you think?” he asks evenly. His tongue runs over the contours of his lower lip on the pretext of licking off some stray mustard. I follow it, transfixed. All right, Mr. Soltero. Two can play that game.

&nbs
p; Not one to be outmatched, I retrieve my soup spoon and dip it into my soup again. I slowly take a bite, taking some extra time to lick every drop of soup off the utensil and suck it for a moment before letting it pop out of my mouth.

  He watches my progress like a big panther stalking its prey. Then he blinks, and that predatory expression vanishes as his gaze drops to my soup. “Is that all you’re having for lunch?”

  A taxicab blasts its horn right in front of the shop, as if to emphasize the ridiculousness of that possibility. So much for maintaining the mood.

  I roll my eyes and take another bite. “You sound like Quinn. She’s always haranguing me about what I eat.”

  Nico nods. “Yeah, well, she’s a smart girl. Speaking of...what did she say about us? She still want to chop up my balls?”

  I almost spit out my soup. But then I swallow and grimace. “Maybe a little. Quinn kind of likes to hold a grudge.”

  The third-degree I had to take when I got home on Sunday was worse than my dad. Quinn didn’t let up for at least an hour, peppering me with questions about where Nico lived, what he did, whether I was safe, was he really going to stay or was he just blowing more hot air just to get laid. It took me smacking her in the face with my pillow to get her to shut up––well, that and assuring her at least ten times that Nico wasn’t actually going anywhere. I found I still needed that assurance myself. I could hardly believe it was true.

  “She can hold a grudge if she wants,” Nico says. “She looks out for you. I can get behind that.” He looks me over again. “Seriously, baby, we need to fatten you up. You want me to go back in and get you a cookie or something?”

  I blanch and shake my head at the idea. I’m still trying to pay off my bills, and this soup was expensive enough. “I’m good, really. I had a big breakfast.” It’s a lie. I had my regular fifty-cent bagel and cheap coffee. But he doesn’t need to know that.

  Like he knows I’m lying, Nico just frowns. But before he can respond, my phone blares out the bossa nova riff that’s my dad’s ringtone. Knowing my dad, he won’t be satisfied with voicemail.

  As I answer, I make a face at Nico, who just sits back with a curious expression, his arms crossed over his broad chest. The motion makes his forearms bulge slightly through his rolled-up sleeves. Yum.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, slightly annoyed.

  “Layla. What are you doing?”

  My father’s voice booms over the tiny speakers of my phone, so loud I swear Nico can probably hear him over the din of the cafe. I try not to roll my eyes. It’s never just hello with him. It’s always making sure I’m doing the right thing.

  “I’m good, Dad,” I say wearily. “Just at lunch.”

  I stand up with my tray as I talk and carry my now-empty container of soup inside to throw it out. Nico follows, taking my tray from me to dispose of our trash while I stand at the long line of counter seating that runs along the deli window. I lean onto the counter and watch the people passing on their lunch break.

  “Did you go to your doctor’s appointment this morning? Did he do another spleen exam?”

  I nod, even though my father can’t see me. “Yes, Dad. I was appropriately poked and prodded, I promise.”

  My dad had apparently thought that Jamie wasn’t wrong about the mono. Although the nurse practitioners at the student health center hadn’t seen any reason to give me a blood test, Dad told me I needed to have them check for strep throat and my spleen health. I’ve never said “spleen” so many times in my life.

  “Layla, don’t be smart to me. I’m a doctor. You should be grateful you have one in the family.”

  Now I do roll my eyes at Nico, who has come up behind me and rests his chin on my shoulder. He wraps his big arms around my waist and pulls me against his solid frame while my dad continues to lecture. I suck in a breath at the feel of him and angle my neck willingly as he buries his face into it. It doesn’t matter to either of us that we’re standing in the middle of a crowded deli. In the afternoon. While I’m on the phone with my father.

  Clearly I’m not the only one who’s hard up after just a few days.

  “Layla, are you all right?” my dad asks as I squeak loudly when Nico nips at the edge of my ear. “What was that?”

  “I’m fine, Dad, just out to lunch with…a friend. Ah!” I cry out when Nico’s fingers, which have been toying with the bottom of my blouse, give me a quick pinch at the waist.

  “Layla?”

  “Dad, sorry, I’m in the middle of a restaurant.” I try as hard as I can to keep an even tone while Nico continues his stealthy exploration of my midsection.

  “Just a friend, huh?” he rumbles against my neck.

  I try to elbow him in the gut, but he dodges it, yet somehow manages to hold me tighter as he nibbles my earlobe. Now I can definitely feel something hard pressing into my backside through the material of my pants. It’s getting hard to talk.

  “Your mother wants to book your flight home for the summer,” my dad is saying. “So you need to call her and give her your finals schedule.”

  “I need…oh…I’ll need time to clean out my dorm room too, um…”

  I haven’t told my dad yet that I don’t want to come home this summer—that I have the idea of continuing at Fox and Lager, maybe picking up an extra job to pay my way. But this isn’t the time to have that conversation.

  Nico’s hands rub small circles into the bare skin of my belly, teasing the skin just above my waistband. His tongue flickers softly at the delicate skin under my jaw, causing me to grip the countertop more firmly to keep my balance.

  “Dad?” I say, interrupting my father’s diatribe about proper cleaning methods.

  “Layla, I am talking to you. Are you listening?”

  “Dad, I need to go,” I squeal as Nico sinks his teeth into the side of my neck. “I’m going to be late for work!”

  “Layla, make sure you call your mother later, and—”

  “Gotitdadloveyoubye!”

  I spit the words out as fast as I can so I can twist quickly around to smack Nico in the shoulder. He catches my hand and pulls it up around his neck, crushing his lips to mine and sliding his tongue into my mouth before I can get any more words out. My indignation is gone as I sink into the kiss and twist my hands into the curls sticking out at the bottom of his cap.

  “You need a haircut,” I mutter a little too forcefully against his lips.

  “Just a friend?” he mumbles. His hands reach down to pinch my side again, causing me to jerk in his arms.

  “Ah! Don’t!” I cry, giggling helplessly as he continues his onslaught of kisses and tickling. A few of the other patrons are blinking at us from their spots in line, but I don’t care. “I’m sorry! Uncle! Uncle! Ah, what do you wish I’d said?”

  He stops, leaning down to settle his forehead on mine. “Are you ashamed to tell your dad about me, sweetie?”

  Immediately, I lean back. “Oh my God, Nico, no! Not at all!”

  It’s the last thing I want him to think. He doesn’t have to say it, but I know he thinks about the difference in our backgrounds. It’s in the way he looks around my dorm, at the computer on my desk and the loads of groceries my roommates buy each week. He knows I don’t come from exactly the same kind of money they do, but my family clearly has a lot more than his does. I wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.

  “I’d love to tell my dad about you, but what should I say? We haven’t even talked about what we are. Do I tell him I’m with the guy I’m sleeping with?” I ask softly, reaching up to hold his face between my hands. “Trust me. My dad needs to be eased into things. I’d prefer if you stayed alive.”

  Nico just stares at me for a long moment, his big eyes clouded with sadness. My heart sinks. Shit. But the questions still remain... Is he my boyfriend? Am I his girlfriend? He’s staying in New York for me, says he needs me. But we haven’t used formalized language to each other. Nothing’s “official.”

  I’m two more seconds from yelling “I love you!”
at the top of my lungs just to wipe that puppy dog look off his face when Nico steps out of my grasp and then takes one of my hands in his.

  “Just tell them you’re with Nico,” he announces with a grin. Then he pulls me out the door, effectively ending our standoff.

  The afternoon goes slowly, thankfully, so I have a lot of time to work on my homework. No matter what, I have to keep up with my studying. That’s what I’m here for, after all, and there is no way I’ll convince my dad to let me stay in New York for the summer if my grades aren’t top-shelf.

  By the time six o’clock rolls around, the office is practically dead. Karen is in the back working on the firm’s tax documents with their accountant, but most of the attorneys have cleared out for the night, along with their assistants. Except for one.

  I’m in the middle of taking notes on The Tempest when a loud voice with way too much swagger interrupts me.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Emily Dickinson.”

  When I look up, I can’t help but smile when I find Alex leaning over the top of the desk, right at my shoulder.

  “I take that to be a reference to the fact I’ve had to stay at home a bit recently?” I ask sweetly.

  “That and the fact that you’re an English major. I could call you Emily Brontë if you like her better. I think she died of tuberculosis. Whatcha readin’ there, kid?”

  He speaks in that sort of faux-folksy cadence, the way rich people do when they want to sound familiar to not-so-rich people. I’ve heard Alex do this with his clients, usually the young female ones, who are often starving artists or models he’s trying to “discover.” It only vaguely registers that he has me grouped in with them. It’s odd.

  When I don’t answer right away, he crooks his head to read the title at the top of the page.

  “Ah, The Bard!” Alex stands back up and grins. “The Tempest is one of my favorites. ‘We are the stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’ I actually played Ferdinand in college.”

  He waggles his eyebrows at me in a way that makes me laugh. He’s so cheesy, but he’s the kind of guy who could probably charm the pants off a snake. It explains why he’s so successful.