Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  I’m met with a hard look I’ve never seen in Nico’s eyes, which are usually so buoyant and full of life. Actually, that’s not true. I’ve seen it before—when those Wall Street idiots tried to bribe him outside of AJ’s and started making cracks about me. It’s the kind of look he gives when he thinks people are being stupid and insulting. I have to fight not to cower back into my seat; I feel like it turns me to stone.

  The cab stops and Nico flips a couple of bills at the driver before jerking the car door open. He pulls me out behind him roughly, but slows down when the heel of my stiletto hooks on a crack in the pavement. Then he tows me past the very long line of people waiting to get into the club, and I try to ignore their dirty looks as we pass.

  “Nico, we’re not done talking,” I say, trying to slow him down, but he just keeps walking, his hand a vise around my wrist.

  “Hey, Cameron!” he booms, his deep voice catching the notice of a small man with a blond goatee. Standing just outside the club in a suit and a long black overcoat, and carrying a clipboard, the man smiles when he sees us approach and holds out his hand to pull Nico in for a one-armed hug. Nico returns the embrace tightly, but doesn’t let go of my wrist.

  “Nico, my man, what the fuck’re you doin’ here?” Cameron has a Queens accent so thick it sounds like he’s talking through the skinny end of a Coke bottle. He looks me up and down, appreciatively lingering on my bare legs. “And who is this gorgeous girl you got with you? What are you doin’ these days, datin’ models now?”

  Beside me, Nico stiffens. I blush, even though I know it’s just flattery. I’m cute, but I’m no model.

  “This is Layla,” Nico introduces me with a quick grin. I’m so confused—I thought he was mad, and now he looks thrilled to have me with him. “Baby, this dickhead is Cameron. We used to work the door here together a few years back.”

  “Yeah, except they had to fire his ass because I could do it better alone,” Cameron jokes, earning a slug on the shoulder and a playful “shut the fuck up!” from Nico.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Nico says. “He’s a dirty fuckin’ liar. They’d take me back any time.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. So, Layla.” Cameron turns to me. “What is it you do when you’re not making this asshole the luckiest man in New York?”

  “I’m a student at NYU.”

  “She’s Brazilian, Cam,” Nico puts in. “Baby, Cameron lived in Sao Paolo for a couple of years. You had a girl down there, right, Cam?”

  Cameron turns back to me with a grin and nods. “Você fala português?” he asks in surprisingly good Portuguese.

  I smile uneasily. It’s a question I get a lot when people find out about my dad’s side of the family, and one that’s always embarrassing to answer, especially in New York, where everyone loves to put their ethnic heritage on display. But just when I’m about to tell Cameron that my Portuguese isn’t particularly good, I catch Nico’s look of obvious pride.

  So I nod and respond in kind, albeit a bit stunted. “Sim, eu falo um pocinho.”

  Cameron and I chat for a few more moments in stunted Portuguese, and I’m lucky that the questions he asks are relatively simple. With every answer I give, Nico smiles a little bit wider, almost like he’s proud of me for speaking my family’s language. I get it. It’s the same, slight proud, slightly turned on feeling I get when he speaks Spanish with obvious confidence and comfort. I’m still confused about what’s going on between us, but his pleased expression makes the rest of my irritation melt away.

  “All right,” Cameron says with a laugh when I tell him about running half naked through the streets at Carnaval two years ago. “Your lady’s got some guts, Nico, that’s for sure.”

  “She’s the best,” Nico agrees with a look that's more than a little heated. He pulls out a fifty and slips it into Cameron’s hand, but his friend puts it right back in Nico’s jacket pocket.

  “No need, brother, no need,” he tells him with a wink back at me. “On the house for you and a brasileira. Anytime, man. Tchau, beleza.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Nico

  She’s pissed. She’s trying hard not to be, but it’s obvious she’s still mad when we walk into the club. And she’s right—I should have called. I have a cell phone. I could have texted. But I didn’t.

  I can’t exactly say why. After the day I had...it just felt like one more thing, you know? One more thing after I had to sit and listen to Maggie bitch for hours about Jimmy—again. One more thing after I was on my knees caulking my mom’s toilet and fixing the rusty hinges on the murphy bed.

  One more thing after Gabe busted in around noon and started messing shit up and then got into a shouting match with Selena and Ma that I had to break up before my sister broke more than one vase. One more thing after I had to sit on the phone for two hours paying Ma’s bills because Maggie’s too fuckin’ flaky to do it and Ma still doesn’t speak enough English to do it herself.

  So if I’m being honest, the last fuckin’ thing I want to do tonight is hang out at a club full of the same assholes who treat me and my family like shit ninety percent of the time. I know Layla and I have barely been able to do anything for weeks. And yeah, I know she’s got cabin fever, and I promised her a big night out. But all I want to do is cart her up to my apartment, have sex until we can’t think straight anymore, and then pass out in front of the TV.

  Instead I’m here, dressed up in a monkey suit, trying to ignore the way every other dude in the club is staring at my girl like they want to eat her.

  To be fair, Layla does look delicious. I don’t know where she got that gold dress, but the thing is short enough that it should be illegal, stopping right below her ass with a back that is basically nonexistent. When I take her coat to check, my heart just about stops.

  It’s also when I feel really fuckin’ bad for blowing off half the night. The Roxy is just another club to me, but I knew tonight was special to Layla. She really took the time to dress up, and now I’m feeling proud (okay, maybe a little nervous) to show her off.

  To me, this place is the same as every other club in New York: big, loud, crammed with people, and clouded with cigarette smoke. I’m hoping the cigarette ban passes, even though people complain that it’s one more way New York is being sanitized. Well, you know what? This city could use some fuckin’ sanitizing. Speaking as someone who comes home every weekend stinking of other people’s ashes, I’d throw a party if the ban passes. Drinks on me, motherfuckers.

  A DJ stands in a booth elevated in the middle of a mirrored dance floor, surrounded by people writhing around to his techno-soul mix. But Layla’s looking around with big eyes, and it occurs to me that she hasn’t been to a big club like this in New York. She’s a poor student, and even though her fake ID is a pretty good one, it still wouldn’t have passed Cameron without me. They get raided too often to let in a bunch of underage kids, especially after security everywhere went up 9/11. Besides, NYU kids usually stick to the bars around the Village or go to Webster Hall.

  “Come on,” I call into her ear over the music, getting a brief whiff of her coconut scent. It’s a breath of fresh air in this nicotine factory. “Once we find my friend Nina, we won’t have to pay for drinks.”

  Layla nods at me, although she hasn’t spoken since her weird exchange with Cameron outside. Sometimes she seems almost ashamed of the fact that she’s part-Brazilian, like she really believes some of the shit her dad tells her. Like she would rather just focus on the white side of her family. Maybe it’s because her Portuguese isn’t that good––she stumbled over a bunch of words and couldn’t quite understand everything Cameron said. But I was proud of her for trying.

  We grab a couple of seats at the crowded bar and wait, letting the loud noise fill the awkward space between us until I spot Nina, one of the bartenders. But as soon as Nina turns around, I already know this was a bad idea. Female bartenders tend to show off the goods for better tips. It’s been a while, and I’m no expert, but Nina looks
like she’s had some serious, um, enhancements in that neighborhood. It doesn’t help either that she’s looking at me like she wants me to check them out hands on.

  Okay, yeah, we used to hook up sometimes. But it wasn’t anything big, and Nina’s seen me with other girls. Then again, none of them looked like Layla either.

  “Hey, handsome,” Nina says as she leans over the bar to kiss my cheek, far enough that her new additions are basically served on a platter. I don’t miss the way Layla’s eyes follow Nina’s hand down my arm, where it squeezes my bicep for a second before letting go.

  “I see someone’s still hitting the gym,” Nina says appreciatively before finally standing up straight. “Who’s this?”

  She looks at Layla, who looks like she wants to cut someone. Shit. I really should have just told the cab to go to my apartment. I could have enjoyed the damn dress up there.

  “This is my girlfriend, Layla.” I place an arm around Layla’s shoulders. She stiffens, but doesn’t move my hand. “Baby, this is Nina. We go way back working here together.”

  But Nina smiles and winks at Layla. I relax. Nina’s cool. She knows the score. Hopefully, Layla can see that too.

  “Nice to meet you, hon,” Nina says. She glances around the bar, where people are waving at her, trying to catch her attention. “We’re pretty busy tonight. What’ll you guys have?”

  I smack a twenty on the counter, which Layla watches with big eyes. I forget sometimes that even though she’s the one who comes from a nice family, between the two of us, I’m the one who actually makes a little cash. For now, anyway.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Nina asks. “You know you’re not paying for shit.”

  I smirk. This is a game we’re required to play. “Tips, girl. Just take it. I’ll have a Tito’s and tonic, and...” I turn to Layla. “What do you want, baby?”

  Layla softens at the nickname and lets me pull her a little closer. She’s a little overwhelmed by this place, by Nina. Shit, what’s she going to do when I introduce her to K.C.? I kiss her a little on the cheek, and she thaws a little more. Okay, okay. Good sign. Maybe the night’s not a total wash.

  “Whiskey soda,” she murmurs, and leans her head on my shoulder while I pass her order to Nina.

  Nina gives us another wink, then grabs our drinks and disappears down the bar to flirt with more customers and collect the massive tips those tits will get her. Layla just sips her drink.

  “You still mad?” I ask her. My voice is already starting to hurt from shouting over this shitty house music. The bass is so loud I can feel it thumping through the bar top. K.C. hasn’t started his set yet––he’s known for doing a good mix of Latin and electronica, which will be better than this Eurotrash garbage.

  Layla shrugs, just sucks on her drink and avoids my eyes. I sigh and look around the room. I spot K.C. and wave him over from where he’s flirting up not just one, but three women at the same time. The guy’s got serious game, I’ll give him that. He catches sight of me, and starts pushing through the dance floor.

  “You don’t believe me?” I call to Layla, who turns back around to face me. “Ask K.C. He was with me most of the day.”

  She turns around to see who I’m waving at and spots K.C. waving back. We watch as he weaves through the masses of people, wearing his backward red Yankees cap and a goofy smile even while he gives at least five girls on the way a smile or a wink. He sticks out. No one else but him would have been allowed into a club like this with a hat, hoodie, or sneakers, but he’s wearing all three.

  It’s not until he’s almost here that I realize he’s got my brother Gabe with him too. Suddenly, I’m nervous. I didn’t want to make a big thing of it, but Layla hasn’t met any of my friends or family. Other than Ma and K.C., no one even knows yet that I’m staying. They don’t know that she’s the reason why.

  “Hey, mano, what’s up?” K.C. greets me with a quick slap to the back and a fist bump. Gabe reaches around him to slap my hand.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask, looking at my kid brother up and down. It’s not like I’ve never snuck him into a bar. But I came out to get away from my family. I love them, but for fuck’s sake, I needed a break tonight.

  “K.C. hired me to help him lug his records,” Gabe says, clearly excited to be in a place like this.

  I glance at K.C., who just shrugs. I know what he’s thinking. That Gabe’s eighteen, a man now, can make his own damn decisions. But he knows I don’t like my kid brother in a place like this. It’s one thing to tag along with me to AJ’s, which is a small enough club that I can keep an eye on him. It’s a total other to be in the Roxy, where if you stumble around the wrong corner, you’re as likely to find people selling blow as anything else.

  “Well, you better be doing a good job, kid,” I tell him. I pull Layla in front of me, but keep an arm around her waist. “Guys, this is my girl, Layla.”

  She softens again when I say that, and I smirk, even though for some reason, saying that to K.C. and Gabe like this makes my chest feel tight. It’s one thing to tell the doorman or the bartender, people I used to know but barely see anymore, about me and Layla. It’s another to introduce her to the most important people in my life.

  Layla openly looks over K.C. and Gabe, who are doing the same thing to her. Gabe’s dressed up a little, wearing his Sunday shirt from H&M and the pair of black pants I bought him for his graduation. With his black hair combed back, he’s made a lot of effort to look more grown up than he is in church clothes and a pair of shoes that look a couple sizes too big for him.

  We don’t look much alike. I’m a little on the shorter, bulkier side, while Gabe tops six feet and is skinny as a telephone pole. Gabe’s also fair like his dad, a light-skinned Cuban guy who still comes around every so often. I take more after my mom, with her darker skin. But Gabe and I both have the same eyes and lips. People still look at us and know we’re brothers.

  “Hello.” He holds out his hand to Layla. “I’m Gabe, Nico’s brother. You must be Layla. He was talking about you tremendously today.”

  I have to hide a smile. Gabe’s trying really hard to speak what he calls “proper English.” He’s nervous about going to college this fall, and when I told him that Layla goes to NYU, he was curious about her right away.

  “Hey, manito,” I cut in in Spanish so I don’t embarrass him. “You sound like an ass.”

  Layla blinks between us, unaware of what I’ve said, while K.C. starts cackling, although he’s more interested in sizing up Layla than moderating my exchange with my brother.

  Layla smiles shyly and shakes both of their hands and accepts kisses on both cheeks from K.C. “It’s nice to meet you guys. I’ve heard a lot.”

  “Good things, I hope. I can’t trust this fuck to be honest,” K.C. jokes.

  “Hey, hey, easy.”

  I swat his hand away good-naturedly. K.C. mimes a punch at my shoulder, and finally Layla smiles—really smiles—as she watches our exchange.

  “Gabe was with me all day today too, baby,” I tell her. “He can tell you what a fucking mess the trains were.”

  She looks at Gabe curiously. “You went up to Nico’s apartment with him? Why?”

  “He has booze up there,” Gabe says with a sly wink. “I’m only eighteen, so I can’t buy.” He holds up a wrist that’s bare in contrast to the green paper bands wrapped around Nico’s and mine. “I needed to pregame.”

  “You don’t have a fake ID?” she asks.

  It’s cute how shocked she is. I know the first thing all the college kids do is buy a fake, but no one local does it. No one needs to if you have the right connections.

  “Nah, what do I need that for when my brother knows everyone at the hottest clubs? Besides, most of the weekends I’m supposed to be studying anyway.”

  We launch into a discussion of Gabe’s last semester of high school and his acceptance to CUNY. I’m so fuckin’ proud of my kid brother. He’s insanely good at math and didn’t fuck up the way I
did in high school. I made sure of that. His counselor at school even helped him get a full scholarship, so he’s going to have nothing else to do but study next year. He’s going to finish college if it’s the last thing I make him do.

  “I’m mostly excited to move uptown,” Gabe’s saying. “Nico’s place is right by the college. No commuting from Hell’s Kitchen. I don’t care what Ma says. She drives me nuts.”

  “Well, she must be happy that you’ll be living with your brother,” Layla says cautiously.

  I smile at her. She’s trying to be nice without encouraging him to say anything bad about our mom. I want to tell her not to worry. We love her, but she drives all her kids crazy.

  “What?” Gabe stares at me with obvious confusion. “Bro, what is she talking about? I thought you were moving to LA.”

  K.C.’s eyes go wide. “Oh shit,” he mutters into his cup. “Dude, you didn’t tell him?”

  Layla glances between us with confusion. Suddenly, my chest feels tight again.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say. “I realized I’d be crazy to leave the greatest city in the world for fuckin’ LA. So yeah, bro, I’m stayin’. You’ll still get my room, though.”

  For some reason, I can’t quite meet my brother’s eyes, so instead I fix my gaze on the chick grinding on some dude behind him. She’s hot, and the guy is pretty into it, inching up her skirt. Normally it might turn me on, make me want to do the same thing with Layla, but instead I just hug her closer to me so she can’t see my face. Her coconut scent is there again, and my chest relaxes.

  Gabe’s skinny face flickers back and forth between Layla and me for a moment before settling into a neutral smile.

  “Well, hey, that’s great, I guess,” he says. “Great, bro. Mom must be happy.”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “Yeah, she’s happy.”