Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Nico

  Hunt’s Point is a weird neighborhood, with some buildings taller than my old seven-story building in Harlem, and others that are supposed to be single-family homes. The cab zips past a few clusters of people on the darker corners—dealers, some of them, a few gang members, and some lone women I’d guess are prostitutes.

  This part of the city is much more spacious than the narrow streets I grew up on, but the sly crime and deviance that hangs in the air reminds me of Hell’s Kitchen when I was a kid. It’s nicer now, but when I was little, the Kitchen was so populated with junkies and criminals that my mother felt safer walking us down the center of the street than the sidewalks. More than one kid I went to school with is already dead, having met an early end in a life of crime or drugs. Hunt’s Point has that same air of hopelessness and abandonment. It’s a feeling that’s getting harder and harder to find in the city these days, but still exists in a few pockets.

  The cab stops in front of the address Layla gave me—a pawnshop, where the neon “OPEN” sign flickers, orange and tinged with dirt in the twilight.

  “Thanks, man,” I say as I hand over the fare. “Can you wait a few minutes?”

  The cabbie, an older Russian guy who seems like he’s been doing this for a long time, looks at me like I’m crazy. “No.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Thanks again.”

  I push open the door to the pawnshop to find Layla cowering next to one of the glass cases while the owner, a short, fat dude with a trimmed gray mustache, stares at her like he’s not sure if he should smack her or feed her dinner.

  Layla looks up, and her big blue eyes flood with relief.

  “Hi,” she says in almost a whisper as I join her.

  “Hey,” I say, a little too sharply as I approach.

  I can’t help it. I sat in the back of that cab for twenty-eight minutes, twenty-eight minutes of texting her constantly to make sure she was okay, twenty-eight minutes for my worry to turn into about a million other emotions until it finally landed on anger, pure and simple. So now I’m fuckin’ pissed. I’m pissed she’s here. I’m pissed that she thought it would be a good idea for her to come to this neighborhood by herself. And I’m really fuckin’ pissed at the motherfucker who sent her.

  Everything about Layla sticks out in a place like this. Her privilege shouts itself in her big blue eyes that look at the world without any hardness, in the quiet polish of her clothes, her genuine leather shoes, and the gold jewelry that won’t rub off to brass or nickel in a few weeks.

  What the fuck was this guy thinking?

  Then it hits me: he knew exactly what he was doing. Motherfucker sent his naive, rich girlfriend here precisely because the pawnbroker would see her and say what he says next.

  “She’s short.”

  He speaks Spanish directly to me, in a Dominican accent that Layla can’t understand yet because of the way he removes letters and even whole words. Don’t get me wrong. I’m impressed by the progress she’s made in less than a year. She’s smart and definitely has a knack for language. But as cute as it is to hear her ask “Where is my backpack?” in textbook Spanish, she can’t understand the rapid-fire dialects you hear in New York.

  “You know Giancarlo?” the broker continues, still in Spanish.

  I shake my head. “No. But he’s gonna get to know me pretty soon.”

  “The cocksucker sent his girl here a thousand short. Don’t tell me it wasn’t on purpose.”

  I don’t argue with the man. He’s not the kind who will take no for an answer. He’s the kind of guy who probably has a Glock handy by the register, who’ll shout for a couple of dudes to hold you down while he rips your watch and anything else of value off your body. Jack-Me-Off knows this, which is why he sent his Bambi-looking girlfriend instead. And on some level, Layla knows this too; it’s why she called me to come get her.

  “What did he say?” she whispers, her blue eyes large and afraid. I hate that look. That look makes me want to break the neck of the fucker who put it there.

  I blink between the broker and Layla. She doesn’t notice the way my fists ball up, but he does.

  “Her watch,” he says to me. “I told her I wanted the watch, and everything will be okay. But she doesn’t understand.”

  “Did you try in English? She doesn’t speak Spanish.”

  “I told her.” The broker shrugs, which tells me his English probably wasn’t good enough to explain what he wants, and the conversation probably consisted mostly of pointing and yelling at Layla.

  I turn to where she’s watching the exchange, her arms folded around her waist. She’s scared, shrunken into herself. The sight makes me that much angrier, but I swallow it back with difficulty.

  “Baby, he needs your watch.”

  Her face screws up with confusion. “What? Why? I gave him the money.”

  I sigh, and the broker starts tapping his fat fingers on the glass.

  “El reloj!” he shouts, pointing at her wrist.

  “Oye, calma!” I snap, then turn back to Layla, who is clasping her wrist. “Baby, your man‚”

  I trip over the phrase; it sounds so fuckin’ wrong out of my mouth. This dude’s not a man, not by any stretch of the imagination. And even if he was, the only way that fucking sentence works is with me. As in, your man is me. Nico. I, Nico, am your man. No one the fuck else, and especially not that piece of shit motherfucker.

  I clear my throat. “He didn’t give you enough money. He still owes a thousand dollars. The broker here says he’ll take your watch instead.”

  “What? No! There must be some mistake. Giancarlo said this would cover everything he paid for the TVs. They were for the club he works for, he said.”

  I have to force myself not to roll my eyes. I’d bet my foot Giancarlo—the name makes me want to vomit—owes money for something a lot bigger than some used televisions. This shit has gambling or drug money written all over it.

  I just shake my head. “No, sweetie. There’s no mistake. Layla, I think you should just give him the watch.”

  Layla’s mouth opens and closes a few times as she processes what’s happening. Yeah, I know, baby. Your boyfriend’s a dick. He shorted you on purpose so you’d get stuck with the bill, because he was betting no one would take advantage of your pretty, innocent face. He’s a cowardly fuck, and he was doing it to save his own ass.

  I hate that I can’t just pay the debt for her. But the shitty Casio on my wrist is worth maybe fifteen dollars, and I only have twenty more in my pocket. Nothing else on me is worth a dime.

  The broker lets out a growl and another machine-gun fire of Spanish, cursing Giancarlo. I don’t argue with any of it. But this guy is getting impatient, and soon he’s not going to care that Layla’s a sweet, innocent girl. He’ll get that watch, whether she wants to give it up or not.

  “Layla,” I say again, trying for a calmer tone. “It’s just a watch.”

  “But m-my dad gave me this watch,” she says. “It was m-my Christmas gift this year.”

  Shit. I can see her now, carrying this flashy piece of jewelry around with her, the one thing her father has done in six months to show her he cares about her at all. That’s another guy I wouldn’t mind punching one day because of the way he makes her look.

  I sigh and take her hand. “Layla.”

  I don’t have to say anything else. She can see it on my face. With eyes that water and a chin that quivers, she nods, then pulls off the watch and sets it on the glass in front of the broker.

  “G-good?” she asks him. “B-bueno?”

  He examines the watch, a delicate little thing that’s clearly well made. Then he looks at her, a little bit of kindness written across his hard features.

  “Sí,” he tells her. Then to me: “Tell la blanquita she needs a new boyfriend. The one she’s got is bad news. And if you see that motherfucker, tell him he’s not welcome in my shop no more. Any bitch who has to send his woman to pay his debts for him wan
ts a beating.”

  My fists curl tightly. I don’t want to think about beating this dude’s face. It’s too tempting, and Layla doesn’t need to see me like that.

  With a curt nod, I turn to Layla. “You’re good, baby. Let’s go.”

  Layla

  After Nico practically jogs us to the other side of the highway so that we are firmly out of Hunt’s Point, he calls a cab from the shelter of a gas station, and we ride in silence while the tinny voice of some kind of Middle Eastern music fills the air.

  Nico’s mad. He’s really mad. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel as I curl my fingers around my bare wrist. I still don’t completely understand what happened back there. I don’t know why the broker thought Giancarlo owed more money than he did. I’m sure there was some kind of misunderstanding, but when Nico told me to give him the watch, there was something in his eyes that told me not to argue. Nico was scared too. And that scared me more than anything.

  One day, my father is going to ask me what happened to my watch. Well, he’ll ask if he ever comes back to see me. A pang shoots through my heart at that thought, but I push it away. It’s another issue I’m so very tired of thinking about.

  It’s not until the cab comes to a stop much quicker than I expected that I realize Nico hasn’t told the driver my address, but his.

  “I can walk,” I say after we get out. “Giancarlo’s apartment is only a few blocks from here. I can wait there for him if he’s not already home, find out what happened.”

  Nico looks at me like I’m crazy. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely not,” he pronounces. “If you think I’m going to let you walk around by yourself right now, you are even crazier than I thought.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I demand.

  “It means you should have known better than to go running up to the worst part of the South fuckin’ Bronx by yourself!” Nico explodes, right there on the sidewalk, startling a group of teenage girls passing by.

  “Ohhh,” one of them titters to the other.

  Nico gives them a black look, and they scurry up the hill. He turns back to me.

  “Look,” he says. “It’s getting late. I’m tired, I need dinner, and I have a...thing tomorrow that I can’t fuck up. I don’t have time to take you back downtown right now, and honestly, I don’t have any more cash for a cab. Can you please just stay with me tonight?”

  I look dubiously at the familiar gray building, then back at him. “You want me to stay here. With you. Are you forgetting what happened the last time we were together? Nico, I have a boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, where’s your boyfriend now?”

  “At work!” I protest.

  “I’ll believe that when I fuckin’ see it.”

  “You want to go to the club?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to go. Part of me wonders if maybe Nico is right.

  His jaw ticks when he grinds his teeth together. Nico sighs audibly. “Look, I’ll be good, I promise. But if Evita’s just a club promoter, baby, I’m the fuckin’ Easter Bunny.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He sighs. “Nothing. It means nothing.”

  I cross my arms. There’s a tension in the pit of my stomach, a warring between wanting to stay with him because, if I’m being honest, Nico makes me feel safe, and always will. But the other side of me feels guilty. Giancarlo wouldn’t like it. He wouldn’t like me staying at some stranger’s place. And after what happened last night, I’m genuinely scared of what he would do if he found out.

  Nico’s gaze loses its hardness. His big black eyes turn tender, and I see then how very afraid he was for me tonight—more afraid, maybe, than even I was. I’m not sure I want to know why.

  “Please.” He swallows heavily. “Layla. I just need to know you’re safe, okay? My head’s going to be all types of fucked up tonight if I don’t know where you are.”

  I take a deep breath and look up at the gray stone arch. With its tagged exterior, the crumbling mortar, it’s nothing special to look at. But weirdly, it does feel a little like home. Everything I ever experienced here only ever felt like home. The good and the bad.

  I called Shama about this mess, but she was at work and didn’t answer. I’ll have an apartment full of judgmental roommates waiting for me when I get back, ready to shit all over Giancarlo, tell me all the mistakes I’m making, judge, judge, judge. And if I go to Giancarlo, he’ll be asking me questions all night. And when he finds out whom I was with...the thought makes me shudder.

  Maybe this is better. Maybe I don’t have to tell anyone where I am at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Layla

  Home.

  The word echoes through my mind when I wake up the next morning. Slowly, in the dim light, the room comes into focus. It’s familiar, but not the one I’m used to seeing here. That one, the plain white bedroom on the other side of the far wall, is now occupied by Nico’s brother, Gabe. Poor Gabe. He had a taste of freedom for just over six months before he was right back to living with his mom.

  Nico and I are on the pull-out couch in the living room, a space that’s cordoned off by a couple of screens that block the open doorways leading from one side into the hallway, and through the other into the small TV room and the kitchen. It used to serve as a storage space for Nico and his family, giving his mother a little extra room in her tiny apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. There is even more stuff now, he explained sheepishly last night, because they’ve been slowly moving her up here.

  Several cardboard boxes are stacked against the plastered walls, and another side of the room contains a jumble of other household goods: a couple of old brass lamps, a stack of faded sheets, a box of cords, an old TV, and two or three laundry baskets with what look like children’s clothes that Allie has grown out of. Faint scents of rice and beans filter through the air, and even this early, the bright guitar of a bachata song fades in every now and then from the street below. It’s not a nice apartment by any stretch of the imagination, but I don’t feel awkward here. I never did.

  Despite the chill of the room, I’m warm. It’s because, I soon realize, I’m in an equally familiar position: wrapped in five feet, elevenish inches of Nico. He’s curled around me like a shrimp, one big arm draped across my middle, the other wormed under my neck to hold me securely against his broad, warm body. Apparently, it didn’t matter how vehemently we both insisted we would stay away from each other through the night. Our bodies were determined to do differently.

  I can’t say I’m surprised. And even though I know it’s wrong, I don’t move away. Nico’s nose is buried in the back of my neck, and his warm breath feels so good. His fingers tighten reflexively now and then, and every few breaths, a low hum escapes his lips as he dreams. His biceps flex, a sturdy armor. Even in his dreams, he protects me.

  My phone blinks on top of the suitcase beside the couch: filled with messages, no doubt, from my roommates and Giancarlo. I texted all of them last night, but everything I said was lies. The twist in my stomach reminds me: I am not a good person. My roommates think I’m staying with my boyfriend; Giancarlo thinks I went to stay with them. None will be happy about where I am now.

  I sigh. The world outside this room feels heavy. But the person in it is not someone I should be with. And he’s also not someone I have ever been able to say no to.

  Nico stirs again, inhaling deeply. The hand at my waist tightens, and his hips flex into me from behind. Well...something is definitely awake. Instinctively, he grinds into me again, and a light groan erupts from his lips as he burrows his face further into my neck and shoulder, lips and mouth seeking.

  “Mmmm, Layla,” he murmurs as his fingers locate the hem of my t-shirt. I gasp as they slide underneath, skin on skin as his lips meet the soft spot under my ear.

  “Ah!” I gasp as his teeth find my earlobe.

  “Mmmmm.” Nico’s deep voice is a motor as the hand at my stomach drifts farther south and starts to slide under the waistband of my jea
ns.

  “Nico,” I whisper.

  “Just five minutes, baby.”

  His voice slurs a little; he’s not completely awake. But as much as I want to stay here, want to let his fingers continue their path, I know I have to stop this. I have to stop before we make this mistake all over again, and I’m eaten alive with guilt more than I already am.

  “Nico,” I say, wriggling against him.

  Shit, that really doesn’t help. The rock-hard length of him pressed against my ass just gets even harder, and he groans as he thrusts lightly. Shit.

  “Nico, you have to stop!”

  “Hm? What?” The hand at my stomach starts. His whole body tenses. “Oh,” he says. “Damn.” But he doesn’t move away immediately. “Damn,” he murmurs again, and then, finally, withdraws his arms and rolls away.

  His absence is sudden and acute. And now I am freezing.

  I roll over to find him lying on his back, hands clasped over his broad chest while he stares up at the ceiling with a pained expression. Perhaps feeling my gaze, he turns to me.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  He presses his full lips together. “Hey. Um, sorry about that. I...I was asleep, I guess. Hard to control myself when I’m not conscious.”

  I give a lopsided smile. Is it fucked up that I like that I have this effect on him? This is definitely not someone who ever needs help getting things started.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Old habits die hard, right?”

  His smile isn’t the big, bright one I usually get. He doesn’t even bare his teeth.

  “I—this is hard,” he admits, turning back to the ceiling. He pushes his hands into his hair, which is a little longer than usual. “I don’t know how to do this.” His eyes sharpen. “I don’t want you to see that guy anymore, Layla.”

  All the warmth of this moment disappears. “You have no right to say that.”

  “I have a right as your friend.”