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 memory, 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 s
hrugs. “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!
Get more updates from Nicole French here: www.nicolefrenchromance.com
Need more Nico and Layla? You can catch sneak peeks of these two in my forbidden romance in the Bronx, The Other Man. www.nicolefrenchromance.com/theotherman
Need more Nico? You can read about his early life in the Bad Idea prequel novella, Broken Arrow, free only to newsletter subscribers: https://BookHip.com/BBXWVX
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/.
Follow on Pinterest www.pinterest.com/nfrenchauthor
Check out Nicole’s Goodreads page: www.goodreads.com/authornicolefrench
Want to hook up with other Nicole French readers or interact with the author? Join Nicole’s reader group, La Merde.
Also by Nicole French
The Other Man
Nina Astor gave me one red-hot night, then disappeared like a ghost. Three months later, fate drops her in my lap.
The only problem?
She's beyond off-limits, and we’re worlds apart.
I’m a street savvy prosecutor with a bit of a dark side.
She’s the daughter of a dynasty and property of the scum of the earth.
And her owner just happens to be the subject of my next investigation.
Nina thinks I'm on the right side of the law, but she's forgotten one thing:
When it comes to her, I'm not a good man.
To claim her as my own, I might sell my soul to the devil himself.
True be told…when it comes to Nina Astor, maybe I already have.
Read here: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/theotherman
The Hate Vow
Eric de Vries. Looks like millions. Worth billions. A body like the David with a mind to match.
Unfortunately for this wayward heir, to keep his money, he needs a wife. And of all the women in the world, he chooses me.
Too bad I've hated him for five years, since he took all my tears and tossed me away. The guy slept his way through half of New England and discarded women like hotel toiletries.
Been there. Done that.
Still...what would you do for twenty million dollars? Would you wear the dress? Fake a smile for the man who broke your heart?
Or would you run far, far away?
Yeah, that's what I thought. I'll see you at the church.
Start the series here: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/quicksilver
The Discreet Duet
Fitz Baker was the world’s biggest sex symbol. Until he disappeared.
Fed up with the trappings of fame, he traded his world of Hollywood for a quiet life on Newman Lake. He was perfectly happy living as an island. Until he met her.
Returning home with nothing but a failed music career, all Maggie Sharp wants is to rebuild her life. A life that doesn’t involve the surly, arrogant mountain man now living across the lake.
Still, there’s something about Will…something familiar. Something Maggie can’t quite put her finger on…
She only wanted the spotlight.
He gave up his life to escape it.
The real question is if they can remain discreet.
Start the series here: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/discreet
The Spitfire Series
I had a plan.
Finish law school. Start a job. Stay away from men like Brandon Sterling.
Cocky, overbearing, and richer than the earth, he thinks the world belongs to him, and that includes me.
Yeah, no. Think again.
It do
esn’t matter that his blue eyes look straight into my soul, or that his touch melts my icy reserve.
It doesn’t even matter that past all that swagger, there’s a beautiful, damaged man who has so much to offer beyond private planes and jewelry boxes.
But I had a plan: no falling in love.
I just have to convince myself.
Book I is available FREE: www.nicolefrenchromance.com/spitfire
Broken Arrow
An Excerpt
Nico
It’s funny the things you notice when you’ve been gone a while. The old brick building where I grew up is the same and somehow different. There are new graffiti tags on the foundation, but the sandy red color of the brick is just like it ever was. The creaky stairs going up to the third floor are just as dingy as they always were, but one of the knobs at the bottom of the railing has been broken clean off. One of the apartments has a wire hanging directly through the top of the doorway. Someone bootlegging electricity so they don’t have to pay a utility bill.
I pull the keys from my backpack, which feel strange in my hand after two years. On the other side of the door, I can already hear the noise. My sisters, Selena and Maggie, are arguing about something. There’s the blare of the TV, some kind of cartoon. I’m guessing that Gabe, my baby brother, is watching Looney Tunes. Every now and then, there’s a bark, my mother’s low voice coming from the kitchen.
I put the keys in the lock and turn the knob.
Bad Idea- The Complete Collection Page 112