Lost Ones (Bad Idea Book 2)

by Nicole French

  She looks at me as she says photo shoot, as if I’m supposed to be impressed. Well, mission accomplished. In all her blonde, statuesque glory, Jessie makes me feel like a freaking hobbit.

  “Anyway, babe, I was just asking you to pick up some toilet paper, okay? Also, I think we’re out of condoms,” she says to Nico, whose head immediately snaps up at the word.

  Something inside me also springs into action. Whoever this Jessie person is, she’s clearly more than just a roommate. Roommates don’t call each other babe or hon. They don’t buy each other condoms. Not unless they’re my roommate, Quinn, and considering we are both heterosexual females in only a slightly codependent, but completely platonic friendship, I’d say she’s fairly harmless. Jessie is anything but.

  “You know what?” I say as I get up. “I have to get going too.”

  I try to brush off all the sand that is sticking to my legs, and, of course, it won’t go anywhere. I’m a sandy mess while I’m standing beside the next Cindy Crawford. Fucking great.

  Jessie watches me with barely masked amusement while Nico scrambles up beside her.

  “Hold on,” he says to me. “I’ll drive you back to Pasadena.”

  “No, really, it’s okay.” I hoist my purse over my shoulder, where, of course, it keeps falling down. “I have some things I wanted to grab in Santa Monica anyway. I was going to take a bus over there to meet my mom for dinner.”

  “Oh, you don’t have a car?” Jessie says it like it’s the worst thing in the world. Like I’m some pitiful child because I have to take public transportation.

  “Like he said, I’m just visiting,” I say through my teeth.

  It’s a lie. Mom is probably swimming in a vat of white wine with Grandma right about now. The first thing I’m going to do when I get off the beach is figure out how the hell to take a bus back to Pasadena, maybe even get a cab if I really have to, because there is no way in hell I’m going to ride in the car with Nico. I’ll break, I know it, and I just can’t deal with that right now.

  That ache is back, only this time, it scissors through me like a blade. I catch Jessie looking at Nico like he’s a piece of meat––no, like something she knows intimately. Her mouth twists knowingly. The blade twists too.

  “I’ll see you,” I mutter as I turn away. “Nice to meet you, Jessie.”

  “You too, hon,” she calls. “Have a nice trip back to New York!”

  But I’m already too far down the beach to answer. And all I can think as the wind whips my hair in front of my face, as the sand builds up around my stumbling feet, is that I need to get the hell out of this city and away from this man as fast as I can.

  ~

  Nico

  After Layla practically sprints off the beach, I turn back to Jessie, who is still watching Layla with a really satisfied expression. She looks at me, and the satisfaction turns to fear.

  “What the fuck was that?” I demand.

  Jessie bites her lip. “What? We are out of toilet paper.”

  “Condoms? Really? That was some manipulative bitch shit there, Jess.”

  Jessie bites her lip and tosses her long ponytail over her shoulder. “It’s not like we’ve never used them.”

  I scoff. “What, three, four times this whole summer? You made it sound like we’re a serious couple.”

  “What about you? I thought you were going to K.C.’s for the weekend. You think it felt good for me to run into you making out with some rando on the beach? People here know me, Nico. They’re going to think you’re cheating on me!”

  My mouth falls open. “And why the fuck would they think that when we’re not together, Jessie?”

  Jessie gives me an equally disbelieving look that makes me want to tear my hair out. I mean, I’m not stupid. I notice how she cozies up to me. Makes me dinner or hangs off me at the club, like I belong to her or something. That’s usually when I take off for the weekend. Give her a little space. Remind her that I need mine.

  She crosses her arms and nudges me in the shoulder. “I know we’re not together, together,” she says finally. “But…come on. You’ve never thought about it? We have a good connection, and we already live together.”

  I bury my face in my hands and groan. “Are you really asking me this right now? Right after you just chased another girl off the beach?”

  “Please. Like that easy piece would ever be able to satisfy someone like you. Her shorts were about two inches long. Cheap.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that,” I growl.

  “Whatever. How old is she, twelve? You need a woman, Nico, not a little girl.”

  I brush the sand off my shorts roughly. Jessie leans away to avoid getting it in her eyes. I couldn’t care less.

  “I’ma say this once,” I state as evenly as I can. It’s hard, because I’m that pissed off. “You wanna stay on my good side, Jess? Then you better respect my friends and family, and that goes double for Layla. Otherwise, you can fuck off. If it’s a choice between you and that girl, I choose her every time. You got that? Every. Time.”

  Jessie’s eyes widen. She’s only ever known me as good-time Nico. Nico at the club. Nico at the beach. She might be my roommate, but she doesn’t know shit about the real me. Not like Layla.

  “Fuck!” I shout, startling a bunch of seagulls a few feet away floating in the whitewash.

  Jessie leans away, but doesn’t move when I glare at her. I pull out my phone and dial Layla’s number. If I’m lucky, she’s still in the neighborhood, although at the pace she was running she’s probably already up to Hermosa by now.

  It goes to voicemail. Then again. And again. With another grunt, I shove my phone in my pocket and start jogging in the direction of my car.

  “Where are you going?” calls Jessie.

  “To clean up this fuckin’ mess you made!” I yell, not even bothering to turn around.

  ~

  Two hours and about ten voicemails later, I’m done driving around Santa Monica hunting for Layla, and I’m pulling up in front of her grandparents’ big house in Pasadena. I’ll wait here all night if I have to, but she’s going to see me.

  Before I get out of the car, I send one last text.

  ME: You’re mad, I get it. Please, Layla. Im begging here.

  I sit there for a few minutes, waiting for her to respond. It gives me a few seconds to take in the neighborhood, really take it in. Even in the dark, it’s clear the grass is way too green for late summer in Southern California. The columns and sparkling white paint makes the Spanish-style houses pristine, and the crack-free sidewalks and the tag-free garage doors continue that perfection. Manhattan Beach is nice, but this neighborhood is where the really rich live. Most of them would probably assume I was here to work on their yards.

  Well, fuck ’em. I’m only here for one thing, and she’s pissed as hell at me.

  I’m just about to get out of the car when she actually texts me back.

  LAYLA: I’m at the airport.

  The airport? What the fuck?

  ME: Why? You were supposed to stay another week.

  This time, the response is immediate.

  LAYLA: Got an earlier flight.

  I wait a moment, but no other texts come. She’s gone.

  I sigh and clap the phone shut. Fuck. I don’t want her to leave like this. I’m just not sure I can live in a world where Layla Barros hates my guts. I start the Jeep, suddenly full of decision. I may not be able to follow Layla back to New York, but the fuck if I’m going to let her leave thinking I’m some two-timing asshole. If I really step on it, maybe I can catch her.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m jogging into the airport and scanning the ticketing area for a head of black hair and a pair of blue eyes. United? Delta? I shake my head, trying to remember which airline she took coming down here. It doesn’t mean she’s on the same one back to New York, but I’ll take that chance. Rich people like her family can afford to prefer one airline over another.

  I have to find her before she goes
through security. Fuckin’ 9/11. Never thought I’d miss the days when people could run all the way to the gates, but I’m about two seconds from buying a ticket myself just to get through security.

  Security. That’s a thought. I follow the people funneling out of the ticketing area toward the clogged security checkpoint. It’s not too crowded here tonight, which makes it a little easier for me to spot her, just as she’s handing her ID and ticket to the security agent. Her brown-black hair, wavy around her shoulders, gleams under the fluorescent lights.

  “Layla!” I shout over the crowds. Several heads turn as I weave around to get to her. “Layla!” I call, over and over again.

  Finally, she hears me. It’s useful sometimes having a voice that’s deep, that carries. I can boom like a cannon when I want. Her blue eyes are wide with surprise as she pulls her ticket and ID out of reach of the agent.

  “Stop,” I say, half out of breath as I reach her. I’m blocked by the thin barrier strap.

  She just stares. “What are you doing here?”

  “Ma’am?” says the ticket agent, and taps her hand impatiently on the desk. “There’s a line.”

  Layla shakes her head. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  She follows me over to a bank of chairs, towing her suitcase like she’s in a trance. We sit down, and she stares at me suspiciously. She also looks tired again. Did I do that, or was she like that before?

  “What are you doing here?” she asks again.

  “I…shit…hold on…” I’m still trying to catch my breath. I’ve been sprinting around since I parked the car. I’m in good shape, but the combination of running and the adrenaline rush takes its toll.

  Layla glances back at the line of people. “My flight leaves in forty-five minutes. I need to get through security.”

  “Just…wait a second…fuck…” I take a deep breath as I whip off my hat and turn it backwards. I don’t want anything to keep me from seeing her face. Then I take both of her hands, holding them firmly with mine. I’m not letting her leave until I say whatever I’m going to say.

  “Why are you leaving now?” I ask.

  Okay, it’s not what I practiced in the car for the, but I need to know. I was planning on having a week with her, not just one fucked-up afternoon.

  Layla bites her lip, which is trembling. “It’s…it’s just too hard. This place. I don’t belong here. Not with my mom’s ridiculous, stuck-up family. And not with you. You’re…you’re taken, Nico.”

  “I am not taken,” I snap. “Jessie is full of shit. She was just trying to make you jealous.”

  “And why is that?” Layla asks sharply. Her blue eyes glint with a bit of steel.

  That’s my girl, I think to myself, in sort of a proud, distant way. She’s sweet, but she’s learning not to take shit from people. Not even me.

  I take another breath. “Okay. I’m not going to pretend there’s nothing between her and me. But it’s always been casual, Layla. Usually it’s…” I sigh. “Usually it’s just when I’m missing you.”

  “You fuck another woman because you miss me?” Layla’s voice cuts through the noise of the airport. “That’s gross. You’re using her. Should I go fuck other guys just to get over you?”

  “Fuck no,” I start to growl, but manage to hold myself back.

  The truth is, I have no say over who Layla gets with. I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to think about it. I imagine if I had been in her spot, if I had watched some dude walk up to her, call her pet names, tell her they were out of contraceptives. Fuuuuuuck. Mine, I’m thinking, from some primal place that doesn’t have a conscience.

  But I don’t have a right to feel this way. Not anymore.

  “You can do whatever you want,” I say hollowly. “And so can I. You’re right about Jessie, I don’t need to be using her, and I don’t. We’re friends with benefits. She knows the score.”

  “Does she?”

  “Yes,” I insist.

  Layla and I stare at each other. I’m still holding her hands, only now they’re in a death grip. She pulls them away and shakes out the spots where her skin turned white. Then she stands up and puts her backpack on.

  “I can’t do this right now,” she says. “I have enough drama in my life. I just…I just need to get back to New York.”

  “Layla.” I stand up and take her shoulders, forcing her to look at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “I know,” she says, but continues to avoid my gaze. “You never do.”

  Those beautiful blue eyes are welling up with tears again, and it just about kills me that I put them there. I want to do anything but let her leave. I want to take her home with me and hole up in my room and pretend that nothing out there can hurt her, can hurt us. Not school. Not her family. Not Jessie. When it’s just us, everything is fine.

  I slide a finger under her chin and tip it up so she can’t look anywhere else but at me.

  “Please,” I say. “Stay the week.”

  I’m working hard to be gentle, even though there’s a big part of me that wants to toss her over my shoulder and carry her out whether she wants to come or not. But Layla is fragile right now. More than anything, she needs to know I care.

  And then, because I can’t do anything else, I kiss her, right here in the middle of the airport. I can’t avoid the electricity that seems to shoot through us when we touch, that turns to a thunderclap whenever we kiss. What starts as gentle turns hungry in about two seconds, and suddenly, airport or not, Layla is devouring me just like I’m devouring her. The three months we’ve been apart come roaring back––three months of longing, three months of loneliness, three months of reaching to the other side of my bed only to find it empty. I barely register the thud of her bag as it drops to the floor, followed by my hat as her hands weave into my hair. My hands drift down and get solid handfuls of her ass––fuck, this ass that dreams are made of––and suddenly we’re practically tearing at each other in front of hundreds of strangers.

  “Mmph,” she groans unintelligibly into my mouth, a half-pained sound that sends a lightning bolt straight to my dick.

  “Fuck your flight,” I grumble in her ear as I kiss along the line of her jaw. “I’ll buy you a new ticket. Goddammit, Layla, just let me take you home.”

  She stiffens in my arms. “What home?”

  Shit. How does a kiss that lasts maybe ten seconds make me completely forget about the rest of my life? I’m not this kind of person, the guy who plays two women, who tries to fuck one and mess around with the other. Fuck me.

  “Your home?” she demands. Where you live with…her?”

  Layla presses a hand on my chest and shoves me away. There are new tracks of tears on her cheeks, which she swipes at angrily and then stoops down to pick up her backpack. Taking hold of her carry-on, she faces me again.

  She’s so angry. My baby’s fierce, even when she’s mad at me. Maybe especially when she’s mad at me. Her blue eyes glitter like the Pacific at night, just when the moon is rising over it. I wanted to show her that moon tonight.

  “You’re an asshole,” she pronounces in an even voice that still manages to shake me to the core. “Go back to your home. Go back to Jessie.”

  Then she turns and starts walking down the long hallway, passing this security checkpoint, I’m guessing to find another so she can get the fuck away from me.

  I want to chase her down all over again. I want to show her that yeah, maybe I’m an asshole, but I’m her asshole, that I’d never do anything to hurt her if I could help it.

  But instead I just watch her go, watch the defiant sway of her hips in those shorts that really should be illegal. Watch the way she occasionally paws at her face, wiping away tears I put there. As much as a part of me wants to beg her to stay another day, a week, a month, a lifetime, I know it’s best if I don’t. Letting her walk away gets harder every time I do it. I’m not sure how many more times I can.

  ~

  CHAPTER S
IX

  Layla

  It’s twelve o’clock when I tumble into Shatzi’s, the Jewish deli around the corner from campus, and set my giant bag of books on the floor with a loud thump. My roommates, Shama, Jamie, and Quinn, all look at the stack with big eyes.

  “Damn, babe,” Quinn remarks. “Did you bring the entire library to lunch with you?”

  I roll my eyes as I take a seat. “This is what I get for starting a major so late in the game. I have to catch up. Portuguese and Spanish, through level three. And my other two classes are seriously reading-intensive.” I let my face fall into my hands. “What the fuck was I thinking?”

  “The Wretched of the Earth?” Shama picks up one of my books curiously.

  Quinn frowns. “The sounds like a ball of laughs.”

  “It’s interesting,” I say, taking the book back from Shama and paging through it. “It’s this account of the psychological effects of colonialism. Frantz Fanon wrote it about his experiences during the French-Algerian war.”

  “Why are you reading about Algeria as a Latin American studies major?” Quinn shakes her head, as if she still can’t believe my choice. I still can’t believe it myself. And although my dad’s sudden departure at first put the same sour look on my face about it, once I realized that my major is exactly the opposite of anything he wanted me to study in college, I came back to it with a renewed sense of purpose. It means I’ll probably have to take classes through next summer to graduate on time, but the good thing is that a few of my general education classes from freshman and sophomore years will count.

  I got lucky too. After spending most of my summer taking intensive Spanish at the local community college when my parents weren’t looking, I was able to place into an intermediate Spanish class this semester. It’s going to be hard, and I already know I’ll be imagining Nico the entire time. But he’s right. I can’t let what’s happening with my family dissuade me from my original goals––to learn about myself. My dad already took that from me once. He’s not taking it again.

  I shake my head. In the last two weeks, I’ve been doing everything I can not to think about Nico. Ignoring his calls, which have finally dropped off. Pretending the punching bag I take my frustrations out on at the gym is his stupid, gorgeous face.