Lost Ones (Bad Idea Book 2)

by Nicole French

  “But Allie––that’s my daughter––she had seen him do it,” Maggie continues. “And I just thought, I can’t let my daughter see me like that, you know? She deserves better.”

  “Nena, te faltó un lugar,” my mother puts in, pointing at a spot on Layla’s neck that Maggie missed.

  “I was getting there,” she responds irritably, setting off a cascade of bickering between them.

  Layla bites back a smile, and I cover my face. In a way, watching my mother and sister argue is comfortably normal. It makes the shit that just went down seem…a little farther away. But only a little.

  “It’s a little too dark for your skin,” Maggie says as she starts applying the thick cream to Layla’s neck. “But at least you’ll be able to take the train without people looking at you funny.”

  Ma nods in agreement and hums. I swallow back another wave of anger as I remember her applying the same kind of cream to her face not so long ago––sitting at the mirror she kept in her bedroom and drawing it over her cuts and bruises with a finger like she was a fancy rich lady preparing for a ball. Except in my mother’s case, the ball was the rich lady’s apartment, and she was just putting on makeup so the people whose toilets she cleaned wouldn’t think she was unstable and fire her.

  “Hey,” I say, interrupting the love fest. “You gonna be okay here for a few?”

  Layla looks up, her big blue eyes full of fear and concern. “You’re leaving?”

  My fist clenches at my side, but when she looks at the small movement, I have to force myself to make it relax. “I won’t be long. I just need to take care of a few things. Ma?”

  My mother looks up, her face full of understanding. “Go,” she orders me, in English so Layla will know. But as I turn around, she beckons me back. “Papito.”

  I turn around. “Yeah?”

  My mother presses her lips together. She knows, better than anyone, what’s going through my mind.

  “Be careful,” she says, this time in Spanish, more so Layla won’t understand than anything else.

  I nod. “Okay.”

  ~

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Nico

  I jog ten blocks, up and down Riverside Drive, about three times before I feel like I’m calm enough to return to the building on 144th. It looks different now, even though I’ve been coming here for years, since Flaco first moved in. I glare at the brick exterior––tall and dark, just like him. Just like that motherfucker who put his hands on my girl.

  Every time I think I’m okay, that I can go there and figure out how the fuck to deal with Evita without tearing him in two, visions of his hand meeting her face appear again, followed by my sister’s fingers covering her bruises. And I have to sprint another three blocks to get my brain to calm down.

  Your fault. Your fault.

  The words chant with every footstep. I don’t care what she says. This whole fuckin’ mess is my fault. I always knew I’d be bad for Layla, but I never thought it would be my absence that would make way for the poison. I never thought I’d ruin her life if I was gone. Well, here we are. I’m not going to make that mistake again, but first I have to set things right. Time to suck the poison out.

  By the time I finally stop in front of Flaco’s building, my shirt is sticking to me with sweat. I pull the bill of my hat around to cover my face, check for people who might notice me off the street, then call up to Flaco.

  “You here?” he answers on the first ring.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Let me in.”

  The buzzer on the door sounds immediately, and with another suspicious glance around, I bound inside and up the stairs. I don’t need people placing me here in case of…well, I don’t know what. I’m honestly not sure what I’m going to do when I get up there.

  Flaco’s standing in the doorway of Tango Fuckface’s apartment, looking around with the same suspicion.

  “Did anyone see you?” he asks as I enter.

  “No.” I shake my head and turn the bill of my hat backward. I’m going to need to see straight for this.

  We’re acting like criminals, even though nothing’s happened yet. But we both know why. We both know there’s a chance that when I walk back into that room, I’m going to lose my shit, and this time Layla won’t be there to call me back. Flaco and I have been friends for a long time. He knows what I’m capable of.

  “Does he have a roommate?” I ask as we walk down the hall.

  Flaco shakes his head. “Ain’t nobody here but the cara de culo.”

  I nod in approval. “The cops. Are they on their way?”

  Flaco shakes his head. “Not yet. I thought you might wanna see this first.”

  We enter the room, where Giancarlo is still slumped on the floor by the far window, his hands now tied behind him. I take in the remnants of the scene––the drops of blood that smatter the tousled sheets and the dirty gray carpet, the knocked-over lamp by the bed, a few books and other belongings of Layla’s that were tossed around. When I turn back to Giancarlo, he’s watching me with one eye open; the other one, the one I hit, is swelled shut.

  I turn to Flaco. “You tied him to a radiator? That’s a little much, don’t you think?”

  Flaco shrugs, then gives me a horsey grin. “It’s not on. It could be, but it’s not. I think that shows great restraint, don’t you?”

  I snort.

  “That’s not what I wanted to show you, though. C’mere.”

  Flaco leads me to the closet, where a bunch of Layla’s clothes hang. That’s one more thing I need to do: get her stuff together, because she’s sure as shit not coming back here. My shoulders tense as Flaco pushes the clothes to the side; I get a noseful of her flowery scent, mixed with the stale odor of dried blood and sweat already filling the room. It’s a heady combination––not very good for my state of mind.

  With his foot, Flaco toes open an unzipped duffel bag on the floor, just enough so I can see what’s inside. At the bottom, wrapped in plastic, lies at least a key of cocaine, ready to be cut and distributed.

  “Jesus,” I murmur, squatting down to examine it. I glance at my friend. “Coño, you didn’t touch that, did you?”

  Flaco scoffs. “What do I look like, papi, a fuckin’ moron? I wasn’t about to leave fingerprints.”

  I stand back up and turn toward Giancarlo, who’s still watching us.

  “I knew you were into something,” I growl. “I fuckin’ knew it. I ought to beat your ass all over again for dragging Layla into it.”

  “Nah,” Flaco chimes in behind me. “He wouldn’t live through it. Yo, man, I ain’t seen you get like that since we were kids.”

  I rub my face, trying to push away the memories from my past that keep bubbling up. Right after I got back from Tryon, the detention center upstate, I was angry. I wasn’t a bully––exactly––but I didn’t shy away from using my fists. My hands clench. My knuckles are sore and will be bruised as fuckin’ hell tomorrow. But right now, I wouldn’t mind giving fuckface another taste of his own medicine.

  “Nico. You don’t want to…”

  Flaco nods at the bag behind me. I know what he’s thinking. It would be easy to leave with it––sell it ourselves. That much blow would pay both our rents for a year in just about any neighborhood in the city. But aside from the fact that it would be risky as fuck––whoever Giancarlo got that shit from is going to want the money it makes, and if the FDNY found out about it, I’d be fuckin’ toast––there’s something better I can do with it.

  I turn to Flaco. “Call the cops. This motherfucker’s gonna get what’s coming to him.”

  Flaco raises a skinny brow. “You sure?”

  I press my lips together and nod. I hate cops. Like every brown kid in New York City, I grew up fearing the words “Stop and Frisk,” especially after I got back from juvie during the mid-nineties. There’s a decent enough chance that just by being here, Flaco and I will both find ourselves with our noses pressed to the carpet, our wrists cuffed together.

&nbs
p; But I’m willing to take that chance to get this asshole off the streets. To keep my girl safe. To help her sleep at night.

  Flaco nods and pulls out his phone. “You got it,” he says and walks out of the room as he dials.

  I pace for a minute in front of Giancarlo. He watches closely, but says nothing. He’s waiting to see what I’ll do.

  Finally, I stop and crouch down in front of him. “You hear that, culo?” I ask him, my voice weirdly even. “The cops are coming for your ass. And I’m gonna tell them everything.”

  Giancarlo rolls his head to the side with a lot more disdain than any guy tied to a heater has any right to be.

  “And what will you say?” he retorts, more sharply than he looks capable of. “Who is the one with half a face right now? Whose blood is on your clothes? On her clothes?” He sneers. “Why do you think I cut myself instead of her, eh?”

  My face twists as I glance at the nasty cut on his wrist. It’s not bleeding anymore, but it needs stitches. It’s fucked up. I don’t even want to think about why he would do that––threaten to slit his own wrist, bleed all over someone else. This guy is sick, really sick. But that doesn’t mean I give a shit.

  Giancarlo spits, and it lands dangerously close to my shoe. Murder rises through me all over again.

  “You tried to rape her,” I snarl through my teeth. “We saw it. We all saw it. That’s five people––me, Layla, Flaco, Gabe, Jamie, and Shama––all saying the same thing: that you’re nothing but a fucking woman-beating rapist who belongs behind bars.”

  “She wanted it,” Giancarlo replies and gives a nasty smile, baring teeth slightly stained from the bloody lip I gave him earlier.

  I recoil. I can’t help it. “Fuck that.”

  “She likes it rough,” he continues, sticking his chin out, like he’s daring me to punch him again. “Why do you think she kept coming back to me? I gave her everything you cannot.”

  I lean in. “You need to stop talking now.”

  “And you left her, no?” he continues. He clicks his tongue. “She thinks I didn’t know. I knew. I saw the messages. I saw that you would call her. Well, you think she will be the same? I made her mine, and you know it. No matter how many times you try, I will always be there in the back of her head. Every time she shows you her body, you will know that I touched it too. Her legs, her lips, her sweet little pussy––”

  I break off his words with an open-palmed smack across his cheek that sends his face flying to one side, his glasses to the floor.

  “Oh shit!” crows Flaco as he strides back into the room. “Puñeta, you just got bitch-slapped, for real!”

  I shake out my hand as I cross the room. “This motherfucker doesn’t deserve a real punch. And he really doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.”

  When I turn back around, my red handprint glares on Giancarlo’s pale white cheek. It makes me smirk. I like it more than I should. The darkness inside me grows, threatening to take over again. It would be so easy just to let him have it. Cut off that tape and make it a real fight, even though I know he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  His tongue slips out, and he licks his lips, like he’s imagining some kind of dessert.

  “You know it’s true,” he calls to me. “Every touch. Every taste. I did things to her. She will never forget me, no matter what. And when you try to fuck her too, you won’t forget it either.”

  “I said you need to shut the fuck up!”

  It takes me a second and a half to swing across the room, lift this motherfucker up as far as his bound wrists will let me, and shove him against the back of the radiator so we’re nose to nose. I’m shaking, I’m so mad, like a steam kettle about to blow. He laughs. He’s ten seconds from getting me to lose my shit completely and clearly enjoying it.

  But in the end, it doesn’t work. He doesn’t realize that even with the rage the images cause, his words still remind me of the one person who puts it all out. Her face calls me back from the darkness inside me. She’s the light to my dark––just like I am for her.

  “Nah,” I say, releasing his collar. He falls back into the chair with a thump and scowls. “You ain’t worth it.” I turn to Flaco. “You called?”

  Flaco nods. “Yeah, mano. Cops are on their way.” He turns to Giancarlo with a face full of glee. “You goin’ to jail, puto. What do you think they’re gonna do with your Paco Rabanne-wearing ass, huh? What goes around comes around; that’s all I gotta say.”

  Giancarlo turns about five shades of white. He looks at me, suddenly full of desperation. “What do you want?” he asks. “Money. I have money. How much do you want?”

  His eyes, so dark and deep-set, have lost all cockiness, now just scared and knowing at the same time. He looks over my clothes––the scuffed Converse, the jeans that are worn and faded at the knees, the wrinkled t-shirt I grabbed off Gabe’s floor. Even though it’s stained with his own blood, Giancarlo’s own shirt is ironed and buttoned up––like a lawyer or a banker, not a twenty-something college student.

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t want your money, you pathetic piece of shit. Nothing’s worth not seeing you locked up.”

  Giancarlo mutters a long string of something under his breath to himself.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  He looks up, defiant, haughty even as his end is coming. “It’s Spanish,” he says. “A language people like you don’t understand.”

  I lean down so my face is by his ear. Shit, Flaco really wasn’t kidding about the Paco Rabanne. Whatever cheap cologne this dude wears, he’s fuckin’ doused in it.

  “Maldita sea la madre que te parió,” I growl. It’s a nice, nasty curse, one I probably wouldn’t be able to translate completely, but which roughly damns the bitch who gave birth to him. Then I back up so he can see my face. “How’s that for fuckin’ Spanish, cabrón?”

  Behind me, Flaco bursts into laughter and long strings of profanity in both Spanish and English, most of which makes fun of the miserable asshole on the floor. A loud knock at the apartment door interrupts his teasing.

  I blink at Giancarlo. “Guess who?”

  Flaco answers the door and ushers a pair of police officers into the bedroom. They take a look at the mess––the ripped sheets, the bloodstains, the guy tied to the radiator, and open bag of coke in the closet––and sigh. One immediately pulls out his walkie-talkie and requests backup while the other turns to us.

  “Well, fellas,” he says. “Who wants to go first?”

  ~

  The whole thing takes more than two hours. They immediately put cuffs on Giancarlo, but only after they determine that the cut on his wrist is superficial. But between them and the two other officers that arrive later, they take our statements, separately, then together before they switched to cross-examine the details. Flaco went to his apartment to be interviewed the last time, which is where he still is.

  No doubt Giancarlo has some very different things to say about what happened, so I come clean about my part. I tell them about every punch I threw and why we kept him tied up. I tell them everything and hope for the best.

  “Her name is Barros, you said?” asks the cop, the one named Barrett. “How do I spell that?”

  “B-a-r-r-o-s,” I tell him. “She’s at my apartment. I’ll bring her to the station, if that’s okay.”

  The officer frowns. “I can just come to you.”

  I shrug. “Either way.” I’m playing it nonchalant, but having a cop at the apartment is the last thing I want, especially with my mom there.

  Officer Barrett shrugs. “No, that’s okay. If you can bring her, there’s no reason for us to come.” He checks that he has the names of Jamie and Shama so he can request their information from Layla tomorrow, then stands up. A few other cops exit the bedroom, carrying the duffel bag in a plastic evidence bag along with a few other things I didn’t see before. A gun. A stash of pills. Another three officers confiscate several more bags from a closet. Jesus. The thought of how much time Layla was spending here
makes it hard to breathe all over again. She had no fuckin’ clue.

  “Thank you,” says Officer Barrett. “I think we’re done, finally. You’re good to go.”

  As I stand up, two more cops escort Giancarlo out of the bedroom, his hands still cuffed behind his back. I give him a little wave as they pass. He doesn’t fight them, clearly out of energy after being tied up for half the day and interrogated for the rest. But before he leaves, he struggles against his escort, managing to turn around to deliver one last line in Spanish that turns my blood cold.

  “Tu madre,” he says. “Yo sé.”

  Your mother. I know.

  ~

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Layla

  I watch a little mournfully when Nico disappears down the dark, narrow hall. I don’t want him to go, but I can also see the pain on his face while his sister applies her makeup to my bruises. I should tell her it’s unnecessary––but what do I know?

  “Where-where did my friends go?” I ask, finally aware that Jamie and Shama aren’t here.

  “Friends,” Maggie repeats under her breath with a knowing look at her mother. Carmen purses her lips and raises her eyebrows, but says nothing. “They went home.”

  The fact stings. But I remember the looks on their faces as they glanced around Giancarlo’s apartment––their shock that I was even spending so much time in a neighborhood that didn’t have perfectly pruned trees or buildings that weren’t power-washed.

  “It’s hard for him,” Maggie says as she continues applying her makeup in big, broad strokes. I’m going to look a little like a mannequin when she’s done, painted a completely different color, but I don’t dare stop her. “He’s seen this kind of thing a lot. Too much.”

  She glances at Carmen, who is watching us quietly from her seat on the chair. I wish my Spanish were better. Carmen is already quiet––I want to know what she’s saying when she does speak up.

  Guilt sweeps through me all over again. I don’t know everything his family’s been through, but I know enough. I know that Carmen has had her share of nasty men around in her life