Bad Idea

by Nicole French

  “Will you stop it?” I hiss, shoving a few other pieces of clothes in my bag before starting on my books. “I love you, but I have a dad of my own if I want someone to give my dates the third-degree.”

  “Third-degree, please. It was a couple of questions. I’m just doing my best friend job, babe,” she retorts. She comes next to me so we can speak in low tones Nico won’t be able to hear through the thin walls.

  “You never did this before. Not even with Teddy, and you fucking hated him,” I say in a loud whisper.

  Teddy was my disaster of a boyfriend from freshman year to whom I lost my virginity. He cheated on me a few weeks later, leaving me furious and heartbroken, though surprisingly not as torn up as I might have expected, all things considered. Just goes to show that I wasn’t really as in love as I’d thought.

  “That’s because you were obviously not in love with Teddy,” Quinn echoes my thoughts. “But you are definitely falling for this one, Lay. He’s hot––I’ll give you that. I just want you to be careful.”

  “I’m being careful,” I insist, zipping up my bag and grabbing a few cosmetics from the small caboodle on my desk. “Yes, I like him. And I think he likes me too. But we’re just starting this, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You’re taking off at a sprint, babe. Your first date was yesterday, and you’re already going home with him for a weekend.” Quinn cocks her head knowingly before she shrugs and goes to flop back down on her neatly made bedspread. “For what it’s worth, he seems nice, even if he does have a temper,” she informs me, ever so nonchalant as she picks up her marketing book and flips through it. “But you don’t really know him yet, and you’re heading off to New Jersey with the guy after, like, five minutes. I worry because I love.”

  I soften at her words. I get that she cares. I’m lucky to have three friends like that who watch my back and who are willing to protect me against the shitheads roaming New York. But Nico’s not one of them.

  “Thanks, Quinny,” I say as I zip up my bag. “You are the best. I’ll text you later, okay? Just to let you know I’m safe.”

  She sighs, then leans over so she can reach into the desk drawer next to her bed.

  “Here,” she says. She turns back and flings an unopened box of condoms at me.

  I catch them in my chest and look up, grinning. “Really, Quinn? Didn’t know you even had any in stock. I’m impressed.”

  “Shut up, you whore,” she orders me, sinking back down in her pillow with a red face. “Like I said, be safe.”

  ~

  The PATH train to Hoboken doesn’t arrive as often as the subway, so Nico and I have about a fifteen-minute wait. Once we’re on, the trip under the Hudson is fast. Our stop is the second one across the water, and after we arrive, Nico immediately walks me down the street in search of food. Both of our stomachs are grumbling, so we find a cheap Chinese place and order some boxes to go before getting a cab to his friend’s apartment.

  “So, who’s the friend that owns this place?” I ask once we’re on our way to an address on the outer edge of Hoboken that directly faces Manhattan across the river. My stomach growls—the lo mein smells amazing.

  “My boy, K.C.,” Nico says fondly. “My best friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids in the Kitchen. His mom knew my mom, and we lived in the same building, so I was always over at their house.” He leans over conspiratorially to whisper: “Don’t tell my mom, but K.C.’s mom is a better cook.”

  I laugh as the cab pulls up outside a building on a darkened road. It doesn’t look dangerous per se—just deserted. The street, which needs to be repaved, is lined with tall, somewhat dilapidated brownstones, remnants of a time when the area had a bit more money. I know enough about Hoboken to know that it’s already in the midst of a revitalization, considering its proximity to New York and the availability of space to young professionals. But I wouldn’t want to walk alone at night here.

  Nico pays the cabbie and we step out, the frozen snow crunching loudly under our feet and the tires as the car pulls away. Nico leads me up the steps of the building and pulls out a key to unlock the door. He guides me into the foyer of the building and up a few flights of stairs that lead to the third floor.

  “He owns the top floor,” Nico informs me as he unlocks the door. It swings open, and we step inside one of the nicest places I’ve seen since moving to New York.

  The space alone tells me why people even bother moving to Hoboken—the living room we step into is easily bigger than the entire apartment I share with three other girls. It’s huge, with high ceilings and massive windows at one end that open out to the street and offer a faint view of the Midtown skyscrapers that twinkle across the darkened river. The place has obviously been fixed up, with gleaming hardwood floors, walls that have all been painted a soft sage green, a large sectional sofa that faces a flat-screen TV mounted on one wall. A baby grand piano sits in the other corner of the room. I twirl around for a moment in it, my arms stretched out on all sides as Nico watches with amusement.

  “Ahhh,” I sigh, coming to a stop. “I haven’t been able to do that inside since coming to the city. This place is gorgeous! What does your friend do?”

  Nico smirks. “He’s a DJ. He mixes at a bunch of clubs, but he also does the programming for one of the radio stations in LA He’s mad talented.”

  I gaze around, taking in the posh surroundings. “He must be.”

  “Wait ‘til you see the rest.”

  I’m quickly taken on a tour of the rest of the floor, which includes a dining room and big kitchen to the left of the living room, a hallway lined with a bathroom and framed black and white photos (several of which include Nico), and two huge bedrooms, one of which holds a set of turn tables and several instruments. The walls are padded with leather. This isn’t the shared apartment of a college kid, like me, or a poor twenty-something, like Nico. This is a grown-up’s apartment, through and through.

  “Is this room…soundproofed?” I ask, reaching out to touch the leather. It’s soft against my fingers, and my voice is a bit muted in here.

  Nico nods. “Yeah. K.C. records on his own sometimes. Pretty sweet, isn’t it? It’s my room when I stay here, too.” He gestures toward a small futon in the corner of the studio. It’s folded up as a couch right now. “I’d probably just sleep in the bedroom this week,” he says as if reading my mind. “Would you—do you want to see it?”

  Something in his voice makes me feel shy as he takes my hand and leads me down the hallway to the master bedroom. He takes my bag, drops it to the floor beside the door, and pulls me inside.

  My first thought upon walking into this room is that it so absolutely screams sex that I’m almost literally thrown off balance. It’s not sleazy—not like a porn set or anything like that—but unlike the demure polish of the rest of the apartment, this is clearly the room of a bachelor who is looking to get laid, and as frequently as possible. The entire room is bright white, right down to the walls, the painted wood floors, the soft cotton curtains fluttering over the large window, and the modern-style canopy bed dressed with white linens and a twisting drape of translucent muslin hung lazily around the frame.

  On the opposite wall, facing the window, there is a huge painting—the only color in the room—done in a Jackson Pollock-esque style using rainbow splatters of paint. It appears to be a close up of a woman’s erect nipple and a man’s mouth, teeth bared, about to close down on it. My own breasts tingle at the sight, instantly bringing to mind the attention Nico paid to them just last night. I glance back at him, and he is watching my reaction with a knowing smirk on his face, gently rubbing his fingers over my knuckles.

  “Jesus,” I breathe. “You really can’t be in this room and not think about sex, can you?”

  Nico tips his head back and laughs.

  “No doubt, baby, no doubt,” he agrees. “I call it K.C.’s fuck pad. It really is, isn’t it?”

  “He, um, must get around. How do you sleep in here alone?”


  The bed is perfectly made, like it’s waiting for someone to throw back the covers. As I think about how many women have been lured to this exact spot I’m standing in, made to feel the exact things I’m feeling…a shudder of revulsion slides down my spine. The room is so obvious—too obvious, really. It is a fuck pad, but I can’t understand how any woman could enter the place and not know she was one of a long succession of other conquests that preceded her.

  My arms wrap around my middle as I shrink into myself. I don’t want him to think I’m intimidated by this place, but I can’t help it. He says he housesits the place when K.C. is gone, which seems to be a lot. But Nico’s young, gorgeous, and has the charm of an R&B song. How many other girls has he brought back here?

  Suddenly, I feel a little dirty. And not in the way I want to feel around Nico.

  “I…Nico, don’t take this the wrong way, but…” I trail off, struggling to vocalize my thoughts. “Has anyone slept in the fu––this room recently…with you?”

  He blinks at me for a moment, and then bursts into a peal of laughter that bounces around the airy high ceilings and light furnishings. “Oh God, Layla,” he gasps. “You are awesome.”

  “That doesn’t really answer my question,” I point out, squeezing my stomach. Does that mean he has? The thought makes my stomach twist into knots, even though I know I have no right to be jealous.

  “Ah,” he gasps through a few more chuckles. “Sorry. That was just funny. No, baby, the answer is no. I haven’t brought anyone but you back to the fuck pad. That would be K.C.’s M.O., not mine.”

  Privately I wonder why not. Nico’s got the looks and the charisma to take home just about any girl he wants. Hell, half my office would come running if he crooked his fingers. They already do the second the elevator doors open.

  But Nico’s expression is kind as he strokes my shoulder lightly. Hope springs warm in my belly—maybe he really is the good guy I want so badly for him to be. One thing is for sure. I don’t want to be another conquest of this room, no matter who’s the conqueror.

  “Do you think we could sleep on the futon?” I ask. “Or maybe the couch?”

  Nico sobers, considering the room again before reaching down to grab my bag.

  “Abso-fuckin’-lutely,” he declares, and we march back down the hallway to the recording studio and its conveniently soundproofed walls.

  ~

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nico

  I knew it was going to be a gamble taking her into that room. K.C. is an animal, and for all his goofy looks, the guy gets more play than anyone I know. Helps when you have extra cash and a place like this to take the girls.

  But I’m actually thrilled that Layla wasn’t feeling it. That the tension running through her body wasn’t the good kind––she’s been nervous around me before, but not in the way that makes her shrivel up like a raisin. She looked worried. She looked scared.

  Now I’m even starting to wonder if I should have just taken her to my place. The more time I spend with this girl, the more I’m finding that I want her to see all sides of me. Maybe she wouldn’t care that I live in a crappy railroad apartment in Harlem. Maybe she would actually be all right with just plain Nico.

  The longer we’re away from K.C.’s porn-set bedroom, the more relaxed Layla becomes. We go back to the kitchen and eat dinner, sitting across from each other on the kitchen counters, grinning over the takeout boxes that she suggests we use instead of K.C.’s fancy dishes. Then she sets up her books at the dining table and studies while I park myself on the sofa and watch TV. It’s weird––we’re not doing anything but just being together. But it’s nice. I feel calmer, lighter just knowing she’s there, doing her thing in the next room. I feel happy just being around her.

  It’s fully dark outside when I wake up about two hours later with the TV still blaring with some sports trivia. I’m laid out on K.C.’s massive sofa, and Layla is bent over me, looking cute and uncertain as she taps my shoulder.

  I blink lazily, then my eyes widen as I become aware of the situation going on underneath my jeans. Morning wood is a real thing, but I’m telling you, it doesn’t just happen in the morning. Especially not around a girl like this.

  Layla doesn’t seem to notice as she sits next to me on the couch. Naturally, I slide my arm around her waist and nuzzle my head in her lap. Her hands thread into my hair, and we both sigh, content. Her coconut scent surrounds me, and it doesn’t take me long to move from content to something else. She seems to feel the same, as I feel her fingers drift down my neck and start playing with the collar of my shirt.

  I turn in her lap to look up at her.

  “Hey beautiful,” I say in a voice still scratchy from sleep. Her hand falls on my chest, and I take it, eager for her touch. “You all done?”

  She nods, her eyes wide, like she’s mute. I smile. She shivers.

  Ah. So it’s like that, huh?

  “Come here.” I pull her down until she collapses along the length of the couch, spooned comfortably toward the television with her back fitted to my front.

  I grab the remote control from the coffee table and flip around, trying to find something that’s not a total mood killer. Eventually, I land on a channel that’s broadcasting a live concert by Sade. Fuck, yes. I could not have asked for anything better. The velvety texture of her voice fills the room, and I’m humming along with her as I skim my hand up and down the length of Layla’s thigh. She wiggles her heart-shaped ass in reaction and hums lightly. It’s torture, but I love it just the same.

  “Mmmm.”

  She makes that sound when she likes what I’m doing. She did it a lot last night too. So, I keep doing the same thing, running my hand up and down her curves, light and flirtatious, just enough to drive her as crazy as she’s driving me.

  Then she turns in my arms and burrows further into my warm chest as she slips her hand under my shirt. The effect is instantaneous––I’m hard as a rock in seconds. But I don’t hurry anything. It feels really good just to touch her like this, to have her touch me too.

  “This okay, baby?” I ask, pulling up the edge of her shirt so I can mirror her actions and brush the delicate skin over her ribs. Her skin is butter-soft.

  “Mmmm, yes. Yes, it’s...ah...just fine.”

  I lean into her neck, feather a few kisses down the side, where whatever scent she wears is the strongest. She arches against me, rubbing her hips against the serious hardship in my pants. This is a dangerous game we’re playing, one I’m not sure I’ll win. But I don’t kiss her––not yet. I know the second I do that, it’s over. There will be no more gentle flirtation, no more teasing. Just pure, all-consuming lust.

  Slowly, I graze my fingers over her oblique muscles, testing to see just how far she’s going to let me go. Layla works out––not crazily, like some of the girls I see at the gym every now and then, but just enough that her body is taut and soft at the same time. My fingertips tease farther and farther up her shirt while I nip at her ear, and then I finally brush my knuckles under the soft curves of her breasts and caress the incredibly soft skin between them. She squirms into me, her breath hot against my ear. So I do it again and again, trailing my hand back down her ribs and stomach and then up again.

  I want to leave no part of her untouched. I want her to feel it tingle from head to toe, long after I’m gone.

  I continue worshipping her like that for what seems like hours, occasionally pressing kisses on her collarbone, her neck, her ear, her cheek. But aside from the fact that I could do this forever and be a happy man, I’m not going to make a move here beyond a little petting on the couch. I need her to give me the green light. I can give her at least that much.

  Then, just as I skim back down again to play with her navel, Layla seizes up.

  “Stop,” she breathes into my neck. “Stop!”

  I pull my hand away, confused. She obviously likes what I’m doing––her nipples are visibly hardened through her shirt, and her breath is harsh and sta
ggered. If she doesn’t want to do more, I’ll be disappointed, but it will be okay. I just like touching her. Maybe she doesn’t realize that no matter what, it’s okay. I just want to be with her.

  I open my mouth to say just that, but I can’t. So instead, I just ask, “What’s wrong, baby?”

  Layla bites her lip and shakes her head. Okay, now I’m worried. Is it just me, or is she about to cry?

  “N-nothing,” she says, even as she twists away from me and swings her feet to the floor.

  I stand up with her and take her hands.

  “Hey,” I say. “You okay?”

  Her gaze is hungry as she stares at me, the bottom of her t-shirt caught up a little on her hip, the top button of her jeans already undone. The thought of what’s below it makes my cock stand to attention. Seriously––does she have any idea? Does she have any fucking clue what she does to me?

  ~

  Layla

  “T-take––take off your shirt,” I blurt out before my nerves get the best of me.

  The concern on Nico’s face is adorable. He’s not sure if I like what’s happening, or maybe he’s not sure if I’m going to stop him again. Truth be told, I probably like it too much. If I’m being honest with myself, there is a chance that Quinn is right, and I’m right on the precipice of falling in love with this man, even after such a short time. It’s scary, and I doubt he feels the same way, but I can’t say no to him either.

  My mother would toy with her big diamond solitaire and tell me to wait—even until marriage—to let a boy do the things I want Nico to do to me. Especially because I might be falling for him. “Nobody respects easy women, Layla,” she’d intone every time I’d want a skirt that was too short for her tastes or wear a little too much eyeliner. If she could have had it tattooed above my vagina, I think she would have.

  But in this moment, it’s easy to push her warnings aside in the face of my visceral, all-consuming desire for this man. I can’t remember ever wanting something as badly as I do in this moment. Not the high school soccer state championship. Not visiting my dad’s country and meeting my family there. Not my admittance to NYU. Nothing even comes close to how badly I want Nico. Right here. Right now.