Bad Idea

by Nicole French

  Blake widens his eyes through his glasses. I can tell he’s not much of a dancer by the way he nervously glances back and forth between the dancing crowd and me. But I shake my hips provocatively, and that’s all it takes. He slurps back the rest of his drink and follows me to the dance floor, where everyone is busy grinding to the seductive hip-hop beats Jason is currently spinning.

  I was right—Blake is a terrible dancer. He rests his hands on my hips like dead weights and starts grinding into me awkwardly, rubbing his hips back and forth against my ass like they were a pendulum on a clock, except with absolutely no rhythm. I pull away slightly so I can groove on my own to the music, but allow him to keep his hands on my hips while I twist them from side to side in slow, sinewy motions.

  “Damn, you are so fucking hot,” he breathes, turning me around and pulling my body close to his again. “You’re like some gorgeous, exotic princess or something. Where are you from? Italy? Morocco? I dated a Persian girl once; she looked kind of like you. So hot.”

  Ugh, I hate it when these kinds of guys do this, start to play that stupid geography game just because I have dark hair and a bigger butt than your average Connecticut trust-funder. Like they all jerked off watching Aladdin too many times as kids, and now they want to sleep with Princess Jasmine.

  His lips are on my neck, and I cringe when he rubs them on the sensitive hollow above my collarbone. He wraps his hands around the small of my back and drifts his fingers lower to graze my backside. I shut my eyes and ignore him while we dance, but it’s hard. He’s hot and sweaty and hardly moving while plastered against my body. The song blends into another I don’t like so much, so I take the opportunity to pull away, fanning myself to demonstrate the heat. Blake doesn’t seem put off, just grazes my body up and down with his eyes.

  “Hey,” he says, leaning in with one hand to grip my waist again.

  His chapped lips linger too close to my ear, and I fight the urge to jerk away.

  “Yeah?”

  “So, my friends and I were planning to go to this other place a few blocks away to hear some music. You girls want to come?”

  “Let’s find out,” I say, and turn on my heel to leave the dance floor, eager to get away from his clingy hands.

  Like a puppy, he follows close behind.

  “Blake wants to go to another bar,” I announce to everyone as we return to where our little group is sitting, with the exception of Shama, who has joined Jason in the DJ booth. Quinn is currently deep in drunken conversation with her lanky investment banker, who seems to be more interested in her breasts than what she’s saying, and Jamie has her tongue halfway down the throat of Blake’s other friend. Jesus, we’re a mess. These guys are gross, and we are being gross with them. The girls look up, their eyes glazed with alcohol.

  “Where?” Quinn asks. Her eyes sharpen—she’s always been good at handling her liquor, although she looks a little worse for wear at the moment. I can tell her brain is fighting her body. She’s looking for a reason to stop.

  “This place called AJ’s,” Blake volunteers. “It’s just three blocks up Tenth. They usually do live music. The band tonight is this sick hip-hop group.”

  Quinn immediately narrows her eyes at me, but I just purse my lips and stare at the ceiling, like Blake didn’t just name the exact club where the man I’m trying to forget works.

  “I just want to hear some ‘sick hip-hop,’ Quinny,” I whine.

  Her lips twitch, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. Jamie, unfortunately, doesn’t have as good of a poker face.

  “What’s so funny?” Blake asks as both of my roommates start giggling like crazy.

  “Nothing,” I say, pulling on his arm. He wraps it around my waist like a dead snake. “They’re just silly drunks. Before we go, maybe a couple more shots?”

  ~

  “I just wanna see him,” I tell Quinn as we’re finishing the icy three-block walk to AJ’s. “You said yourself, I look hot tonight. I want him to know just what he’s leaving in New York.”

  My self-control has predictably collapsed after two more kamikazes, and it looks like Quinn’s has too. Under normal circumstances, I might have expected her to play sister’s keeper to my drunken idiot and hold me back from making stupid decisions when I’m intoxicated. The only problem is, we’re all three sheets to the wind, and irresponsible behavior seems to be in the air. Shama stayed behind to make the moves on Jason in the DJ booth, leaving Jamie, Quinn, and me to meander happily to the bar that we all know I shouldn’t be anywhere near. Even Jamie is letting her investment banker of the night manhandle her on the street in between texting her ex-boyfriend, the dickhead lawyer she dated all last year. We need a straight-minded intervention, but there’s none to be had.

  “You sure you’re going to be okay?” asks Quinn as we turn the corner onto the street where AJ’s is.

  I can hear the bass reverberating down the block, and just ahead of us, Blake and his friends are raising their hands with excitement, doing some mock breakdancing moves. Christ, these guys are idiots. It’s not even the right kind of music for that.

  “When we’ve got guys with moves like that? How can I not be okay?”

  We giggle helplessly as we watch our impromptu dates strutting up to the bar entrance, blocking the chair where the doorman sits. Which doorman is actually sitting there is still unclear. But it is Saturday night.

  “Okay, babe.” Quinn squeezes my arm. “Just be smart, okay? Remember he’s a manipulative ass who just wants to fuck you and leave you.”

  I nod as the boys turn to gesture toward us, handing the doorman thirty extra dollars for our cover. Quinn and Jamie’s dates pull them into the bar and there, of course, is Nico, staring at me with blackened eyes that flash back to Blake, who has his clammy fish hand extended toward me.

  “You coming, sexy?” Blake asks with a leer. “I took care of your cover.”

  I glance down and realize that my coat is open, and my revealing dress is on display. No wonder the walk was so cold. I’ve gone sans bra (the dress won’t allow it), so the headlights are on full blast too.

  I clap my coat closed instead of taking his hand. Blake winks at me in that irritating way that men do when they buy you something with the full expectation of reaping the benefits later. Damn, I really shouldn’t have let him pay for all those drinks, and definitely not for the cover.

  Nico whips the ten-dollar bill back at Blake, who holds it, obviously confused.

  “It’s cool, man, she’s a friend,” Nico clarifies, now staring back at me. “How you doin’, NYU?”

  And now it’s back to “NYU.” I smart. He only seems to call me that when he thinks I’m acting…I don’t know, really young. Privileged. Immature. Definitely nothing good.

  “You know this guy, honey?” Blake says.

  Nico’s face blackens at the word “honey.” I fight my own glare. I’m not sure this guy actually knows my name. But I nod, and Blake grins.

  “Too bad, we could have all gotten in for free.”

  “Yeah,” I mumble. “You go on in. I’m just going to say hi for a second.”

  “You sure, Lay?” Quinn is standing beside me, now staring drunk daggers in Nico’s direction.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  I still haven’t been able to stop looking at him, and his black eyes have been glued to mine since I spoke. Jamie whistles and follows her date inside with Blake. Quinn and her blond investment banker follow close behind, with Quinn singing “Fuck and Run” just loudly enough that Nico is sure to hear it.

  “Balls to the pigeons, motherfucker,” she hisses at him.

  He jerks his head at her, but before he can reply, the door closes behind all of them, leaving the two of us alone together in the cold. I have to fight not to lick my lips at the sight of him—even covered with his thick parka and wearing the beanie that covers his close-cut hair, he looks so damn good, just like always.

  “She’s a real piece of work,” Nico remarks.

>   There’s no one else in line for the club; just the two of us remain on the street. His eyes soften.

  “Hey, beautiful.” Nico’s voice is muffled slightly against the snow-covered ground, and even with the music pounding from the club, it feels like we are completely alone, encompassed in silence.

  “Hey,” I murmur.

  “You look gorgeous tonight, baby. I like your hair straight like that. And that dress...goddamn, baby. For real.”

  I glance down at my boots and dress, conscious again of the effort I put into everything tonight. I hadn’t planned to come here. At least, not consciously.

  “Thanks,” I say as I look back up again. “How’s it going?”

  He glances back as the doors to the club open, but relaxes when it’s only a few patrons coming out for a smoke break. He sighs.

  “Slow as fuck, actually. No one’s out because of the snow, and my boss won’t let me go until the band is gone. Grant—the bouncer on tonight—said he’d take over two hours ago, but the asshole said no. So, I’m stuck here freezing my dick off until last call.” He rubs his hands together and blows out a long, steamy breath over his fingertips between leering up at me. “I don’t suppose you want to keep me warm, do you, NYU?”

  I start at that mega-watt smile, open and close my mouth a few times before I’m finally able to stutter, “Uh, n-no thanks.”

  “Too bad. So, you and Clark Kent, huh?”

  I glance at the door and chuckle. Blake does kind of look like a skinny Clark Kent. If Clark Kent had facial hair that made you want to punch him.

  “Um, yeah, I guess he’s my date for tonight.”

  “I see. You move fast, baby.”

  I want to look away from Nico’s sad expression, but somehow, I can’t. And then the anger builds at his comment. Fuck this. He’s the one leaving me. I’m just doing what I have to do here. I flip my hair back over my shoulder and glare at him.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I do. I gotta get back to my date now.”

  I turn on my heel without waiting for his answer and flounce into the bar, leaving Nico and his puppy dog eyes to ponder that while he’s outside in the cold.

  ~

  The next few hours seem like a fight as the effects of more alcohol seem to darken my mood even more as the night progresses—a fight to keep Blake’s clammy palms off my ass, a fight to make sure Jamie and Quinn don’t do anything inordinately stupid with their dates, a fight not to run back outside and throw myself at Nico. They’re all fights I’m losing, and I’m at the point where I don’t feel like I’m in control anymore. The band isn’t terrible, but the club is a lot less crowded than it was the first time I was here, so I feel on display every time Blake tries to grind on me, continually shoving his obvious erection against my legs in rhythm-less time to the music.

  “Dude!” I say for the fifth time. “Some space, please!”

  I haven’t let him buy me any more drinks since we’ve arrived and have even bought a couple for him with money I don’t really have in hopes of erasing the “you owe me” look in his eyes. So far, it hasn’t been working.

  “Come on, honey,” he slobbers in my ear, tightening his hands over my ass and pulling me close. “You’re so hot. I just want to dance with you.”

  He smells like vodka and sweat, and suddenly I want to get as far away from this dude as possible. I try to push him off me, but with little success as he only pulls me closer and goes in for a rubbery kiss.

  “Dude, I said to fucking stop!” I shout, trying to be heard above the blare of the music.

  Suddenly, Blake flies backward toward the bar, and a cool rush of air flows against my body as I’m left alone on the dance floor. Nico is standing over the prostrate form of my “date”, fists clenched and eyes flashing murder. The bouncer—Grant, I presume—lugs up Blake and starts steering him toward the club entrance while Nico follows.

  “What the fuck, man!” Blake protests, holding the back of his head while he stumbles along with Grant. “I wasn’t doing anything!”

  “Get the fuck out of here.” The deep tenor of Nico’s voice is menacing enough that it still carries through the club without yelling. He’s not the biggest guy in the club––next to Grant’s hulking form, he almost looks small––but between the tension radiating through his chest and the black expression that threatens violence to anyone who would cross him, he’s definitely the scariest.

  Then he turns to me, his eyes still flashing. “You,” he says and stalks over to where I stand on the dance floor. “Get your coat. We’re leaving.”

  “Get your own fucking coat,” I spit, trying unsuccessfully to pull my arm away. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re not my man. You don’t give a shit about me. Just ‘fuck and run,’ right? Well, I have friends here—”

  “Your ‘friends’ left an hour ago with that douchebag’s posse!” he thunders, his New York accent getting thicker with every word.

  A few people in the remaining crowd stop dancing to watch the commotion.

  “You’re making a scene!” I hiss through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t give a shit,” Nico counters. He scowls at our onlookers, and they immediately turn away. “I’m not leaving you here by yourself. Get your fuckin’ coat, Layla, because otherwise we’re leaving without it, and you’re just gonna have to freeze.”

  I stare at him for a solid ten seconds, but he doesn’t blink, just keeps his stony grip on my arm until finally I relent.

  “Fine!” I grit through my teeth. “Let’s go.”

  ~

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Nico

  She’s lucky Grant was there, is all I can say. I’m still shaking as I drag her over to Tenth Avenue to catch a cab uptown. I don’t have any patience for the train tonight, and I sure as fuck can’t deal with anymore slimy motherfuckers eye-fucking Layla in that underwear she calls a dress.

  Fuck, this girl makes me feel out of control. Fuck.

  Once we’re safely in the cab, it doesn’t take long for the stop and go rhythm of the engine to lull her to sleep against the car window. The driver gives me a knowing look, and I have to bite back the urge to tell him to mind his own fuckin’ business. I haven’t said a word since we left the club, and I’m still too pissed off to be nice.

  But the anger wears off a little as we shoot up the Westside Highway. Asleep, Layla’s lost that angry pout––the pout I put there. Her words ring in my mind. Just fuck and run. You don’t give a shit about me. No, I think. She’s drunk. She doesn’t really think that.

  I’m so lost in my thoughts that I barely notice when the cab stops in front of my building. Layla is still asleep, so I pay the cabbie and walk around the other side to help her out.

  “Come on, baby,” I mutter, wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting her out of the car.

  She wakes up and starts walking, but leans on me in her daze.

  “Hey,” she says, looking around drowsily. “This isn’t my dorm.”

  “It’s my apartment,” I say, tugging gently on her arm. “I didn’t know if your friends took those other assholes home, and I don’t want you there with them.”

  She looks equal parts tired and curious, but the anger is still gone. She lets me guide her into the building, and suddenly I’m self-conscious, seeing the old place with new eyes, the way she must see it. It’s one of the prewar stone buildings that are all up and down the West Side, but far enough uptown that it’s not in the greatest shape. I wonder what she thinks of the cracked black and white tiles of the lobby floor, the streaks of mold and cracks running up the walls, the splotchy graffiti tags on the elevator door. It isn’t the worst-looking apartment building I’ve ever seen—not by a long shot—but it isn’t exactly her posh dorm with the security guard.

  I lead her into the tiny, fluorescent-lit elevator that barely fits the two of us, and she lets me tuck her hand in mine as I press the number four and close the accordion-style gate. She wrinkles her nose.

  “It smells l
ike pee in here, Nico.”

  I swallow back a sharp retort and just sigh. She’s not wrong, but she sounds like a fuckin’ princess. It’s just another reminder of the miles of difference between us. At least this building even has a working elevator. We could be taking the stairs.

  The elevator stops, and I walk her onto my floor, which is only lit by the ghostly moonlight coming in through the windows. My landlord barely pays for the elevator maintenance. The cheap bastard would never pay for hallway lights.

  Layla follows me down the hallway over more cracked-tiled floor until we reach the apartment marked 406.

  “This is me,” I say as I dig my keys out and unlock the door.

  It’s nothing to be proud of, although because of rent control and a shady landlord, my place is a lot bigger than you’d usually get for this price. Keeping Layla’s hand in mine, I lead her down the very long, dark hallway that connects the two bedrooms, living room, and kitchen. It’s kind of like what realtors call a “railroad” apartment, where all the rooms are lined up one on top of the other, one after another, except this one has the hallway down one side, and the rooms jut off.

  I knock on the lights as we go, gesturing silently at the kitchen, with its sink half full of dishes, the living room where I keep a faded plaid couch I picked up for free and my TV, and a third common room that I never use because it’s full of Maggie’s crap and a cot Gabe sometimes uses when he needs a break from our mom.

  Layla follows me into the kitchen, where I flip on the cheap fluorescent light. I open the fridge and pull out a beer for me and a bottle of water for her. She twists it open and takes several long, grateful pulls of the cold water. It’s hypnotic, watching her lips on the bottle, sucking on it like that. It reminds me of something else she’s sucked on before.

  Goddammit, Nico. That is not where your mind should be.

  She looks up and catches me staring. I swallow, then take the bottle from her and toss it into the bin by the sink before handing her another.