One by one my roommates have left, not wanting to spend our one night out this week sitting around waiting for my boyfriend to show up. Shama took off at about nine to hang at Fat Black’s with Jason, and Jamie followed about twenty minutes later after hearing that Jason had brought friends.
“I think that’s enough,” I tell Quinn.
She sets the study packet down. I can tell she’s feeling antsy too. Out of the four of us, she’s easily the best student, and has been saying “no” more often than not to going out in order to get an A in her Organic Chemistry class. Tonight is also her much-needed break too, and I know she doesn’t want to miss it.
I lumber off my bed to check my appearance again in the full-length mirror we keep by the door. This is the fifth time in an hour I’ve done this.
“Babe, you still look gorgeous,” Quinn says from her bed.
Quinn’s got her second-best dark jeans, a gorgeous green shirt that brings out her eyes, and her new designer heels that she bought with some of the money her dad sends her each month. I try not to stare enviously at them; my own shoes, which I bought in Brazil two years ago, were beautiful when I bought them, but the heels have definitely seen better days.
I’ve still stepped it up a notch, since I’m supposed to be going to such a high-profile club. I borrowed a gold, sequined-covered mini-dress from Shama that she bought at a sample sale last year, which I’ve paired with my black strappy stilettos and a vintage black clutch. Jamie helped me teased my curls out Beyoncé-style. I look approvingly at myself in the mirror. While I was on bed rest, Nico and the girls have been stuffing me silly, and I’ve finally gained a bit of the weight back that I lost. I fill out this dress the way I’m supposed to, and I look appropriately diva-esque for a nightclub. Too bad there’s no one here to take me.
“You sure you don’t want to go to the club too?” I ask. “It would be better than Fat Black’s again...”
“I...yeah. Probably not,” Quinn says as I turn around. “I won’t leave you here by yourself, babe, but I don’t really want to be the third wheel either. Unless you wanna just say ‘fuck him’ and come with me?”
I purse my lips, considering. It’s a tempting thought. I’m trying not to be too pissed about Nico’s disappearance, but the truth is, I’m starting to feel stood up. He should have been here a long time ago. Shades of Teddy, my asshole of an ex who used to skip out on our dates all the time, are also messing with my mind.
“No,” I finally say with a shake of my head. Nico’s not the type to play me like that. “Something has probably happened. But, Quinn, don’t waste your night. You should go ahead.”
I sit back down on the bed and gather up my study materials, trying my hardest not to glance at the phone that has been sitting silent on my desk.
“Are you sure?” Quinn’s asking to be nice, but she’s already standing up.
I smile. “Of course. I have this to keep me company.” I hold up the study packet, and Quinn makes a face. “You go have fun. I’ll be fine.”
She evaluates me for a second, then grabs her coat and purse off her bed.
“Give him hell,” Quinn says as she passes by, her heels clicking on the wood floor. The clock now says it’s closer to ten-thirty. Yeah, I think to myself, I probably will.
~
It’s almost eleven by the time my phone finally buzzes next to my feet on the coffee table. I almost fall over in my frenzy to grab it: a text message from Nico, asking me to meet him on the street. I sigh.
For the last half hour, I’ve been alternating between pacing around the apartment and watching crappy television, finding it difficult to evict the nasty suspicions that have gotten stuck in my head and won’t leave. New York’s an easy place to lead a double life—most people who live here rarely venture outside of where they work and live, so getting lost in the eight million people who live here is as simple as taking your date to a different neighborhood. People get conned every day. Jamie once went on a blind date with someone who faked losing his wallet at the restaurant, then talked his way up into our dorm so he could make out with her and leave, but not before stealing her cell phone and Discman. Two weeks later, Shama spotted him at a local Starbucks, giving other NYU students a totally different name.
By the time Nico pulls up in a cab, I’m standing in the lobby of my building literally tapping the sole of my sandal on the hard linoleum. The weather has warmed up a bit during the days, but it’s still cold at night. My head, however, has been getting hotter and hotter with every minute. Once I knew Nico wasn’t maimed or disfigured, my imagination spiraled out of control. There’s a surprising amount of pessimism I can develop in just twenty minutes.
I get into the cab without touching Nico or looking at him, trying not to be affected by the scent of his body wash or the fact that he looks really freaking good dressed up in a pair of slim black pants and a fitted gray shirt. No hat to cover up his thick black hair that he’s actually styled a little for the occasion.
I stare at my lap. He might look like a million bucks, but that doesn’t make him any less late.
“Fifty-Seventh and Eighth,” he calls to the cabbie before turning to me with that hundred-watt smile that seems to glow, even in the dark cab interior. “Hey, baby,” he says. “Damn, you clean up nice. This dress is crazy sexy. I haven’t seen you like this in a while.”
I feel the wall of irritation and suspicion start to crack as he scoots closer to give me a kiss on the cheek and rests one warm hand on my knee, causing unsolicited tingles to ripple up my thigh. I almost return the kiss—I know the addictive softness of those lips, and I haven’t been able to feel them since Monday. I miss him.
Then I remember that he’s almost three hours late. And that he’s been acting kind of weird in general. One phone call. That’s all I got.
“Where were you?” I ask before he manages to brush a kiss across my lips.
Nico pulls back, his dark features twisted with confusion. “What do you mean? I called to let you know I was going to be late.”
I look down at where my hands grip my black velvet clutch and rub my thumb over the vintage ball clasp, avoiding his gaze.
“That was two and a half hours ago, Nico. You couldn’t have called again? When I wasn’t imagining you dead, I thought you were standing me up, and so did my roommates.”
I can’t bring myself to tell him I have also been imagining him with another woman for a lot of that time.
Nico sighs impatiently and rubs the back of his neck. “Baby, I was on the train. It took me forty minutes to get to my place once I left Hell’s Kitchen. I got home, showered, changed—believe me, you do not want me to take you to a club in my Yankees hat and a t-shirt with bathroom caulk smeared all over it. By the time I left my place, it was almost ten. Took me an hour to get here because the train was late, and then I had to catch a cab.”
I look up and find him watching me with raised brows and his head cocked to one side knowingly, as if he’s waiting for me to smile and forgive him immediately. I’m close, but not quite there. Instead, I frown.
“I just think it’s weird,” I say. “Almost three hours to get up to your place and back? If you went somewhere or—or saw someone else, you should just tell me.”
I know I’m starting to sound paranoid, but I can’t help it. The green-eyed monster arrived the moment Quinn walked out that door and I was left by myself.
Nico sighs and runs a hand back over his head again. I notice he got a haircut today—his thick black curls are cut closer than normal. The curved shape of his head is that much clearer, and I want to run my hands over it. I look down and scowl.
“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those crazy jealous chicks, Layla,” he says finally. “I don’t have the patience for that kind of shit, and I really didn’t peg you for that.”
“So you just happened to be super late and went to this mysterious family dinner, and didn’t think to tell me about it? I don’t even get a quick text to let me know
when you’re on your way? Something doesn’t add up. What’s really going on?”
I’m met with a hard look I’ve never seen in Nico’s eyes, which are usually so buoyant and full of life. Actually, that’s not true. I’ve seen it before—when those Wall Street idiots tried to bribe him outside of AJ’s and started making cracks about me. It’s the kind of look he gives when he thinks people are being stupid and insulting. I have to fight not to cower back into my seat; I feel like it turns me to stone.
The cab stops and Nico flips a couple of bills at the driver before jerking the car door open. He pulls me out behind him roughly, but slows down when the heel of my stiletto hooks on a crack in the pavement. Then he tows me past the very long line of people waiting to get into the club, and I try to ignore their dirty looks as we pass.
“Nico, we’re not done talking,” I say, trying to slow him down, but he just keeps walking, his hand a vise around my wrist.
“Hey, Cameron!” he booms, his deep voice catching the notice of a small man with a blond goatee. Standing just outside the club in a suit and a long black overcoat, and carrying a clipboard, the man smiles when he sees us approach and holds out his hand to pull Nico in for a one-armed hug. Nico returns the embrace tightly, but doesn’t let go of my wrist.
“Nico, my man, what the fuck’re you doin’ here?” Cameron has a Queens accent so thick it sounds like he’s talking through the skinny end of a Coke bottle. He looks me up and down, appreciatively lingering on my bare legs. “And who is this gorgeous girl you got with you? What are you doin’ these days, datin’ models now?”
Beside me, Nico stiffens. I blush, even though I know it’s just flattery. I’m cute, but I’m no model.
“This is Layla,” Nico introduces me with a quick grin. I’m so confused—I thought he was mad, and now he looks thrilled to have me with him. “Baby, this dickhead is Cameron. We used to work the door here together a few years back.”
“Yeah, except they had to fire his ass because I could do it better alone,” Cameron jokes, earning a slug on the shoulder and a playful “shut the fuck up!” from Nico.
“Don’t listen to him,” Nico says. “He’s a dirty fuckin’ liar. They’d take me back any time.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So, Layla.” Cameron turns to me. “What is it you do when you’re not making this asshole the luckiest man in New York?”
“I’m a student at NYU.”
“She’s Brazilian, Cam,” Nico puts in. “Baby, Cameron lived in Sao Paolo for a couple of years. You had a girl down there, right, Cam?”
Cameron turns back to me with a grin and nods. “Você fala Portugues?” he asks in surprisingly good Portuguese.
I smile uneasily. It’s a question I get a lot when people find out about my dad’s side of the family, and one that’s always embarrassing to answer, especially in New York, where everyone loves to put their ethnic heritage on display. But just when I’m about to tell Cameron that my Portuguese isn’t particularly good, I catch Nico’s look of obvious pride.
So I nod and respond in kind, albeit a bit stunted. “Sim, eu falo um pocinho.”
Cameron and I chat for a few more moments in stunted Portuguese, and I’m lucky that the questions he asks are relatively simple. With every answer I give, Nico smiles a little bit wider, almost like he’s proud of me for speaking my family’s language. I get it—it’s the same, slight proud, slightly turned on feeling I get when he speaks Spanish with obvious confidence and comfort. I’m still confused about what’s going on between us, but his pleased expression makes the rest of my irritation melt away.
“All right,” Cameron says with a laugh when I tell him about running half naked through the streets at Carnaval two years ago. “Your lady’s got some guts, Nico, that’s for sure.”
“She’s the best,” Nico agrees with a look that's more than a little heated. He pulls out a fifty and slips it into Cameron’s hand, but his friend puts it right back in Nico’s jacket pocket.
“No need, brother, no need,” he tells him with a wink back at me. “On the house for you and a brasilera. Anytime, man. Tchau, beleza.”
~
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Nico
She’s pissed. She’s trying hard not to be, but it’s obvious she’s still mad when we walk into the club. And she’s right––I should have called. I have a cell phone. I could have texted. But I didn’t.
I can’t exactly say why. After the day I had...it just felt like one more thing, you know? One more thing after I had to sit and listen to Maggie bitch for hours about Jimmy––again. One more thing after I was on my knees caulking my mom’s toilet and fixing the rusty hinges on the murphy bed.
One more thing after Gabe busted in around noon and started messing shit up and then got into a shouting match with Selena and Ma that I had to break up before my sister broke more than one vase. One more thing after I had to sit on the phone for two hours paying Ma’s bills because Maggie’s too fuckin’ flaky to do it and Ma still doesn’t speak enough English to do it herself.
So if I’m being honest, the last fuckin’ thing I want to do tonight is hang out at a club full of the same assholes who treat me and my family like shit ninety percent of the time. I know Layla and I have barely been able to do anything for weeks. And yeah, I know she’s got cabin fever, and I promised her a big night out. But all I want to do is cart her up to my apartment, have sex until we can’t think straight anymore, and then pass out in front of the TV.
Instead I’m here, dressed up in a monkey suit, trying to ignore the way every other dude in the club is staring at my girl like they want to eat her.
To be fair, Layla does look delicious. I don’t know where she got that gold dress, but the thing is short enough that it should be illegal, stopping right below her ass with a back that is basically nonexistent. When I take her coat to check, my heart just about stops.
It’s also when I feel really fuckin’ bad for blowing off half the night. The Roxy is just another club to me, but I knew tonight was special to Layla. She really took the time to dress up, and now I’m feeling proud (okay, maybe a little nervous) to show her off.
To me, this place is the same as every other club in New York: big, loud, crammed with people, and clouded with cigarette smoke. I’m hoping the cigarette ban passes, even though people complain that it’s one more way New York is being sanitized. Well, you know what? This city could use some fuckin’ sanitizing. Speaking as someone who comes home every weekend stinking of other people’s ashes, I’d throw a party if the ban passes. Drinks on me, motherfuckers.
A DJ stands in a booth elevated in the middle of a mirrored dance floor, surrounded by people writhing around to his techno-soul mix. But Layla’s looking around with big eyes, and it occurs to me that she hasn’t been to a big club like this in New York. She’s a poor student, and even though her fake ID is a pretty good one, it still wouldn’t have passed Cameron without me. They get raided too often to let in a bunch of underage kids, especially after security everywhere went up 9/11. Besides, NYU kids usually stick to the bars around the Village or go to Webster Hall.
“Come on,” I call into her ear over the music, getting a brief whiff of her coconut scent. It’s a breath of fresh air in this nicotine factory. “Once we find my friend Nina, we won’t have to pay for drinks.”
Layla nods at me, although she hasn’t spoken since her weird exchange with Cameron outside. Sometimes she seems almost ashamed of the fact that she’s part-Brazilian, like she really believes some of the shit her dad tells her. Like she would rather just focus on the white side of her family. Maybe it’s because her Portuguese isn’t that good––she stumbled over a bunch of words and couldn’t quite understand everything Cameron said. But I was proud of her for trying.
We grab a couple of seats at the crowded bar and wait, letting the loud noise fill the awkward space between us until I spot Nina, one of the bartenders. But as soon as Nina turns around, I already know this was a bad idea. Female b
artenders tend to show off the goods for better tips. It’s been a while, and I’m no expert, but Nina looks like she’s had some serious, um, enhancements in that neighborhood. It doesn’t help either that she’s looking at me like she wants me to check them out hands on.
Okay, yeah, we used to hook up sometimes. But it wasn’t anything big, and Nina’s seen me with other girls. Then again, none of them looked like Layla either.
“Hey, handsome,” Nina says as she leans over the bar to kiss my cheek, far enough that her new additions are basically served on a platter. I don’t miss the way Layla’s eyes follow Nina’s hand down my arm, where it squeezes my bicep for a second before letting go.
“I see someone’s still hitting the gym,” Nina says appreciatively before finally standing up straight. “Who’s this?”
She looks at Layla, who looks like she wants to cut someone. Shit. I really should have just told the cab to go to my apartment. I could have enjoyed the damn dress up there.
“This is my girlfriend, Layla,” I say as I place an arm around Layla’s shoulders. She stiffens, but doesn’t move my hand. “Baby, this is Nina. We go way back working here together.”
But Nina smiles and winks at Layla. I relax. Nina’s cool. She knows the score. Hopefully, Layla can see that too.
“Nice to meet you, hon,” Nina says. She glances around the bar, where people are waving at her, trying to catch her attention. “We’re pretty busy tonight. What’ll you guys have?”
I smack a twenty on the counter, which Layla watches with big eyes. I forget sometimes that even though she’s the one who comes from a nice family, between the two of us, I’m the one who actually makes a little cash. For now, anyway.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Nina asks. “You know you’re not paying for shit.”
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