Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  My eyes skim over the determined set of her shoulders, the sway of her hips, the way she glances from side to side as she walks. I’m not watching in a sexual way, although I feel that too. Fuck, how could I not, especially now that I know the way our bodies fit together? But now it’s more like I’m making sure she’s all right, just making sure she’s healthy and happy, like I want her to be. I’m a man obsessed. A man...fuck me. A man in love.

  Shit.

  Flaco’s licking his chops, looking more like a frog than ever as he watches realization dawn on my face. He gives me a pat on the back, the way you might comfort a kid who just lost his favorite stuffed animal.

  “There you go, papi,” he says with a rueful shake of his head. “Now you just gotta tell her.”

  I bang my head on the steering wheel. Flaco’s right. This changes everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Layla

  After a week and a half of not seeing Nico, I’m feeling completely normal and also completely terrible. I still miss him. How crazy is that? It’s been almost as long as the time I actually knew him, and I still feel like my heart has been torn out of my chest.

  It doesn’t help that every time the new FedEx guy comes in, he stares at me like I’m a kid who just lost her favorite stuffy. Flaco—he says that’s his name, even though it makes Karen laugh—has big, expressive eyes, not unlike a frog’s. When he’s done flirting with Karen in Spanish (apparently, they’re from the same neighborhood), he nods at me every night and clicks his tongue, like even he thinks this situation between me and Nico is ridiculous.

  He’s probably right. Every time the doors open at six, I find myself praying it’s Nico who’ll roll in today’s packages, not Flaco.

  But it never is.

  By Saturday, I’m fed up with my shitty mood, and so are the rest of my roommates. We’ve got a few more weeks until midterms, so this is our last chance to get out and party for a while, and I’m determined to make the best of it.

  “Bitches,” I announce on Saturday afternoon after I get back from the gym. “Where are we going tonight? Because I am done feeling sorry for myself over a freaking FedEx guy.”

  “Jesus. Fucking finally,” Quinn says from the couch, setting her pencil down on her book with satisfaction. “I was wondering when you were going to snap out of it.”

  I toss my ponytail over my shoulder and put my hand on my hip. “Someone tell me where the party is tonight, because I am bringing it. End of story.”

  Since being sick caused me to drop a few pounds, I’m feeling confident enough to slip on a short, body-con, sea-blue dress that normally I don’t have the guts to wear. Jamie flatirons my hair so it hangs in a long, dark waterfall down my back, and I use extra liner around my eyes to make them pop with the color of the dress. With my thigh-high leather boots, I feel ready to kick some serious ass, or at least play some serious game. Anything, really, to get over Nico.

  The girls are more than ready to have me back, considering I was so AWOL the weekend before.

  “It always feels like one of us is a third wheel when you’re not around, Lay,” Shama privately tells me as we’re walking behind Jamie and Quinn down the hall to the elevators.

  I grin. I know what she means. For some reason a group of four just works better. Everyone always has someone to talk to.

  We decide to go to a lounge in Chelsea called The Grotto, where Jason, Shama’s boyfriend, is DJing for the night. I try to ignore the fact that the bar is three blocks from a certain music venue where a certain FedEx courier works on the weekends. I try to ignore the temptation to just walk by AJ’s “on my way” to the other venue. But I’ve decided tonight is a perfect night to get the hell over him, and so I decide to do my best to distract myself.

  The Grotto is a typical midtown lounge: small and low-lit, with the exposed brick walls and square ottomans surrounding small tables. It’s the kind of sexy place where people sit a little lower to the floor than they would normally, making you feel like you’re almost already in bed with them. Since Jason usually plays electronic remixes of popular songs, an impromptu dance floor has sprung up in the back near the raised booth where he’s mixing tracks, one hand clasping a set of large headphones to his left ear.

  Jason looks up when we arrive and winks when he sees Shama, who practically blooms right there on the dance floor. Whatever I might think of the guy, I like that he makes her happy. The rest of us wave to him and find our way to a small table where we can share a couple of ottomans.

  “Damn, girl, you lost your ass,” Jamie tells me as we squeeze onto one of the square-shaped cushions together.

  “I did not!” I exclaim, looking behind me at where my backside meets the cushion.

  My dress definitely doesn’t fit quite as second-skin as it used to, but my booty didn’t disappear in a week and a half. Jamie elbows me, and I look to the right, where she’s gazing.

  A small group of three guys sits around the table next to ours, clearly scoping us out. They’ve got that advertising/finance look about them that you see all over New York—manicured stubble, stylishly worn jeans, gelled hair that’s carefully mussed. One guy with glasses and dark facial hair that’s been shaped into a chinstrap around the edge of his jawline is watching me with obvious interest. He’s a bit thinner than the types I normally go for, lacking the big, toss-me-over-them shoulders like Nico’s—shit, I wasn’t going to think about him tonight!—but he’s not bad-looking. Full lips and pretty eyes. Plus, I have a bit of a thing for men who wear glasses.

  When I smile at him, he elbows his friend in the side and mouths “Hi” to me.

  “He’s cute, Lay,” Jamie says.

  Quinn is watching the group too, and I can already tell she likes what she sees. Quinn goes for men who are more polished, like these—guys who look like they could finance more than a few drinks.

  “See the blond one in the gray pants?” she whispers across the table. “That shirt was in the Armani spread in GQ last month. That’s a three-hundred-dollar shirt.”

  Well, I guess we know which one she likes. The guys stand up, and we pretend not to watch as they make their way awkwardly around the scattered ottomans to where we sit.

  “Hey,” says Mr. Armani.

  He’s tall and lanky, with combed, dark blond hair and eyes so blue they’ve got to be tinted with contacts. So not my type, but Quinn’s all smiles as she responds with a carefully nonchalant “Hey” in kind. The other one with him, a shorter guy with a big nose who’s wearing a muscle t-shirt, is already making eyes at Jamie. And they say that people of my generation don’t know how to speak to each other.

  “Mind if we join you ladies?” says Glasses, looking directly at me. I give him my best flirty, come-hither smile and nod.

  “You’ll have to get your own seats,” I say. “We’re already squeezed onto ours.”

  “Can we get you some drinks first?” he asks.

  Shama volunteers to go with the guys to help them bring back drinks—honestly, it’s more to make sure nothing extra gets put into them than to actually help carry them to the table. None of us have had the pleasure of being roofied, but we’ve all known someone who’s experienced it at some point.

  The boys return with our orders, and I happily accept my whiskey and soda from Glasses, who pulls up another ottoman to sit next to me.

  “I’m Blake,” he says over the din of the bar where Jason has started to pump up the dance music.

  He reaches out to shake my hand, and I resist yanking my hand from his weak grip. There’s nothing worse than when a guy’s handshake feels like a dead fish; it doesn’t bode well for the strength of his other body parts.

  “I’m Layla,” I tell him, and take a long sip of my drink.

  It’s a little bitter, just the house generic, but I can’t afford the good stuff. Mixed drinks just go down way too fast.

  “That’s quite a drink you’ve got there, Layla,” he says.

  I raise my eyebrows with a mild f
rown and look at his drink, which is a mostly-juice cranberry vodka. Gross. Honestly, that’s sorority girls’ bread and butter, one step from a cosmopolitan. This guy might as well announce he’s got a vagina with that drink.

  Me, I can’t with super sweet girly drinks, with the exception of the occasional margarita or caipirinha. It’s my dad who gave me the taste for whiskey. In Brazil, we attended formal functions with his family, when one of my cousins graduated from secondary school or college. It was customary to place a bottle of scotch at every table in addition to the open bar. That never failed to lead to some crazy party and some of the best nights of my life. To me, whiskey always tastes like a really good time.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl order straight liquor before,” Blake continues.

  He winks at me knowingly, as if my drink is some huge joke. What the hell? Is he serious? I know I’m not the only woman in New York who enjoys hard alcohol without a fruity accompaniment.

  “It’s not straight whiskey,” I correct him. “It’s mixed with soda. You know, the bubbly water?”

  This guy is already getting on my nerves. Deep down I know the reason I’m being kind of a bitch isn’t really because my drink choice doesn’t fit Blake’s gender stereotypes. He’s just like any other guy—grasping at straws to make conversation with a girl in a bar. He’s nervous, just like they all are.

  No, I’m being a bitch because Blake just isn’t what I want. His hair is floppy and too long, not short and clean cut. The line of scruff around his jaw bristles, and his eyes, even behind those glasses, just don’t flash the way Nico’s—

  Damn it, Barros! Without thinking, I slam the rest of my drink and set the glass down on the table with a clink of ice cubes.

  “Whoa, there,” Blake says. “You’re a live one. You need another, honey?”

  “Sure.”

  I stand up. Blake’s eyes rake over the contours of my body. I never should have worn this dress. Even in the shadows of the lounge, the clingy blue silk basically puts everything on display. I follow him to the bar and stand behind him as he flags the bartender’s attention.

  “Hey, you want to take a shot with me?” he calls over the clamor.

  I nod. Why the hell not? It’s going to take some serious beer (or whiskey) goggles to make this guy—or any guy, I’m starting to realize—look good tonight, and I really need someone to take my mind off you-know-who.

  The bartender pours us a couple of kamikazes and we toss them back after clinking the shot glasses together. Inwardly I cringe at the sickeningly sweet mixture as it goes down, but free drinks are free drinks. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

  Blake hands me my second whiskey and soda, which I shoot down almost as quickly. Blake’s only taken a few sips of his second cranberry vodka when I grab his hand, ignoring the clammy, limp-fish texture more easily this time. I can feel the alcohol thrumming through me, and I need some body-on-body contact to get rid of this yearning I have for a certain other, very hard, tattooed body. Someone whose hands have probably never been clammy in his life.

  “Let’s dance!” I yell.

  The bar is filling up really fast, and people are feeling Jason’s current mix.

  Blake’s eyes widen. I can tell he’s not much of a dancer by the way he nervously glances back and forth between the crowd and me. I shake my hips provocatively. 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 rubbing back and forth against my ass like he’s 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 keeping touching me while I twist 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. What are you, what are you, what are you? Never who. They want a label, not a person.

  I cringe when he rubs his lips 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. Blake doesn’t seem put off, just grazes my body up and down with his eyes.

  “Hey,” he says as he grips 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 turn on my heel, 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. 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 fri
ends 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.”

  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. His deep eyes drill into me, then flash back to Blake, who has his clammy fish hand extended my way.

  “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 seems to be of the same mind. He whips the ten-dollar bills back at Blake, who takes it, obviously confused.

  “It’s cool, man, she’s a friend,” Nico clarifies, now staring at me again. “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.