Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  “Too bad I won’t get my own place, though.”

  He lifts his water cup toward me in silent salute while he steals one last glance at Layla. I give a tight smile and squeeze Layla around the waist. For some reason, in this moment, she feels like a lifeline. Like if I let her go, I’d drift away into this sea of nothingness that surrounds us.

  K.C. has been weirdly quiet this whole time, watching the exchange over the rim of his cup. He looks at me carefully, and I just focus on finishing the strong-ass vodka tonic Nina made me. Girl was trying to fuck me up, that’s for sure.

  “Come on, dude,” K.C. says suddenly, hitting Gabe on the shoulder. “We need to set up.”

  Gabe nods. “All right. See you guys.”

  Suddenly, I don’t want to sit here anymore. Layla’s not stupid. She’s going to turn around with her blue eyes full of questions that will gut me. I can hear them already. Why didn’t you tell your brother you were staying? What did your mother really say when you told her? Why was K.C. staring at me like that? And I can already feel the liquor loosening up my inhibitions.

  She doesn’t need to know what I’m feeling right now. That even though I made my choice, that I can’t imagine leaving this girl, this woman who makes my heart feel like it’s beating for the first time, being in this place, in this city, still makes me feel like I’m drowning.

  “Come on, baby,” I say, full of sudden decision. I tip back the rest of my drink, and then take Layla’s empty plastic cup and toss both of them into a nearby trashcan. “Let’s dance.”

  I pull her into the middle of the crowd, letting the deep bass and drum filter through the floor into our bodies. Layla closes her eyes and sways her hips to the music. Even in the dim atmosphere of cigarette smoke cut through every so often with strobe lights, she looks like the sun. I’m reminded of the fact that much like this city, I can’t seem to escape her orbit. The only difference is that with her, I don’t want to.

  A salsa beat starts to mix into the deep bass. K.C. is starting his set, and the crowd cheers in response. I pull Layla closer, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and nuzzling her cheek. She melts into me, moving in time to the rhythm I set with my hips. I’m not a professional, but I’m a decent dancer. You don’t grow up in New York without hearing a lot of music. Filtering out of the shops. Blasting out of boom boxes or people’s headphones on the subway. It’s everywhere here.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” Layla shouts in my ear.

  She’s got her fingers in my hair, and the way she’s moving her hips against mine has me standing at half-mast. There is nothing more I’d rather do than just take her home right now and forget the way this city makes me feel—like I’m stuck in a marriage I can’t get out of.

  Instead, I shrug and kiss her on the forehead, letting my lips linger a touch too long. “Think about it, sweetie. I’m staying in New York for you. If I wasn’t interested anymore, I would just leave, wouldn’t I? Go to LA like I originally planned.”

  I try to ignore the way that statement makes me feel. The way it makes my chest constrict all over again, the way it makes me feel like I can’t breathe. I press my forehead into her neck and inhale. She’s my lifeline. She has no idea, but that’s what she is these days.

  I need to treat her better for it, instead of like I resent her.

  Now we’re swaying to our own beat, separate from whatever it is that K.C.’s playing. I grip her waist, holding her as tight to me as I can. What would she do if she knew how much I need her right now? Does that make me pathetic? I really don’t know.

  “I was dumb,” she says. “Do you forgive me?”

  I stand up straight, tip her chin up with a finger so I can look directly at her. Her eyes glow, two glittering blue lights that shine brighter than any strobe. Gently, I kiss her, my lips opening wider than I intended, as if by instinct. But her tongue welcomes mine, twists around, slowly, meticulously until we’re both out of breath. When I break away, her face is flushed. My chest hurts, but in a totally different way. There’s so much I want to say to her, but it’s too soon. Isn’t it?

  “Already done, baby,” I say instead. “And I’m sorry I was so late and didn’t call. Now we need to make up.”

  I touch my forehead to hers, and my hands slip down to cover her ass in the crowded club. I have no shame with her. There’s no way she misses the way she makes me feel against her leg. Instead, she grinds against it. I kiss her again.

  “I think it’s time to go,” she says when I let her go, still a little breathless.

  But now I’m not quite so eager to leave. We just got here, after all. The feel of her body, the thump of the music. All of it’s invaded me, hypnotized me, just the way New York always seems to do. Now my instincts aren’t to get out, but interested more in the torture of delayed gratification.

  I squeeze her ass a little tighter and start to move in time to the music again.

  “Not yet,” I say with a grin. “We should probably stay more than five minutes. I need to dance with my baby.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Nico

  “What do you think of this one?”

  After spending the rest of last night and a solid chunk of Sunday morning making up, Layla and I decide to visit the Met before she has to go back downtown to do her homework. I still haven’t been able to shake that tightening I feel in my chest, and the Met is one of the few places in New York that doesn’t make me crazy. So I take her back downtown to change her clothes, and then we run back uptown to check out a special exhibit.

  The Met is doing a special on the works of William Blake, a favorite of Layla’s. She’ll actually get some extra credit for going to the exhibit, so it’s a double-win. I just like the drawings. All around these massive poems, which I’m honestly not that big on, this Blake guy made these intricate watercolors and etched designs. I have to laugh at the title of the exhibit: “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.” It could not fit my life better.

  Layla’s pointing to a larger watercolor next to the fourth plate of the poem. “The Good and Evils Angels” presents two angels, one brown, the other white, both naked, arguing over the child held in the arms of the white, supposedly “good” angel. The “evil” angel seems to be flying out of a collection of flames, but is shackled to them by one foot. The child looks like it wants to escape from the arms of the “good” angel.

  I cock my head as I study the drawings. “I like the way he draws the body. Very detailed, anatomically. I mean, he’s no Michelangelo, but everything is very clear.”

  It’s something I try to do when I draw too. Since I’ve still been too chicken shit to tell Layla how I really feel––about her, about LA, about everything––this morning, I decided the next best thing was to let her look through my sketchbook. No one sees that. That shit is private.

  She paged through it for about an hour, and at one point, when she found the cache of pencil drawings at the end that are mostly of her, I escaped to the shower. I just couldn’t deal with the possibility that she didn’t like them.

  I didn’t need to worry. When I came back in, she showed me just how much she liked them, and then we both needed another shower.

  “He was more a poet than an artist,” Layla says. “Do you think the bad angel isn’t ‘bad’ because he wants to be, but because he’s forced there?”

  I frown, staring at the shackle. “I don’t know. Could be. I don’t think anyone really wants to be bad, really, but sometimes you have to do those things every now and then, and then it’s easier to get sucked further into it. Everything in life is that way, you know?” I look at her and smile, trying to shake off the echoes of my own life. “But he looks pretty possessed, NYU. I don’t think I’d give my kid to that dude.”

  She laughs as she moves to look at the next plate, but my thoughts still linger with the evil angels. It’s too close to home.

  I look at the picture for a few more minutes, and just when I’m about to follow Layla, my cell phone bu
zzes in my pocket. Maggie. Fuck. My sister doesn’t exactly call just to chat.

  “Yo, what’s up, Mag?” I say in a quiet voice, so as not to disturb the other people looking at the exhibit. It’s not that big of a deal, though—the Met is fairly loud, as museums go. Layla watches curiously as I chat with my sister in Spanish. I don’t need this room full of rich white people knowing my family’s business.

  “Nico, hey...I just wanted to know if, um, Allie and I could come stay for a bit. Just until we find a place for ourselves, really.”

  I swear silently to myself. The last time this happened, my sister had a nasty bruise on her face. “What happened? Did Jimmy...”

  “No, no, nothing like that, I swear it. It’s just that things aren’t really so hot with him. He’s...I don’t know. He’s so hot and cold.”

  “Forget him, Maggie. Tell him to fuck off. You don’t need that shit.”

  A few of the other people looking at the pictures jump a little at my words and put a few extra feet between us. I roll my eyes. Forget them too.

  The weight of my sister’s sighs seems to push physically through the phone. “It’s complicated, Nico. He’s Allie’s father. He just needs a little space sometimes, that’s all.”

  I pace around in a small circle, trying to keep my temper in check. It’s the same old excuses for Jimmy, same old shit about how Maggie and he can’t seem to get along, how he needs a break from his own kid, how they always need everyone else––meaning me––to pick up the slack. It’s bullshit. This isn’t what grown-ups do. They don’t get to take timeouts from their own fuckin’ lives. They deal with their shit.

  I close my eyes and rub my face. I want to tell my sister to deal with her own shit. Get her own place instead of leeching off me. Tell Jimmy where to shove it and stop putting her kid through this garbage. But then I think of Allie, and I don’t want to consider what might happen if I forced her mother to grow the fuck up.

  “Sure,” I bite out. “The room’s open. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  “Thanks, Nico. You’re the best.”

  “Yeah,” I say with a grimace I’m glad my sister can’t see. “Later.”

  I shove my phone in my pocket and walk over to Layla, who’s given me a bit of space while I talked to my sister. Suddenly, I need to hold her.

  “Who was that?” she asks as I wrap my arms around her waist from behind and press my nose into her hair.

  “Oh, that was Maggie,” I mumble, and then force myself to look at the artwork, the title page from “The First Book of Urizen.”

  On the front is a painting of a very old, Gandalf-looking dude. I don’t want to look at this shit right now. I just want to look at Layla. I nuzzle her neck, nipping just above her collarbone on that spot that I know she loves. This girl and her magic skin. It’s anywhere, anytime with her, and I know she’d be game if I could find a decent spot. Even in the middle of the MET.

  “What—what did she want?” Layla asks, her voice all breathy and light.

  I’m having a hard time focusing. I really just want to lose myself in her again, but there are people around. Right now, I’m trying to think of any secret spots in this part of the city where we could be alone. Maybe the park again, if we could deal with the rain today...

  “Mmm…She and Jimmy broke up again. She wanted to make sure her room would be there for her and Allie. And that I could pay for them, of course.”

  The tightening in my chest grows. There goes my hard-on. I rest my chin on Layla’s shoulder and let out a long sigh.

  “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

  To my frustration, Layla steps away and turns to face me. I shove my hands in my back pockets.

  “It’s fine, I guess,” I say, and suddenly I can’t keep all of this in. “I’m used to it. But Maggie’s just such a fuckin’ freeloader, though, you know? I want to tell her no, she’s gotta grow up, get a real damn job, and stop fuckin’ around with Jimmy, who acts like he doesn’t have a kid to take care of. But I can’t say no to Allie.”

  Layla stands quietly, obviously unsure of what to say. She doesn’t have family like this, I’m sure. Brothers and sisters from three different dads. A mother who came here illegally and can’t speak English. Siblings who can’t keep their shit together, who have babies out of wedlock with men who can’t grow up. Usually I’m not embarrassed by my family because everyone I know has a family just like them. It’s only one more reason why Layla and I really do come from completely different worlds.

  “What about Gabe?” she asks. “Will he be able to move in with you still this summer?”

  I sigh. “Yeah, I’m not going to make him sleep on the couch while he’s going to school. I tried that, and it doesn’t work. I’ll probably give him my room so he can have some privacy, and I’ll take the living room.”

  It’s the last thing I want to do, but Gabe will need a place to study. One of us kids is going to finish college––Maggie and Selena didn’t even start. The heaviness in my chest grows. There goes my privacy, not to mention the one space where Layla and I can be alone. But what else can I do?

  “That’s life, right?” I say.

  And then I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take the pity that’s practically painted all over her beautiful face. I can’t take her looking at me like she’s sorry for me, like I’m a stray dog she wants to rescue. This is my life, not an afterschool special. I plaster a grin on my face, the one that always makes her smile back. Then I grab her hand. “Come on, baby, let’s go see the mummies.”

  Layla

  Although the original plan was for him to drop me off at a subway stop before heading across town to his apartment, Nico ends up accompanying me back down to my place. It’s weird, but I get the feeling he doesn’t want to say goodbye, maybe doesn’t want to go back uptown. We grab some Chinese pastries to snack on while I do laundry, but we both know the main reason he came all the way down here was to get me naked. My roommates are out. Walking around the Met without being able to do anything more than hold hands or kiss and hug was basically two straight hours of foreplay.

  So literally the moment I arrive from putting my clothes into one of the washers in the basement, the door slams shut behind me, and I’m shoved against one of the walls of the common area, my lips thoroughly crushed by Nico’s. There’s that need again––that same intense desire that drove him last night and once more this morning. The second the door closes, he’s voracious.

  His hands slide eagerly down my waist to grab my ass and pull me into the erection that’s straining against his jeans.

  “I’ve been staring at this gorgeous ass all day,” he mumbles against my lips. He sucks on the edge of my tongue, eliciting a moan from deep in my chest.

  “Fuck,” I breathe when he releases me. He bends his legs and pulls both of mine around his waist so that he can carry me into my bedroom, but we only make it as far as the common area couch before we topple over the back, landing on the cushions in a pile of giggles.

  “Stop that,” he chides. “I’m supposed to be seducing you.”

  He’s trying to sound harsh, but I can feel his chest vibrate with suppressed laughter. He repositions us so I’m sitting up on the couch and commences to tear off my shirt and unbutton my jeans as quickly as he can move his fingers.

  “Getting greedy, are we?” I ask, although I’m happy to assist with his shirt too. I’ve been dying to get my hands on that smooth skin all day.

  “I need you naked,” he growls, and gives me another breath-shattering kiss before I can respond.

  He sits up onto his knees and pulls my jeans off, tossing them onto the floor before he yanks off his own pants. He angles himself over my body and nips along the edge of my neck, making me arch my back farther toward him. I want more, but he’s focused on tonguing the soft skin in the hollow of my collarbone, alternately licking and biting in a way that I know is going to leave some marks tomorrow morning.

  His lips reach my chest, and he slides
the straps of my bra over my shoulders and pulls down the soft cotton cups so that my breasts bob over them, trussed and available for his pleasure. It’s a favorite technique of his; I think he likes the way I look all bound up.

  “Beautiful,” he breathes, cupping them with both hands as he sinks to his knees between my straddled legs. Delicately he takes one nipple in between his teeth, rolling the sensitive nub between them and tonguing it in a way that causes me to cry out as I grab his head to pull him closer.

  “Don’t,” he orders gruffly as he releases my breast from his grip to take my arms and hold them firmly to my sides. “Don’t move. You just have to take it, baby. Understand?”

  The dark, hungry look in his eyes brooks no other response than the small nod I manage to give him. He needs control––it’s like he’s been starving for it for the last twenty-four hours. I’m not arguing––he is insanely hot when he’s ordering me around.

  “Good,” he clips, and leans back to suck my other nipple deep into his mouth.

  His hands glide down my abdomen, gripping my thighs for a moment before he slips both of his thumbs under the thin layer of cotton that covers the sensitive heat between my legs. I moan again, resisting the urge to push against his thumbs for a deeper connection as they brush up and down the juncture of soft skin, hair, and nerves.

  “Does that feel good, baby?” he asks softly, his eyes clouded with obvious desire. “Do you like it when I touch your pussy?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, unable to move my eyes from the dark hold of his.

  He hooks his fingers under the elastic band of my panties and draws them down my legs so that I’m fully exposed. He draws one finger down, toying slightly with my entrance that’s becoming wetter by the second.

  “It’s starting to grow out,” he says, entranced by the path of his hand.

  If my face weren’t already red from wanting him, I would have blushed. “It, uh, needs to be waxed. I have an appointment next week.”