Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  Shock. That’s what this is. It’s shock.

  My stomach roils. I tell myself it isn’t that bad. No one was killed. I’m not seriously hurt. A little bruised, probably, and my ankle, though sore, will probably heal within a few weeks. The blood on me is Giancarlo’s, not mine. It was just a messed-up day. I’m going to be fine.

  But I don’t feel fine. I feel like I’ve just been dragged through a war zone. No one has ever touched me like that before in my life, and in two days, I let the same man do it twice. My skin feels like it’s shut off in response to everything that’s happened. Even sitting in the cab, Nico’s arms locked around me while I shook, I felt nothing. Not even his touch could bring me back to normal.

  A cry, low and broken, like a dying animal, careens through the door. I sit up, pulled toward it as it happens again. Slowly, I push myself up and limp to the door. I open it and hop across the hall, where I find Nico crumpled into himself on the couch, his broad shoulders shaking violently while he groans into his mother’s shoulder.

  Carmen sees me and waves me over. Like a magnet, I limp across the room and fall onto the couch next to Nico. I slide my hands across his quivering back. My fingers seem to work outside of my still-numbed body, but Nico’s big frame falls into me, and we topple into the couch cushions while I absorb the waves of emotion pouring from him.

  “Oh, God,” he whimpers into my shoulder before launching into an unintelligible mess of Spanish and English, muttered into my clothes. “It’s my fault,” he keens. “Oh, God, it’s...shit...I––baby––if...”

  “Shhh.”

  I stroke his back, do everything I can just to hold him, like he did for me in his car and in the bedroom. He inhales deeply like he’s trying to take all of me in. His hands tug at the bottom of my shirt like it’s a security blanket, and he rocks slowly back and forth. His control is spent. This beautiful man, who carries the world on those broad shoulders for so many people, who runs to the rescue of his mother, his sisters, his brother, and now me. I broke him.

  “I can’t,” he groans. “I can’t...I can’t...”

  “You can’t what?” I ask. I’m starting to get scared now. My voice chokes. “N-Nico, you can’t what? What is it?”

  With what looks like a massive amount effort, he manages to sit up. And it’s then, when we are finally face-to-face, that I see what this moment has cost. His eyes are red and puffy, glossed over while the skin around them is dark with fatigue. There are frown lines crossing his brow, and his face looks haggard with the exception of the thick wet lines crisscrossing his cheeks, running down his nose.

  Nico is crying. Not tiny, small tears. Great, heaving sobs that ripple through his entire body. His face is tracked with tears, a few hanging off the razor-edge of his jaw. He swallows, and the muscles in his throat quiver.

  “It was my fault,” he whispers, but makes no move to wipe his tears away. “If I...if I had told you about my plans. You wanted to be together. But I always said no...and now...God, Layla. Look at you!”

  Unable to finish the sentence, he falls forward, his big shoulders shaking us both violently.

  “I’m sorry,” he keens. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

  “What?” I ask suddenly, like I’m waking up out of a nasty, terrible dream. “You’re sorry? Oh, Nico...”

  Because it’s then, as his voice cracks over the last “sorry,” that the numbness that’s trapped me since I first saw him bust into that bedroom shatters. We grasp at each other, hands tearing at the edges of shirts and jeans, hair and skin. It’s not violent—never violent—just a desire to be close. A desire that comes from the deep because I can’t be okay when he’s not. His pain is my pain. And apparently, mine is his.

  “It’s not your fault,” I murmur into his neck.

  I inhale his scent—his earthy, un-nameable scent of soap, sweat, and man. A scent I’ll crave for the rest of my life. And then, somehow, I manage to sit him up. I frame his face with my palms, then press my forehead to his in that small, sweet gesture he always used to bring us closer together. He did it when his emotion are too much for him. When words aren’t quite enough.

  “It’s not your fault,” I whisper, shaking again myself. Fine, then. We’ll shake together.

  Nico blinks, his eyes still wet with tears. I can barely see them because of the moisture clouding my own sight. But his love is unmistakable. And I wonder, for what definitely won’t be the last time, how I ever could have mistaken something so ugly for the way this man is looking at me right now.

  “You came for me.” I trace his cheek in awe. “You came.”

  Nico closes his eyes for a moment, as if the memory is too much to bear. Then he nuzzles his nose with mine and presses a gentle kiss on my mouth. I shudder at the feeling, eager and scared at the same time. But his lips, his warm, soft lips, are home to me. I hate that I ever looked elsewhere.

  “I love you,” he tells me. “I would always come for you.”

  He kisses me again. And again. His lips track his love all over my face—cheeks, jaw, nose, eyes. He kisses my tears away, even though I doubt they’ll stop completely anytime soon. He drops kisses until both of us are out of breath, until finally my hands slide around his neck and I start meeting them with my own.

  But then Nico pulls away.

  “Don’t,” I mewl, trying to tug him back. “Don’t stop. Please.”

  He makes me forget. A few more kisses, and maybe I can leave this horrible day behind. A few more, and maybe this entire year will eventually melt away. He’s here. I’m here. No one is going anywhere. Finally, finally things can maybe go back to the way they were always supposed to be...

  But Nico, holding me still by the shoulders, presses me gently back so he can look me in the eye.

  “Baby,” he says softly. “You’ve got his blood all over you. And so do I.”

  I look down. Oh, God, he’s right. I’m covered with the rusty red stains on my shirt, shorts. It’s smeared over my arms, and probably on my face. I shudder. I’m a mess. I’ve been a mess. And by following what’s become my modus operandi, I was fully prepared to pretend it didn’t exist.

  Nico, on the other hand, has a hand that’s got two split knuckles and looks like it might even need stitches.

  I don’t even need Quinn’s voice to tell me that. This time I can see it for myself.

  “Shower?” Nico asks hopefully.

  I gulp. I’m no longer shaking, and neither is he, but both of us feel...fragile. Like if we stop touching, we might actually break.

  The numbness returns a little. Maybe I still need it. I’m just too breakable without it.

  “Shower,” I agree with more strength than I’m feeling. I stand up. “I’ll be right back.”

  Nico

  Fifteen minutes later, my mom and Maggie have reemerged from Ma’s room and are sitting with me on the couch while Allie watches Sesame Street. Layla, having showered before me, emerges from Gabe’s room looking bashful. She’s wrapped in my brother’s t-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants. The look of another man’s clothes causes jealousy to rip through me again, even if my heart has calmed down some. Still, she looks better than before. Not so small, not so scared. But still uncertain. And still beat-up.

  There’s a ring of fingertip bruises flowering all around her neck—from the way he choked her last night. The blood is gone, but a few scratches remain on her face, along with a big red welt under her right eye.

  She tugs on her wet hair nervously and looks between me and my mom. I stand up immediately and move to her.

  “Hey,” I say as I take her hand, enjoying the feel of her fingers entwined with mine. “Feeling better?”

  She nods. “Um, yeah. I am. Thanks.”

  Behind me, Maggie clicks her tongue, then shoves her way between us. “Excuse me,” she says irritably as she bustles down to the bathroom. Layla and I both watch, confused, as she disappears, then quickly returns carrying a small jar of something.

  “Come here,” she
says, but doesn’t wait for Layla to respond before she takes her arm and pulls her, limping, to sit on the couch between her and Ma.

  “Mmmm, he got you good, huh?” Maggie says as she looks Layla over. She gestures to Ma. “Mira, Mami.”

  Keeping perfectly still, Layla watches me, her eyes wide while my mother and sister look closely at the bruises on her neck and face. I shrug. I have no idea what my sister is doing, but I know Maggie. She’s a little hard, but she doesn’t give anyone the time of day unless she cares.

  Without waiting, Maggie unscrews the lid and uses some kind of sponge to swipe a bunch of skin-colored cream out of the jar and starts dabbing it on Layla’s surprised face.

  “Jim—” She stops, glancing at Allie, but my niece is zoned out on the television. Then, back to Layla: “Her dad nailed me there a couple times. I had a black eye once that lasted a week, and this stuff covered it up perfect for work.”

  “Oh my God,” Layla says. “I’m so...sorry.”

  “Keep still.” Maggie holds Layla’s chin as she works. “And don’t be sorry. I finally got rid of his abusive ass last year. It’s hard to know better, sometimes, when you grow up with it.”

  Layla glances at me again, but doesn’t say anything so she can keep her face still. But her eyes, so big and expressive, ask the question just the same—is it true? I give a quick nod, and immediately, her eyes gloss over. She blinks quickly and turns her gaze away. I’m glad. We don’t need more waterworks. I feel like a sponge, drained.

  “But Allie—that’s my daughter —she had seen him do it,” Maggie continues. “And I just thought, I can’t let my daughter see me like that, you know? She deserves better.”

  “Nena, te faltó un lugar,” my mother puts in, pointing at a spot on Layla’s neck that Maggie missed.

  “I was getting there,” she responds irritably, setting off a cascade of bickering between them.

  Layla bites back a smile, and I cover my own. In a way, watching my mother and sister argue is comfortably normal. It makes the shit that just went down seem...a little farther away. But only a little.

  “It’s a little too dark for your skin,” Maggie says as she applies the thick cream to Layla’s neck. “But at least you’ll be able to take the train without people looking at you funny.”

  Ma nods in agreement and hums. I swallow back another wave of anger as I remember her applying the same kind of cream to her face not so long ago. Sitting at the mirror she kept in her bedroom and drawing it over her cuts and bruises with a finger like she was a fancy lady preparing for a ball. Except in my mother’s case, the ball was the rich lady’s apartment, and she was just putting on makeup so the people whose toilets she cleaned wouldn’t think she was unstable and fire her.

  “Hey,” I say, interrupting the love fest. “You gonna be okay here for a few?”

  Layla looks up, her big blue eyes full of fear and concern. “You’re leaving?”

  My fist clenches at my side, but when she looks at the small movement, I have to force myself to make it relax. “I won’t be long. I just need to take care of a few things. Ma?”

  My mother looks up, her face full of understanding. “Go,” she orders me, in English so Layla will know. But as I turn around, she beckons me back. “Papito.”

  I turn around. “Yeah?”

  My mother presses her lips together. She knows, better than anyone, what’s going through my mind.

  “Be careful,” she says, this time in Spanish, more so Layla won’t understand than anything else.

  I nod. “Okay.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Nico

  I jog ten blocks, up and down Riverside Drive, about three times before I feel like I’m calm enough to return to the building on 144th. It looks different now, even though I’ve been coming here for years, since Flaco first moved in. I glare at the brick exterior—tall and dark, just like him. Just like that motherfucker who put his hands on my girl.

  Every time I think I’m okay, that I can go there and figure out how the fuck to deal with Evita without tearing him in two, visions of his hand meeting her face appear again, followed by my sister’s fingers covering her bruises. And I have to sprint another three blocks to get my brain to calm down.

  Your fault. Your fault.

  The words chant with every footstep. I don’t care what she says. This whole fuckin’ mess is my fault. I always knew I’d be bad for Layla, but I never thought it would be my absence that would make way for the poison. I never thought I’d ruin her life if I was gone. Well, here we are. I’m not going to make that mistake again, but first I have to set things right. Time to suck the poison out.

  By the time I finally stop in front of Flaco’s building, my shirt is sticking to me with sweat. I pull the bill of my hat around to cover my face, check for people who might notice me off the street, then call up to Flaco.

  “You here?” he answers on the first ring.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Let me in.”

  The buzzer on the door sounds immediately, and with another suspicious glance around, I bound inside and up the stairs. I don’t need people placing me here in case of...well, I don’t know what. I’m honestly not sure what I’m going to do when I get up there.

  Flaco’s standing in the doorway of Tango Fuckface’s apartment, looking around with the same suspicion.

  “Did anyone see you?” he asks as I enter.

  “No.” I shake my head and turn the bill of my hat backward. I’m going to need to see straight for this.

  We’re acting like criminals, even though nothing’s happened yet. But we both know why. We both know there’s a chance that when I walk back into that room, I’m going to lose my shit, and this time Layla won’t be there to call me back. Flaco and I have been friends for a long time. He knows what I’m capable of.

  “Does he have a roommate?” I ask as we walk down the hall.

  Flaco shakes his head. “Ain’t nobody here but the cara de culo.”

  I nod in approval. “The cops. Are they on their way?”

  Flaco shakes his head. “Not yet. I thought you might wanna see this first.”

  We enter the room, where Giancarlo is still slumped on the floor by the far window, his hands now tied behind him. I take in the remnants of the scene—the drops of blood that smatter the tousled sheets and the dirty gray carpet, the knocked-over lamp by the bed, a few books and other belongings of Layla’s that were tossed around. When I turn back to Giancarlo, he’s watching me with one eye open; the other one, the one I hit, is swelled shut.

  I turn to Flaco. “You tied him to a radiator? That’s a little much, don’t you think?”

  Flaco shrugs, then gives me a horsey grin. “It’s not on. It could be, but it’s not. I think that shows pretty good restraint, don’t you?”

  I just snort.

  “That’s not what I wanted to show you, though. C’mere.”

  Flaco leads me to the closet, where a bunch of Layla’s clothes hang. That’s one more thing I need to do: get her stuff together, because she’s sure as shit not coming back here. My shoulders tense as Flaco pushes the clothes to the side. I get a noseful of her flowery scent, mixed with the stale odor of dried blood and sweat already filling the room. It’s a heady combination—not very good for my state of mind.

  With his foot, Flaco toes open an unzipped duffel bag on the floor, just enough so I can see what’s inside. At the bottom, wrapped in plastic, lies at least a key of cocaine, ready to be cut and distributed.

  “Jesus,” I murmur, squatting down to examine it. I glance at my friend. “Coño, you didn’t touch that, did you?”

  Flaco scoffs. “What do I look like, papi, a fuckin’ moron? I wasn’t about to leave fingerprints.”

  I stand back up and turn toward Giancarlo, who’s still watching us.

  “I knew you were into something,” I growl. “I fuckin’ knew it. I ought to beat your ass all over again for dragging Layla into it.”

  “Nah, Nico, don’t,” Flaco
chimes in behind me. “He wouldn’t live through it. Yo, man, I ain’t seen you get like that since we were kids.”

  I rub my face, trying to push away the memories from my past that keep bubbling up. Right after I got back from Tryon, the detention center upstate, I was angry. I wasn’t a bully—exactly—but I didn’t shy away from using my fists. My hands clench. My knuckles are sore and will be bruised as fuckin’ hell tomorrow. But right now, I wouldn’t mind giving fuckface another taste of his own medicine.

  “Nico. You don’t want to...”

  Flaco nods at the bag behind me. I know what he’s thinking. It would be easy to leave with it, sell it ourselves. That much blow would pay both our rents for a year in just about any neighborhood in the city. But aside from the fact that it would be risky as fuck—whoever Giancarlo got that shit from is going to want the money it makes, and if the FDNY found out about it, I’d be fuckin’ toast—there’s something better I can do with it.

  I turn to Flaco. “Call the cops. This motherfucker’s gonna get what’s coming to him.”

  Flaco raises a skinny brow. “You sure?”

  I press my lips together and nod. I hate cops. Like every brown kid in New York City, I grew up fearing the words “Stop and Frisk,” especially after I got back from juvie during the mid-nineties. There’s a decent enough chance that just by being here, Flaco and I will both find ourselves with our noses pressed to the carpet, our wrists cuffed together.

  But I’m willing to take that chance to get this asshole off the streets. To keep my girl safe. To help her sleep at night.

  Flaco nods and pulls out his phone. “You got it,” he says and walks out of the room as he dials.

  I pace for a minute in front of Giancarlo. He watches closely, but says nothing. He’s waiting to see what I’ll do.