Bad Love

by Jaci J

  I answer, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Hello?”

  “Biiiitch,” Lucy shrieks. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Leaving that painting gig I got.” I walk out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, side stepping a lady pushing a stroller, and a group of guys hanging around out front next door. “What’s up?”

  It’s dusk, the sun slowly falling into the bay, but there are still bodies out and about. The restaurant across the street is hoppin’, with loud laughter and music coming from the inside.

  “Meet me at The Brick House. I need drinks and girl talk.”

  I smile, even if she can’t see me, because drinks and girl talk is exactly what I need. “See you in a bit.”

  Stuffing my phone into my bag and pulling the strap farther up my shoulder, I’m stopped by the sound of a loud engine idling beside me.

  Twisting my head to the side, I see a pristine, classic black car sitting at the curb. It’s cherry, perfection on wheels. The only bad thing about it is the guy driving it.

  Niko.

  “Shay!” he shouts out the window at me, his lips pressed into a firm, unhappy line.

  “No thank you,” I say tightly, waving my hand in his general direction. I don’t know what he wants, and I really don’t care.

  “You’re not walking the streets in the middle of the fucking night.” Getting out of his pretty black ride, he rounds the hood and heads toward me.

  It’s been about an hour since I seen Niko, and in that sixty minutes, not much has changed. He’s still an asshole. A sexy asshole, in his dark jeans and muscle hugging white tee, that damn backward snapback, and those fucking dark-rimmed glasses, but an asshole nonetheless.

  I just keep walking, ignoring him as I hear his door slam shut and the sound of an engine following me at a slow speed.

  “Get in the damn car, Shay. It’s about to start rainin’.”

  I sneak a peek up at the clouds. He’s right.

  “So?” I fire back as I continue to walk, laughing internally at the very unhappy look he gives me. Enjoying it immensely, I keep up the steady pace. There’s a frown on his lips and an angry crease carved into his forehead. Eyes narrowed. The whole nine yards. He’s a moody bastard.

  Niko growls, pulling the car to the curb. Again. He’s not fucking around.

  Down on the docks at night isn’t always the safest or smartest place to be, but I’d never tell him that.

  Niko gets in front of me, halting me in my tracks. “Get in the fucking car.”

  Throwing my hands up in the air in surrender, I roll my eyes and get in. One, because I think I did feel a raindrop. Two, because I really, really don’t want to walk a mile and a half if I don’t have to. And three, I’d rather not be kidnapped this evening because I really, really, really want that drink.

  Sliding into the passenger seat, I shut my door and turn to Niko. “Happy?”

  “Immensely,” he smarts, sounding anything but as he pulls back out and onto the road, cutting off a minivan in the process. I want to say thank you, but I can’t help myself. Looking at him, I smirk and tease, “It’s not raining too bad,” as the windshield wipers swipe at the steady stream of raindrops that just started to fall.

  Niko

  “IT’S NOT RAINING TOO bad,” she tells me, smirking, damn proud of herself.

  “Should I let you out right here then?” I ask, pulling on the steering wheel hard, swerving toward the curb. The van behind me honks, and I offer them a one-finger wave out the window.

  They don’t like my driving, then they can just pull the fuck around me and keep going.

  “Jesus, Niko,” she groans when I hit a pothole hard, almost popping a fucking tire in the process.

  “Hey, if you’d rather walk.”

  She purses her lips and quirks a brow. “I would have, but you insisted. So now I expect curbside service.”

  Fucking Shay.

  “Should drop your ass off right here,” I mutter, hitting the gas and pulling back into traffic, cutting off some bitch in a Benz. “Let your ass get rained on or snatched off the streets.”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” she fires back. “You’re the one who fought so hard to get me in the damn car in the first place.”

  “I wouldn’t?” I jerk on the wheel, my car pulling to the side. Swear to fuck, if I don’t stop jerking on the wheel, the motherfucker’s gonna break right off. I’m sure the people around me think I’m driving drunk at this point.

  Shay chuckles. “Nah. Too much of a control freak.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.” She points at me, her eyebrow raised. “You’re fucking nuts.”

  “You don’t even know me.” I hate how much she’s already figured me out with what little she knows of me.

  She starts to go through the radio stations. “I know you well enough.” She stops on a song, sometimes singing along, and other times, she listens for a second and moves on. She didn’t ask, didn’t even say anything. She just started skimming.

  “You gonna pick a station or just listen to static?”

  “I’m looking for driving in the city music.”

  “Driving in the city music?” The bitch is weird.

  “Yeah, you know, has a city vibe?” She stops on a country song, snorts, but keeps scrolling.

  “Oh yeah, city vibe,” I mutter sarcastically, not having the slightest idea what she’s taking about, and not real sure I want to.

  She flips through a few more times, then stops on some rap shit and smiles. “This is city vibe,” she tells me proudly.

  “Was the music earlier a city vibe?” I ask, referring to the shit she was listening to while painting.

  “Well, I am painting the city,” she tells me, like it’s obvious.

  That surprises me. I haven’t spent much time looking at her artwork, and what I’ve seen of it, it’s just blues, blacks, and greens, nothing giving it away.

  “You painting the city here?”

  “Yep.”

  Shay moves on, digging through her bag and pulling out another smaller bag. Reaching in for what seems to be her makeup, she sings along to what’s playing on the radio and goes for the visor. She flips it down and gasps, whipping her head around to look at me. “No mirror?”

  Chuckling, I shake my head. “No mirror.”

  “I don’t like your old car anymore.”

  “My old car?” I huff indignantly, pulling up at a red light and stopping.

  “Yeah.” She scoots to the edge of her seat and closer to me. Reaching up, she grabs the rearview mirror, twisting it toward her.

  Grabbing it, I twist it back. “The fuck you doin’?”

  She doesn’t answer me, just twists it back and glares. “I need it.”

  “You need it,” I mutter, pulling through the intersection.

  Shay is beautiful in the realest sense. Natural. Untouched. I’ve never seen her in anything other than a bare face, and I don’t know how I feel about her covering all the pretty up with that makeup garbage.

  “Yeah, I look basic as hell with no makeup on,” she tells me, smearing tan colored liquid on her face, and going at it with a small round sponge.

  Done with her face, she moves on to other shit—her eyes and her lips.

  I don’t fucking like it.

  “You look fine without all that shit.” Grabbing the bottle from her lap, I toss it out the window.

  “What the fuck, Niko!” she shrieks, practically crawling across my lap to look out the window and the bottle bouncing down the road behind us.

  “Told you, you look better without it.”

  “That’s great for you, but I like me better with it!” Stuffing the rest of her shit back in its bag, she tries to hide it away from me.

  “Where we goin’?”

  “The Brick House. I’m having drinks with a friend.”

  “At the Brick House?” I hear myself shouting, instantly fucking mad at the idea. The Brick House is some shitty dive bar on the edge of to
wn, near a couple of abandoned warehouses.

  Shay shoots me a quick, disgruntled look. “Yes, at The Brick House, Dad.”

  I don’t know why I fucking care. Why picturing her in that shithole, face painted up, annoys the fuck out of me, but it does. It’s a place I’d hang out, but it’s not a place for two females looking to have a drink and talk girl shit.

  “That place is fuckin’ garbage.”

  “Says the guy opening a bar that resembles The Brick House.”

  “Not my bar. And even if it was, it’d be nothing like this fucking place,” I mutter angrily, pulling into the small parking lot on the side of the building. It’s nothing but a bunch of gravel, surrounded on three sides by brush and sticker bushes. The place is a fucking dump.

  I park, not ready to let her go just yet. “Sorry about earlier today,” I tell her, swallowing my pride and admitting I was a giant prick. “I was a dick.”

  “What about my makeup?”

  “What about it?”

  She rolls her pretty eyes. I should be trying to make them roll for a whole other damn reason. “You’re sorry about tossing out a damn near new bottle of twenty-dollar coverup?”

  “Sure. I’m sorry.” Not really.

  “So you’re sorry?”

  “A little less sorry the longer you stare at me like that.”

  “Never thought I’d hear that word come out of your mouth.”

  “Don’t expect it again.”

  She smiles at me, soft and sweet, and something shifts. “I won’t. Thanks for the ride, Niko.” Grabbing the door handle, she pops the door open.

  I watch her get out of the car and watch her walk away, wishing like fuck I could keep her here with me.

  Reaching over the passenger seat, I roll down the window quickly. “Yo, Shay!”

  She turns. “Yeah?”

  “Take my number. If you need a ride home later or something.”

  “Niko—” She starts to protest, but I stop her, needing to know she can reach me if she needs me. Just in case. “Take it, Shay.” My voice leaves little room for argument.

  Pulling out her cell, she looks up at me. “Ready.”

  I give her my number and watch her smile as she puts it in her phone. Does she save it? I have no fucking clue, but what the fuck am I gonna do? Get out and make her save it in front of me? I’m fucking crazy, but not that goddamn crazy.

  “Bye, Niko.”

  I nod, letting her go, but still not fucking happy about it.

  7

  Shay

  Niko was right. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud or tell him to his face. The Brick House is gross. It’s scummy, debilitated, and in a bad neighborhood, but Lucy’s brother works here and the drinks are free, so here I am.

  Walking through the parking lot, I catch sight of a familiar face waiting for me.

  “Hi, Marcus,” I sing, falling into his solid chest for a quick, friendly hug when I reach him.

  Standing outside, a few feet from the front door, a smoke in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, Lucy’s brother returns my embrace, pulling me into him. “Hey, Shay,” he chuckles, his chest rumbling under my cheek. “How ya doin’, girl?”

  “I’m thirsty,” I answer, pulling away and walking with him toward the door. But something pulls at me, or maybe it’s more of a someone.

  I can feel Niko’s eyes on me.

  Don’t look back. Don’t do it. Don’t look back, you fucking idiot. But I look back anyway when I know I shouldn’t, because clearly, I’m a fucking idiot.

  Looking over my shoulder, I catch a look at Niko, who’s standing by his pretty car. His ass is resting against the door, arms crossed and feet kicked out in front of him, watching me intently.

  He doesn’t look happy.

  Marcus must notice him, because he asks, “Your boyfriend got a problem?”

  Niko and I being anything other than what we are is comical. I’m not even sure I could call him a friend. He’s just some asshole I know. Laughing, I shake my head. “That’s not my boyfriend.”

  “You sure?” He swings me around and leads me to the front door. “He’s looking at you like he owns you.”

  “We work together.” We’re just two people in the same general area from time to time. “That’s it.”

  Tossing one more look at Niko from over my shoulder, I frown, seeing the look on his face. He looks murderous. His normally grouchy disposition has melted into something far darker and meaner.

  The look he’s giving me, I can feel it, physically. My skin prickles with awareness, goose bumps crawling up my arms and down my spine. I can’t look away for a moment, stuck in place, until Marcus moves me.

  Looking down at me, pulling me away from Niko, I slap on a smile, still a little shook from his look. “I’m sure,” I tell him, resolute.

  Marcus snorts a skeptical sound, but doesn’t push it, knowing better. I’ve cut a bitch for less.

  DRINKS WITH LUCY IS always a good time. Loud laughter and snide jokes pass between us over cheap margaritas. It’s our thing. A thing we don’t do often enough, but when we do, we do it big.

  “He’s cute,” she tells me, whispering so loud, I think the guy in the obscenely low V-neck two tables over heard her.

  Looking at who she’s pointing at, I have to agree. He is cute. More than cute. I stare at his muscular arms a moment too long, because the guy looks up, catching me. He sees me staring at him and smiles, tipping his beer at me.

  “Shit. He caught me,” I mutter, burying my face in my drink to hide my embarrassment.

  Lucy laughs. “Show him a tit,” she slurs, giggling.

  I practically choke on my drink. “Show him a tit? Why?”

  “A free drink or two?”

  The bar is so loud, I have to shout. “What do I get if I show him my vag?” Of course the song changes and everyone stops talking at that very second.

  Lucy looks at me, eyes wide, and I look at the man in question. “Shit,” I mutter.

  “Oh my God,” Lucy laughs hysterically. “I can’t. I can’t. Oh my God,” she wheezes, clutching her stomach.

  I think there’s something wrong with me. Some broken part of me, or maybe I wasn’t born with it, but as soon as I lock eyes with the sexy guy two tables over, I think maybe he’d be a good date.

  And that’s exactly what happens. He buys me a few drinks and we talk. We exchange numbers and plan a date, and through it all, I think about Niko. Think what the look on his face would be if he were here right now, about how’d he growl “fuck no,” answering for me when the guy asked me on a date. Think about how I’d almost rather it be Niko asking me out than this guy.

  Niko

  TAKING A DEEP BREATH, not really in the fucking mood for dinner, I drop my smoke on the road, putting it out with my boot on my way inside.

  I need to stop fucking smoking.

  “Ma?” I call, walking through the front door and into my childhood home, which smells like dinner. Beef stew of some sort I’m guessing. Cabbage. Onions. Tomatoes. Something hearty, something my mom has had on the stove since six a.m., I’m fucking sure.

  Halfway through the living room, my mom comes out of the kitchen. Wearing her usual, an apron and a dishrag tossed over her shoulder, she looks at me, frowning. “Nikolai,” she huffs, a hint of her Russian accent clinging to my name. “Stop hollering and come here.”

  “Wasn’t hollerin’,” I tell her, following her into the kitchen, which hasn’t changed much my entire thirty-one years here on Earth. There’s still a big old solid wood table in the middle of the room and six chairs around it. She’s got pots hanging from a rack above it, and an old ceramic crock in the middle, filled to the brim with rolling pins and wooden spoons, both in which make great ass paddles when you break one of the Russian nesting dolls from her collection.

  “Sit,” she instructs, pointing at a chair. “Fold those for me,” she adds, grabbing the small wicker basket from the top of the washing machine in the corner of the ki
tchen, and plopping it down on the table in front of me. I’ll never understand why she won’t let me build her a laundry room off the kitchen, a place to keep the washer and dryer, but my guess is it’s because she spends all her time in here anyway. Less walking.

  “They’re not going to fold themselves, son,” she urges when I don’t immediately start.

  I get to folding real damn quick. No other woman on the planet I’d fold laundry for, but there isn’t a damn thing I wouldn’t do for this woman.

  “How ya doin’, Ma? Your back still giving you hell?”

  She shoots me an disgruntled look over her shoulder from the stove. “Language, please.”

  “Your back?” I urge, choosing to ignore her scolding. I’m thirty fucking one. What comes out of my mouth is my goddamn business. But I won’t lie, there’s a chance she’d still put one of those wooden spoons upside my head before I even had the chance to fucking blink.

  “I’m fine. But something is wrong with you.” She stirs the pot on the stove, tastes the broth, and adds some salt.

  “Something’s wrong with me, huh?” I chuckle. “Like what?”

  She tsks. “I’m your mother, Nikolai. I know when there’s something wrong with my child.”

  Jesus Christ. “I’m fine.”

  Shaking her head, she folds her arms over her chest, her giant spoon in hand. “Something is bothering you,” she says matter-of-factly. “I can sense it.”

  I roll my eyes and she catches it. Suddenly, I’m eight all over again, scared of my goddamn mother with her wooden spoon.

  Walking into the kitchen and claiming the chair across from me, Alek smirks, picking that exact moment to come in. “Something’s botherin’ him all right. She’s five foot four and cute as fuck.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  My mother huffs loudly, head shaking. “Aleksander! Quit with the language!” She looks between us. “The both of you, please.” She looks like she’s dying, the pain of our dirty mouths slowly killing her.

  We both apologize and get to our appointed jobs, in fear of being smacked upside the head. “So, who is this girl Alek tells about?”