Lost Ones (Bad Idea Book 2)

by Nicole French

  My heart gives a couple of chest-shaking thumps as the rest of the night comes back to me. A cab ride that felt more like war than foreplay. Some fairly intense petting that led to…

  I squeeze my thighs together. Yeah, they’re naked all right, and the ache between them brings the rest of the night back to me. My eyes are open wide as I take in the geography of a bedroom that is definitely not mine: the faded gray carpet, the bay window with flaking paint and bars over it. The clothes that are slung over the open doors of a closet. The stack of books on a very messy desk, and the pair of wayfarer glasses perched on top of them.

  Giancarlo. That was his name. He finally told me through a thick South American accent, but only after we’d made out for an hour and I refused to leave with him without having a name to give my girlfriends. Giancarlo from Argentina, from a suburb of Buenos Aires, the name of which I couldn’t possibly remember right now. A twenty-three-year-old exchange student at CUNY, here to study business or something like that. A bunch of other stuff that reappears in my memory like the teacher’s voice in Charlie Brown. Wa-wa-wa. Thanks, alcohol.

  Slowly, I peek to my left, where I’m greeted by the long, sleeping form of the man himself, draped casually in his peach-colored sheets. Up close, he’s even bigger than I remember––well over six feet. He’s on his stomach, his hands clutching a pillow to his chest. In his sleep, his frown is only slightly lessened, but the rounded edges of his face soften a bit. Dark, curly brown hair that flops a little on top. Uneven stubble. Shadows under his eyes that look like mine, like my family’s in Brazil. His full lips and chin pout slightly. He’s still handsome, but almost boyish, despite his size.

  That prickly feeling is back. I can’t tell if I like it or not. It’s unfamiliar, exciting. Everything about this moment, this guy, is different. I don’t go home with men I don’t know. I don’t get blackout drunk in bars. I don’t wake up with parts of my memory too blurry to see clearly.

  I turn onto my side. There’s a small envelope icon on my phone––a string of text messages I don’t remember getting or sending, the last of which arrived at about eight o’clock this morning––all of them back and forth with that stupid 323 number I both hate and love. I miss the New York number, the one I still remember by heart. Well, I miss a lot more than that. Careful not to wake the sleeping giant next to me, I scroll through them.

  The messages turn from playful to irate to sad, culminating with a photo that apparently I sent sometime around midnight. It’s a terrible picture of me and Giancarlo, wrapped up with each other on the dance floor. Giancarlo looks like he’s about to eat me alive. I look like I’m just trying to hold on for dear life.

  And this went to Nico.

  Fuck. It had to have been Quinn. There’s no one else who would have snapped this and then sent it to him with that kind of message. I scroll back through his responses, all of them coming in within the past couple of hours. He must have seen these when he got home from the club. To her. To Jessie.

  NICO: wtf layla

  NICO: i dont get it. why send that at all?

  NICO: Fuck. FUCK.

  NICO: i hope u were safe

  NICO: u know what? its fine. i want u to be happy.

  NICO: I miss u.

  They’re just words. Three little words that feel like hammers on this fragile wall I’ve contrived around my heart. You miss me? You miss me?! I want to shout, hurl my phone across the room. Let it drown in the Hudson, right into the water just like he did with his. But at the same time, I feel like crying. He says he wants me to be happy, and as angry as I still am, I want him to be happy too. I’m also mad at myself for leaving the way I did. Maybe he shouldn’t have kissed me like that, but in the end, it’s not like we were going to get back together or anything. He can do whatever he wants, and so can I.

  So why does the thought of that still make me feel so freaking terrible?

  Tears spring, and I work to blink them away, grasping at the sheets in this unfamiliar room until my vision clears. Beside me, Giancarlo snorts, and it snaps me out of my reverie. I remember that I’m not in my room at all, but in a stranger’s. Someone who might not take it so kindly if I startle him out of his sleep.

  Suddenly the only thing I can think about is getting out of this place. I want to get back to my other strange bed, the one that belongs only to me, at least for the next nine months. I want to bury myself under my familiar purple comforter, wrap the curtains around my bed, and stay asleep until Monday.

  Very, very carefully, I slip out of bed, wincing at the creak of floorboards under my feet. After I manage to track down my clothes, Giancarlo emits a loud snore. I can’t help wondering how I ever thought this guy even approximated Nico. Because that’s what I was doing, right? This guy’s hair is black, but it’s longer, the curls almost too shiny at his temples. His jaw is more rounded, his cheekbones less pronounced. His skin is more golden than brown, and his shoulders lack the lean, corded muscle Nico’s have. He’s handsome, sure, but a terrible substitute for the man who, as of yet, has no replacement.

  This was supposed to help me forget. But now I only feel that much worse.

  Clasping my heels in one hand, I tiptoe toward his bedroom door, but just when I’m about to make my escape, the hinge creaks loudly. I freeze. Giancarlo rolls over and sits up a little, blinking in the sunlight because he puts on his glasses. His gaze focuses on me with growing recognition.

  With his glasses, he looks a little older. His eyes harden with that same look I remember, even through my drunken memory. It’s sharp. Possessive. Hungry.

  “Hello,” he says sleepily in that same, thickly accented voice. “You are leaving.”

  I nod, keeping the doorknob in my hand. It wasn’t really a question, but I’m answering it anyway. “I need to get going.”

  Giancarlo pushes off the covers and gets up, giving me a full view of, well, everything. He’s even bigger than I thought, probably close to six-four, maybe even taller. His shoulders slope, and although he’s not cut the same way that Nico is, the guy is clearly no slouch. He stretches, and his cock, half-erect, points at me. I look away.

  “I will walk you to the subway,” he says even as I turn away.

  “Um, no, that’s okay.”

  I already have one foot out of his room, but now I feel like I should close the door or something, give him some modesty that he doesn’t already have. He’s still brutally naked, scratching his head without a care that his penis is just hanging out there, waving in the wind. I shouldn’t feel that weird about it, considering we had sex last night, but I do. I don’t know this person. I don’t want to see all of this. Somehow, his nakedness feels weirdly dominant.

  “I really have to get back. I’m supposed to meet my friends for breakfast.” Lie. All lies. Good God, I just want to get out of this room, dive into a vat of coffee, and crawl into my own bed.

  Giancarlo looks up from his dresser, where he pulls out a pair of briefs. He tugs them on, finally covering up that…thing. Even half-erect, he’s pretty damn big. Shit, how did that fit in me? No wonder I’m sore.

  “Are you sure?” he’s asking. “I will only take a second.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I say. “Um…thanks. For…”

  He smiles. His teeth are a little crooked, but only slightly. He has a nice smile. I feel kind of bad for blowing him off.

  “Before you leave, I can give you my number?” he asks.

  Damn it. I knew that question was coming. “Do you have a card?”

  It’s a tactic I actually picked up from Quinn. She does it in situations where she wants guys to feel important while also giving herself an out. This guy won’t. He’s a student, like me. There is absolutely no reason for him to have a business card, which will, in turn, make him feel ashamed. And hopefully he won’t call me again.

  Giancarlo scratches his head and shoves a big hand into his curly hair. I think it’s working. I owe Quinn a drink. Or, I think as a bout of nausea rises and falls, maybe just
a coffee.

  But when Giancarlo smiles, it changes him completely. He goes from being stern and slightly scary to magnanimous and almost sweet. “It’s okay,” he says. “No card.”

  He reaches a hand out and waits patiently. He shrugs, and the movement is so charming, I can’t help but smile back and hand him my phone. I watch as he punches his number into it and calls himself. His phone buzzes on the bedside table, and he smiles as he hangs up mine and gives it back to me.

  “There,” he says. “Easy.”

  “Uh, okay,” I say. “I guess…I’ll see you around?”

  Giancarlo nods. “Yes.”

  It’s abrupt. I can’t quite tell if that’s a dismissal or not. But in the end, I give a muffled “okay” and scoot my way out of the apartment.

  Outside, it takes me a second to find my bearings. We took a cab last night, and I have no idea where I am other than roughly suspecting I’m still in Manhattan. Maybe? At least, I don’t remember crossing any bridges. I walk up a short hill, keeping my skirt pulled down with both hands while my tiny purse keeps sliding down my arm. Ugh. I am a total cliché, dressed like a streetwalker while I complete a “walk of shame.” Emphasis on shame.

  Once I reach the end of the block, I realize with both relief and dread that I know exactly where I am: West 144th and Broadway. Just a few blocks from another apartment where I used to spend a lot of time. I turn down the street, and despite the fact that it’s a cloudy, nondescript day, despite the fact that the air is full of emotionless car honks and subway rumbles, despite the fact that the catcalls I receive make my skin crawl as I walk as fast as I can down Broadway, just about every conflicting emotion I’ve been feeling for the past week and a half comes bubbling up to the surface.

  Because everything about this neighborhood is him. Correction: everything about this neighborhood is us. Every bodega is a place where we bought drinks, gum, condoms, snacks together before racing up to his apartment to have our way with each other. There’s the Dominican restaurant that makes his favorite chicken; there’s the cheesesteak place where he flirted shamelessly with me over ginger ale. His laundromat. His grocery store.

  His…brother?

  My eyes are so full of threatening tears that when I turn into the subway entrance, I run smack into a familiar lanky form.

  “Oye, watch it!” Two hands land on my shoulders to steady me as I almost teeter down the steps. Then: “NYU?”

  I blink furiously, willing the tears to recede. They finally do, and then I look up. “Gabe! Hey.”

  Nico’s younger brother, Gabriel, looks me over like he’s checking that I’m actually here. As if realizing he’s touching his brother’s girl, he yanks his hands away like I’m made of fire, and it’s then he gets a look at what I’m wearing. His eyes almost fall out of his head.

  I immediately blush. Yep, what I’m doing is that obvious. I didn’t even wear a jacket last night since the late summer nights are still warm enough to go without. This dress is basically lingerie, and I’m wearing five-inch heels at eight in the morning.

  “Ah, how you doin’?” Gabe asks, clearly working very hard not to move his gaze from my eyes. He’s staring so hard I might end up with a hole through my head.

  I shrug. “I’m okay. You? How’s school? You started at CUNY last week, right?”

  Gabe nods, like he’s not sure what I just said. “Um, yeah. It’s good, I guess. A lot harder than high school. So, you, um…”

  He trails off, and I can tell he’s struggling to find a way to ask me what I’m doing in this neighborhood dressed like this without coming right out and saying it. I bite my lip. This is the last thing I want. After those stupid photos––fucking Quinn sent them, I’m sure of it now––Nico is going to think I’m stalking his family now just to niggle him. I might be mad at him, but I don’t want to hurt him. I’d never want that.

  “I just crashed at a friend’s place,” I offer.

  He must know it’s a lie, but Gabe’s shoulders relax visibly. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Fun night?”

  Shyly, I nod. “Yeah. Maybe too much fun. I need to get going, though. Lots to do before my classes start this week.”

  Gabe looks me over a little more frankly. It’s not a look like some of the ones I got walking down the street. It’s a look that’s more critical. And I can only guess who’s going to hear about what he sees.

  “Yeah, me too,” he says as he meets my eyes again. “It was good seeing you, NYU.” He leans in, like an afterthought, and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. A familiar greeting I’ve only experienced in Brazil. It’s a move that’s both awkward and sweet. When he finishes, I smile.

  “You too,” I say. “Later.”

  I watch for a moment as he walks up the street toward the apartment I used to know so well. I wonder what it looks like now. I wonder if it’s changed.

  And before I wonder more, my cell phone buzzes again in my purse. Speak of the devil.

  NICO: Im sorry.

  I deflate right there on the subway steps. All the anger I felt is gone. I don’t like being mad at him. And if this little walk through memory lane has shown me anything, it’s that I don’t want to have a life where I don’t know him anymore.

  I press the call button. His deep, scratchy voice answers almost immediately.

  “Layla?”

  I sigh. I’m still standing in the middle of the subway stairs, but there’s nowhere for me to go. “Hey.”

  “Hey, baby.”

  The familiar moniker guts me. How can something that feels so good hurt so much? Tears rise again.

  “I just…” I trail off. “I saw all your texts. Nico, I’m so sorry about that photo. I didn’t take it or send it, I swear.”

  “But that’s you, right?” His voice isn’t mad––just sad. Dejected.

  I gulp. “Yeah.”

  He sighs. “Well, I’m not gonna pretend I liked it. But…hey. I don’t exactly have a right to be angry over here.” He pauses. “Are you happy?”

  No. “Sure.”

  There’s another long sigh. “Where are you?”

  I glance around like he can see me. “Um, just on the street. Getting some breakfast.”

  I know that Gabe is going to call him and spill the beans, but I don’t want to rub it in his face. Nico’s smart. He’ll put two and two together, and if he wants to ask me about it, he can.

  “I just wanted to say…I’m sorry,” I rush on. “And that I’m not…well, I’m not mad at you anymore, okay? I shouldn’t have run off like that. I was just in a really messed-up state of mind, with my dad and everything.”

  “Of course, of course, sweetie.” Nico’s voice is warm, and it makes my heart lift a little. Gah…I miss him so freaking much.

  He pauses, and we sit there silently on the phone together. It’s quiet on his end; he can no doubt hear the sounds of cars and the rumble of the trains on mine.

  “We friends again?” he asks finally. “I just want to be your friend, Layla. Tell me I can at least be that.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Of course. Nico, I’ll always be your friend.”

  “Even when you tell me to fuck off?”

  I can’t help but smile. “Even then.”

  He chuckles. “Okay, then. Maybe don’t send me any more photos like that, okay? I might be your friend, but I’m not that kind of friend.”

  “Okay,” I agree. “That’s fair. I don’t really want to hear about…you know…either.”

  An awkward silence falls, like there’s something Nico wants to say. But doesn’t.

  “Of course,” he says finally. “It’s a deal.” There’s another brief pause, and then I hear a rustling in the background. “I actually need to get some sleep,” he says. “I got home not that long ago.”

  “I need to go too.”

  “Okay, baby. Be good.”

  A few minutes later, I step onto a crowded train, ignoring the knowing looks of a few passengers: the what a slut expression
of the woman sitting with her kid, the curious leers of the two boys on the bench across from me. I shrink into myself, trying to avoid the touch of other people’s bodies. It’s hard; the train is jammed with morning commuters, even though it’s Saturday. But unlike last night, when I was craving the feel of skin on skin, now the thought of a random person’s touch feels repulsive. And yet, my skin still has that sensation of displacement. It covers my body, making me feel like a stranger in my own skin. That prickly feeling is still there. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

  ~

  PART II: I Got You

  CHAPTER NINE

  November 2003

  Nico

  The worst thing about studying is the sound. Last week I invested in a new pair of headphones and a couple of CDs because I can’t stand the scratch of pencil on paper or the way my breathing picks up when I concentrate. But when I move to a public place, I get too distracted. I like to people-watch too much. I notice too many things to focus on a piece of paper with a bunch of dry questions. It’s ironic: the qualities that I think would make me a great firefighter are what might make me fail this stupid test.

  It takes me a while to get into the groove, so when I do, I don’t get out for a while. It’s not until Jessie’s cold fingers slide over my shoulders and slip under the collar of my t-shirt that I even realize anyone is in my room with me.

  “Jesus!” I start and yank off my headphones, then turn around in my seat. “You scared me.”

  Jesse looks curiously around me at the papers scattered over my small desk. “What are you doing, sketching?”

  I fiddle with my pencil, tapping the eraser on the desk. “Not exactly.”

  Jessie leans over me, her long waterfall of blonde hair draping over my neck. She’s been at a photo shoot and had some extensions put in––she looks like she’s been dipped in makeup, and her hair is about a foot longer than it was this morning. The ends are itchy on my skin, and her bright red nails dig into my shoulder. Why girls think they look better when they add all this fake shit to their bodies makes no fuckin’ sense. I want to be able to pull hair without worrying it’s going to come off, if you know what I mean. I want to be able to kiss a woman’s skin without getting a mouthful of makeup.