“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I demand.
“It means you should have known better than to go running up to the worst part of the South fuckin’ Bronx by yourself!” Nico explodes, right there on the sidewalk, startling a group of teenage girls passing by.
“Ohhh,” one of them titters to the other.
Nico gives them a black look, and they scurry up the hill. He turns back to me.
“Look,” he says. “It’s getting late. I’m tired, I need dinner, and I have a…thing tomorrow that I can’t fuck up. I don’t have time to take you back downtown right now, and honestly, I don’t have any more cash for a cab. Can you please just stay with me tonight?”
I look dubiously at the familiar gray building, then back at him. “You want me to stay here. With you. Are you forgetting what happened the last time we were together? Nico, I have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, where’s your boyfriend now?”
“At work!” I protest.
“I’ll believe that when I fuckin’ see it.”
“You want to go to the club?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to go. Part of me wonders if maybe Nico is right.
His jaw ticks when he grinds his teeth together. Nico sighs audibly. “Look, I’ll be good, I promise. But if Evita’s a club promoter, baby, I’m the fuckin’ Easter Bunny.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He sighs. “Nothing. It means nothing.”
I cross my arms. There’s a tension in the pit of my stomach, a warring between wanting to stay with him because, if I’m being honest, Nico makes me feel safe, and always will. But the other side of me feels guilty. Giancarlo wouldn’t like it. He wouldn’t like me staying at some stranger’s place. And after what happened last night, I’m genuinely scared of what he would do if he found out.
Nico’s gaze loses its hardness. His big black eyes turn tender, and I see then how very afraid he was for me tonight––more afraid, maybe, than even I was. I’m not sure I want to know why.
“Please.” He swallows heavily. “Layla. I just need to know you’re safe, okay? My head’s going to be all types of fucked up tonight if I don’t know where you are.”
I take a deep breath and look up at the gray stone arch. With its tagged exterior, the crumbling mortar, it’s nothing special to look at. But weirdly, it does feel a little like home. Everything I ever experienced here only ever felt like home. The good and the bad.
I called Shama about this mess, but she was at work and didn’t answer. I’ll have an apartment full of judgmental roommates waiting for me when I get back, ready to shit all over Giancarlo, tell me all the mistakes I’m making, judge, judge, judge. And if I go to Giancarlo, he’ll be asking me questions all night. And when he finds out whom I was with…the thought makes me shudder.
Maybe this is better. Maybe I don’t have to tell anyone where I am.
~
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Layla
Home.
The word echoes through my mind when I wake up the next morning. Slowly, in the dim light, the room comes into focus. It’s familiar, but not the one I’m used to seeing here. That one, the plain white bedroom on the other side of the far wall, is now occupied by Nico’s brother, Gabe. Poor Gabe. He had a taste of freedom for just over six months before he was right back to living with his mom.
Nico and I are on the pull-out couch in the living room, a space that’s cordoned off by a couple of screens that block the open doorways leading from one side into the hallway, and through the other into the small TV room and the kitchen. It used to serve as a storage space for Nico and his family, giving his mother a little extra room in her tiny apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. There is even more stuff now, he explained sheepishly last night, because they’ve been slowly moving her up here.
Several cardboard boxes are stacked against the plastered walls, and another side of the room contains a jumble of other household goods: a couple of old brass lamps, a stack of faded sheets, a box of cords, an old TV, and two or three laundry baskets with what look like children’s clothes that Allie has grown out of. Faint scents of rice and beans filter through the air, and even this early, the bright guitar of a bachata song fades in every now and then from the street below. It’s not a nice apartment by any stretch of the imagination, but I don’t feel awkward here. I never did.
Despite the chill of the room, I’m warm. It’s because, I soon realize, I’m in an equally familiar position: wrapped in five feet, elevenish inches of Nico. He’s curled around me like a shrimp, one big arm draped across my middle, the other wormed under my neck to hold me securely against his broad, warm body. Apparently, it didn’t matter how vehemently we both insisted we would stay away from each other through the night. Our bodies were determined to do differently.
I can’t say I’m surprised. And even though I know it’s wrong, I don’t move away. Nico’s nose is buried in the back of my neck, and his warm breath feels so good. His fingers tighten reflexively now and then, and every few breaths, a low hum escapes his lips as he dreams. His biceps flex, a sturdy cage. Even in his dreams, he protects me.
My phone blinks on top of the suitcase beside the couch: filled with messages, no doubt, from my roommates and Giancarlo. I texted all of them last night, but everything I said was lies. The twist in my stomach reminds me: I am not a good person. My roommates think I’m staying with my boyfriend; Giancarlo thinks I went to stay with them. None will be happy about it.
I sigh. The world outside this room feels heavy. But the person in it is not someone I should be with. And he’s also not someone I have ever been able to say no to.
Nico stirs again, inhaling deeply. The hand at my waist tightens, and his hips flex into me from behind. Well…something is definitely awake. Instinctively, he grinds into me again, and a light groan erupts from his lips as he burrows his face further into my neck and shoulder, lips and mouth seeking.
“Mmmm, Layla,” he murmurs as his fingers locate the hem of my t-shirt. I gasp as they slide underneath, skin on skin as his lips meet the soft spot under my ear.
“Ah!” I gasp as his teeth find my earlobe.
“Mmmmm.” Nico’s deep voice is a motor as the hand at my stomach drifts farther south and starts to slide under the waistband of my jeans.
“Nico,” I whisper.
“Just five minutes, baby.”
His voice slurs a little; he’s not completely awake. But as much as I want to stay here, want to let his fingers continue their path, I know I have to stop this. I have to stop before we make this mistake all over again, and I’m eaten alive with guilt more than I already am.
“Nico,” I say, wriggling against him.
Shit, that really doesn’t help. The rock-hard length of him pressed against my ass just gets even harder, and he groans as he thrusts lightly. Shit.
“Nico, you have to stop!”
“Hm? What?” The hand at my stomach starts. His whole body tenses. “Oh,” he says. “Damn.” But he doesn’t move away immediately. “Damn,” he murmurs again, and then, finally, withdraws his arms and rolls away.
His absence is sudden and acute. And now I am freezing.
I roll over to find him lying on his back, hands clasped over his broad chest while he stares up at the ceiling with a pained expression. Perhaps feeling my gaze, he turns to me.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He presses his full lips together. “Hey. Um, sorry about that. I…I was asleep, I guess. Hard to control myself when I’m not conscious.”
I give a lopsided smile. Is it fucked up that I like that I have this effect on him? This is definitely not someone who ever needs help getting things started.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Old habits die hard, right?”
His smile isn’t the big, bright one I usually get. He doesn’t even bare his teeth.
“I––this is hard,” he admits, turning back to the ceiling. He pushes his hands into his hair, which is a little long
er than usual. “I don’t know how to do this.” His eyes sharpen. “I don’t want you to see that guy anymore, Layla.”
All the warmth of this moment disappears. “You have no right to say that.”
“I have a right as your friend.”
“Do friends dry hump each other in their sleep?”
Nico groans, loud and long, into his elbow. The movement makes the tattoos over his right bicep ripple. I try not to drool.
“Fuck,” he whispers loudly. I know he’s struggling to keep it down because his family is still asleep. Then he looks at me with a dagger-like expression. “You called me, you know.”
I scowl back. “Do you wish I hadn’t?”
“No. Yes. No. Fuck!”
Nico sits up, and the covers fall down. His white t-shirt isn’t leaving much to the imagination, and neither are his boxer briefs. Jesus, he has really been working out in LA.
“I’m glad you called,” he says. “But you shouldn’t have been up there in the first place. Layla, I don’t know what kind of shit your boyfriend”––he spits out the word, like it gives him a bad taste in his mouth––“is into, but he should know better than to send his innocent girlfriend in his place to deal with a fuckin’ gangster!”
“I see. So you think I’m too ignorant and stupid to understand what was going on?” I ignore the fact that I didn’t actually know what was going on. Gangster?
“Fuck––me cago––no, I didn’t mean it like that.”
But I’m already swinging my legs out of the bed and searching for my shoes. I slept in my clothes last night, too wary of what might happen if there were only a few pieces of underwear between Nico and me. Nico’s feet hit the floor with a thump, and then he’s coming around the mattress to stand in front of me.
“Layla.”
I look up, and despite the anger I feel––at him, at Giancarlo, at myself for even being in this situation––I still want to do what comes most naturally. Nico’s dense, close-cut hair is sticking up a little around the crown of his head, and there’s a solid day and a half’s worth of black stubble on his cheeks and chin. He rubs his eyes, which have shadows underneath them. But his lips look so soft and full, and all I want to do is throw my arms around those broad shoulders and kiss him until neither of us is mad anymore.
Okay, I want to do a lot more than that.
Nico puts his hands on my shoulders and stills me. I look up, expecting to see disdain. Condescension. Someone who thinks I’m stupid, because in my heart, I know I’m being horrible to someone who helped me last night. But all I see is concern and maybe a little frustration warring across his face. His eyes drift to my mouth again, and without thinking, I lick my lips. His eyes dilate.
“Fuck,” he murmurs as he closes them. He exhales forcefully, then looks straight at me. “Don’t go back there.”
My mouth drops. That was not what I was expecting him to say. “What?”
“I––” He rubs the back of his neck uneasily. “You don’t––I mean––look, I wasn’t going to say anything, but there’s a chance I’m moving back to New York. I don’t know when. But possibly within a few months. You don’t need someone like him, Layla. Not when you and I…”
“What do you mean, there’s a chance you’re moving back?”
The words seem to crackle in the air. I’m honestly not sure if I really heard him say that.
Now Nico’s the one who looks guilty.
“Ah, yeah. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
I don’t say anything. Just wait for him to say whatever this is.
“It’s…you remember that EMT test I told you about?” he ventures.
I still say nothing. He blinks, his expression black and uneasy. Suddenly I feel like I’m made of glass, about to shatter.
Nico takes a deep breath. “It was, um, actually the FDNY entrance exam. I took it last November. And then…well, I did pretty well. Actually, I did great.”
“Of-of course you did,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “Of course you did.”
“Well, um, yeah. So I was called up this week to, um…keep interviewing.” He keeps going, now in a sudden rush. “I had the physical on Tuesday. The psych interview is today. You should have seen me the last few months, baby, I’ve been working out like a beast. It’s basically all I do, other than work. Anyway, they seemed to think I did well on that, and now the psych interview is this morning. I still don’t know…I don’t know. I have a record, and they may decide in the end that someone with a history of assault isn’t worthy of the FDNY. But I had to try, you know? It’s…it’s what I’ve always wanted…”
For a long time I sit there, taking in his words. Nico’s quiet now, watching to see what I’ll do. He chews on his lips and cracks his knuckles––he’s never been good with silence.
“I just…I just…” I shake my head, back and forth, trying to register what he’s telling me.
He’s coming back. He’s coming back to New York. And he knew all this time that he was trying to do that. Every time I asked to be together, he knew.
He knew. And he always said no.
Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. I suck in the air, hiccupping around each breath.
“Layla?” Nico sits next to me, worried. “Are you all right?”
“I…can’t…” I take another deep breath. “I can’t believe that you are doing this to me…again!”
Nico’s brow screws up in confusion. “What?”
“Did you know?” I demand, my voice already choking up. “Did you know that you might be coming back? Have you known this whole time?”
“What? I, well––” He’s stumbling, unable to put together a complete sentence.
“Of course you did,” I continue without waiting. “You applied. You took a test. You knew even then that you had made the final cut, and you didn’t tell me?”
“I just…Layla, do you have any idea how many times I’ve applied for the FDNY over the years? This was a long shot. I still can’t even believe I got this far!”
“Who the fuck cares?” I snarl. “You don’t get it, do you?” My voice cracks, and I can feel my chest cracking right along with it. “All I’ve wanted is you. All year. Ever since you left. And every time I’m starting to think about moving on again you pop back into my life, every time, sweep me right back in, make me love you, all just to leave me. I can’t take it, anymore, Nico!”
He sinks down onto the bed with a dazed expression, like he can hardly believe what he’s hearing. I can hardly believe it myself. I look around frantically for my shoes. I just want to go. I want to leave and bury myself under a mountain of blankets. I want to find a place in this world, this life, where this ache in my chest can finally go away.
“Layla.” He says my name slowly, deliberately.
“I have a boyfriend,” I say, though the words are weak.
“Who, that asshat from Argentina? The guy who robs his girlfriend blind and lies the fuck about it?”
“Shut up.”
“No.” He kicks at his shoes lying on the floor; they flop over.
I spy my boots behind a box and make a grab, hopping wildly around the room while I put them on. “Come back to New York,” I say. “Don’t come back to New York. But whatever you do, don’t do it for me.”
The words bite; they don’t sound nearly as indifferent as I intend them. I’m crying too hard to look apathetic anyway.
“Layla, please. I’ll––listen, I’ll be back in a few months. In May. I don’t live with Jessie anymore, baby. I’ve been staying with K.C. for a while now. I just…tell me it’s not too late. It’s you and me, Layla. You and me. You can’t tell me that you and fuckin’ Evita have anything on that!”
He squats down, cups my face between his hands. “You don’t need him. You have me.”
I lean into the touch––that warm, familiar touch. Nico has always been a furnace when I’m with him––he radiates heat all the time. I close my eyes, enjoyi
ng the roughness of his callouses against my skin, the gentleness of the thumb lightly brushing my cheekbone. When I open them, he’s giving me that look––that Nico look, that’s black and fathomless, but open and full of love. Love he’s never given completely, but that I wanted so badly.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I admit, for the first time that I can remember.
And I don’t. Because being alone hurts––it reminds me that the person I want to be with doesn’t want me back. It reminds me that even if he loves me, he still chose a life without me. Without us. And every single time I think of it, it’s like he drives a knife further and further into my heart.
“Baby…”
“I don’t want to be in love with you anymore,” I whimper and fall into his chest.
He starts for a second in surprise, but quickly folds his arms around me, holding my shaking form as the tears fall before I can stop them. I start to shake violently, as much for the pain of loving him as for the pain of admitting I don’t want to anymore. Giancarlo might say mean things. He might yell or shout or throw the occasional dish. But nothing hurts more than this man’s love. Or, I should say, nothing hurts more than loving him.
I jerk away, pawing at my face. I’m so tired of crying for this man, for the pain of being without him.
“And if you aren’t hired?” I ask. I can see the suggestion hurts him, just like it hurts me to say it. Nico would be a brilliant firefighter––he’s a natural hero. Any fool could see that.
But I still need to know the answer to that question. I need to know what he wants from us.
“Are you––are you coming back to New York? Are you coming back here?”
Nico opens and closes his mouth, like he wants to say yes, but then his chest deflates. “I––no. No, I’m not.”
And there it is. The answer that’s been breaking me from the start. The reason I need to convince me that he really doesn’t feel the same way about me as I feel about him.
We stare at each other for a long time, and it’s almost like time acts as a magnet. The longer we stare, the closer we get, until our lips are almost touching. Suddenly all I can think about is that those lips showed me what love felt like. That maybe I never knew what that really felt like until I met him.
Lost Ones (Bad Idea Book 2) Page 24
