Lost Ones (Bad Idea Book 2)

by Nicole French

  “Hey, Lieutenant, I’m feelin’ pretty hard up too!” Reilly, one of the guys I get along with pretty well, shouts out. “Can I go see my girl too? She’s waiting for me at a bar in Long Island City.”

  “Mine too!” shouts Carson, one of the younger guys who looks like he could still be in high school.

  “Mine too!” Shouts echo through the group until suddenly there are forty-five guys shouting about the different bars in the city where their nonexistent girlfriends are waiting for them.

  “Twenty more!” shouts Meyers, and with a hush, everyone quiets down and starts grunting with their efforts. “An hour early tomorrow, Soltero,” he says to me, nodding his consent. “Now get the fuck outta here.”

  ~

  I mill around the baggage claim, shuffling awkwardly with my hands shoved into my pockets while I scan the crowds for Layla. Occasionally a few people glance at me curiously. It’s something I’m going to have to get used to: being looked at with admiration instead of suspicion. People see this uniform––the blue cargo pants and blue shirt with FDNY printed on the front––and they start asking questions. They like firefighters, especially in New York. Little kids look at me, want to be just like me. Their mothers encourage them to talk to me instead of guiding them away. It’s a good feeling. For the first time in my life, I feel accepted in the city of my birth. Like I’m wanted. Like I really belong.

  I check my watch again. I know she’s here––I got a text from her about fifteen minutes ago saying her plane had landed. I’d already been pacing around JFK for about an hour at that point, but she doesn’t need to know that. She doesn’t need to know that I’m basically a puppy jumping in its cage––that’s how excited I am to see my girl.

  We talked every day this summer, usually multiple times. It was hard sometimes to connect. Five days a week, I’m at Randall’s Island from morning to night, getting back to the apartment in time to collapse on the pull-out until the next morning. On the weekends, I spend most of my time studying for the tests the next week and working the door at AJ’s and the Roxy. One day, I won’t have to check IDs anymore for extra cash. But cadets and rookies make shit money, and I still have bills to pay.

  Layla’s been busy too. In between seeing a therapist and trying to reconnect with her mom, she’s also taken a couple more language classes at the local community college and worked a summer job at the YWCA. She watches the kids while their moms, women who are coming out of worse relationships than hers, talk to the lawyers and social workers to help them get out of their situations. I thought at first that it would be too hard for her to be around that kind of environment, that it might trigger some of her own traumas. But I think it’s actually been cathartic. Helping others in similar situations seems to be its own kind of therapy.

  But still, no matter what, we’ve always made time to talk. Sometimes it’s early in the morning––2:00 a.m. her time when I call her as the sun rises here. Or maybe it’s close to midnight in New York, when she gets home from her classes. On the weekends, we talk for hours, eager to get lost in each other’s voices. And if we’re lucky enough to catch each other when we’re both alone, things get a little dirty. I never thought I’d be good at phone sex, but apparently I have a knack for it. Layla’s always saying how much she likes my voice, and if I toss in a little Spanish here and there, my girl pretty much goes nuts.

  Every conversation ends the same. “I love you,” I tell her. “Always.” “Always,” she repeats. “I love you back.”

  But I’m tired of “I love you back.” I’m tired of jerking off with a phone pressed to my ear, of wishing I could jump through the receiver and show her all those things I’ve been growling into her ear.

  It’s been more than three months since she got on that plane. And I’m here, standing in the same place, just like I promised, ready as fuck to say all those things, dirty and sweet, to her face.

  A new group of people spills down the escalators, I search their faces, looking for those blue eyes I still see every time I close mine. Will she look different? The same? She sent me a couple of pictures of her on the beach, but I still see her bruises in the back of my mind.

  Then she appears at the top of the escalator. She’s glowing with the effects of a summer spent in the California sun. Her skin is darker than I’ve ever seen, but the top of her normally black hair is bleached a little bit lighter. Her hair is down, waving around her shoulders and face, and the tiny shorts she’s wearing show off long legs. She turns to the side to pull something out of her bag, and I get a peek of her ass in profile.

  Shit, her ass. I was a gentleman the last time, but that body part alone has starred in weekly dreams I have. The really fuckin’ dirty kind. The kind that either make me reach for the phone and pray she’s alone or else force me into an ice-cold shower where I have to imagine K.C.’s abuela to calm myself down. And even then…yeah. Let’s just say another part of me is very ready to get reacquainted with my girl again.

  Finally, she catches sight of me, and her face bursts into the biggest, brightest smile I have ever fuckin’ seen.

  “Hi!” she shouts over the crowd, causing several people in front of her to turn around with cranky expressions.

  Fuckin’ New Yorkers. Sometimes people here forget to smile. Well, fuck ’em. I’ve got a grin on my face a mile wide, and I don’t give a shit.

  When she’s finally able to get off the escalator, she starts jogging awkwardly through the crowd, her bag and purse banging on her sides. By this time, I’m hopping like a fuckin’ rabbit on the other side of the barrier, ready to catch her the second she passes security. My girl is practically a linebacker as she elbows through people waiting for their bags. But I can see on her face the same thing that’s probably written all over mine.

  Longing. Desire. Excitement. Absolute fuckin’ joy.

  And then, finally, fuckin’ finally, she’s in my arms again, having dropped her messenger bag and launched herself at me with the force of an NFL football player.

  “Hey!” I shout as I swing her around and around.

  Layla’s legs come around my waist with a strength I didn’t know she had, forcing me to drop my hands and get two handfuls of my favorite body part in order to hold her up. Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I’m already hard and she’s the only thing hiding that fact from the dozens of other people milling around the baggage claim.

  But before I can say anything––a smart-ass comment that’s about to roll off my tongue, she’s kissing me. And it’s not a tentative kiss either. Gone is the fear she had when she left. This isn’t a gentle kiss––it’s hungry, forceful, full-throated. Her thin arms are vises around my neck. My girl is fuckin’ devouring me, and I’m consuming her right back. Three months––no, scratch that, over a fuckin’ year of pent-up longing is released in this kiss. I’ll kiss her forever if that’s what she wants. God knows I’ll never get tired of it.

  Around us, there’s even a smattering of applause––our joy is infectious. And that’s the thing about New Yorkers––they might be grouchy as fuck sometimes, but when it comes down to it, they’re also real. And when they see joy that’s honest, authentic, as deep as what Layla and I feel for each other, no one in my city would be anything but happy for us.

  Fuck me, we really can’t stop kissing each other. We need to find a room, an empty closet, fuck, even a bathroom somewhere. But I know I can wait. Right now, in this moment, I might be happier than I’ve ever been in my life, and if the look on Layla’s face is any indication, she feels the same way.

  “All right,” I tell her as I take her hand. “Where’s your bag? We need to get out of here. I need to get you home.”

  Layla lays her head on my shoulder. Even just that simple touch sends tremors of happiness through my chest.

  “What do you mean?” she asks with another bright smile. “I am home. I’m with you.”

  ~

  To Be Continued…

  Thank you for reading!

  If you’d like
to know more about Nico’s life as a young man, please enjoy the first two chapters of Broken Arrow, the prequel to Bad Idea, after the acknowledgements below, or click here to download the entire thing.

  If you would like to find out first about chapter reveals and new information about True North, the third and final book in the series, you can sign up here or join my Facebook reader group, La Merde.

  A Note from the Author

  Thank you for taking the time to read Lost Ones. A great deal of research and work went into this book, but I feel that I should call attention to a few potential inaccuracies. The first, and most glaring, is the expedited order of Nico’s application with the FDNY. The FDNY was actually hiring in 2002 in the wake of the horrific events of 9/11, but I moved that up a year to fit the events of the story. I also expedited and shifted around the order of the application process slightly to fit the characters’ other plot progressions. Similarly, I might also point out that physical conditioning like in the final scene might be more likely for new cadets rather than someone about the graduate. What can I say? I just wanted a hot pushup scene.

  On a more serious note, this was easily the hardest thing I have ever written. Harder than my academic writing. Harder than my first, second, third, fourth, or fifth book. It was so difficult because, more than anything I have ever written, Lost Ones was an exercise of catharsis of demons I’ve often kept buried.

  When I was a sophomore in college, I ended up in a physically abusive relationship. It’s funny––I think that’s the first time I’ve ever written that down. It’s strange to see it there, in print form. It’s so permanent. It will never go away.

  But such are the lasting effects of abuse, of all types. My story is not unique. We are living in an incredible moment where, for the first time, millions of women are coming out of the shadows to tell their stories mistreatment. People misunderstand, I think, thinking that many of these stories are about retribution. I think they are about catharsis, the process of purging demons that stay inside you long after your original persecutor may be gone. Of finally having a moment to say things out loud and have people listen. Validate. Believe.

  My purpose in writing this book was to purge some of my own demons, yes. But it was also to write a story about two people who come from their own histories of abuse in multiple forms, and to understand that there is a social foundation for a person’s willingness to tolerate mistreatment. It was also to understand that such a foundation exists for all of us in a society, not simply people who belong to one class, one class, one identity or another. But most of all, my purpose was to write the ultimate truth: that love, in its purest form, is the cure to that terrible logic. Like so many of us, my characters frequently cannot believe that someone else would love them the way they love each other. But in the end, of course, their willingness to believe in that love, to believe that the other is worth it, that they are worth it, is what really defines their mutual salvation.

  If you or anyone you know is suffering from the effects of an abusive relationship, please consider contacting one of the many resources out there that can help people cope, escape, and recover from abuse. You are loved. They are loved. And you are all worth it.

  xo,

  Nic

  Resources

  YWCA

  Casa de Esperanza: an organization to help the Latinx community end domestic violence.

  National Resource Center on Domestic Violence

  National Network to End Violence Against Immigrant Women

  Battered Women’s Justice Project

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, to my family. My husband, two teenagers, and my son are constant sources of support and humor in this life, and I love them so very much. Their willingness and patience for when I spent hours and hours zoned out with my characters is just as much responsible for these stories as my own mind. In particular, to Lola: if you ever read this (when you’re old enough), recognize yourself for the inspiration you are in it.

  Secondly, to my editorial team, alpha readers, and beta readers: THANK YOU for all of your hard work to make this book happen. To Danielle and Patricia: your constant cheerleading and feedback. Knowing that you were always ready to devour the next chapter made writing the hard ones that much easier. More importantly, you supplied words I never knew I needed. Example: the banana. To my betas readers, Michaela, Laurie, Shauna, and Angela: your willingness to provide such valuable feedback made this story what it is. A massive thank you to Jennifer, my endless supplier of perfectly profane Newyorican slang and helpful reminder of pasteles (yum!), and Emily, who put up with my endless questions about Argentinian dialects and customs. Additionally, I am so grateful to work with two of the best editor/proofreaders in the business. Emily Hainsworth and Judy Zweifel truly know how to make a manuscript shine.

  Thirdly, to the beautiful author community, and in particular, a fantastic group that gives endless support to ones another: Ava, Harloe, CL, Jessica, Meg, Jane, Liv, Kim, Brooke, and Paige. #squapod seriously makes my days. I love you guys. Additionally, thank you to Maya for your wit and humor, and to Sierra, for making me social with Seattle authors.

  Fourthly, and most importantly, to my readers, particularly those of you who take the time to review my books, respond to my erratic mailing list, or play around in my reader groups. You make marketing and social media not just fun, but a blast. I would have gotten out of this game after the first book if it weren’t for you. Thank you.

  BROKEN ARROW

  CHAPTER ONE

  Johnstown, NY

  1994

  The tall, metal gates bang shut with a clank that echoes across the surrounding fields. I look up at the security cameras that stare at me with black eyes, perched over the curling barbed wire.

  Tryon. The detention center where I just wasted the past two years of my life.

  I turn to the road, where K.C., my best friend, and Alba, his mother, are waiting. I feel bad that they had to make the trip all the way out here to get me. New York is two bus rides and an expensive cab drive away from Tryon, but I’m still a minor, so the state wouldn’t release me without a custodian. And because of my mother’s immigration status, that’s been her best friend, Alba, my whole life and will be for another three weeks until I turn eighteen.

  “Come on, baby,” Alba says as she clasps my head briefly.

  K.C. punches me playfully in the shoulder, but he’s a little shy. It’s going to take some time for me to get back to my old self. But we’ve literally grown up across the hall from each other. K.C. knows me better than anyone else in the world. He’ll be patient.

  It’s over. Two years of being watched by creepy security guards, trying not to get the shit beat out of me by them or other inmates, counting the seconds while I stare at the gray walls of this fuckin’ jail for kids––I don’t care what they call it; that’s what it is. It’s over.

  The bus ride to New York is quiet. Alba sits up front, working on her knitting and paging through a magazine. K.C. and I lounge in the back, and he lets me take the window seat after I shove my small backpack into the compartment overhead. I don’t have much. My sketchbook. The clothes I brought with me, which are now too small. Some pictures of my sisters and my brother. My mother, who I haven’t seen in two years.

  “How you feelin’, Nico?” K.C. asks after the bus gets under way from Albany, and the dull roar of the pavement can mask our conversation.

  I blink, almost not recognizing my own name. How many times have I actually been called Nico in the last two years? I barely spoke to any of the other kids––most of them were either too doped up to talk or else spoiling for a fight. When the guards or teachers talked to me, I was always Nicolas, Soltero, or sometimes Mr. Soltero if the teacher decided to try that day. Every now and then Nick, though I wouldn’t answer. But never Nico. Never my real name. I never gave them that.

  There aren’t many people on board. The hum of the tires fills the air, but it’s a good sound. Almost s
oothing. A different kind of quiet from the tension of Tryon.

  I sink into the cushioned seats, scratching at the red sweats covering my knees. I didn’t have pants I could wear out of the center, so they gave me a pair of the uniforms. I fuckin’ hate this color. I will never wear red again for the rest of my life.

  It’s been a long time since I sat in a chair with cushions. We had our rock-hard mattresses and lumpy pillows at Tryon, but otherwise, everything in the place was hard plastic and metal. Apparently, criminals don’t deserve soft seats, even if they’re only fifteen.

  “I’m good,” I say, edging away from him toward the window. I need a little space. I’ve barely been alone in two years. With someone, whether it was a guard, other inmates, or those assholes they called teachers watching my every move. While I ate. While I brushed my teeth. All day long, right next to someone. My mother’s apartment won’t be too different––there’s five of us that share the tiny one-bedroom––but at least I’ll get to take a piss by myself again.

  “You look different,” K.C. remarks. “Went in lookin’ like Chicken Little, come out lookin’ like Rocky. Shit. Nobody’s gonna fuck with you now.”

  I shrug. We’ve both changed. K.C. came to see me a few times over the last two years, but only when he could save up the money. He’s about six inches taller than when I left. Still pale with short black hair, but his light mustache has darkened, and now he has a goatee. He doesn’t look like a kid anymore. Now he’s a man.

  Which I guess I am too. They gave us disposable razors while the guards stood over us. I didn’t need them when I arrived, but I started using them almost every day over the summer. I’m not as tall as K.C., but I stand at almost five-eleven now, which is still taller than a lot of people in our neighborhood. At Tryon, a lot of the kids played basketball or walked around the track during rec hours, but I did the boxing program, the same one that produced Mike Tyson, and now my chest and shoulders are filled out. I don’t look like the scrawny, scared shitless kid who left Hell’s Kitchen in the back of a secured van. I look like the kind of guy who could beat the shit out of someone. And you know what? I probably could.