Lost Ones

by Nicole French

  The first few days back were the hardest, when I was here alone. But as my roommates, Quinn, Jamie, and Shama, all arrived and we started to settle into our new dorm on Union Square, it’s become a little easier. Classes start on Monday. Nothing like a bunch of food for my brain to distract me from my heart.

  “It’s for my African Diaspora class,” I say, taking back the book. When Quinn’s confused frown deepens, I shake my head. “Quinn. There are black people in Latin America. Lots of them. Afro-Latino history is a major part of the regional history.”

  Quinn looks at Jamie and Shama for support, but neither of them meets her eye. Quinn turns back to me.

  “But you’re not black. Was this the only class that was open?”

  I sigh, irritated. “Do you have a problem with me taking a Black studies course, Quinn?”

  There’s an awkward silence. Shama watches the tension between Quinn and me while Jamie picks at something invisible in her pastrami sandwich.

  “I just think it’s weird,” Quinn says finally. “You decide all of a sudden that you’re going to learn about your culture. But this isn’t your culture. You’re paler than I am, and that’s saying something.”

  I scowl, and Shama shakes her head. “Oh my God,” she murmurs to herself.

  “What?” Quinn asks. “It’s not like Shama just stood up today and said, I’m going to major in Chinese studies because India’s in Asia too. It’s a huge continent.”

  Shama buries her face in her hands. I just glare.

  “Half of my family comes from a Latin American country, Quinn,” I say. “And even if they hadn’t, it doesn’t mean I can’t learn about this stuff if I want to. Maybe you should take the class with me.”

  “And have a bunch of liberal guilt shoved down my throat? No, thank you. Besides, this isn’t you learning about yourself. Or anything practical, for that matter. It’s you learning about him.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demand.

  “You know exactly what it means,” Quinn counters. “I just hope you’re not doing this for Special Delivery, Lay. FedEx guy doesn’t care if you know about his mixed racial background.”

  “Quinn!” Jamie finally pipes up. “I think we should talk about something else.”

  I stand up. My chair squeaks loudly, even over the din of the diner. Quinn stares at me. Then, finally, she exhales heavily.

  “Okay,” she says. “Okay, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business anyway.”

  “No,” I say, slowly sitting down. “It’s not.”

  “I know,” Shama says as she pounds a hand unnecessarily hard on the bottom of a ketchup bottle. “Let’s talk about where we’re going to go tonight. It’s our first night out together now that everyone is back. What’ll we do?”

  Both Quinn and Jamie hum with agreement. I sigh. I’m still annoyed, but Jamie’s right. We should just let it go. The semester starts on Monday, and we’re supposed to be celebrating. I don’t want to ruin it by fighting with Quinn.

  “Okay,” I say. “But it better be someplace good.”

  ~

  Old habits die hard. Despite best-laid plans to do something out of the ordinary, we end up at our favorite bar near campus, Fat Black’s, where the bouncer takes a look at our fake IDs and waves us in without a second glance. I don’t actually mind. It’s just so nice to be back in New York, like coming home after a long trip away. The heartbreak of summer starts to fade away with the familiar smell of stale alcohol and the sexual energy crackling around the bar.

  The girls and I don’t skimp, either. Working at Nordstrom had its perks, including a discount that helped me beef up my wardrobe. I should have known my dad was leaving just by the way he gave me money for the school year. By the way my mom suddenly put extra money into my savings every now and then. Unlike the last two years at NYU, I’m actually starting the school year ahead of the game financially.

  I’m guessing by the effort we’ve all put into tonight that my roommates haven’t had many chances to go out this summer either. Shama and Jamie visited each other a few times, since they only live a few towns from each other in Jersey, but Quinn spent most of the summer taking an MCAT prep course in Boston. Everyone has on their finest “come fuck me” gear––short skirts, high heels, and we spent the last hour and a half doing and redoing each other’s makeup.

  Shama’s boyfriend, Jason, is DJing, although for the first time, she doesn’t immediately say hi to him. Normally she’d want to take advantage of the fact that the elevated DJ booth blocks on the dance floor from seeing anything below the waist. Instead, she takes a seat on the barstool next to me and sends covert glances his way.

  “What gives?” I ask nodding to where Jason is watching her from the booth.

  She glares at him, then turns to me. “Oh. That.” She shakes her head. “I found an email from an old girlfriend on his computer last night. Asking him to hook up.”

  I suck in a breath. “You don’t think they…”

  Shama gives a small shrug that just about breaks my heart. “I don’t know. We barely got to see each other this summer. I came into the city a few times, but he was working so much he couldn’t even get out to Jersey.”

  I frown at Jason, who is now bent over his turntables. This isn’t good. Our yearly schedules are one of the things that sometimes gets in the way of dating people who aren’t also students. I get that Jason works a lot, like most people trying to make a living in this expensive city, but not visiting his girlfriend once in three months? That’s messed up.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Shama says as we turn around to the bar. “I just want to drink. Have a couple of guys buy me drinks. Make him jealous so I can yell at him or have makeup sex or whatever ends up happening later.”

  The four of us order a round of cheap shots, then another, and it doesn’t take long for the room to start spinning. And while the alcohol quiets the ache that seems to throb inside me no matter what, it also makes me really, really…horny. Um, yeah. I said it.

  It’s been more than three freaking months since I’ve had sex. And the side effect of making out with Nico on the beach is that it awakened a beast inside me. A beast that really, really needs to be fed.

  “That one,” I whisper to Shama, who, after nearly two hours of intermittent dancing and drinking, is the only one of our foursome left sitting with me at the bar. Quinn has cozied up with a business grad student in the corner, and Jamie has disappeared to find her new boyfriend, Dev.

  Shama follows my gaze across the bar. “Who?”

  Before I can say anything, Quinn and Jamie reappear with their companions. Quinn pops up on the stool next to me while the business student waves over a bartender.

  “Who’s that guy?” Quinn asks, her voice slightly slurred.

  “Who?” Jamie giggles as Dev suddenly becomes very interested in touching her neck.

  Quinn nods over my shoulder. “The guy across the room. The one who looks like Antonio Banderas with glasses. He’s staring at you, babe. Do you know him?”

  I look where Quinn gestured. It’s the same guy I just pointed out to Shama, and he is indeed watching me intently through a pair of glasses while he holds his beer bottle in a death grip. He’s tall and lanky, with a face that’s shadowed in the dim club light, but I can just make out the thin line of facial hair around his jaw, a mop of wavy black hair, and glasses that sort of look like Malcolm X’s. I don’t know who he is, but he’s hot. Dark. Exactly what I’m looking for tonight.

  “And…she’s gone,” Shama says behind me while I’m locked in a stare with Mystery Man.

  I pay her no mind as I slide off my chair.

  My skin feels prickly. Uncomfortable. Like all the hairs on it are standing up, but not from fear. More like I’m a cat that’s been pet the wrong way, and now I need someone to smooth everything back into place. Who am I kidding? Someone? One person.

  Except he’s three thousand miles away, and I’m standing in this bar with a blood
alcohol level that should probably be illegal. The hell if I’m going to waste my temporary loss of inhibitions. Don’t be easy, my mom would say. Well, I’m about ready to say fuck it. Fuck her stupid conservative advice––what did it get her? A divorce? A husband who left her? Who the fuck cares if I’m easy?

  “Lay, where are you going?” Quinn asks. Shama and Jamie trade glances, as if to say “of course” to Quinn’s controlling behavior.

  “I’m just going to say hi,” I say, still watching the stranger. But before I can leave, Quinn grabs my arm and pulls me back to face her.

  “Hey,” she says. “Not for nothing, but something seems off to me about that guy. He’s a little intense, don’t you think?”

  I look back to Glasses, who, very subtly, tips his chin at me like a short summons. Quinn’s right. He does look intense. But that also might just be what I need right now.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, shaking her hand off irritably. “It’s just a conversation.”

  Glasses watches me intently as I weave through the crowd. He takes a long drink without breaking eye contact, then sets his empty bottle on a table when I approach. He stands there, still looking, but not saying anything for a solid ten seconds. I stand awkwardly. Didn’t he ask me to come here?

  “Um, hi,” I say, giving a light wave. I cock my head, waiting for a response. An introduction. Any of the normal niceties that would make this a little more comfortable.

  Glasses nods. “I saw you dancing before.”

  His voice is low, but not quite as low as I would have expected from someone with such an imposing presence. It has a lilt I don’t recognize. Like so many people in this city, he was born somewhere else. Italian, maybe. It’s hard to tell from just a few words.

  Glasses doesn’t say anything else, so I nod and focus on my drink. He watches while I polish off the rest of it quickly. The alcohol goes straight to my head. Damn. I don’t normally pound whiskey––I usually get it because it’s better for sipping. But this guy makes me nervous. I have this urge, this immediate desire. I really want him to like me.

  “Let’s go,” he says, and before I can reply, he walks around me.

  I turn, and like he’s Moses and the Red Sea, the crowd parts on either side of him, opening a space in the middle of the dance floor. He turns around and jerks his head at me, like he’s surprised I didn’t automatically follow. I set my drink on the table. And then, for some reason I can’t really fathom, I do as I’m wordlessly told.

  I understand now why birds in the wild do mating dances. I’ve danced with plenty of guys in clubs. I’ve let them touch my body, kiss my lips, even cop a feel here and there. It’s not always what I want to do, but it’s better than the alternative of telling them to fuck off and starting some drama. But this…this is different. This guy doesn’t touch me; in fact, he stays a solid foot away from me while we dance. He circles around me with every step, forcing the crowd to back up around him while he moves, his gaze slowly raking up and down my body. I never knew it was possible to be turned on and terrified at the same time, but here I am.

  He circles again, and at the end of the song, he closes a big hand around my wrist and pulls me close. His touch feels like a brand. Then he leans down so his lips are next to my ear, and his scent surrounds me––something salty, warm, overlaid with a sharp cologne.

  “Your name?” he asks. His breath smells of some kind of sweet liquor. Rum, maybe. It’s a bit like cachaça, the sweet Brazilian liquor my dad likes in the summertime.

  “L-Layla,” I stutter. “Yours?”

  “Mmmmm,” Glasses hums, but doesn’t answer my question. His grip around my wrist tightens, and he tugs me closer. “Let’s dance, Layla.”

  So we do. While my roommates watch with wide, speculative eyes, I let the handsome stranger wrap a long arm around my waist and pull me close. I let him guide me around the dance floor with hip movements that seem almost sinful. I let him dust his lips over my ears and shoulders, but he never goes farther than that. His hands drift to my waist, but never lower, never farther up. He’s a tease, and it only makes that wanting, that painful desire, throb all the more.

  And at the end of the dance, we do it again. And again. And at the end of those, when I’ve had three more drinks and can barely remember my own name, much less to ask him his, I say yes. I say yes to the tall, handsome stranger when he asks me to leave with him. I say yes, because he makes me feel like I can forget.

  ~

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nico

  “ID, please.”

  The two girls hand me the cards, which thankfully, are real. It’s harder to get a decent fake out here. California IDs are hard to forge, and it seems like underage people here just don’t really go out to clubs. They’d rather party on the beach or at someone’s house, smoke weed or drink shitty beer. I don’t mind. Makes my job easier.

  The girls, a couple of twenty-two-year-olds who seem to giggle more than talk, give me a couple of twittery grins. With their bleached blonde hair, they might as well be canaries. A pair of slutty Tweety Birds.

  “So, handsome. You, um, want to come inside and buy us some drinks when you get a break?” one of them asks as she runs her finger down my lapel.

  I smile grimly, remove her hand, and give them back their cards. “I’m good, thanks. It’s twenty each for the cover.”

  “You sure?” her friend asks. “We, um, come as a set.”

  Canaries who are about as subtle as a steamroller. Coño. And the thing is, ninety-nine percent of dudes in my situation would be tripping all over themselves at a proposition like that. A threesome, offered on a platter, with two hot girls? I couldn’t be less interested.

  I still can’t get those two blue eyes out of my mind. I might as well just accept it. I’m done. When she got on that plane, she basically took my heart and my dick with her. I should just make my mother happy and become a priest.

  “What do you think, papi?” asks the taller of the blondes. “What time are you off? We could use a Spanish lesson.”

  I wasn’t interested before, but now I’m pissed. These chicks are no different than the others who hit on me every week. They see the suit, the brown skin, maybe even the tattoo on my chest if my shirt is open. They want to get off with a brown guy. They want to go slumming.

  Fuck. That.

  “I’m good, ladies,” I say as evenly as I can manage. “I gotta keep up my standards.”

  The short one’s mouth drops open, revealing some stained molars. Great, so they’re probably into meth too. Fuckin’ winners we got out here tonight.

  “Did you hear what he just said?” she says to her friend.

  But I turn to the street, like I can’t hear them as they walk by me into the club. I rub my hand over my face. It’s one of those things that I actually miss about New York: the way people just say what they think, and no one cares. Sure, sometimes people could be fuckin’ assholes, but at least they’re assholes up front. Douchebags at AJ’s, the club where I used to work, didn’t pretend to be anything but that. Vapid women who only wanted one thing didn’t couch their come-ons with racist fuckin’ innuendo. It was black and white, and it’s the hardest thing about living here, how people seem to talk all the time and say fuckin’ nothing.

  My phone rings in my pocket, pulling me out of my irritation. Gabe, my little brother.

  “Yo, mano, what’s up?” I answer, maybe a little too eagerly.

  It’s good to hear from him. We talk a lot, every few days usually, about what’s going on with Ma or our sisters. Gabe is the man of the house now, so to speak. He’s in my old room up by CUNY, about to start school. It’s his job now to make sure that little things around our mother’s apartment stay fixed, that the rent gets paid on time, that her utilities stay on. It’s his job because our mother’s immigration status is not exactly legal, and she’s terrified of getting caught.

  “It’s good, it’s good,” Gabe says. “School starts on Wednesday. I’m pretty excited.”


  “You should be, you smart fuck. You’re gonna do great, I know it.”

  Gabe’s smart, but I know he’s nervous about starting college. I understand why. I did a year and a half at City before I had to drop out to work. It wasn’t easy. There was a big damn gap between what I learned to do in high school and what they expected me to know in college. I’m worried about my baby brother, but I know he can do it. He’s a way better student than I was at his age.

  “So,” I say. “Did you find out the number for the writing center on campus? And all those free tutors I told you about?”

  “Yes, for the fuckin’ millionth time, yes, I have all the tutoring shit squared away, okay?”

  I chuckle. “Good. I’m just checkin’, just checkin’. So what’s up?” He doesn’t normally call me. Like a lot of kids his age, Gabe already texts more than he talks.

  Gabe pauses. “I, uh, I was just wondering if you got my letter.”

  I almost laugh. “You sent me a letter? What are you, my fuckin’ pen pal now? We gonna start trading drawings and locks of hair?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Gabe says. “And you’re the artist, maricon, not me. I just sent you something, okay? I was wondering if you got it.”

  I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “Nah, man, no letter. I’ll check my mailbox when I get home, all right?”

  “Sure. I just didn’t want you to miss it.”

  “Everything okay?” Suddenly, I’m worried. Gabe’s not exactly the kind of kid who would sit down at the kitchen table to compose a novel to send to someone. I’m honestly kind of surprised he even knew how to buy a stamp and address the envelope properly.

  “Yeah, sure. Everything’s fine.”

  But there’s a beat before he says it, and I’m not buying it. I know my family. “Gabe. What’s wrong?”

  He sighs. “Nothing. Yet. It’s just that…yeah. Mr. Ramirez is gone. Sounds like Immigration was making the rounds last week. And there’s another rumor that Mr. Pineo wants to sell the building.”