Disappointment plays over Nico’s dark features, but he just gives me a smile and a nod.
“Sure, baby,” he says, standing up. “I’ll see you at work, okay? Feel better, beautiful.”
“Mmm,” I answer, barely cognizant of the fact that he is leaving as I fall headlong back into another feverish dream.
I was so tired I forgot to tell him not to call me “baby” anymore.
~
CHAPTER TWENTY
Nico
The blare of my alarm clock wakes me at nine a.m. on Wednesday, and my head is fucking pounding with it. It took everything I had to walk away from Layla when she was lying there, weak and sick. She looked like a ghost. The most beautiful ghost I ever saw in my life, but a ghost of her usual vivacious self.
Normally I’d be running. I have too many things on my plate, too many people who depend on me. I can’t afford to get sick. But every bone in my body was telling me to stay and take care of her. Take her back to Hoboken where she can have a real bed to lay on, fuck pad or not. Take the next day or the week off and just help her get better.
But she didn’t want me there––that much was obvious. And despite the fact that she’s a five-foot-two white girl, Quinn kind of scares me.
So I left. Since I couldn’t really handle going back to my place with Maggie and her kid, and the idea of sitting around K.C.’s place smelling Layla on my sheets made me feel fuckin’ miserable, I called Flaco and met up with him at the Traveler for one or eight beers.
And now I am fuckin’ paying for it.
God, I hope she’s better.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand next to my futon. I clap my hand on it and open it up without checking who it’s from.
“Yeah?”
“Papito Nico?”
I sit up straight at the sound of my mother’s voice. She’s not usually one to call. She doesn’t even have a cell phone, and the phone in her apartment is in the kitchen, rather than a decent place to sit and chat.
“Sí, Mamá, que pasa?” I answer, and she continues to rattle on in Spanish.
“Did you forget?” she asks me, her voice insistent. “Did you forget about the Mass this morning?”
“Did I forget about...” I rub my forehead viciously, wondering what the fuck she’s talking about. I usually take my mother to Mass on Sundays, not Wednesdays.
“It’s Ash Wednesday, Nico. You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago to take me to the church. Now Gabe is missing his classes this morning to go.”
Ah, shit. That’s right. I was supposed to bring Ma to Mass this morning and have a bunch of dirt smeared on my head so she can believe I’m a good Catholic. I’m not. The only time I go to church is with my mother, and I fight the entire time not to fall asleep. I’m not even sure if I believe in God anymore, not when I look around and see the shit deal he gives people who don’t deserve it.
But if it helps my mother to think I’m a believer, I don’t mind kneeling with her once a week to keep her happy. And she won’t go anywhere these days without one of us with her.
“So?” she’s saying. “You will go?”
“Huh? What?” I rub my head again. Fuck, I do not like being this hungover during the week.
“Wake up, Nico! I said church. I want to see that you got your ashes today, okay?”
I grumble to myself. It’s too late to get to a morning Mass, and standing in line with thousands of other New Yorkers is not really how I want to spend my lunch break. But my mother is waiting, and she will seriously wait all day until I stop by her apartment to show her my dirty forehead.
I sigh. “Yeah, Ma, I’ll go. And then I’ll come by after work, okay?”
I can pretty much hear her smiling over the phone.
“Bueno,” she replies. “Okay.”
~
Four hours, a couple of Advil, and some cold Chinese food later, I’m taking an early lunch just off Park while Flaco gets ahead on our route. My head isn’t feeling as awful anymore, and I keep looking around for Layla as I approach St. Andrew’s, which is just a few blocks from her office. I hope she’s feeling better. I hope she’s good enough to get back to work, where, even if I can’t talk to her around her boss, at least I can flirt with her a little behind Karen’s back.
I can respect that she doesn’t want to see me anymore. But I don’t want her to hate me. I don’t think I could handle a world where Layla Barros hates me.
The good thing about being Catholic in New York: there’s a church a few blocks from everywhere. I read somewhere that the Catholic Church is the largest landowner in New York City, and I don’t doubt it.
It’s not a process I like. I’m not a good Catholic––I ask too many damn questions. Every time the priest declares some kind of truth supposedly rooted in scripture, I always want to raise my hand and ask how he really knows about heaven and hell, about mortal sins, and on and on. How can anyone really know? And what’s wrong with a little ignorance anyway? Maybe the world would be a better place if sometimes people just said “I don’t fuckin’ know” instead of insisting that they do all the time.
Or maybe it’s just guilt that keeps me away from the Church. I haven’t always been a good man. I try to do the right thing now, but there was a long time, especially when I was younger, when I did wrong without thinking twice. Too much stealing, too much fighting. When it feels like the whole world has more than you do for no real reason, it’s easy to justify a lot to yourself: I’ll do what it takes to survive. For fifteen-year-old me, that meant too many nicked bags of chips at the bodegas, too many dime bags sold at the school yard, too many fights at the basketball courts or down by the river.
This priest isn’t much of a public speaker, so I spend most of the short Mass thinking about Layla and the conversation I had with K.C. last night after I got back from the bar. One thought keeps coming back to me. It’s better she knows now. Not just about my move to California to get away from this life, but about my past too. Because no matter how hard I try to rise above it, in New York, I’ll always be just another bad egg from the barrio. I’ll always be a bad idea.
Except to her, this little thought keeps saying in the back of my mind. And, apparently, K.C.
“Why didn’t you just tell her the truth?” K.C. asked me last night when I got back from the bar. “Tell her what you’re thinking, or just move the fuck on.”
Apparently, Flaco texted him while we were out, told him I wouldn’t shut up about Layla. I don’t even remember. I had too many beers trying to forget her helpless face. They didn’t work.
So K.C. called me, half-drunk himself where he was out at another hot party in LA Another party, another room full of actresses and models. But he still calls me––that’s friendship.
“Otherwise just switch buildings with Flaco. Then you don’t have to see her no more, bada bing, you’re done.”
I had to roll my eyes. K.C. only ever talks like a character from Goodfellas when he’s trying to impress some girl with his New York charm. On cue, I heard a giggle through the phone.
“Besides,” K.C. continued. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea, mano. And one particularly hot fish been asking about you a lot lately.”
I begged off when I heard more laughter on the phone, but the conversation stayed with me all through today too.
He’s talking about Jessie, of course, the waitress/actress I hooked up with when I visited K.C. in December. She’s tall and blonde and basically any guy’s wet dream. And up until two weeks ago, we were still talking. A few flirty phone calls, a few hot texts. She even sent me a couple of dirty pictures in the mail. But it’s been over two weeks since we last talked. Not since I walked out of an elevator and tripped over two eyes the color of the sky.
Two blue eyes that looked at me yesterday like I made her ill.
Luckily, it’s a short and sweet Mass to accommodate the loads of other guilty New York Catholics also here to get their marks, just like me. I’m relieved when we are told to move
forward to receive our blessing. I just want to get out of here.
Then I see her. At first I do a double-take, not sure if I’m imagining her thick black hair and slim form, or if it’s really her. But then she turns, and I take in her profile, the small, straight nose, the rose-petal lips. The cheekbones that are a little more defined than normal. The body that would make any man forsake Jesus himself just to get a look.
Layla.
She looks tired still, and it looks like she’s lost some weight. Her cheeks are a little hollowed out, and the circles that are always kind of under her eyes are just a little darker. Even dressed for comfort in black pants and a shapeless gray sweater, with her hair down in messy waves, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Christ. I really am a lost man.
“Psst!”
I cut in line so we’re walking next to each other. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and tap her on the shoulder. She starts, then sees me and relaxes. I can’t even pretend I’m not thrilled to see her. I smile like an idiot, even if she’s staring at me with shock and confusion.
“Hey, NYU,” I whisper, catching a few glares from other churchgoers. I couldn’t give a shit. “Fancy seeing you here. You feeling better, sweetie?”
She glances around, like she’s scared we’re going to get caught by the priest. It’s cute. I’ve been kicked out of Mass too many times to count, but I could see Layla as one of the little kids in the front pew, dressed in white with her hands tucked in her lap. I’ll bet she never even got detention.
“A bit,” she whispers back. “Do you…do you come to Mass often?”
It’s a polite way of asking if I’m actually religious. We haven’t talked about it at all––I didn’t know she was Catholic, and I definitely didn’t say anything to her about it. Suddenly, I’m filled with the fear that she regrets the entire weekend. Some of the sluttiest girls I’ve ever met were Catholic, but the nice ones don’t sleep with boys they just met within twenty-four hours of their first date. For some reason, the idea of Layla as a nice Catholic girl is really disappointing.
I turn, and she’s eying me curiously as if she’s thinking the same thing.
I smirk. “Nah. I go with my mom sometimes on Sundays, but usually I’m in bed. Today I’m in the doghouse because I forgot to take her to church for her blessing this morning. So if I don’t go today, she’ll be on my ass for weeks about not having ashes on my forehead. She checks, you know. Ash Wednesday, and she’s like a motherfu—um, a drill sergeant.”
“My dad does the same thing,” Layla whispers back with a hushed giggle. “He’s scared I’m going to get corrupted in the city. Do you know he called me at four-thirty in the morning—well, his time, anyway—to remind me to go? And I have to send a picture to prove I was here.”
She rolls her eyes, which just makes me grin again like an idiot. I don’t know. Maybe I feel some relief, knowing she doesn’t totally hate me. That she’s not here to confess everything we did. Because a world where I’m not allowed to worship Layla’s body is not a world I want to live in.
“Parents,” I say. “Can’t live with ‘em, but they force you to anyway, right?”
Fuck, this girl turns me into a corny bastard. What kind of line is that? I sound like a Will Smith song.
But Layla giggles aloud this time, earning more glares from the people in front of us. My chest feels like it’s about to explode.
“Couldn’t we just steal some dirt or something off the ground outside?” she asks. “I’ll swipe your forehead if you swipe mine.”
I feign outrage. “That is totally sacrilegious, NYU. And nasty, girl. Do you know what kinds of things people do in this city? I don’t want none of that near my forehead.”
She giggles yet again—fuck, I just want to hear that sound on repeat—but sobers up as we move forward to the priests in front of the lines, each holding a cup of ashes. Paired together, I suddenly feel like we’re about to receive a blessing before taking our vows. And I can’t lie––the idea of doing just that makes a whole bunch of other things flash through my mind. Layla in a white dress. Layla carried over across the doorway of a house. Layla pregnant, and then holding our child.
Jesus fucking Christ. I have got to get it the fuck together.
We obediently bow our heads as each priest quietly intones the words of Genesis 3:19: “Remember that thou are dust, and to dust thou shalt return.” Two quick swipes cross my forehead, and I’m officially marked as a child of Christ.
Layla bobs and crosses herself before filing off to the side to leave the church. I do the same and follow her outside as we both tug on our coats.
In the bright light of the afternoon, I watch curiously as she takes out a few pieces of bread and tears off a piece. She chews it slowly, like it might make her sick, then swallows it with a swig from her water bottle. To my surprise, she offers me the bag.
“I’m good,” I say, surprised by the food. “Wow, sweetie, you really do the whole thing, don’t you? I, uh, had no idea you were so devout.”
She’s fasting. After being sick for three days, she’s fasting.
Layla just shrugs. “Meh, not really. My parents are hardcore Catholics, so it’s kind of habit now.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “My mom does it too. She says it’s fine to have milk if you need it to get through the day, though.” I’m trying to stay light-hearted, but Layla really doesn’t look that good. She shouldn’t be fasting when she’s sick. “You a good Catholic girl, NYU? Should I be worried about corrupting you, or has that ship already sailed?”
She laughs out loud at that one, and doesn’t bother to hide it since we’re not in the church anymore.
“Maybe it’s because I haven’t been to Mass since Christmas with my parents, and I’m feeling a little guilty,” she admits with a smirk.
I can’t help myself. “You been naughty, huh?”
Almost immediately, a blush appears in her cheeks, and she can’t meet my gaze. I know exactly what she’s thinking about––the feel of me, my hands, my lips, my cock, all doing things to her that no nice Catholic girl should let me do, things the priest inside would no doubt condemn. And now I’m thinking of them too, with a sudden need to adjust my pants outside a fucking church.
“Excuse me!”
Other people exiting St. Andrew’s push past us with some nasty glares, even pushing Layla a few steps closer to me. I should let her be, but all I can see is the way she’s staring at my lips right now like she wants to suck them off my face. And fuck if I wouldn’t let her, church or no church. In the mood I’m in, I’d take her right on the altar.
So I lean close to her ear so that my lips brush the soft skin by her earring. Her scent is everywhere, it shoots straight to my dick. Fuck, I want her. The weekend didn’t do anything to get rid of that need. Three days later, and I still want her more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.
“Don’t worry,” I say in a low voice I can’t quite control. “I liked you naughty, NYU.”
That’s me, Nico Soltero. Asshole and glutton for punishment.
Just as I start to drift my lips around the edge of her earlobe, she steps back. Her cheeks are even redder now, and she’s licking her lips, even shaking a little. But instead of saying anything, she reaches into her messenger bag and pulls out a disposable camera. She snaps a photo of me, and then of herself.
“For my dad,” she says in a voice that quavers. “I need to be good.”
Good. Fuck. She hasn’t mentioned her family much, but I can see they put a lot of pressure on her. And I am one hundred percent sure that the conservative Catholic father who will receive that photograph won’t want a bastard street urchin like me hanging around his daughter.
I’m an idiot. It’s better that things are ending now, before they get too out of hand. I’m capable of ruining Layla’s life, and that’s the last thing I want to do. Already she means too much for me to do that.
“Understood,” I say, leaning in to kiss
her one last time on the cheek before she can step away. Hey, I said it’s better things are ending. I didn’t say it would be easy. “I’ll see you at six, all right?”
“Sure,” she mumbles with another confused look.
I take a few steps back, even though every nerve in my body is screaming to stay close. I turn away, already thinking that I should take K.C.’s advice and switch buildings with Flaco. The less I see of those big blue eyes, the better.
Still, I can’t quite do it. But Layla can. When I turn around to tell her one last thing––I don’t even know what to say, just something to keep her talking to me, smiling, laughing, anything––she’s gone, disappeared through the crowds on her way to work.
I stand there like an idiot for a good minute, hoping to see her shiny black hair, before I’m able to shake off the dread that’s settled in my bones.
“Get a fuckin’ grip, Soltero,” I mumble to myself, startling an old woman coming out of the church.
Nodding at her politely, I clap on my FedEx hat and check my watch. It’s one forty-five. Time to get back to work.
~
Layla
“Eyes up, Layla.”
I snap my head up to find Karen staring down at me over the wood desktop. There’s less than an hour and a half left in my shift—and I’m having a hard time staying awake.
“What’s going on with you?” she asks sharply. “Are you still sick?” She snarls it, as if she thinks I was lying about the last two days.
I glance around the lobby. No one is here; it’s been a slow day, and I suspect people are doing less business because of the snow outside, which has been coming down hard since about three o’clock. It’s going to be a bitch to get home.
To top things off, I’ve also been feeling progressively worse as the afternoon has passed. Having eaten nothing but a slice of bread for breakfast and the baguette for lunch, I’m feeling seriously low-energy and want nothing more than a quick dinner and my bed. My sore throat seems to have returned, and I’m starting to feel a bit nauseous too, probably from low blood sugar.
Bad Idea Page 19
