True North

by Nicole French

  Nico appears to have the same reluctance as he stretches out his limbs across the bed. It’s not a huge mattress––just a double bed––but it’s certainly better than the saggy pullout he’s been sleeping on since May.

  “Coooooñoooo,” he yawns, almost looking like a cat. “I’m already gonna miss this bed tonight. Shit. I need to start looking for an apartment too. I can’t deal with my siblings anymore.” He rubs his face. “Maggie is driving me crazy. It’s the oatmeal, man. She decided last month that oatmeal is the best thing for Allie to be eating in the morning because, I don’t know, it’s high in iron or some shit like that. But Allie’s five, so she hates it, right? And every damn morning I have to listen to the two of them squawk like chickadees about fuckin’ cereal. With no damn door to shut.”

  I chuckle. “The apartment’s feeling small, huh?”

  Nico groans. “You have no idea. I got spoiled over the years with my own place. My own room.”

  “It doesn’t seem quite fair that you get stuck with the couch,” I remark. “You’re the one who pays for it, right?”

  Nico sighs. “Gabe’s been putting in some, actually, and so has Maggie. We basically split it three ways now. I can’t afford to pay for everyone anymore. Wanna know something, baby? The FDNY doesn’t pay shit the first year and a half.”

  “Well, then there’s no way you’re paying for dinner every time we go out,” I reply as I stroke a hand over his smooth skin.

  “Nah, it’s fine. I got it––”

  “No.” I say it gently, but firmly. “That’s not what I need from you anyway.”

  Nico opens his mouth, then closes it. “I just want to get off the couch. Oatmeal. Too much Marc Anthony. Listening to Gabe whack it every night before he falls asleep.”

  “Wait, what?” I turn bright red. “You listen to him what?”

  Nico grins. “I swear to God. I love my little brother, but that’s all he does: study and jerk off in my bedroom. Do you know he talks to himself when he’s doing it? He’s like a cheerleader. I can hear him muttering, ‘get it, papi, get it.’”

  I’m laughing hard now. “You don’t know he’s doing that to get off. Maybe he’s revving himself up for a test or something.”

  Nico gives me a look like I’m crazy. “You think I don’t know when my baby brother is jacking it? Trust, I wish I didn’t know what that particular groan sounds like. But we grew up sleeping next to each other, NYU. That shit is ingrained.”

  He contorts his features into a fake-orgasm face, and I dissolve into giggles all over again. Nico grins, clearly pleased by the response.

  “You’re one to talk,” I tell him once I’ve recovered. “You look pretty tortured when you do that too.”

  In response, one side of his face quirks with an impish half smile. “What’s the saying? ‘Hurts so good’?”

  He rolls over and cages me against the pillow with his arms. The sunlight makes his tan skin look awash in gold; the twisting lines of his tattoos shimmer.

  “You can hurt me like that anytime you want, mami,” he rumbles, low and suggestive before pressing his lips to mine.

  We sink into the kiss together, and it’s not long before I feel another part of him ready and willing between my thighs. Half of me is dying to surrender to it, open my legs and take him inside where he fits so perfectly, feels good in a way that really does border on torture. But at the same time, the word “hurt” causes me to stiffen, and Nico senses it.

  “Ah,” he mutters as he pushes off me. “Another time, then.”

  I grimace and bite my upper lip. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

  “Hush. You’re fine, baby.” He kisses me one more time, then rolls back to his side of the bed. “Besides, I’m a patient man. Most of the time, anyway.” He sits up, then pauses, looking over his shoulder. “It’s not me, is it? I don’t gross you out all of a sudden, do I?”

  “No,” I insist, sitting up myself and tugging his arm until he faces me again. His handsome features are drawn with sudden doubt and vulnerability that makes my stomach drop. This is exactly what I was afraid of. “Nico, I swear to God. It’s hard to explain. I want you like crazy, you know? I just…it’s like when we get started, something just…”

  I trail off, unable to finish the sentence as sudden tears rise. I feel defective. Like I broke something last spring, and now I’m starting to wonder if it will ever be fixed. I thought for sure that when I came back, when he touched me, it would. And truthfully, I do feel better when we are together––better than I’ve felt in so long. But there’s a wall I can’t quite climb yet. And I don’t know how to start.

  “Hey.” Nico strokes my shoulder, and then his fingers float around to clasp my chin. His lips touch mine, and tenderly, he opens up another long, lingering kiss that seems to last for hours. “However I can get you, remember? That ain’t ever gonna change, Layla.”

  His words, his patience soothes. I bury my nose into his chest, the divot between his strong pectoral muscles. The tattooed compass under my cheek thumps with his heartbeat, and I close my eyes while his hands play up and down my back. He wants to do more, I know. But for now, he seems content to just be together. Finally, we have the time to do that. It will take some time to trust. To get used to the fact that maybe, just maybe, I’m not going to lose him all over again.

  I’m just about to say as much when the angry cry of the buzzer cuts through the apartment. I look up, confused, while Nico glares in the direction of the door.

  “Who the fuck is that?” he growls, clearly as annoyed as I am to have the moment ruined.

  I swallow and get out of bed, pulling on a pair of shorts before going out to the entry to answer.

  “Who is it?”

  “Layla?”

  I frown and press the button again. “Yes?”

  “Dude! It’s Shama! Let me up!”

  “Oh my God! Of course!”

  I buzz her in, then scurry back to the bedroom to get dressed. Nico is already pulling on his clothes from last night, staring at his wrinkled shirt and pants with disgust. They are covered with dust left over from setting up the furniture yesterday.

  “Jesus,” he mutters, brushing off the black material. “I look like I spent the night in a sawmill.” He looks up. “Is it too soon to ask if I can keep a change of clothes here, baby?”

  The shy hope on his face makes me want to tackle him back to the bed all over, but instead, I just step up on my tiptoes and give him a quick kiss. “Of course. I’ll free up a drawer for you.”

  He grunts, kisses me again, then goes back to fixing his clothes while I pull on a sundress. Nico looks me over with appreciation and shakes his head ruefully.

  “All right,” he says. “I’m gonna go, let you guys have your time. Are you free for dinner at Alba’s tomorrow night? I know everyone wants to welcome you back.”

  Again, the thought warms. A year ago, I would have found spending the evening with Nico’s family terrifying. To them, I was la blanquita, the rich white girl slumming it with their brother, to whom they were very loyal. And with good reason, since Nico has basically carried all of them on his broad shoulders his entire life.

  But in the spring, something changed when Nico carried me into their apartment and put me into the care of his sister and mother, both of whom had their own stories of abuse. What Nico’s family lacks in money, they more than make up for with love and community. They had taken care of me when no one else would. Shared their stories. Given me a safe space. In their own ways, his mother, brother, and sister rescued me last spring just as much as he did.

  I grin. “Absolutely.”

  Nico grins right back. “Perfect. You wanna come to Mass too? You’d probably make my mother the happiest person on the planet. If you can deal with her and Alba planning our wedding, that is.”

  Immediately, a flush blooms over my face. Wedding? That sounds like a great way to send most twenty-eight-year-olds running for the hills. But to my surprise
, Nico’s dark-brown eyes don’t waver as he waits for my answer.

  I nod. “Of course. Just let me know what time to show up.”

  His wide smile makes the warmth in my chest bloom throughout the rest of my body.

  A knock sounds at the front door, and with a kiss to Nico’s cheek, I skirt through the empty living room to answer with Nico at my heels. I open it to let Shama in.

  “Hey!” she cries out, practically tackling me with a hug the second I open the door.

  We twist around and around while Nico pulls in her two suitcases. When she finally lets go, Shama looks at Nico curiously. “I was wondering if you two had reconnected yet. Not wasting any time, huh, FedEx?”

  Nico returns from her room looking less than pleased by the nickname, giving Shama a tight smile before he kisses her on the cheek.

  “How you doin’, Shama?” he says, his voice low and rumbling. “You have a good summer?”

  Shama nods, her dark eyes twinkling. “I did, yeah! I had an internship at this advertising company in Philadelphia, and after that, I went to Florence with my folks for a few weeks. Oh my God, Italian men are crazy hot. Actually, a lot of them look kinda like you, FedEx.”

  Shama looks Nico up and down, assessing him openly. For a second, I see what she must see: a disheveled, obviously muscled man dressed completely in black, with his arm tattoo snaking over his elbow from one sleeve. That, combined with the black stubble dusting his absurdly strong jaw and eyes that are so dark they’re almost black, makes him look anything but harmless.

  Nico rolls his eyes. “I think that’s my cue.” He lands a brief kiss on my cheek. “See you tomorrow, beautiful.”

  When the door closes behind him, I turn to Shama. I already know this afternoon is going to be spent recounting the last strange twenty-four hours, and I’m not quite ready to have my mental state of mind pulled apart.

  “Well,” I say with a shrug. “I guess I should show you around.”

  “That’s right,” Shama says as she follows me inside. “And then…it’s time to dish!”

  ~

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nico

  When the thick green door closes behind me, I immediately want to pound my way back inside. Is that fucked up? I feel like a Neanderthal, for real. She’s been back for three days, and it’s a little scary how much I just want to stay with her. She’s doing her best to make a new home for herself. I don’t care how pathetic it makes me: I just want to be a part of it. I don’t want to leave.

  But it’s not only that, you know? The fear on her face last night just about killed me. It’s not that she doesn’t want to be close––we spent the entire night wrapped around each other like vines. But anytime things got to that point where a little bit of fury, a little bit of crazy entered into our touch, she’d pull away.

  Maybe other guys would be running for the hills, but that’s not an option here. Layla is my heart, my soul. My other half. I know it, and I’m pretty sure she knows it too. So really, it’s taking everything I have not to go back in there and face whatever crap is going on in her head together.

  I want to spend the rest of the weekend making her remember what we are together. I want to lie there straight through the next two days until I have to be back at the academy. Call off from AJ’s tonight just to hold her and touch her until I can chase that terror away whenever things get just a little too much.

  She’s scared. To an outsider, it might be nothing. We’re just getting used to each other again, right? It’s only been a few days. So, it shouldn’t feel as terrible as it does that she froze the way she did, refused me the way she did.

  But I know her. We’ve been laughing, joking, flirting all damn summer. It’s been three months of foreplay, and last night, I was about ready to explode. I thought she was too. There is nothing––nothing––more I wanted to do last night than give it to my girl, and she wanted it too. I mean really give it to her, not just with my body, but with my whole fucking heart and soul. Here we are, finally with our chance to be together, and there’s this hulking ghost between us, taunting with his shadows.

  I shake my head. She’s not hiding anything, is she? No, we’re past that. After everything we’ve been through together, I know Layla just wants to move forward.

  And so every thought I have keeps spiraling back to one:

  Fuck that guy.

  Seriously. Fuck that guy. Fuck that nineteen-fifties-glasses-wearing, Lurch-looking, drug-dealing, Don’t-Cry-For-Me-Argentina motherfucker who beat up Layla last spring and turned her into a scared mouse. It’s his ghost she sees. On the street. In the club. In our fuckin’ bed. Yeah, that’s right. Our bed. Because the fuck if anyone else but me is gonna end up there ever again.

  I clench my fists, resisting the urge to shove one through the new plaster in the hallway. Because the thought of that guy interfering with what used to be magic every damn time makes me feel like committing murder. I take a deep breath and start jogging down the stairs. I’ll run out this frustration for as long as I have to. And then, tomorrow, the next day, however long it takes, Layla and I will face it. Together.

  ~

  Two hours later, I’m walking out of my boxing gym in Hell’s Kitchen. It used to belong to Frank, a gristly old dude who took me in when I got out of juvie. I started fighting in detention, but it wasn’t until Frank took me under his wing, gave me a job and a room to sleep in so I could stop being a burden to my mother and start helping her, and started training me to boot, that I really grew up. He died a few years ago, and I miss him like crazy. He was the closest thing to a father I ever had.

  After he died, Nate, one of the fighters Frank used to train, bought the place. I was his sparring partner when he got a title match and won back in the day. You could say he’s grateful––I have free access to the gym for as long as Nate owns it.

  I’m out just in time to meet my mom and sister for lunch, but the workout has done nothing for my mood. After beating the shit out of a heavy bag for two hours, my fists are still balled up at my sides. Every few minutes I’m taken back to that terrible day last May, when I tore into that shitty apartment uptown and let loose the rage I’ve managed to beat into submission at the gym since I was eighteen. It’s still simmering now, and every time I see Layla’s face, I want to break out some vigilante justice on this city. Track down that asshole and do the job the police are taking their sweet fuckin’ time with.

  Whoa. I can practically hear K.C. sitting on my shoulder, saying slow down, papi. I shake my head and pull out my phone. I could use some sense talked into me right now. If anyone can calm me down, it’s K.C.

  “Acho, what the fuck? It’s before noon, asshole. You know what time I got in last night? It was light outside, that’s what time. This morning, that’s what time.”

  Shit. Of course. I knew K.C. was spinning last night, like he does just about every Friday and Saturday. He wouldn’t have gotten home until close to four or maybe even five. And if he brought home company like he usually does…

  Right on cue, there’s a very female voice purring in the background.

  “Nah, honey, it’s all good. I’ll be right back. Go back to sleep. Or, you know, don’t,” K.C. says. “Hold on, man.”

  The sounds of movement filter through the speaker as he switches rooms.

  “All right, cabrón,” he says. “What the fuck is up that got you pullin’ me out of my beauty sleep?”

  I sigh. “I’m sorry, man. We can talk later. I’m about to get some lunch with Gabe and las gatitas anyway.”

  “Well, fuck that. I’m up now, so you better tell me why you’re walkin’ around Hell’s Kitchen instead of holin’ up with your girl this weekend. Everything okay with NYU?”

  I swallow. That’s the thing about best friends. They always know.

  “She’s…” I sigh, staring down the busy street.

  K.C. just keeps talking. “I’m surprised you’re even walkin’ around right now. If I went as long as you without gettin�
� that cookie, mano, I’da gone full Cookie Monster, y’know? I’da torn that up––”

  “That’s enough,” I bite through his words. I open my mouth to tell my friend what happened last night, but then pause. I’m not sure I want to share Layla’s secrets when I’m not actually sure she has any. Right now, this is just a gut feeling. So I tell him the other truth instead: “Her roommate just arrived. They needed some space, so I went to the gym.”

  “Is she hot? The roommate?”

  I roll my eyes. And just like that, he’s distracted from the fact that I am definitely not where I should be right now. “Don’t you have a girl in the other room?”

  K.C. clicks his tongue suggestively a few times. “Eh. She can wait. Answer the question.”

  “It’s just her friend Shama,” I say. “Indian girl from New Jersey. I don’t think you ever met her, did you?”

  “Don’t think so…she sounds worth meeting, though. Hot girls always run together, am I right? Maybe I need to come with you to pay NYU a visit. Make sure the apartment is safe and all.”

  I chuckle. “We’ll see, man. I don’t need you getting me in trouble with Layla’s friends.” Something else occurs to me. “Hey, you gonna be at your mom’s tomorrow?”

  I can hear K.C.’s brain churning on the other side of the phone. “Yeah, I was planning on it. You gonna bring NYU?” He doesn’t ask about Shama, but that’s no surprise. K.C. doesn’t like to mix his, ah, personal exploits with his family.

  Leaving Layla here was the worst mistake of my life. The consequences almost cost Layla her life, and she’s still paying for it psychologically in some ways. I just want her back. I want us back. I don’t have much to give a girl like her, someone who comes from money, but I do have family and friends in spades, and all of them are ready to welcome her with open arms.

  For the first time this morning, I feel like I have a plan to help.

  “Yeah,” I say. “She’s coming. I’ll mention something to Alba too for Sunday. Let’s make it a thing, all right? Welcome her back the right way.”