(Author's Note: This is kinda long. I needed exposition, and this is the
required "background story." Consider it the two chapters in the BSC books
where they describe everyone, and what they do in the BSC. Once you know
it, you can skip it, but until then…..it's long, but necessary ()
He could still remember it so clearly, which didn't surprise him. To use an old stupid expression, he had a mind like a steel trap. Anything he wanted to remember, he remembered flawlessly.
* * *
The club was jumping, as it usually was on a Friday night. Everyone crowded in; students from NYU, Fordham, Columbia, and a lot of the SUNY and CUNY schools on Long Island. It was a horrible night. He had broken up two fights already, and it wasn't even nine yet. He could only imagine what it would be like after midnight.
He stormed back behind the bar after the second fistfight, massaging his aching shoulder. Nick made a habit of keeping himself in good shape, mostly to feel good and to be able to break up fights without getting his face bashed in. He was already taller than a good portion of the male population, so having the rest of the build made him intimidating. Well, it made him look intimidating, and that was good enough for a couple of drunks fighting over some cheap ho.
He stalked right past her the first time he'd seen her, but that was understandable enough. The club was filled with women, and his habit was to ignore them and their pathetic advances. For the most part, they turned to him because he was forced to remain stationary behind the bar and, thus, couldn't run away like the rest of the menfolk. He was a consolation prize, and it irritated him to no end.
It was impossible to meet decent women in NYC. Finding someone to suit you was like trying to find Armani at a garage sale. Unless the person holding the sale was Stacey McGill, the chances were slim. He hadn't left high school a virgin, so he was unable to hide behind the concept of "not knowing what he was missing" as a few of the shyer men he knew did. He knew exactly what he was missing and, well, he missed it. Stuffed with people as it was, Manhattan was a very lonely place and he had sated that loneliness with club girls only twice. He wasn't proud of himself for those nights, but he didn't even bother trying to be ashamed. There was nothing to be ashamed of. An unspoken agreement of one night, and for just that one night to not be alone was worth it. No feelings had been hurt, and the proper precautions were always taken, so there was no shame in Nick's mind.
It was just those two times, though. Precautions or no, risks were real. Not just in terms of disease or pregnancy, but in emotions as well. He saw a lot of the same guys in the club, taking home different women each night, and he wondered how they detached their emotions from the acts. He didn't understand how "sex" could never eventually become "making love." It had been that way with Samantha, in high school, and that was what he missed, really. Not so much sex in and of itself, but everything that was supposed to go with it. None of the girls in their cheapest ho outfits understood that, and he ignored them on principle.
But then he'd seen Cherry. To begin with, she was exotic. He'd always had a thing for exotic women. For the longest time, he'd had a crush on his sister's friend Jessi, simply because she was black in an all-white neighborhood. She was different. Cherry was even more different. To start with, her nationality was questionable. Her skin was almost gold, but the tone could have been some African-American a few generations ago, or some Spanish, or Bedouin, or even a dash of Native American. It was just impossible to tell. Her nose was pure Irish, her hair the lustrous jet- black of the Aztecs. She had beautiful almond-shaped eyes, but didn't look Asian at all.
It wasn't just her looks that drew him. Exotic women populate clubs in Manhattan. It was the book in her hands. He had never known a woman to bring a book to a club. To top it off, it was a copy of a fantasy book he'd just finished, The Fire Rose by Mercedes Lackey. He'd managed to strike up a conversation without getting too flustered and found her, above all, really nice.
Beautiful women aren't nice. It's a rule, probably written in every cosmetics book in the world.
But she was. Her name was Charity Goldstein, the adopted daughter of a nice Jewish couple on Long Island. She was 21, and a junior at one of the CUNY schools. She was also engaged to her high school sweetheart, who was studying business down in Delaware.
That deflated his rather high hopes of asking her out, but he didn't stop talking to her. A friend was a friend, especially in the city.
So they began spending time together; at his apartment when she had the time, and at her parents' house when she couldn't spare the hours the train ride would cost her. And the more he got to know her, the more he fell in love with her.
She wasn't just beautiful. She was smart, and funny, and all those good things everyone looks for. But there was more than that, things that would only appeal to him. She thought that war movies were stupid, she cried at the end of Homeward Bound when the animals come running full-force over the hill. She liked kids and wanted a few of her own someday. She hated the city, and wanted to live out in the country – just like he did. She wore no makeup, but spent exquisite amounts of money on body lotions and spicy perfume. She loved lifting weights, and working out together became a thrice-weekly routine at the gym in his building.
There were so many times he almost told her how he felt. But every single time he opened his mouth, the light would catch on the economical engagement ring on her left hand and he'd close it again.
Then something unexpected happened. Brent, her fiancé, came home for winter session, bearing the unpleasant news that he was breaking up with her. He hadn't found anyone new, he wasn't cheating on her, but "they were moving in two separate directions."
Nick wasn't sure whether he should hug the guy and say thanks, or kill him for hurting Cherry's feelings.
He didn't ask her out right away. He wanted to give her time. He didn't want to be The Rebound Boyfriend – if he managed to convince her to go out with him, he knew he'd someday convince her to wear his ring. That required time, and patience.
Then there'd been James.
Nicky had NO idea where she'd found that loser. Medium build, blond hair, and a motorcycle. It hadn't lasted long, maybe a month. But in that month, he watched her get a little paler. He watched her grades slip a notch.
One night, she knocked on his door at 3am. Having just gotten home, he answered the door quickly and found her in the hallway, huddled in her warm coat and shivering. What struck him silent wasn't her posture, but the tearstains on her cheeks, the terrified expression, and the swelling purple bruise on the right side of her face.
She looked at him with a scared expression, like he would send her away. Instead, he ushered her inside and got her a cup of tea, with a heavy helping of whiskey. She hadn't needed any prompting to tell her story.
"I just went over there to break up with him," she whispered as she made herself small on his couch. "It was stupid to start it at all, and it was time to end it. He wasn't in a good mood, but I went ahead and did it anyway. He got pissed. S-said no one left him, no one was allowed to leave him. Ever. I took my purse and stood up to go. I almost made it to the door. But he g-grabbed my arm and h-he h-hit me. B-backhand acro-oss the f- f-face…"
At that point she dissolved back into tears, crying against Nick's chest while he held her tight. Eventually she continued, saying how pissed she got, about how she'd punched James right in the eye and before he could do anything else, she stomped on his foot. Then kneed him in the groin when he bent over. While he was writhing on the floor, she ran. She knew if she stayed until he got up, she'd be dead.
"I couldn't go home," she whispered. "My parents would – I couldn't. So I came here. I'm sorry, Nicky, I'm sorry…."
"Shhh. Don't be sorry. I'll take care of you. I promise." He placed a kiss in her hair. It was the closest he had ever been to her, physically, but it didn't even occur to him.
He held her like that until she fell asleep, then laid her gently on the couch, pulling his mother's old afghan over her. Then he sat in his favorite armchair, in the dark, thinking and thinking hard. He came up with these conclusions: James was a dangerous man. James apparently liked hitting women. Therefore, James wouldn't like that he was beaten up by a girl. A man like that would seek some kind of revenge.
"Unless I form a pre-emptive strike," he said to himself. "One I'll enjoy immensely."
Making sure Cherry was still asleep, he dug through her pocketbook for her Palm Pilot. In the addresses, he made a note of James's entry, and decided to take a little pre-dawn stroll.
Not for nothing was he usually the one to break up fights in the club. He left the James's apartment with a shiner all his own and what the doctor would later diagnose as "bruised ribs." But he'd left James unconscious on the floor and that made it all worthwhile. He'd also left with Cherry's backpack, which she had left behind in her flight.
Cherry wasn't at all happy about what he'd done. But she cared enough to make him go to the doctor and, after, asked him why the hell he'd done something so stupid.
"I couldn't take the risk he'd try and hurt you again," was Nick's simple answer.
And she'd kissed him.
* * *
The phone rang, jerking him out of the memory-induced doze. He stumbled to his feet with just a tiny grimace of pain. The shiner had faded to an ugly jaundice-color and his ribs only hurt when he moved suddenly.
"What?" he answered grumpily into the phone.
"Now, little brother….is that any way to greet your favorite cub reporter?"
"Hey, Mal," he replied, trying to put some more cheer in his voice.
"What's the matter? Are you alright? Your ribs –"
"My ribs are fine," he said firmly. "They're bruised, not broken. That's something special I save for my fingers," he concluded, looking down at his several crooked fingers.
Mallory laughed softly. "I suppose you do, yes. Anyway, I was just calling to make sure you're coming next weekend. I've managed to convince Luke to brave my family again."
"I'm coming. I'm not – hold on a second." He pressed the 'flash' button to activate the call waiting. "Hello?"
"Hey, Nicky, it's me. I'm just about home, and I was thinking the whole way, and, sure, I'd love to come meet your family. I mean, my last final is the Friday before, as long as I make it to the final…."
"Really? Oh, that'd be great. It's next weekend – block off the whole weekend, okay? You can leave your bags here before – meet me here – we'll take the train – I mean, if –"
He heard Cherry laugh over the phone. "We'll work it out tomorrow. I'll come by after Psych 224, so long as you'll let me study. Okay?"
"It's a deal."
He hung onto the phone an extra second, full of I-miss-you's and I-love- you's and so many other things that seemed too soon to say. There was a similar silence on her end, but she finally said, "Okay, I'm about to pass out. I'll see you tomorrow!"
Feeling dazed, he hung up the phone, only to have it ring immediately. "Mallory! Shit!" He snatched the phone off the receiver again. "Sorry about that."
"Your girlfriend?"
"Cherry. Yeah. She said she'd come to the party!"
"Calm down before you hurt yourself, Nicky. I can just see you jumping around that postage-stamp apartment of yours."
He stopped his little dance. "Okay. I can't wait to see Luke again," he said mischievously.
"Don't you dare! It's not his fault he happens to look like Mark Hammil!"
Nick laughed again, "I'll see you next week, Mal. I've got to go."
He had strange dreams that night, of the Star Wars cast as guests at his and Cherry's wedding, and the stormtroopers became bridesmaids and ushers.
He could still remember it so clearly, which didn't surprise him. To use an old stupid expression, he had a mind like a steel trap. Anything he wanted to remember, he remembered flawlessly.
* * *
The club was jumping, as it usually was on a Friday night. Everyone crowded in; students from NYU, Fordham, Columbia, and a lot of the SUNY and CUNY schools on Long Island. It was a horrible night. He had broken up two fights already, and it wasn't even nine yet. He could only imagine what it would be like after midnight.
He stormed back behind the bar after the second fistfight, massaging his aching shoulder. Nick made a habit of keeping himself in good shape, mostly to feel good and to be able to break up fights without getting his face bashed in. He was already taller than a good portion of the male population, so having the rest of the build made him intimidating. Well, it made him look intimidating, and that was good enough for a couple of drunks fighting over some cheap ho.
He stalked right past her the first time he'd seen her, but that was understandable enough. The club was filled with women, and his habit was to ignore them and their pathetic advances. For the most part, they turned to him because he was forced to remain stationary behind the bar and, thus, couldn't run away like the rest of the menfolk. He was a consolation prize, and it irritated him to no end.
It was impossible to meet decent women in NYC. Finding someone to suit you was like trying to find Armani at a garage sale. Unless the person holding the sale was Stacey McGill, the chances were slim. He hadn't left high school a virgin, so he was unable to hide behind the concept of "not knowing what he was missing" as a few of the shyer men he knew did. He knew exactly what he was missing and, well, he missed it. Stuffed with people as it was, Manhattan was a very lonely place and he had sated that loneliness with club girls only twice. He wasn't proud of himself for those nights, but he didn't even bother trying to be ashamed. There was nothing to be ashamed of. An unspoken agreement of one night, and for just that one night to not be alone was worth it. No feelings had been hurt, and the proper precautions were always taken, so there was no shame in Nick's mind.
It was just those two times, though. Precautions or no, risks were real. Not just in terms of disease or pregnancy, but in emotions as well. He saw a lot of the same guys in the club, taking home different women each night, and he wondered how they detached their emotions from the acts. He didn't understand how "sex" could never eventually become "making love." It had been that way with Samantha, in high school, and that was what he missed, really. Not so much sex in and of itself, but everything that was supposed to go with it. None of the girls in their cheapest ho outfits understood that, and he ignored them on principle.
But then he'd seen Cherry. To begin with, she was exotic. He'd always had a thing for exotic women. For the longest time, he'd had a crush on his sister's friend Jessi, simply because she was black in an all-white neighborhood. She was different. Cherry was even more different. To start with, her nationality was questionable. Her skin was almost gold, but the tone could have been some African-American a few generations ago, or some Spanish, or Bedouin, or even a dash of Native American. It was just impossible to tell. Her nose was pure Irish, her hair the lustrous jet- black of the Aztecs. She had beautiful almond-shaped eyes, but didn't look Asian at all.
It wasn't just her looks that drew him. Exotic women populate clubs in Manhattan. It was the book in her hands. He had never known a woman to bring a book to a club. To top it off, it was a copy of a fantasy book he'd just finished, The Fire Rose by Mercedes Lackey. He'd managed to strike up a conversation without getting too flustered and found her, above all, really nice.
Beautiful women aren't nice. It's a rule, probably written in every cosmetics book in the world.
But she was. Her name was Charity Goldstein, the adopted daughter of a nice Jewish couple on Long Island. She was 21, and a junior at one of the CUNY schools. She was also engaged to her high school sweetheart, who was studying business down in Delaware.
That deflated his rather high hopes of asking her out, but he didn't stop talking to her. A friend was a friend, especially in the city.
So they began spending time together; at his apartment when she had the time, and at her parents' house when she couldn't spare the hours the train ride would cost her. And the more he got to know her, the more he fell in love with her.
She wasn't just beautiful. She was smart, and funny, and all those good things everyone looks for. But there was more than that, things that would only appeal to him. She thought that war movies were stupid, she cried at the end of Homeward Bound when the animals come running full-force over the hill. She liked kids and wanted a few of her own someday. She hated the city, and wanted to live out in the country – just like he did. She wore no makeup, but spent exquisite amounts of money on body lotions and spicy perfume. She loved lifting weights, and working out together became a thrice-weekly routine at the gym in his building.
There were so many times he almost told her how he felt. But every single time he opened his mouth, the light would catch on the economical engagement ring on her left hand and he'd close it again.
Then something unexpected happened. Brent, her fiancé, came home for winter session, bearing the unpleasant news that he was breaking up with her. He hadn't found anyone new, he wasn't cheating on her, but "they were moving in two separate directions."
Nick wasn't sure whether he should hug the guy and say thanks, or kill him for hurting Cherry's feelings.
He didn't ask her out right away. He wanted to give her time. He didn't want to be The Rebound Boyfriend – if he managed to convince her to go out with him, he knew he'd someday convince her to wear his ring. That required time, and patience.
Then there'd been James.
Nicky had NO idea where she'd found that loser. Medium build, blond hair, and a motorcycle. It hadn't lasted long, maybe a month. But in that month, he watched her get a little paler. He watched her grades slip a notch.
One night, she knocked on his door at 3am. Having just gotten home, he answered the door quickly and found her in the hallway, huddled in her warm coat and shivering. What struck him silent wasn't her posture, but the tearstains on her cheeks, the terrified expression, and the swelling purple bruise on the right side of her face.
She looked at him with a scared expression, like he would send her away. Instead, he ushered her inside and got her a cup of tea, with a heavy helping of whiskey. She hadn't needed any prompting to tell her story.
"I just went over there to break up with him," she whispered as she made herself small on his couch. "It was stupid to start it at all, and it was time to end it. He wasn't in a good mood, but I went ahead and did it anyway. He got pissed. S-said no one left him, no one was allowed to leave him. Ever. I took my purse and stood up to go. I almost made it to the door. But he g-grabbed my arm and h-he h-hit me. B-backhand acro-oss the f- f-face…"
At that point she dissolved back into tears, crying against Nick's chest while he held her tight. Eventually she continued, saying how pissed she got, about how she'd punched James right in the eye and before he could do anything else, she stomped on his foot. Then kneed him in the groin when he bent over. While he was writhing on the floor, she ran. She knew if she stayed until he got up, she'd be dead.
"I couldn't go home," she whispered. "My parents would – I couldn't. So I came here. I'm sorry, Nicky, I'm sorry…."
"Shhh. Don't be sorry. I'll take care of you. I promise." He placed a kiss in her hair. It was the closest he had ever been to her, physically, but it didn't even occur to him.
He held her like that until she fell asleep, then laid her gently on the couch, pulling his mother's old afghan over her. Then he sat in his favorite armchair, in the dark, thinking and thinking hard. He came up with these conclusions: James was a dangerous man. James apparently liked hitting women. Therefore, James wouldn't like that he was beaten up by a girl. A man like that would seek some kind of revenge.
"Unless I form a pre-emptive strike," he said to himself. "One I'll enjoy immensely."
Making sure Cherry was still asleep, he dug through her pocketbook for her Palm Pilot. In the addresses, he made a note of James's entry, and decided to take a little pre-dawn stroll.
Not for nothing was he usually the one to break up fights in the club. He left the James's apartment with a shiner all his own and what the doctor would later diagnose as "bruised ribs." But he'd left James unconscious on the floor and that made it all worthwhile. He'd also left with Cherry's backpack, which she had left behind in her flight.
Cherry wasn't at all happy about what he'd done. But she cared enough to make him go to the doctor and, after, asked him why the hell he'd done something so stupid.
"I couldn't take the risk he'd try and hurt you again," was Nick's simple answer.
And she'd kissed him.
* * *
The phone rang, jerking him out of the memory-induced doze. He stumbled to his feet with just a tiny grimace of pain. The shiner had faded to an ugly jaundice-color and his ribs only hurt when he moved suddenly.
"What?" he answered grumpily into the phone.
"Now, little brother….is that any way to greet your favorite cub reporter?"
"Hey, Mal," he replied, trying to put some more cheer in his voice.
"What's the matter? Are you alright? Your ribs –"
"My ribs are fine," he said firmly. "They're bruised, not broken. That's something special I save for my fingers," he concluded, looking down at his several crooked fingers.
Mallory laughed softly. "I suppose you do, yes. Anyway, I was just calling to make sure you're coming next weekend. I've managed to convince Luke to brave my family again."
"I'm coming. I'm not – hold on a second." He pressed the 'flash' button to activate the call waiting. "Hello?"
"Hey, Nicky, it's me. I'm just about home, and I was thinking the whole way, and, sure, I'd love to come meet your family. I mean, my last final is the Friday before, as long as I make it to the final…."
"Really? Oh, that'd be great. It's next weekend – block off the whole weekend, okay? You can leave your bags here before – meet me here – we'll take the train – I mean, if –"
He heard Cherry laugh over the phone. "We'll work it out tomorrow. I'll come by after Psych 224, so long as you'll let me study. Okay?"
"It's a deal."
He hung onto the phone an extra second, full of I-miss-you's and I-love- you's and so many other things that seemed too soon to say. There was a similar silence on her end, but she finally said, "Okay, I'm about to pass out. I'll see you tomorrow!"
Feeling dazed, he hung up the phone, only to have it ring immediately. "Mallory! Shit!" He snatched the phone off the receiver again. "Sorry about that."
"Your girlfriend?"
"Cherry. Yeah. She said she'd come to the party!"
"Calm down before you hurt yourself, Nicky. I can just see you jumping around that postage-stamp apartment of yours."
He stopped his little dance. "Okay. I can't wait to see Luke again," he said mischievously.
"Don't you dare! It's not his fault he happens to look like Mark Hammil!"
Nick laughed again, "I'll see you next week, Mal. I've got to go."
He had strange dreams that night, of the Star Wars cast as guests at his and Cherry's wedding, and the stormtroopers became bridesmaids and ushers.