The Hard Count(80)

“You never lose,” he says quickly.

I chuckle and speak at the same time.

“Oh…I lose. Trust me,” I say.

“Nah,” he says, his words again swift.

My brow is low as I watch him suspiciously. I know I lose, and I know that he’s the strongest debater I’ve ever come up against. I’m more likely to win an argument with my father than Nico Medina, but I let it go for now, because even with this…he’s probably right.

We pull to a stop before he crosses the highway, parking the car in a small neighborhood just on the other side of West End from the freeway. Nico jogs around to my side, helping me open the door, and taking my hand as I climb out, his eyes shifting to my bare knees then grazing up my body until they meet my waiting stare.

“You caught me,” he says, and I let my lashes sweep a slow blink.

“I’m flattered,” I say.

Nico leans against the door to shove it closed after manually pushing the lock in on the inside.

“I wasn’t sure what to wear, and my dress is kinda old,” I say, flaring the skirt out to the side, letting the fabric slip through my fingers.

Nico grabs my hand and leads me down the brightly-lit sidewalk, down a dip to a walkway that seems to be leading to an overpass bridge for pedestrians to cross the highway.

“I wear these pants to church every Sunday,” he says, smirking. “Your dress is far more impressive than my slacks.”

I push my lips into a tight smile, and when he turns away, I giggle.

“What’s funny?” he asks.

“You said slacks. It’s such a…grandpa kinda word,” I say through laughter.

“Is not,” he says, pushing me with his hip. I push back, and he reaches around me to bring me to him, poking me in the side to tickle me. I squirm, but secretly love being held so close.

“It is,” I laugh as we walk up a small slant and step out over the rushing cars of the interstate. “You talk like an old man.”

“It’s just because I’m more mature than you are,” Nico says, leading me by my hand now out to the center of the bridge where we stop. He turns to face me. “When is your birthday anyhow?”

“September,” I say.

“October,” he says, his mouth grimacing.

“Ha!” I poke his chest with my finger. “I’m older! Your excuse fails, Nico Medina. Your use of the word slacks is just weird.”

“Fine,” he says, the bend in his mouth a sexy kind of smile that draws me close. “You win the first argument against me ever. How does it feel?”

“It feels like maybe you gave in because you wanted me to be happy, which, as you pointed out once, isn’t really selfless at all,” I tease.

“This is true,” Nico says, pulling me close, his nose brushing against mine. “I take pleasure in seeing you happy.”

The breeze blows my skirt about my knees, and my hair flies wild around my shoulders as Nico pushes his hands into my hair on either side of my head, his forehead resting on mine briefly until he tilts my chin up enough to dust his lips across mine. I want more, to feel his lips stronger against mine, but he gives me this small taste and pulls away. He doesn’t let go of my hand, but he turns, his other hand gripping the metal grate that walls us in and protects us from the cars and trucks speeding beneath us.

“So this is your place, huh?” I ask, watching the lights blur below.

Nico sighs, his weight sinking into the bridge wall as he rests his arm in front and leans his head into it.

“I used to come here with Sasha, on our bikes. There’s a cool park over there,” he says, gesturing to the neighborhood we parked in.

“I know that park!” I say, pulling myself up to stand tall, leaning into the gate. I can just see the lights over the trees in the distance. “My brother played football there.”

I look back to Nico and catch him smiling at the same view.

“So did we…but…not on the same field of course,” he smirks.

“Off to the side, in the dark, I presume,” I chuckle.

Nico nods slowly, his head rolling and his eyes hitting mine.

“They don’t really have lighted parks in West End, and in the summer, it was too hot to play out in the day, so we’d grab our bikes and pedal over this bridge to play where the light was barely enough,” he says. “We did that for three summers in a row, until Sasha moved, and my bike was stolen. I walked a few times, but my mom didn’t really like me out late on foot. I didn’t like it either. We stuck to the streets then, until the shootings got everyone freaked out.”

“Shootings?” My stomach tightens.

Nico nods, shuffling his feet and turning to lean his shoulder against the metal, reaching to take both of my hands. He plays with my fingers, working his around mine. It’s sweet how he’s both comfortable and familiar.

“There were a few, when the gangs got kinda bad. It was really only a couple incidents, but there were some drive-bys—before the drug houses got busted. Everyone got really freaked out, and a lot of people moved. Mom made sure we were always inside before dark,” he says.

“Your brother, too?” I ask, my instincts telling me before Nico.

“Not always. He was older, so he…he would hang out. It was mostly the money that enticed him. I think he wanted to help out Mom, maybe buy some nice things. It got outta hand, though. The danger…the violence. I don’t think my brother ever expected the violence, and I know it scared him.”