How to Save a Life
“Cash, you said,” he mutters as he opens a drawer like any other. Except this is no ordinary kitchen knick-knack drawer. Nope, this guy has stacks of green bills in his. There’s got to be thousands in there.
“Twenties and fifties work for you?” he says and pulls out the cash. While he’s in deep thought, counting the money, I notice his lip is bleeding.
“Yeah, but, you…uh…” Pointing, I try to indicate that the blood is making its way down his chin. “You…hmm…” He doesn’t glance my way, so I’m left with no choice. I walk around the white marble counter, and grabbing a paper towel, I gently place it on his chin.
Which is completely unlike me.
My boundaries are clearly defined. I do not touch strangers––ever. I mean, unless I’m forced to kick their ass. And even then, it’s never by choice. And yet here I am touching this guy––a stranger whose house I’m standing in in the dead of night.
Flinching, his dark eyes meet mine with so much intensity it forces me to explain. “You were about to get blood all over my cash.”
The sharp glare eases a fraction. I get the feeling his boundaries are as clearly defined as mine and I overstepped. Can’t fault the guy.
“Thanks,” he murmurs and gently takes the paper towel out of my hand. He blots his bruised lips and chucks the bloodied napkin in the trash. Then he returns his attention to the bills on the counter and holds out the money.
Staring at it, a strange uncomfortable sensation unfolds in my gut, one that feels a lot like shame. Like there’s something dirty about this transaction. Which there isn’t.
Romantic notions aside, I’m no charity organization. I can’t afford to be noble. Chalk the sudden pang of pride to the late night and the weird vibes because the hard truth is that I need this money and pride isn’t going to pay the mortgage on the new two-family I bought. Or the permits. Or the materials to renovate it.
“Nice doing business with you,” I say as I scoop up the bills and stuff them in my bag. Suddenly, I feel a pressing urge to leave. It’s not like I’m in the wrong here. I just missed three ferries driving this guy home. But it’s like I need to leave the scene of the crime as swiftly as possible.
As I head for the front door, soft footsteps follow me. I turn the handle and pull, finding it locked. I try again and get the same result. My pulse races and my breathing turns shallow, building into a potential full-blown panic attack.
“Hey, wait, hold on a minute. Let me…” Gently pushing me aside, he presses a code and the door beeps opens. A freaking door with a code.
As soon as I step out into the hallway, the spike of adrenaline slowly ebbs away. The embarrassment remains, however; my face flush, my skin clammy.
His one unabused eye roams over me. “Thanks for saving my life Imelda Marcus. It’s been nice knowing you.”
We stare at each other for what I’m guessing is a second or two but feels like an eternity. You know those moments––the ones that seem heavy and yet make no sense whatsoever.
“Yeah, you too.” I begin walking backward, toward the elevator. And then it hits me––
“Hey…you know my name, but I didn’t catch yours.”
He exhales, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his bloodstained white dress shirt straining against the muscles of his chest. I’m caught between being rightfully suspicious of him and also aware that he is inescapably attractive. The struggle session is real.
“Jordan West.”
It sounds like a mashup of a Marvel character and a porn star. Definitely not his real name but who am I to demand honesty.
A phone rings, breaking into the moment. He glances at the phone tucked in his hand. “Your Uber Black is here. A Yukon. The driver’s name is Bill.”
I’m more than a little surprised and unsure what to make of it. “You got me an Uber?”
“It’s late and you need to get home,” he casually announces like this makes all the sense in the world. Then I do the math. It’s over a hundred bucks to Staten Island.
“No thanks.”
“I paid for it already.”
Mind reader, this one. “In that case, why let a perfectly good ride go to waste.”
His battle-bruised lips tilt up, his weary eyes crinkle at the sides. Mentally, I give myself a high five. Getting the smallest reaction out of him is a Herculean effort and I just managed it.
“See ya, Jordan West,” I wink, smiling back. “Stay safe.”
“You too, Immi Marcus.”
The door closes and I’m alone in the hallway. Turning on the heels of my ancient Nikes, the ones all scuffed up from the miles I’ve logged all over the city, I press the button to the private elevator. It rings immediately and the doors slide open. Because people like Jordan West don’t have to wait for the elevator like the rest of us.