How To Save A Life

by P. Dangelico

  How To Save A Life

  P. Dangelico

  Copyright © 2021 by P. Dangelico

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  Also by P. Dangelico

  Prologue

  Jordan

  “Jordan…”

  The voice reaches me in the fog. Some of it tequila induced. Some grief. All of it beyond my control. It sounds like my father, but it can’t be him. Dad’s in the Keys deep-sea fishing with Beau, so it must be another fog-induced delusion. I’ve had plenty of those in the last few weeks.

  “Jordan,” I hear again. More forceful and clear this time, projecting from the threshold of my bedroom door. Hovering over me, bearing down on me.

  “Jordan?” comes again. It’s about as welcome as sand between the back of my teeth.

  “Who let you in?” I say into the pillow, my voice cracking from disuse.

  How long have I been in this state? A few days. Maybe more. I’ve lost all concept of time. It’s irrelevant now, only serving as a constant reminder of what happened. Inertia got a hold of me that day and life as I know it stopped. It didn’t cease to exist. It just stopped in that one awful fucking moment, leaving me forever trapped there.

  “You gave me the code.”

  The old man has always been a blunt talker and honest to a fault. I used to love that about him.

  “Remind me to change it when you leave.”

  His feet shuffle across the carpet, the brushing sound like sandpaper to my already injured nerves. I bury my head deeper under the pillow but it’s useless. There’s no getting away, no more hiding. The button activating the shades beeps and sunlight invades my bedroom. It hits the bare skin on my back and makes me recoil. Everything hurts right now. Simply existing hurts. Taking a deep breath hurts.

  “Your brother tried calling you.”

  Yeah, I know. I had to block him after the twenty-fifth call.

  “How much longer you plan on doing this?” he continues after a heavy beat.

  How long…good question.

  How long does it take for a life to end if I will it? How long until I fade away? Quietly. Without drama. Stop looking for me, I want to tell him. Stop trying to save me. But the words won’t come out. Something stops them. Some feeling just out of reach.

  I close my eyes and I’m on a foggy beach, a girl calling to me. Lainey, maybe. I’m not sure. I can’t see her face. But she keeps calling my name. And she sounds happy. She sounds so damn happy I want to go to her. It’s all I want.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in the Keys?” I say squinting into the sun, the outline of my father’s broad frame blotting out most of it in an act of mercy.

  “Your mother is worried. She said if you don’t get an assistant, she’ll get one for you.”

  My mother––the control junkie. There’s no changing her. I used to tell Beau to learn to live with it. My words keep getting thrown back in my face. Life has a funny way of doing that. If I ever survive this, I need to put a stop to her bullshit.

  “You’re divorced. Start acting like it.” I dig my fingers into my eye sockets. My head pounding with a nasty case of drinker’s remorse and a cruel case of a bright sunny day in the dead of winter.

  “She’s my best friend. We got a divorce so we could stay that way.”

  The mention of a best friend is a gut punch, my stomach turning over and over.

  My best friend is gone.

  I’m never going to see or hear from her again. Only in the fog. The fog is my ally, the fix I need to get from one day to the next. The only thing that keeps the pain from running roughshod over me.

  “I know you’re hurting, but this…”––he looks around––“you can’t let it take you down. It doesn’t do anybody any good.”

  John West, a shrink by trade, rarely counsels his own family. This is his way of telling me he’s worried.

  “I’m fine, Dad. You can go back to your boat,” I manage with semi-believable conviction.

  The old man responds with a long-held sigh and stuffs his hands, callused by years of wrestling tuna and marlin, into his pockets.

  “You win,” I say, sitting up, resigned that he won’t go away until I make an effort to appease him.

  I run a hand over my jaw, discover the full beard covering my face. I guess more than a few days has passed. Bottles litter my bedroom floor, which explain how that time was spent. That was never in doubt. The only way I can bear life right now is in a state of deep intoxication. Drowning in oblivion. I wish he would leave so I can get back to it.

  “I’m alive. You can tell Congresswoman West to call off the search party.”

  “Get dressed,” Dad says as he heads for the door. “I’ll take you to lunch.”

  The image of his flannel covered back and wrinkled khakis is so damn familiar and comforting the grief goes into remission for a minute. Only for a minute though.

  “Dad…,” I call out as a wave of misery comes ripping back, separating the air from my lungs.

  Turning, he watches me struggle to control myself. “I didn’t know Lainey well, but I do know she cared about you. I know she wouldn’t want this for you…my advice––for what it’s worth––start focusing on what she would want.”

  My mind immediately goes to Eli. But that’s water under the bridge.

  Chapter One

  Riley

  Five Months Later…

  There are two types of people in this world…

  Wait. Wait. Strike that. Start over. There are three types of people in this world. There are people that make lemonade when life hands them a bunch of lemons. Major praise to those folks. There are people who accept the lemons and do nothing other than whine and complain about them––arguably the worst of the lot. And then there are the rest, a handful of people who take those same lemons and shove them up life’s…well, you get the picture. The jury is still out on which category I fall under.

  “Watch where you’re going,” I hear as a pair of large hands slam onto my shoulders.

  The voice is deep and rough and has a hard edge to it. It gets on my
nerves. Which isn’t hard to do these days since my nerves have already been tenderized by a lack of sleep and an overabundance of responsibilities. But this is a different kind of annoyance. The worst kind. This voice reeks of condescension and entitlement and I’m in no mood for either of those things tonight. Not when I’m working my fourth straight shift waiting tables at one of the Meat Packing District’s most exclusive restaurants.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  Don’t read too much into it. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. I need this job. Need it like I need oxygen. Which means I won’t do anything to jeopardize it. Which also means I watch how I act, watch what I look like, and watch what I say.

  What I do not have to do, however, is watch where I go. Anyway, this jerk turned into me.

  I look up, no doubt wearing my best bitch face, and…blink.

  Important to note that the interior of this place is moody with a masculine vibe. Silk burnished brown wallpaper covers the walls. There’s a lots of brass and velvet upholstery. The handblown Chihuly chandeliers offer only a chintzy glow. My point is the lights are dim as you-know-what up in here and all I see is a pair of intense dark eyes. They take me off guard and keep me in place, staring up at him in fascination like a brain-dead mule.

  I mean he’s handsome––there’s no question. For starters, he has a mouth made for kissing: pouty but not in a feminine way. All his bones are in the right place and at the right angles. His dark hair is short and styled within an inch of its life by someone who probably charges what I call a mortgage payment and he calls pocket change.

  If there was anything remotely human about this guy, I would rate him as drop-dead gorgeous. But there’s no getting beyond the plastic, never-been-taken-out-of-the-box quality to him. All I feel is a cold distance in this guy’s face. Like no one is inhabiting the body standing before me. It’s just a yawning hollow space. This is where the momentary interest fades and I return to reality. And reality is the table of seven whose order I need to take.

  Shrugging off his grip, I make my way to the table. They’ve been trying to get my attention for the past two minutes and this is not the sort of crowd you want to keep waiting––one of the guests is the mayor’s best friend.

  But as I’m fake-smiling through my apology to them, something gets my attention. A strange sensation that causes me to look in the direction of the rude guy. He’s still standing where I left him, staring back at me with a frown, his expression borderline confused.

  It lasts a fraction of a minute before he shakes it off and turns in the direction of the bar. As short as it is, however, it leaves a gnawing level of discomfort that I am unaccustomed to feeling. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but it’s undeniable.

  “Miss…,” one of the diners says.

  Which jerks me out of my musings. Looking around, I find myself the center of attention of the entire table and a hot flush of embarrassment covers my face.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. If it were physically possible for me to kick my own ass, I’d be at it right now.

  But whatever. Other than that strange moment, life goes on and the rest of the night proceeds like clockwork. We end up running out of the black squid fettuccini special. Patty argues with Chef about the temperature of the wagyu steak as usual. Chef screams at Patty that the customer “knows less than a sewer rat’s ass about food,” half of which was said in French. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Two hours later I throw a passing glance at the bar and find the rude guy still sitting alone and consuming Macallan 25 like a fish chugs water. Presently, he’s swallowing half a tumbler in one shot.

  Hmm, clearly this guy is on a mission to get wrecked tonight, if he isn’t already.

  Other than that, I pay him no mind. This job may be a side hustle, but it is the side hustle that keeps my hopes and dreams alive and nothing will come between me and my hopes and dreams.

  Fast forward to midnight, I’m counting my tips and dispensing my cut to the busboys and girls as the last of the stragglers file out the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Mike, the bartender, slide a tall glass of water across the bar…to the guy.

  He’s still here.

  And now I’m starting to wonder who he is because A: his bar tab is upwards of a few grand. And B: this restaurant is Michelin rated, not the type of establishment one goes to get lit. If he wasn’t someone, he would’ve been cut off hours ago. Which makes sense given his behavior toward me. Welcome to New York––the US capital of kings and queens, serfs and slaves.

  Reaching into his black designer suit jacket, he fishes a black credit card out of the inside pocket and tosses it on the imported Venetian glass bar. I watch him rise from the stool in slow measured movements, graceful even, considering the guy is trashed.

  “Damn, he fiiine,” Kerri, one of the servers, mutters as she walks past me into the kitchen with a handful of dirty dishes.

  Meh. Good looks only get you so far. He seems to be about as much fun as a migraine. He also strikes me as high maintenance and in general, a chore. Come to think of it, I sympathize for whoever has to bear his company.

  The rude guy ambles out the door in a semi-controlled manner and everyone disperses.

  “He didn’t give me the time of day…” I hear Jeanine, another waitress, announce as I fetch my messenger bag from my locker in the employee lounge, “asshole.”

  Slipping off my ballerina flats, I exchange them for my ancient Nike Air Jordans, the ones I picked up at Mrs. Caputo’s garage sale. I’m pretty sure Richie Caputo was wearing these when we were in the ninth grade together, but when you ride public transit at night, the last thing you want to wear is anything bright and shiny and new enough to draw unwanted attention.

  “He’s gotta be gay,” she continues to vent. Jeanine is a dead ringer for Kate Upton, so there may be some truth to that.

  “All the hot ones are,” I say, throwing her a bone even though I have zero sympathy for her. Jeanine gorges on a steady diet of sugar daddies and tosses them aside like yesterday’s news. She’s a seasoned predator. The rude guy may have dodged a major hit to his bank account.

  On the way out I swing by the dessert station. “Paris-Brest. Eat it at room temperature,” our stellar pastry chef says as she hands me the take-out box.

  “Thanks, Izzy.” Grabbing it, I place it neatly in my messenger bag. We get to sample all the desserts––one of the perks of working in this fine establishment––and I like to save mine for the ferry ride home.

  Outside the stench of garbage and car exhaust and hot tar from a recently paved alleyway makes me hold my breath. It’s the only thing that overrides the clammy feel of my skin and the smell of fried food in my hair. July ushered in a bout of blistering heat and humidity and tonight is arguably the hottest to date.

  Popping a Dubble Bubble in my mouth, I roll the sleeves of my white button-down shirt over my elbows and head for the subway. One block south, the pink neon light of the Gansevoort Hotel falls on the crowd congregating outside, all of them young and hip and likely out-of-towners. They pile into a dark SUV as I pass, leaving Billy, the doorman, standing alone.

  “Hey, girl, heading home?” he says with a bright smile. Billy is a first-rate player. After two years of walking past him on my way home, we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well. He uses his considerable good looks to work that door for all it’s worth and I don’t blame him. You gotta do what you gotta do.

  “Trying to catch the 1:30 ferry.”

  “My bro needs a couple of windows replaced. He’s in Bensonhurst. You do that?”

  I stop and pull a business card out of the back pocket of my work pants, hand it to him as I walk backward down the sidewalk.

  Fortune favors the brave…and the prepared. A lot of people forget the second part.

  “Tell him to call me. I’ll give him a good price.”

  Rounding the corner, I pick up the pace. If I miss the 1:30, I have to wait another thirty minutes and every second of sleep counts
when I have to be up early tomorrow for my main gig.

  It’s just my crappy luck that I walk right into a robbery in progress. At least, it looks that way, but I inch closer anyway, hoping to get a better assessment of the situation.

  A short, stocky guy with hands the size of Thanksgiving turkeys is in the middle of feeding another guy a knuckle sandwich while his taller, thinner counterpart bounces around on the balls of his feet, ready to jump in. He looks jacked up on meth.

  Not cool and potentially very dangerous. It’s definitely a robbery in progress. On the bright side, there appear to be no guns involved.

  What to do, though? Calling the cops won’t matter; they’ll take too long to show up. Turn around and go down another block, pretend I didn’t see anything? I’m no delicate snowflake at five foot nine. And I’m in decent shape––working days and nights in manual labor does have its perks. I’m more than able to hold my own in a tussle, but I’m tired from being on my feet all day. And if I intervene and this gets messy, it could be hours before I get home. I have too much work to do tomorrow to go all night and day on little-to-no sleep.

  Problem is, I can’t stand bullies and two against one is not fair. Especially since––from what I can make of the guy getting his face rearranged––he’s not equipped to defend himself. The vic is wearing a suit. He’s probably some Wall Streeter inflicted with soft hands and too much easy living.

  While I’m busy weighing the pros and cons, criminal number one steps aside long enough for me to catch sight of the victim’s face.

  “Ah, shoot…”

  The guy getting jumped is the same guy from the restaurant––the rude guy.