Salt
Page 12
“No shit,” Tiago said. He’d lost any hope of any kind of relationship with her in that moment. Even though 96th and Park was a few blocks from his Section 8 housing, it was a different universe. Big old prewar buildings with doormen, apartments that sold for loads more than he’d ever see—short of winning the mega millions. Salt ran with her people. Of course she fucking did. And she was humoring her former patient on the street corner only because of that intense moment they’d shared in a Halal meat freezer. He was delusional, trippin’. She barely even remembered what they’d been through together when they were kids.
The memory of being that close to her did something to his limbs, a sort of surge of energy, but at the same time he didn’t even trust them to work. He knew what she smelled like and how her heart felt when it beat next to his. And he didn’t like it, not one little bit. He pushed all the tenderness away as radically and resolutely as he could. Fuck going soft. Fuck falling for something you could never have. It wasn’t his style.
“How’s that arm?” he asked her. Once again deflecting, changing the subject.
“Honestly, it hurts. Like a bitch. It’s really sore and I can’t lift it above my head.”
“Shit. You still gonna be able to do surgery and all that?” He sounded like a fucking moron.
“Yeah, I should be okay. I’m not a surgeon.” She smiled at him and again it was genuine. He smiled back when really all he wanted to do was put on a hard face and act like she didn’t matter.
“Here, I’ll walk you home,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t be carrying all those groceries.”
“Hey, wait a fucking second! Aren’t you Salt?” Chico said, finally putting two and two together. “Holy shit, the girl from the horse camp!”
“Fucking took you long enough, bro.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t recognize him either,” Salana said to Chico. She gestured her chin in Santiago’s direction. He did look different—he’d grown into a man. Filled out with muscles and attitude, enough experience to back the street cred.
“That’s cause he ain’t a little bitch anymore,” Chico said smugly. Tiago smacked the back of his head. Chico slugged him in the arm, but his bicep muscle was hard and Chico’s fist was weak.
Tiago had never told his best friend about Salana’s abortion. That was her business. Their secret. He’d erase it too if that’s what she wanted.
Tiago grabbed her bags and was surprised when she let him. Probably didn’t want a guy like him to know where she lived, but he’d take his chances just to get her the fuck away from Chico. “See you round, man.” Tiago reached in his pocket and took out the ounce, passed it to Chico in a handshake and turned to walk up the hill. Salana followed him. She didn’t seem scared.
“Did you just pass him drugs?”
“Who me? Nah,” he said. They made eye contact again.
With his free hand he took hers and held it. Hadn’t held hands with a girl since grade school, but he wanted to hold hers.
Salt let him.
That was all it took for his mind to run wild with what could possibly come.
SALANA
“I mean, I know that psychologically, when two people experience an intense moment, a bond is forged. I’ve read about it,” Salana said to her best friend over the phone.
“But you think something more is going on? Like you’re attracted to him? Or maybe it’s just payback at Eric. Do you think?”
She of course left out the part where Tiago had nearly saved her life years before—when the first bond was formed. And how she’d engaged in insatiable intercourse with him while she was pregnant, still used those memories to masturbate to and thought every other man—sexually—never lived up to the bar he’d set. Those facts were sacred and secret; she’d take them to the grave. Having sex with Eric had been pleasant. Having sex with Tiago was a goddamned transformative experience. The mere thought of it gave rise to gooseflesh all over her body, a kiss in the freezer that made her hotter than a fever while bleeding from a gunshot wound, not to mention making out next to slaughtered goat carcasses.
“I don’t know. I just wanted to tell someone. Because you know, it’s not normal. He’s probably a criminal, I think he deals drugs. Obviously uses them because that’s how we met. The first time. In the hospital when he overdosed. I met him once before when we were kids, but that’s a long story.”
“Wait, he wasn’t that kid from the city who punched Brandt on my birthday, was he? The guy with the chubby friend who we went to that crazy party with?”
“You remember that? Yes. The same one. But now we keep meeting all the time and it’s uncanny. Weird. Creepy almost. But he took my hand when we walked to my apartment and I let him.” Salana took a sip of her chilled white wine.
“So he knows where you live? Watch out, that could be dangerous!”
“Just the building, not the apartment number.”
“Still,” said Justine. “He could be dangerous for all you know. But if he’s grabbing your hand, he obviously is into you. Surely wants to fuck you.”
Justine had been Salana’s best friend since the sixth grade. They met at horseback riding camp and later went to the same school. Justine was the one being who wasn’t a horse whom she actually missed while she was at Leysin. They emailed. Got together for coffee at holidays and kept in touch all through college and grad school.
“No, I don’t know. I get the feeling he’s not interested in something serious.”
“Do you just maybe want to have sex with him to see what it’s like? You could do that. Just get a hotel for the night and get it out of your system, then tell him to never contact you again. You know, like a rebound fuck?”
Oh God, she already knew what it was like. Sublime. So raw and hot, so deliciously forbidden that the memories could still cause her to shudder.
“That seems really shitty, Justine. I wouldn’t want to do that to him.” She pulled her feet up onto the couch and crossed her legs.
“Are you kidding, Salana? Any guy would love to have a rebound fuck and then never have to deal with the chick again. That’s like exactly what they all want.”
“I think he’s different. I think he wants to be my friend. I don’t know, the way he smiles at me, it’s very sweet.”
“Does he have a job? Of course he smiles at you because he wants to fuck you and then live off of your parents. He probably already has a wife with four kids somewhere that he forgot to mention. That’s precisely why you have to marry a guy who already comes from money. So you know you’re not getting taken advantage of.”
Justine had married the son of the richest family in Greenwich. She took her own advice, obviously. Was well-groomed by her mother about marrying up.
Salana felt a hum in her chest when she thought about his smile, the way his eyes met hers and searched for something—like neither of them knew what they were really looking for. She wished she’d asked him for his number so she could send him a text. A tiny, secret communication. A little flirt. Ask him what he was wearing or if he was lying in bed.
“Have you spoken to Eric?” Justine asked.
No.
Eric was everyone’s idea of perfect for her, for her future. He was a physician too, an orthopedic surgeon. Eric was golden in the eyes of the rest of the world, including her parents’. Her mother often got teary just speaking about how much she admired the guy and how she couldn’t wait for him to propose so the two of them could start on their life’s journey together. Four years were what Salana had invested into the relationship. Four years in which her fantasies of the future always contained visions of Eric Spencer by her side.
The break had been simple, at least for her part. When she’d finally told him her hopes he’d shot her down, belittled her ambitions and told Salana her dreams were ‘indulgent, impractical and idealist.’ The criticism had shocked her, pulled the rug out from under her idea that Eric was a true partner. Salana wanted to join Doctors Without Borders following her residency, g
o somewhere where she was needed, grab life by the horns and make a difference in the world. Eric thought her aspirations were frivolous. She stabbed her salad with a fork, eating just the meat and the cheese and dipping the mouthfuls in a cup of dressing.
“I’m finished with him, really. Done!” she said, finally crunching a carrot over the phone.
“And how’s he taking it?”
“Calling and leaving messages, emailing. I haven’t had to see him in rounds yet. I’m sure that will happen soon enough though. Should be good times. I hope it makes him squirm.”
“I thought you two were in love?”
“We are fundamentally different. I can see that now. Before I was wearing rose-colored glasses, just following the path laid down for me. From now on, I’m winging it.”
“All because you met this guy?”
“No, because I came close to death and someone who didn’t even know me,” well, he knew her, intimately, but no one else needed to know that, “went out of his way to save my life. That’s the kind of person I want to be too—it’s the whole reason behind my dream of going into the medical field. If Eric thinks that’s frivolous then he’s not my person. Plain and simple.”
“I’m sure there are other doctors who feel the same way you do. You don’t have to, like, change your whole social circle because Eric is a prick about something and you met a thug who was hot. Some guys like that are hot, I’ll give you that, but that doesn’t mean you should get married to one.”
“You know, Justine, you should really hear yourself speak. It sounds pretty shitty. Racist, if you ask me.”
Justine wasn’t exactly making a case for the rich and privileged side. Salana didn’t want to stay in her social circle, she wanted to be challenged, she wanted to surround herself with like-minded people and make a difference. The world kept getting uglier and she didn’t want to be a part of the extreme divide between rich and poor. She wanted to heal the sick, to witness advances in medicine, and try to make the world a better place while she was here.
“So does this mean you’ll be stag at the party on the fourth?”
“Yeah, I told you, I’m done. Eric won’t be coming.”
“I know a few attending bachelors who will be very glad to hear that.”
Salana wanted to throw the phone across the room. Maybe anger was part of the reaction to the trauma she’d experienced in the East Harlem deli. Perhaps she was angry about getting shot and she wanted to take it out on the rest of the world.
“I love you, Salana, just give it time. Maybe you two will figure it out.”
The only person she wanted to figure out was the man who’d made her feel safe in his arms when she was in the most dangerous predicament she’d ever gotten herself into. Twice in one lifetime, it had to be more than coincidence. But she still felt it was for the best if neither one of them ever mentioned it.
What was it about him and why did he comfort her so much? Why did his heart call to hers and block out all of the meaningless noisy stuff?
“Hey, Doc! You heard ‘bout what happened to your man?”
Salana was returning from the gym, still wearing spandex, and her sweaty hair was pulled up into a ponytail. She jerked her head over her shoulder and recognized Santiago’s friend from the corner.
“What?” she said. Talking to him was one thing, hanging out on the corner in spandex in this neighborhood was another. She’d gotten cat-called in her scrubs, winter boots and giant parka. She didn’t need to be conversing with neighborhood guys while wearing next to nothing.
There were four of them on the corner, smoking and talking. Four faces that looked expectantly at her so she apprehensively walked over.
“Put your man Tiago in the line-up and one of the witnesses picked him as a perp. They got him up in the box with a conspiracy to commit robbery charge. Same robbery he saved you from.”
“What?” Salana asked incredulously. Her hands went to her hips; her stance was wide in an attempt to appear powerful. “The same robbery? Why didn’t they arrest him at the scene? That was weeks ago.”
“Same one.” Chico had a sly sort of smile that made her uncomfortable, like the sneaky cat who ate the bird and smiled at you, daring you to point out the pile of feathers he was standing on. He looked her up and down suggestively and the other three followed suit, making her spandex feel too thin and racy for public. She felt exposed, like she was being inappropriate at the way they were checking her out. Salana tried to focus and shake off their lascivious looks.
“But they questioned him afterwards. They knew he was innocent! What the fuck is wrong with them?” She was outraged. Confused. And somehow it felt like Santiago’s friends were leering and taunting, relishing her reactions. Were they glad he was in jail? Did they care about their friend?
Chico spit on the ground and winked at Salana.
“Well, when did this happen? Did he get a trial date? Are they holding him on bail? Does his family know?”
“Fuck if I know. He was booked. Could be at Rikers by now.”
“Seriously?” The news blew her mind, completely knocked her for a loop. “Does he have a lawyer?” This was unfair, outrageous. He was the hero.
“Listen, alls I know is what I heard from one of my boys who said they had a warrant to search his apartment, took him down for the line-up. He matched the description. End of story.”
“End of story!? I was there, I can testify! How do we get ahold of him?”
“We?” Chico raised an eyebrow at her, looked at her breasts and licked his lips slowly. The three other men laughed and were enjoying the interaction way too much. Salana was exhausted from work and from running six miles on the treadmill. She wanted to take him down a few notches. Remind him of when he fell off of a horse and cried in front of everyone. But Salana wasn’t cruel and she was tough enough to stand the scrutiny.
“If I give you my number, can you get it to him?”
The men exchanged looks. A little voice in the back of her mind told her she was making poor choices. Her father had always talked about choices growing up and that making the right ones was the greatest key to success in life. He’d even said, “Good girls make good choices,” to her many times when she was a child. A good girl would marry Eric and keep her mouth shut. A good girl would never talk to men like these guys, good girls would ignore them and keep walking. Salana was done with the bullshit. All of the men in her life’s bullshit.
“Do my best,” Chico said. His eyes were on her nipples. She marched into their circle and gave her phone number to the man, who punched the digits into his phone. “He’ll be hype to hear from you. I know I would,” he said. Again with the brow. The other men laughed and said a few phrases in Spanish that Salana couldn’t decipher.
Chapter 12
Salana
When Santiago called her, it was early in the morning on one of her days off, one of the few where she slept in and tried to make up for sleep lost during her shift. At the trill of the ring, her mind cycled through, Eric? No, not Eric. Mom and Dad? No, not them, they know not to call too early in the morning. She wasn’t on call. Let it go to voice mail. Third ring. Holy shit! Could it be?
“Hello?” Her chest felt like a balloon inflated to the hilt with hot air.
“Collect call from Rikers Island. Do you accept the charges?”
“I do.”
“Salana?”
“Tiago?”
“What’s up?”
“Hey, I ran into your friend and he told me what happened.” Her voice sounded scratchy, sleepy, probably invoked the vision of warm entangled sheets. It was intimate; every time she encountered him felt extremely intimate, like the world was made up of just her and him and there didn’t really need to be anyone else in it.
“You okay? How’s that arm?”
God, just his voice awakened something sexual inside her. Her stomach felt heavy and she craved his touch. She slid her hand into the waistband of the silk shorts she wore to bed.
“Believe it. They gotta blame somebody, Salt. People don’t like open cases with criminals running around on the loose. Solve the crime, get a promotion. Nice article for the paper and the six o’ clock news. You know how it goes. Not everybody in the joint is guilty.” His accent was so distinct, New York, but Spanish, it was a particular blend she heard every day without it even registering much. Yet coming from him, it was sexy, so much so she was distracted by the reactions of her own body.
“Why are you any more of a suspect than I am? We were both at the scene of the crime.” She remembered his kiss, the adrenaline that ran through her body with both fear and anticipation, charged with intense attraction, a heady mixture that intoxicated her all over again just by imagining it. Holy shit, Tiago made her drunk. She couldn’t think straight. She wanted to have her hands on him.
“You really gonna ask me that, Salt?”
Salt. It was a stupid nickname and yet she loved it coming from him. Again the intimacy of it felt special, sweet and unique. Eric had never bothered to call her anything other than her given name. Tiago had scratched that nickname out permanently in front of her, not giving a damn about the law or getting in trouble.
“I’ll testify. I can help you get a lawyer. This isn’t fair.” She tried to keep the panic out of her voice. She could walk away now, hang up the phone and have his fate be absolutely none of her business. That would be the smart thing to do. She didn’t need her life complicated by trials, prison phone calls or anyone who carried a gun. He might even regularly use illegal substances, or sell them. Both could be true. Hanging up would be easy, painless, probably the smartest move. But the urge to hold on was stronger than anything she’d ever wanted. Salana felt connected to this man and she didn’t know why. He was obviously trouble, but all she felt was the connection, the rest didn’t even scare her.