“Reina, keep it moving,” he said gruffly, leaving no room for argument.
I climbed the stairs, flight after flight with Jack close behind me, finally making it to the landing of the fourth floor. I didn’t look over my shoulder anymore, learning it was a waste of time to argue with the man. I led him passed the crack whore that sat in the middle of the hallway, heard him mutter something I couldn’t comprehend and then paused in front of my door. I grabbed my keys from inside my purse and fitted them into the lock. Turning the door knob, I opened the door, stepped inside, flicked on the lights and turned around to bid Jack farewell but collided with his large solid frame.
His hand closed over my wrist and he lifted my arm that had been burned, dropping his eyes from mine to take in the nasty mark that ran up my forearm.
“Let’s fix you up,” he said. “Do you have dish soap?”
I parted my lips to speak then snapped them shut and nodded toward the kitchen.
He kicked the door shut with his leather boot. My hand tucked into his much larger one, he walked me to the tiny kitchen in my apartment. He looked unbelievably large in my kitchen, so completely out of place.
I should tell him to leave.
Instead, I watched as he rolled my sleeve up my arm, and carefully touched my injury. He held my arm over the sink and poured the dish soap over the shiny purple skin. I closed my eyes as the thick soap coated my irritated skin.
“Keep your arm up,” he instructed, turning around to turn on the water. He dipped his hand under the faucet to test the water before taking hold of my wrist again and placing it under the stream of water. “Do you have any A & D ointment?” He asked, turning my wrist slightly so the water washed all the soap off.
“I have Mederma,” I replied. If he only knew the contents of my medicine cabinet. I had every burn cream, every scarring ointment the drug store sold, not to mention a variety of pain and anxiety meds. “I’ll go get it,” I blurted.
He shut the faucet and nodded, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. I hurried into the bathroom to grab the cream before he followed me or insisted on getting it himself. By the time I came back into the kitchen he was leaning against the counter staring at a photo of me and Danny that was tucked under a magnet. I watched as he uncrossed his arms from his chest and reached for the picture.
“Here,” I choked out, holding out the tube of cream for him, hoping that he wouldn’t touch my photograph. It was all I had left, the only thing that hadn’t turned to ash.
His eyes slowly lifted to mine, assessing me, noting the urgency in my voice. Jack pushed off the counter, keeping a steady eye on me as he closed the distance between us and took the cream from my hand.
“You were pretty shaken up back there,” he probed, unscrewing the cap.
“You must think I’m crazy,” I said evasively.
He froze, piercing me with a sharp look. The ointment lost on his index finger.
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he insisted, adamantly.
“You might be the only one,” I said, rolling my eyes, cringing as I remembered the way Johnny, the cook, had reacted to my outburst. I glanced down at Jack as he slowly rubbed the ointment in circles across my burn. So tender.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“You’re welcome,” he responded. “Do you want to cover it with some gauze or let it breathe a bit?”
“It's fine,” I said, knowing that if I covered the burn it would blister and the rawness would burn something fierce. “I’ll cover it up before I go to sleep.”
He nodded, wiping his hand on the dishtowel and covering the tube before he placed it on top of the counter. I watched him glance around my kitchen, stalk over to my kitchen table, pick up a pen and pull a napkin from the holder. I tried to look over his shoulder, but he was much taller than me, even hunched over the table the way he was I’d have to stand on tip toe.
He finished jotting down whatever it was and turned around. Taking my hand, he turned my palm upward and placed the napkin inside of it.
“You looked like you were going through something tonight, if you need to talk or even if you just want another ride, that’s my number and where you can find me,” he said, closing my palm over the napkin.
I stared at him blankly. This man was a stranger yet I was drawn to him. I couldn’t explain the overwhelming sense of safety his presence inflicted upon me. He was gentle and chivalrous despite the leather and tattoos. He looked hard, maybe even a little scary and still I was not afraid. I should ask him to leave, ask him to stay away from the diner but somewhere along the way I looked forward to hearing the engine of his bike roar to life, night after night. Serving Jack a cup of coffee had become a highlight in my otherwise dull life.