by Lexie Ray
“Excuse me?” I asked, narrowing my eyes and approaching. As I got closer, I could properly see the man sitting there, dressed in a puffy jacket and beanie, an open notebook balanced on one knee.
“I asked you if you were going to jump,” he said again, almost cheerfully. His gray eyes mirrored the color of the clouds. “I can’t sit here all day and wait for it, you know, if you’re going to do it.”
I stood and looked down at him in absolute shock, my mouth opening and closing again.
“You know, I don’t think that fall would even kill you,” he continued, putting a pencil in the notebook to mark his place and closing it. “But the bluff on the other side of the beach has all these great boulders at the bottom. That would be a sure shot. Wanna walk over there and check it out?”
Check it out? Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.
“Son of a bitch!” I shouted. “You clueless asshole! You have no idea what has happened to me!”
And so I told him. Every gory detail. The fact that I was homeless and had never truly understood a concept of home or family where I could belong and be secure. I started with my life of poverty with my mother. That hadn’t been so bad, of course, except for the fact that it had driven us into the arms of a psychopath. Said psychopath had made me flee into the streets, where I’d dodged humanity until I started eating out of dumpsters.
That was where the madam of a glorified brothel had “saved” me and pretended she was family until she started selling my body to the highest bidder. Another monster tortured me and violated me in ways I was only just beginning to comprehend. And then I sought help from two Christians who turned against me because of an illness that was apparently going to kill me.
“And no one ever even called me by my real name this entire time!” I yelled. “I’m Jasmine, not ‘slut’ or ‘Jazz’ or ‘Minnie.’ It’s Jasmine, the sick girl, the one who has HIV.
“That’s right,” I said, building to a furious crescendo, “I have HIV. It’s a death sentence. I don’t have any more reason to be here. I shouldn’t even try to keep going anymore. Because every time I try, something else drags me down. I was going to have a future, in spite of everything. But now I have this disease. It’s robbed me of my future. I’m dead already.”
I had half expected for the man to flee during my tirade, but he sat calmly, giving me his undivided attention.
When it was apparent that I was finished, he cleared his throat.
“Feel better now, Jasmine?” he asked, smiling.
I sank to the ground, my legs unable to support me any longer. The funny thing was that I really did feel better, but I wasn’t about to admit it.
“You know what else has a death sentence?” he said conversationally. “Life. Everyone’s going to die. That’s a simple fact of existence. Everyone has to die of something.”
He was right, of course, but I shook my head stubbornly.
“I want to die of old age,” I said, “not HIV.”
The man’s laugh infuriated me, but my body was cashed out. I couldn’t get away from him even if I wanted to.
“You don’t know a damn thing about HIV, do you?” he asked.
“I know it’s going to kill me.”
He shook his head. “No one dies of HIV. HIV is only a precursor to AIDS. And nobody really dies of AIDS, either. It only weakens your immune system, so you usually succumb to something that your body would normally be able to fight off.”
“So that’s all I have to look forward to?” I asked. “My HIV turning into AIDS and something stupid like a cold offing me?”
“I don’t know where you’ve been getting your health information, but you have a lot to learn,” the man said coolly. “Maybe that would’ve been true decades ago, but with advances in medicine, you’ll likely never get AIDS. You’re going to have to be taking pills every day for the rest of your life, but you’ll probably still die of old age if that’s how you want to go.”
“But I don’t want to have HIV for the rest of my life,” I said, my lips trembling from the weather and my emotions. “I just want to be normal.”
The man leaned forward suddenly and covered my hand with his. “I’m sorry, but you don’t get to be normal anymore, Jasmine. Who wants to be normal, anyway?”
I jerked my hand away from his. “I want to be normal,” I said. “My life has never been normal. And don’t touch me. Aren’t you afraid that you’re going to get HIV?”
He laughed like I’d just made a hilarious joke. “Didn’t anyone tell you how this works?” he asked. “Or did they just tell you that you had HIV and turned you out the door?”
My stony silence told him everything he needed to know.
“Well, it shouldn’t have been like that,” he continued, nonplussed. “You can get HIV several different ways, none of which include touching an affected person’s hand. Sharing needles is one way, and you don’t look like an addict to me. Unprotected sex is the most likely culprit—you said yourself that you were basically a prostitute at that nightclub.”
I inhaled sharply through my nose. Unprotected sex. Of course. None of the customers at Mama’s nightclub had ever worn condoms during their time with me, no matter how hard I tried to cajole them. Had it been Don Costa—the mob boss who had taken my virginity? Or what about Lamprey—the limp wealthy noodle who could only get it up while touching something that had once belonged to the Don? Surely it hadn’t been Tracy, the murderous old pervert who’d probably ruined me for life on sex. Or maybe it had been. Maybe it had been all of them, all of the men who’d paid Mama for the pleasure of my company and the use of my body.
“Maybe I’ll just get hit by a car,” I said glumly. “That would be better than having HIV for the rest of my life—thanks to some jerk-off.”
The man wrinkled his nose in mock distaste. “Hit by a car? That’s so … normal.” He said “normal” like it was something distasteful. “Can’t you think of anything more exciting?”
A helpless smile made my lips twitch involuntarily. “Falling out of an airplane.”
“Boring.”
A giggle escaped from my mouth before I could clap a hand over it. “Struck by lightning?”
“Happens more often than you’d think. Next.”
“Eaten by a shark.”
“Now you’re talking,” he said. “What else you got?”
“Victim of an ancient curse,” I said, not believing that I could possibly be laughing over weird ways to die.
“Excellent, excellent,” the man said, flipping his notebook to a clean page and taking up his pencil. “This ancient curse—how do you get it?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, I’m an explorer—”
“Been done before,” he said briskly, jotting something in his notebook. “Something else.”
“Okay. I’m the last in an old family who’ve all been struck down before their time.”
“I’m intrigued,” he said, his pencil scratching away at the page. “Continue.”
“Determined not to end up like my mother and father, who had died in a freak house fire, I go to a family friend for help. He tells me of an ancient curse laid upon an ancestor to wipe out his entire lineage, and I’m the last one in the cursed line. I have to travel across the globe to right the wrong.”
“Perfect,” he muttered, underlining something in the notebook. “And you know what the best part is?”
“What?”
“You don’t die,” he said, looking at me and smiling. “You right the wrong. You remove the curse. You have children. You live to be a ripe old age, and then you die.”
“Boring,” I teased, laughing.
He held out his hand and I took it tentatively, shaking it.
“I’m Nate, by the way,” he said, “Nate King. It’s nice to meet you, Jasmine.”
“Nice to meet you,” I replied, feeling suddenly shy in the face of this man’s kindness. I realized with a sudden rush that I had been prepared to end everything until he talked to me.
“Listen, I remember you saying something about not having a home,” he said almost nonchalantly. “I have one that’s a little too big. How about you come live with me?”
I shook my head incredulously. “Why would you do a favor that big for someone you just met?”
“Believe me, it’d be you who’d be doing the favor for me,” Nate said. “I’m a writer.” He gestured at the open notebook like he was gesturing at a cockroach or something equally disgusting. “I can barely take care of myself, let alone my house. If you wanted to help me out around the place, like some light cleaning, occasional cooking if you wouldn’t mind, I’d let you stay, rent free.”
“It sounds too good to be true,” I said, still a little suspicious.
“Oh, it is,” he said. “I’m a slob.”
I laughed, feeling infinitely better than when I first arrived at the shore. How had hope happened along so swiftly after the rock bottom of despair?
Chapter Seven
When Nate steered his car back in the direction of the city, I was surprised but almost relieved. If you lived in the city proper, there was little need for a car. Living in the suburbs with Jeff and Brenda had been what I’d needed to heal, but I missed being in the heart of New York.
Once, we’d taken a train from the house for the girls to see the gigantic Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. They’d all ice skated, but I’d hung back. No one had ever taken me ice skating before, so I was content to watch from outside the rink.
That seemed like just yesterday even though it was already March.
“What part of the city do you live in?” I asked, watching buildings fly by outside.
“East Village,” Nate said casually.
My eyes bugged out of my head. “You’re really serious about this writing thing, aren’t you?” I asked.
Everyone knew the East Village was one of the cultural hearts of the city. You also pretty much had to be loaded to live there.
“Actually, I wasn’t always a writer,” he said. “I used to be in real estate.”
“Aha,” I said. “The truth comes out.” Now it made sense why he had a car. He needed to be all over the city at specific times. That and he could afford it.
Nate grinned. “Ah yes, now you see me for what I truly am. Preying on the desperate, selling them a box to live in for thousands of dollars a month.”
“Let me out,” I joked, scratching at the door handle. “I can’t be seen with you.”
“I’m not in the business anymore,” he said. “I was good at it and it was good to me. That’s why I’m in the East Village. But it just became time to do something else. I’m taking a little vacation from real estate to do some writing.”
“Have you written anything I would’ve heard about?” I asked.
Nate shook his head. “Been writing plenty, but getting published is another thing.”
I frowned. “I’m sure it’ll happen for you sooner or later.”
“I hope it’s sooner than later,” he replied. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll turn out to be my muse. I already have a story in mind that I want to write based on your little ancient curse idea.”
I found myself blushing. “But that was just joking around,” I protested. “You can’t write about that.”
“Can and will,” Nate said, wagging his finger with each word until he was pointing at the ceiling of the car. “It’s called artistic license.”
The honking of taxicabs was like music to my ears as we drove into the city. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it until that very moment.
“Look at you, all starry-eyed for NYC,” Nate observed as we were stopped at a traffic light. He was right. I was practically drooling, watching people in sweaters and jackets walking up and down the sidewalks, tall buildings watching over them like sentinels.
“I do love the city,” I admitted.
“The first thing we’re doing is getting you a T-shirt,” Nate said, “one of those cheesy numbers that all the tourists have.”
“But I do heart N.Y.,” I said, batting my eyelashes.
“It’s settled.”
Before I could react, Nate double-parked. The horns were deafening and some of the curses made even me blush. I squawked as Nate threw open the driver’s side door and leapt from the vehicle. He didn’t so much as put his emergency blinkers before jogging to a sidewalk kiosk. I hid my face from the scowls of passing drivers and cabbies.
A bit out of breath, Nate jumped back into the car and nosed back into traffic. He tossed a plastic shopping bag onto my lap.
“For Jasmine, who hearts New York,” he said.
And right there was the T-shirt, cheesy red heart and all, that publicly declared my love.
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it.
“Everyone needs something to love, even if it is a big dirty city,” Nate said, winking at me.
We pulled up to an extremely nice condominium high rise and got out of the car. A valet sat down behind the wheel and drove it away to parts unknown.
“Underground parking lot for residents,” Nate explained, watching me stare after the car. “He’s not stealing it, I swear.”
“I can’t believe you live here,” I said, staring up at the gleaming glass and steel. “I thought you’d be in one of those grungy studios you always imagine artists living in.”
“You forget I was a real estate agent in my first life,” he said. “I definitely had insider knowledge of this beauty—and the funds to make my living here possible.”
Nate greeted the doorman and we took the elevator to the fourteenth floor. Even the hallways outside the condos were kept nice—nothing like the slums my mother and I would rotate our homes in.
“It’s not a penthouse, but it’s pretty comfortable,” Nate warned as he unlocked his door.
It might as well have been a palace. My jaw dropped open as I stepped into the luxury condo. Every inch of flooring was a golden wood, the grain swirling artfully over each plank. River stones made up the hearth of what I could only assume was an electric fireplace, continuing up the wall and to the incredibly high ceilings. The condo was exceedingly spacious, and the vaults of the ceiling added to the perception.
The walls were painted in a creamy white, which helped brighten the entire space. Several floor-to-ceiling windows helped with that, too. Nate walked over to the sheer, light curtains and threw them back. I was treated to a magnificent view, loads of people walking down the sidewalks and plenty of cafes and galleries.
“Most of the art I have comes from right here in East Village,” he said, unaware of my utter awe.
I looked around, trying to shut my mouth. One huge canvas seemed to be the centerpiece of his collection. The shape of a nude woman reclining dominated the hanging artwork, but it was done with a quick, almost impressionistic hand. It was abstract, but not so abstract that you didn’t understand what you were looking at.
Other framed pieces were smaller but no less vibrant. Nate clearly had good taste in everything from art to decorating.
“I’ve seen a lot of homes during my career,” he said, removing his beanie and rubbing a hand over his buzzed hair. “It’s easy to form your personal tastes when you’ve seen about everything there is on the market.”
“I guess,” I said doubtfully.
The kitchen was separated from the rest of the open space with a long, L-shaped bar made from the same rocks as the fireplace and hearth. Every fixture and appliance was a modern stainless steel, buffed into an almost burnished finish. Nothing gleamed, but everything glowed. It was very fine, but inviting at the same time.
“It’s not too ostentatious, is it?” Nate asked, wringing his hands.
“Osten-what?”
“Ostentatious,” he repeated patiently, “showy. Do you think I’m pretentious?”
I shook my head at all the unfamiliar words. “I think it’s all beautiful.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he said, smiling. “Want to see your room?”
I nodded, suddenly excited.
“Actually, it’s my room,” Nate admitted. “But I’m moving into the office. I really need to focus on my writing and I don’t sleep that often. This is the office.”
He cracked a door open and I realized that the last place I’d seen so many books was my high school library. Shelves upon shelves of books towered to the ceiling. There were so many volumes that the shelves weren’t enough. Several stacks teetered on the floor. I spotted a desk in front of the window, but books covered its surface.
“How are you doing to work in here with all of these?” I asked. “You can’t even sit down.”
Nate looked sheepish. “Maybe you can help me organize a bit,” he said. “I told you I was a slob.”
“Hopeless,” I teased, shaking my head. “We’re better off making you a chair and desk with all these books. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”
“It’s touch and go,” he joked back. “Some days are worse than others.”
I turned serious. “I don’t like the idea of you giving up your room for me,” I said. “We’ve only just met. A couch would be more than fine. A space on your floor would be generous.”
“Absolutely not,” Nate said. “It’s you who’s doing me the favor, remember? All these hopeless books need cataloging, those appliances in the kitchen don’t stock or clean themselves, and I sleep more often on the futon in here than I do in my bedroom.”
With a start, I noticed the leather futon for the first time. Stacks of books had tumbled over the surface.
“You have to get awfully friendly with those books to sleep there,” I said uncertainly.
“I get downright intimate with those books,” he confided, leaning close.
I laughed and blushed, putting my hands on his chest and pushing him away.
“Fine, then,” I said. “Please show me to my room, Mr. King.”
It was just down the hallway, past a large bathroom.
“Unfortunately, we will be forced to share this bathroom,” he said. It was as big as any bedroom I’d ever seen, that beautiful rock from the kitchen and fireplace repeated on the floors and countertops. It was simply magnificent.