CHAPTER 6
Sarah
“Last stop, New York Penn Station.”
The loud announcement woke me with a bang. Startled, I blinked my eyes open, to find my head resting on Ari’s broad shoulder. Embarrassment swept over me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, collecting myself.
“Don’t be.” He flashed a quick dimpled smile that rendered me breathless.
As other commuters stood up, he helped me to my feet, the touch of him sending goosebumps up my arms.
“Ladies first.”
As I side-stepped past him and made my way to the automatic sliding doors, the sinking feeling that I might never see him again set in. The train ride was over.
Penn Station was stinking hot, bustling with commuters and tourists, and it wasn’t even summer yet. It tasted, smelled, and sounded like 30th Street Station’s ugly stepsister. Ari clasped my hand as we wove our way in and out of the ruthless crowd of rush hour commuters and ubiquitous homeless. His hand was warm, the grip firm but not too tight. I quickened my pace to keep up with him, his stride a blend of grace and arrogance. He was clearly an expert, manipulating this oppressive swarm of people. Despite having lived in the city for almost three years and taking my share of subways, I had yet to master the impatient New Yorkers always in a hurry to get where they were going.
Silence prevailed between the two of us as we made our way through the throng. Only the hum of the vast station sung in my ears. It, however, did little to quiet the turbulence whirling around in my head or the turbulence centered between my legs. I had lost my virginity to a man I would likely never see again. A man I craved but could never have. As the exit sign came into view, I started thinking about my exit line. “Nice knowing you.”…“Thanks for taking away my V-card.”…“Thanks for the memories.”…“Have a nice life.” If he weren’t dragging me through the station at breakneck speed to the point I was almost jogging to keep up with him, my heavy heart would have slowed me down. The truth was I didn’t want to say goodbye to this beautiful stranger on a train and was dreading it.
Suddenly, a sharp tug from behind followed by a forceful shove sent my jumble of thoughts to a screeching halt and me tumbling onto the filthy Penn Station floor. Stunned and stinging with pain, I caught sight of my assailant, a skinny Latino youth running through the crowd with my bag. My keys! My cell phone! My wallet! My identity! And the cash I needed to get through the weekend!
“Little fucker!” yelled my companion, taking off in hot pursuit.
Staggering to my feet, my eyes could not believe the speed with which his long legs carried him. It was like watching a scene from Mission Impossible with Tom Cruise or some stunt double running after the bad guy. My assailant glanced back at Trainman, panic washing over his face as he saw my action hero gaining ground. Even as the bad guy picked up speed, the gap narrowed until Trainman pounced on him, sending him crashing to the floor. He lay sprawled on the ground between Ari’s powerfully splayed knees, his face frozen with fear.
Gripping the lad by a clump of his greasy ebony hair, Ari yanked him to his feet. The boy was shaking and near tears, and I was taken by how slight he was compared to my tall, mighty, broad-shouldered hero. The boy surrendered my bag and defensively raised both hands, clearly afraid that his captor might strike him. Still clasping his hair, my hero lifted the youth until his Nikes no longer touched the ground. The boy grimaced in pain. And then Ari lowered him. I was close enough to hear him growl.
“Now, get the fuck out of here, you little twerp.”
He released the boy, who, wasting no time, sprinted through the station without looking back. He then wheeled around, his eyes searching the crowd until they landed on me. I was shaking—unsure if it was from the shock of being violated or the shock that this devastating man had risked his life for me. I mean, the kid could have had a knife. Taking long strides, Ari loped my way.
“You okay?” he asked, his concerned blue eyes surveying every inch of my body.
“Yeah,” I managed.
Glancing down, I noticed patches of grime on my beige skirt. My right knee hurt from the fall. I lifted up the skirt by its hem to check it out. No blood. Just a large hole in my pantyhose—though it was a mere fraction of the hole between my crotch. Embarrassment crept through me as Ari handed me by bag. It was intact and in one piece.
“Hold on to this,” he said, his frown curling into a wry, but oh-so-sexy smile.
I quirked a quick smile back. My gaze met his once again, and I was immediately aware of the post-orgasmic waves crashing against my pelvis. My heart thudded. Thank goodness the buzz of the crowded station drowned out the sound.
“Saarah, I’m having drinks with someone,” he said, his eyes still holding me fiercely.
He needed to say no more. He was meeting some stunning supermodel. The type of woman he belonged with. My heart sunk. It was time for my exit line.
“Um, okay,” I spluttered. “Thanks for everything.” Yes, everything.
Without not so much as a goodbye, I sprung toward the exit sign. With hot tears clustering behind my eyes, I walked blindly through the throng of impatient commuters and filthy bums begging for money, brushing up against more than I wanted. It was over. I’d reached my final destination. My scenes from a movie were over. I didn’t even know a thing about him. His last name. Where he lived. What he did. What did it matter? I’d probably never see him again. It was just a fluke thing that wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I shrugged my shoulders and inwardly sighed. Yet, there was so much of me that kept hoping I would feel his strong hands on my shoulders, stopping me dead in my tracks. Spinning me around. Pulling my head back with a yank of my ponytail. Sinking his lips into mine and then parting them with his tongue, gifting me a kiss that lasted for an eternity right in the middle of Penn Station. That’s what happened in movies. With wishful thinking, I stole a glance back over my shoulder. Ari was hugging a tall, drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a chic suit. Just his type. A mixture of envy and self-pity pulsed through me. Facing front and fighting back tears, I quickened my pace. Why was I fooling myself? My West Side Story was a dream. My life was a reality show. A really lame reality show.