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Decision made, I kneel down beside him and begin to check for further signs of life.
Gently, I place my hand on his chest, slipping a finger to his neck, checking for a pulse. It's faint but steady. A wave of relief washes over me.
But now the pulse begins to slip away. The slight breath that was filling his lungs, no matter how shallow, is now gone.
"No. Don’t you do that. Don’t slip away on me." I cup his face in my hands, leaning forward, willing him to breathe. "Come on."
What do I do?
A surge of determination pulses through me. I have to try and save him. I try to remember what I learned of CPR in my middle school health class almost a decade ago. The 30-2 rule. Right? Thirty compressions to two breaths, compressions given at the rate of that old disco song, “Stayin’ Alive”?
God, I hope what I’m about to do isn’t out of date…
I take a deep breath, moving my hands over his chest. “Come on. Stay alive.” With two hands centered over his chest, I apply pressure.
I push on his chest, counting to myself as I work. Thirty chest compressions. Ah, ah, ah, ah, staying alive, baby, come on, baby. I find my eyes straying to his face, trailing along his cut jawline.
God, this man is handsome.
Rhett, what are you doing? Running from one man just to find another one on the ground and you’re getting thirsty? Little inappropriate, don’t you think?
But darn, he’s got that defined muscle that runs from the base of the neck to the top of his shoulders. His shirt is black and it's only now that I notice the fabric is darker. There’s a wet patch that’s slowly growing larger. There’s blood seeping from a wound below that sexy muscle.
A flash of faintness moves through me as the tangy metallic scent of blood hits me.
"Focus, Rhett."
I hit the thirtieth compression and quickly slip off my hoodie. I press it to the wound, doing my best to stop the bleeding as I move on to the next part of the rescue mission.
Now for the breaths.
I slip a finger beneath his chin, tilting his head back.
Is it inappropriate to notice not only the chiseled line of his jaw, but the fullness of his perfect lips?
I’m a mess.
Desperate to get away from a psycho and getting butterfly flutters over a passed-out stranger in the street...
What is wrong with you, Rhett?
One hand still pressing on his wound, the blood now seeping through and reaching my skin, I use two fingers with the other to pinch his nose closed.
I press my lips over his, forming a seal. His lips are soft, still warm. He tastes of man and danger, but I move past the feeling, breathing two of my breaths into his lungs.
With each breath, I feel his chest rise and fall.
I pull away, staring down at him, ready to start the next set of thirty compressions.
Come on, gorgeous stranger, take a freaking breath...
Suddenly, his eyes shoot open. He takes in a gasp. I startle, falling back, surprised, relieved. Before I can say or do anything, he grabs me by the shoulders, pulling me close.
He stares into my eyes, his face desperate, intense. For a fleeting moment, an electric connection zips between us, two perfect strangers on a street in New York.
He just stares at me. I’m drawn into his brown eyes, the intensity of his gaze. I kneel there, his grip strong on my shoulders, and I stare back. He pulls me into him, pressing his lips against mine. My skin tingles and my heart pounds.
The dark night fades away.
