I’m trying hard as hell to resist her hypnotic sway over me. I’m Odysseus tied to the mast, drawn by the deadly song of the sirens. Except the bonds restraining me are weak and coming loose, intangible ropes that are only my own crumbling self-control. Logic is dead against the power of her beauty. Knowledge of right and wrong is meaningless in the memory of her lips scouring mine.
Fuck.
I kiss her. I move slowly, as if approaching a skittish wild animal, one hand stretching up to pull her down. Fear widens her already-round brown eyes. Her trembling spreads to her whole body, but she doesn’t pull away.
My cracked, chapped lips meet her soft, warm, wet mouth, and heaven explodes through me. My eyes shut on their own, weighed down by the glory of her kiss. She is so hesitant, so careful and restrained. I don’t dare touch her. Don’t dare.
A kiss, a kiss, just a kiss. But god, so incredible. I’m electrified, wired, hardened by the taste of her, the feel of her. Intoxicated by her. I’m shaking all over from the effort to keep my hands to myself, to keep the kiss chaste. It’s an impossible losing battle.
Then her hand leaves her lap and touches my face, palm against cheek, fingers curling in the hair around my ear. Something inside me swells to impossible proportions at the tenderness in that gesture, burgeoning until I could burst, break open, weep, or shout for joy. A simple, innocent touch, but so meaningful. This woman who sells touch, who must find men to be such nasty creatures, this woman who has seen the worst in the monsters that are men, she’s kissing and touching me.
She shouldn’t. I’m no better. I’ve killed. With gun, with knife. I’ve broken men with my bare hands. I’ve sundered families with my rifle. I’ve done such awful things. And I desire her, want her. I need her, carnally.
She needs Prince Charming to carry her away from this hell of dust and sin and war, and I’m not him.
But still her lips move on mine, her tongue sweeps my teeth and moves to tangle with mine, her hands clutch my face to draw me closer, to deepen the kiss. My control over my hands is shredded by the fervor of her kiss, and I find myself wrapping my hands around her waist, just her waist, above her hips and beneath her ribs. She’s so small, so delicate, that my hands nearly span her waist. And now her hand descends from my face to my shoulder, inches from the wound.
I wince at the sting of pain, and she pulls away, breaking the magic. Her eyes search me, and I don’t try to hide what I’m feeling. It’s the only way I can communicate what I’m feeling, through my eyes. I can’t help but wonder what she sees. I know what I’m feeling, but I don’t know how that translates, how she interprets it.
Her palm still cups my cheek, no longer trembling. Her mouth opens as if to speak but then shuts again, and she’s gone, suddenly gone, darting out the door, and I’m left gasping for breath, confused mentally and emotionally. I’m at once glad for her absence so I can think about what’s going on, and missing her presence.
What the hell just happened?
Something shifted between Rania and me during that kiss, and I don’t know what exactly it was, or what it means, but I know we can’t go back.
NINE
RANIA
Again. I kissed him again. He kissed me, and I returned it. Let him touch me. Touched him back. What is happening to me? What am I doing? Why did I save him? Why did I pluck the shards of metal from his body and bandage his wounds and feed him my food?
Why is he in my heart? His lips are soft and strong, his hands gentle but powerful. I have blood on my shirt from his hand. My lips tingle from his kiss. My body hums from his hands on my waist.
My heart aches, throbs, not from a hollowness this time or from pain, but with an odd, terrifying fullness. Oh, yes. I am beginning to feel him inside me, in my heart and my soul, and this is not good. This is the start of needing someone. Already I miss him, and I most definitely should not.
I push the trouble and the mystery of Hunter from my mind and attempt to focus on the more pressing problem: the corpse of Ahmed. Hunter was right to kill him. I know Ahmed well enough to know he would not have hesitated to kill Hunter without pausing to ask any questions. And then he would have gone straight to Abdul and told him I have an American in my house.
But what do I do with the body? I am not strong enough to dispose of it myself, and Hunter can barely stand up. I do not know how he even managed to do what he did. He should not have been able to, but he did. He defended my home. Me. Himself. Us.
I banish that notion. There is no us.
An idea strikes me. Masjid. He is one of my stranger and more frightening clients. He seldom speaks, shows up sporadically. I do not know what he does, but I know he is dangerous, not to be trifled with. I also know he has no love for the troubles of government and politics. He is a criminal of some sort, I think. A smuggler, maybe. It does not matter who or what he is. What matters is I believe with the right incentive he will dispose of the body without asking questions. The trick is to get the body to Masjid without him seeing Hunter.
When Masjid first came to me seeking time with me, he gave me a pager number where I can contact him to tell him I am available. I use a phone at a store not far from where I live, entering the code Masjid gave me, and then return home.
Hunter is waiting, stoic as always. I do not know how he tolerates the boredom. I have no time or inclination for entertainment. Survival is the only part of my day. I remind myself to find something for him to do while I’m gone, which is often.
I sit next to him and think about how to explain my plan.
“You must move,” I say. “I have a plan, but you must not be seen.”
“Where?” he asks. We’re both speaking Arabic, as he speaks my language well enough to be understood by now.
I point at the wall, meaning the mosque next door. His gaze hardens, darkens.
I know why he is angry, and I can do nothing about it. “There is a room, separate,” I say. “I will help you.”
I rise and extend my hand to him. He watches me for several breaths, and then takes my hand in his, bracing himself against the wall with his back, powering upward with the strength of his good leg. He doesn’t use my hand at all until he needs to acquire his balance. When he is ready, I put my shoulder under his and help him hobble to the doorway, and then I peer out. I see no one, so we move. Hunter grasps the danger and moves as quickly as he can, using his wounded leg more than he should. He is clenching his teeth so hard I can hear them grinding in his mouth. Sweat pours down his face and his entire body trembles, but he doesn’t make a sound other than his harsh breathing.