Wounded (14 page)

Rania is beside me, rolling me to my back, clearing my eyes first, my nose, my lips. Her fingers are tender and gentle, cleaning each individual speck with the pad of her index finger. Her eyes are huge, softly concerned as she cleans the dirt from my face. The sharp contours of her lovely face are brought into high relief by the afternoon sun blazing through the window, setting behind the roof of the building opposite.

I hate that my eyes stray to her breasts, swaying as she leans over me. I slide my eyes closed, try to focus on the pain rather than how gorgeous she is, how badly my fingers want to slip under her shirt to touch the silk of her skin. How badly I want to pull her down for another kiss.

Such awful timing. There’s a dead man in the bathroom, and I’m trying not to kiss Rania.
 

What the fuck is wrong with you, Hunter?

When I open my eyes, she’s sitting cross-legged next to me, watching me, her expression full of emotions I recognize within myself. Her hand rests on my stomach, at the exact midline between the intimacy of my chest and the erogenous zone lower down. Moments pass and our locked eyes search each other, wavering, flitting from side to side. We’re each daring the other to make the first move, look away, move away, or do it. Move closer. Lean in.
 

A warm trickle alerts me that my thigh is bleeding. I don’t care.
 

She smells like woman: sweat, arousal, deodorant. Her hand shakes on my stomach. She’s breathing deeply, steadily, as if to prevent hyperventilation. Her nostrils flare with each breath, her full lips pursing and relaxing, trembling with emotions contained. Her breasts swell and shrink, drawing my gaze. Her skirt— she always wears a skirt, a little too short, marking her profession in this land of extreme modesty—has slipped up her thighs, her other hand casually covering herself. Her legs are endless, miles of shadows and skin pulling my hand toward them.
 

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.
 

The mosque is dark inside, lit by a sliver of light from the doorway, relatively cool compared to the oppressive heat outside. The interior is blackened, crumbling in spots. A lance of sunlight shines down on a corner, illuminating the thin, stained, blue-and-white striped mattress where I do my work. There are thick white candles arrayed along the wall and to either side, illumination for nighttime clients. There is a box of condoms, a jug of water, and nothing else. Hunter stops, staring down at the mattress. His face is shadowed, so I cannot see his expression, but I can feel the displeasure radiating from him.
 

He glances at me, then away, heaving a deep sigh. “Where?” he asks.

I point at a thin line of darker shadows marking the doorway to the other room. I never go there, for I have no reason to, but I know it is there. My parents did not often go to the mosque, except for holy days. The room where Hunter will hide is pitch black, smelling still of charred wood, smoke, and something else, darker, sickly sweet and hauntingly familiar that I cannot place.

Hunter stops in the entrance and sniffs. “Death,” he says. “Death was here. I smell it.”

Now I know what that scent is. I smelled it when Aunt Maida died. I have smelled it when I come across dead bodies after a bomb has gone off. It is the smell of death, as Hunter said. I am supposed to be supporting him, but somehow, he is comforting me. I see those who have died flashing before me like visible ghosts.
 

Hassan, staring at me from the middle of the road as he bleeds, bullets passing between us. Mama. Papa. Aunt Maida. Uncle Ahmed. So many others, nameless, faceless. All dead.
 

Hunter balances with one hand on the wall, curls his arm around my waist, and pulls me into his chest. He does not say anything. He does not need to. He, too, has seen death. Frequently enough to know it when he smells it.
 

Why does being held by this man give me such comfort? It should not. He should not. I should be afraid of him, run away from him. I should have left him to die. But here I am, hiding him. Holding him. Being held. Comforted. Protected.

I pull myself from his arms, mentally cursing myself for how empty I feel when I am not near him.
 

“You must sit,” I say. “No matter what you might hear, do not make yourself known.”

There is a long pause while he translates my words for himself. “If you are hurt, I will come,” he says. I hear his back sliding down against the wall, and then his hand reaches out to curl around my ankle. “Be safe. Please.”

I want to do nothing so much as crouch beside him and take his stubble-roughened face in my hands and kiss him until neither of us can breathe. I do not. I nod, then realize he cannot see the gesture.

“I will be safe,” I say, then leave before my traitorous desires get the best of me.

Masjid will be here soon.
 

*
 
*
 
*

Masjid is tall and thin and dark. He reminds me of a knife. His posture is rigid, his face narrow, his prominent, hooked nose and pointed chin lending to the sharpness of his features. He has pockmarks in his skin around his forehead and on his right cheek. His eyes are small and nearly black, glittering with intelligence and malice. He does not wear a
keffiyeh
, normally. His beard is thick and shot through with gray. When he comes to me, he is reserved and business-like, not rough or violent, but not kind, either. I think for Masjid, sex is merely a tactic to help him focus, so he does not become distracted when working.
 

He is ghost-like, appearing seemingly at will, out of thin air. I am standing outside the mosque, waiting for him. I glance down the street in one direction, and when I look back the other way, he is there, a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his loose khaki pants.
 

“What is it, Sabah? I am busy.” His voice is quiet and laced with latent threat.
 

One does not idly waste Masjid’s time. I am not truly afraid of much, but I am terrified of Masjid. He has never shown anything but professional detachment, yet still, I somehow intrinsically understand that he could and would kill me without so much as blinking, if I were to anger him.

“I apologize, Masjid, but I have a problem, and I am hoping you will help me.”

“I am not a djinn, Sabah, that you can summon me to solve your problems.” His eyes narrow and his hand fidgets in his pocket.
 

I swallow my nerves and try not to let my fear show. “I know. I would not have called you if I had any other choice. I know you are busy.”

He examines me with his hard, dark eyes. “Very well. I will see what I can do to help you. But this is business, yes? I will expect…payment.”

“Of course.” I allow myself three deep breaths to calm my hammering heart, and then move toward my home, gesturing for Masjid to follow.
 

I show him Ahmed’s corpse, cooling and stiffening in the shower, still oozing thick, dark blood. Masjid examines the body with the ease of one used to such gruesome sights. He takes a pen from his pocket and probes the knife wounds at his throat, stomach, and chest.