Broken Crescent (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 2) (10 page)

CHAPTER 1

Afia sat at the kitchen table, staring at the cellphone after hanging up with Sam. She was flooded with contradictory emotions—relief that he had somehow managed to get Rayan out of jail, anger that he’d had to do it, embarrassment at the situation, and love for the man who would do anything for her. Most of all, she felt love, and she was finding it harder and harder to understand why it was that she wasn’t supposed to be with him.

Her eyebrows lifted as she sighed and gave up pondering the questions that had been plaguing her from the moment she realized she was falling for Sam Ellison. Earlier in the night she had brought Rayan’s drinking problem to her mother’s attention, and Maman had turned on her, accusing Afia of frequenting the wrong sorts of establishments if she was running into Rayan drunk. Fatima made it clear she thought Afia was the one up to no good.  All Afia had been trying to do was get help for her brother. Yet, Fatima had rebuked her and forbade her from telling Rashad.

Now, she wondered if she should brave her mother’s wrath and go back to the bedroom to tell the resting matron of the household that Rayan was on his way home. “Better not,” Afia mumbled to herself. Chances were, Rayan would stop at a bar or liquor store before coming home.

She put her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands.  She wondered if, while she had been struggling with the unfairness of falling in love with a man she wasn’t allowed to have, she had truly neglected her brother. Bionca, her roommate and best friend, had suggested Afia get Rayan into rehab again, but Rayan had resisted. So, Afia had used the knowledge of his drinking as leverage to keep Rayan from telling her parents that she was seeing Sam.

At the rate her brother was going, his alcoholism was becoming more than just an annoyance. He was in trouble, and Afia knew it. “I should’ve worked harder to convince him to go,” she murmured to herself. She was more determined now to get her brother treated than she had been before, with or without her parents’ help or blessing. She owed it to her sibling to be there for him in his time of need.

Afia looked up at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Her eyes flew to the entrance to the kitchen where her mother steadied herself with a hand to the doorjamb, looking wan and pale. “Maman,” she whispered in concern. The last Afia had seen her an hour prior, Fatima had been visibly sickened by the knowledge Rayan was drinking again and the suspicion her daughter was leading a secular lifestyle at graduate school. Afia half-rose from the kitchen table, but Fatima gestured for her to sit. “I thought you were sleeping.” 

Fatima exhaled wearily as she sat down across from Afia. She reached for her daughter’s hands with a sad smile. “I was wrong to berate you for telling me about Rayan,” Fatima murmured.

Afia looked down, apologies rare coming from her mother. “I understood you were worried and concerned, Maman.”

Fatima nodded, rubbing Afia’s slender, soft hands with her own work-roughened fingers.  She was a wife, after all, and a mother. She had callouses from sweeping, mopping, wiping tears, wringing her hands, pacing the floor, and praying for her children. Afia thought she understood, but the young woman really didn’t, and she wouldn’t until she had children of her own.

Smiling sadly, Fatima replied, “I see things.” She held up two fingers. “I watch the both of you. Don’t think I don’t see. I’m your mother, Afia. I know that Rayan has not been himself…I was hoping he was being sincere, that he wasn’t drinking and gambling again, but I know the things you’ve told me are true. Your brother has always been…sensitive to temptations. You were always the strong one.”

Afia forced herself to keep eye contact, despite the fact that she was weak when it came to Sam, a weakness that came of love. It didn’t seem wrong to her to love him with her whole heart, no matter what anyone else believed, because he loved her too.  She swallowed thickly at the thought. She drew her attention back to the conversation at hand, inhaling and pulling her hands away.

“Look here, Maman,” Afia murmured. She used her phone to pull up the website to the rehab center Bionca had suggested. “We can get him back in a program and help Rayan get back on his feet. This place specializes in treating clients who have multiple addictions. They can take care of him for both—“

Fatima held up a hand and interrupted the hurried stream of information Afia was trying to fire her way. She shook her head resolutely. “I will deal with this myself.”

Afia’s face dropped, and she exclaimed, “Maman, this isn’t something we can wish away!”

“Shh! I said I will deal with this.” Fatima cut her eyes at Afia for raising her voice. Rashad was asleep in the bedroom down the hall. She didn’t need him waking and hearing the conversation. “Now, you go home. Rest. Your brother will be home soon. I can feel it. A mother knows.”

Afia clamped her lips shut and refrained from telling her Rayan was indeed on his way home, thanks to Sam. She sighed and stood to collect her purse and car keys. “Just promise me, Maman, that if whatever you have in mind doesn’t work, you’ll consider the rehab option. I can help you and Baba pay for it. I’ll get a job.”

“You worry about your studies,” said Fatima, following her into the living room. She stopped her at the door with a solemn look and a firm voice. “And, you stay away from anything or anyone that might lead you astray, Afia. I was your age. I know what it’s like to be young and faced with so many opportunities to do the wrong thing, each of them looking more exciting and tempting than the last.  Whatever you do, my child, don’t forget the upbringing which has been instilled within you, the Sharia and Allah’s will that you may have a long and prosperous life. If you follow the laws, you will be blessed.”

“I know, Maman,” whispered Afia. She looked away guiltily.  “I’ll see you soon. Call me, no matter how late, whenever Rayan returns.”

Fatima nodded and saw her out the door. After she heard Afia’s car crank up and saw the headlights flash through the living room as her daughter backed out of the driveway, she settled her tired bones on the edge of an armchair to wait up for her wayward son. As she sat, she prayed. As she prayed, she cried. There had to be deliverance soon. Her heart couldn’t take much more heartbreak.

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