Djinn and Tonic (7 page)

He leans close, whispers in my ear. “You can save them all, Leila. All you have to do is stop this ridiculous rebellion against your fate.”

I break away, shove him hard, putting magic and wind into the push. “Get out, you ugly pig.”

He flies across the room, slams into the wall beside the front door, and then rights himself. “Watch the way you speak to your betrothed, bitch.”
 

“You’re not my betrothed and you will
never
be my husband.” I refuse to cower as he stalks back toward me, his shape flickering between human flesh and ifriti flame.
 

He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a huge folding knife, black-bladed and wickedly sharp. “You
don’t
want to antagonize me. You don’t want to do this the hard way, Princess. You should know me well enough to know I’m not bluffing.” He takes a lock of my hair in his fingers, and before I can stop him, he cuts it off, sniffing it. “And next time I see you, you’d better be more appropriately dressed. My wife will not dress like a human whore.” He leaves, sauntering and swaggering, my hair still pressed to his nose.
 

Creep.

I stay upright until he’s gone, then slump to the floor, struggling to suppress a sob. I know he’s not bluffing. He will do everything he’s threatened, and worse. He’ll kill everyone I know. I’ve heard the stories about him, how bloodthirsty he is, how ruthless in getting what he wants. If even half the rumors about him are true, ‘cold-blooded killer’ would be the nicest of the applicable terms.
 

I can’t hold back the sobs, and they gush forth, wave after wave of tears born of anger, frustration and fear. The hardest part is that I know Hassan is right about my father. He
does
love me, and he is doing this because he thinks it’s best for me, and for the clan. But that’s only part of his reasoning. He owes the al-Jabiri clan. Billions of dollars ride on this alliance; centuries of violent feuding between our clans would be settled by this marriage; my life, my family’s lives…the future of everyone I care about rests on my willingness to marry Hassan al-Jabiri. But I can’t. I just
can’t
. The thought of signing the marriage contract and speaking the binding words makes me physically ill, to say nothing of having to have physical relations with him.
 

I shudder and nearly vomit just thinking about it.

But I don’t see a way out.

My father never consulted me on his business deals, obviously. He’s old school, Old World. Despite the fact that he has been in America for a long time, the ancient Arabic cultural traditions he adheres to mean my opinion doesn’t count, especially not when it comes to men and their business. By listening in on conversations and picking up the odd detail, I know Father has done many deals with Hassan’s father over the years in attempts to stop the in-fighting and ally them together against the other clans. One deal followed another, and then another, and then things started to go wrong. A deal went sour, and suddenly Father owed them money for a shipment of cocaine and firearms intercepted by the DEA. To get out of that debt, Father had to do another deal, and another, and suddenly he owed Farouk al-Jabiri hundreds of millions of dollars.
 

And what was my father’s grand scheme to get out from under all that debt?
 

Marry his one and only daughter off to the al-Jabiri family. Yes, he still believes in dowries and brideprice and all that. He is very old school. Very,
very
old school. He may live in a twenty-first-century mansion and drive an Aston Martin and carry an iPhone, but his beliefs and way of life are set firmly in thirteenth-century Baghdad, and that’s no exaggeration.

I don’t know what to do and I have no one to turn to. God help me. I can’t marry Hassan, I just can’t. But I also can’t sit by and watch my family get murdered on my account.

And then there’s Carson, and I can’t even begin to figure out where
he
fits into all of this.

Nowhere, is the correct answer. But my heart and my body don’t seem to be getting that message.

I can still taste him on my lips; feel his hand pulling me ever so subtly. All I want is to flee into his arms and pretend he can make my problems go away.
 

If he knew the truth about my father’s “business” dealings, would he still want me? Would he tip off the feds to my father’s illegal activities? This is a very slippery slope.

Or would he protect me from Hassan?

I have no answers, and eventually my sobs subside.
 

My arms are bruised from Hassan’s fingers, and my apartment is trashed from my little display of power. The first thing I do is clean the mud from my coffee table and spray Febreze in the air, trying to erase any evidence of his presence.

The next thing I do is call my father. Next to Hassan, he’s the last person on earth I want to talk to right now, but I have to make sure the family is okay.
 

I dial his number and hold the phone to my ear.

“You have not called in a very long time, daughter,” my father’s voice rumbles in my ear. “I worry for you, alone in that barbaric city. You must come home. We have much to discuss.”

“Father, listen—” I start, but he cuts me off, talking over me.

“I am willing to forgive your disobedience in running away from me, but you must return home. Now, more than ever, I require your obedience. Hassan will escort you.”

“There has to be another way—”

“There is not!” He raises his voice, something he never does. He’s always, always calm. Never rushed, never perturbed, never angry. “You
will
marry Hassan! You must. I have made this clear to you, my daughter. I have no male heir. You cannot inherit. There is no other way. There is no one else suitable. No, it must be Hassan, and you must be his wife. It is the only way. You are my daughter, and you will obey. I have allowed you your little…
rebellion
…for long enough.You have had your tantrum, and now it is enough. I have tolerated you dressing like a heathen and associating with outsiders for too long.
 
It is time for you to come home.
Now
.”

“Father, you don’t understand—”

He doesn’t let me finish. “There is nothing else you can say, Leila.”

I try again to get him to listen. “Father, you have to listen, Hassan was here, and he—”

“Your objections to him have been made clear, and it is my prerogative to override you. Come home, Leila. Immediately.”
 

Silence, then, and I realize he’s hung up. I didn’t even get to warn him.

Chapter 5: Truth and Exploration

Carson

She shows up at the hospital a little after five in the afternoon the next day, wearing cutoff jean shorts and an orange halter top. I have a feeling she’ll be cold in the hospital room. Not that I’m arguing. It’s mid-July and it’s been hitting the mid- to upper-nineties, so the hospital has the A/C cranked so low it’s downright frigid in here.
 

She’s got a brown paper bag full of take-out containers, which she sets down on the bed. I can feel the heat emanating from the containers, and the scent of fresh French fries fills the air. My stomach rumbles loudly enough for Leila to hear, and she laughs, a breathy sound accompanied by a flash of white teeth. Dragging the larger recliner-style chair from across the room with a deafening grating noise, Leila plops herself in it, sitting cross-legged.
 

I have to force my gaze away from the expanse of tanned, muscular thigh. I shake myself and meet her bright brown eyes, helping her arrange the food on the tray.

“Oh, awesome,” I say when I see the juicy burgers and shoestring fries. “Nemo’s! I was worried you’d bring some sort of girly vegetarian shit.”

Leila laughs. “Do I seem like the broccoli and wheat germ type to you?”
 

“I don’t know,” I say around a mouthful of fries. “We’ve never discussed food before. You’ve got runner’s legs, so you could very well have been a health food nut.”

Leila glances at me as she takes a huge bite of her burger, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “I’ve got runner’s legs, huh?” she asks, her mouth half-full.

“Uh-huh.” I shrug, going for nonchalance and not quite succeeding.

“What’s that mean?” She doesn’t look pissed, but it’s hard to be sure.

I sip from my can of Coke, trying to figure out how to explain myself without sounding like an asshole. “I don’t know. Long and muscular. The muscles are long and lean, though, not bunchy like a soccer player or something.”

Leila’s staring at me with a raised eyebrow. “I’m not sure whether I should be flattered that you’ve looked that closely at my legs, or weirded out by the fact that you can classify a woman according to the kind of legs she has.” She stretches a leg out in front of her to rest on the bed, pointing her toes and flexing the muscle as if trying to see what I saw.

“You’ve got nice legs, what can I say?” I murmur, tracing the line of her muscle from calf to knee, and then from knee up to her thigh.
 

I try to restrain myself from running my hand up her thigh, but I can’t. Her skin is soft, the muscles firm under my palm. She’s not breathing and neither am I. My fingers slip closer to the frayed hem of her cut-off shorts.

“That tickles,” Leila whispers, but she doesn’t move her leg away or stop my hand from its upward exploration.
 

She meets my eyes, takes a slow bite from her burger and shifts her leg to the side. It’s a subtle movement, but it sends a clear and intentional message. My heart is pounding crazily, nerves making my fingers tremble slightly, even though I’m doing nothing more than touching her leg. I’m barely halfway up her thigh, but I’m as excited and nervous as a boy copping his first feel.
 

Centimeter by centimeter, I let my hand slide along the smooth, warm expanse of her skin, electricity thrilling through me at the feel of her flesh. She’s watching me intently, her breasts rising and falling with every deep breath, her eyes widening as my fingers reach the white-thread hem of her jean shorts. A few more inches and the moment will shift from being innocently flirtatious to dangerously sexual.
 

We’re both intensely aware of the transitional nature of the moment: if I move my fingers any higher, I’ll be crossing a line. A kiss could be discounted, forgotten, ignored. A friendship could be maintained, despite the kisses. But if I continue to explore further up her thigh, it’ll constitute a blatant promise of things to come.
 

I can see the debate in Leila’s eyes.
 

I leave my hand where it is, on the innocent side of the invisible line, waiting for her give me an indication of what she wants. The moment stretches out, and I realize she’s not debating or deciding, but is waiting for
me.
She isn’t moving away or shifting her position to break the spell, but she’s not encouraging me either, as if she wants me to slide my hand further up her thigh, but yet is afraid of what it would mean for both of us if I do.
 

I don’t think; don’t stop to wonder if this is a good idea. I set aside my food, lean toward her, and kiss her. The act of leaning in to press my mouth to hers pushes my hand upward, sliding my fingers under the hem of her shorts. My breath catches as she stretches her thigh to one side and pulls me closer, in the process giving me access to what lies beneath the denim.
 

My fingers slide higher, pressing into soft flesh and firm muscle, and then I feel the crease of her leg where it meets her hip, and I feel her muscles trembling, quivering ever so gently.
 

My hair stirs, and I feel the sheet across my hips flutter. I feel Leila’s hair drifting in a breeze.
   

I feel myself hardening with desire. I feel the edge of her panties, the soft silk covering her core, and I want to slip my fingers under it and delve in, find her heat. But I don’t. Intentionally, I don’t. I slide my touch up along her hip and back into relative innocense. It’s a conscious choice to delay the moment, and as my fingers move away from her core, I feel Leila relaxing slightly, hear her exhale a breath. She seems both disappointed and relieved. I withdraw my hand entirely and let it rest on her knee.

We finish our food in silence.
 

“Why’d you stop?” Leila finally asks, when we’re both done eating. She won’t quite meet my eyes. “You were right there, but you didn’t touch me.”
 

“I almost did,” I admit. “I wanted to, but I didn’t want to start something I couldn’t finish.” I feather my fingers into her hair, lean close and whisper my lips over her ear. “And Leila, what I want to do…we can’t finish it here.”

She shivers, and I feel goose bumps ripple across her skin. “Scootch over. I’m cold.” Leila shifts out of the chair and perches on the edge of the bed, nudging me over.
 

I move aside for her, spreading the sheet and the thin blanket over both of us. The bed is narrow enough that we’re both nearly hanging off the edge. She’s lying partially on her side, partially on her back. It’s another instinctive reaction: I slide my arm beneath her neck and pull her to my chest. She scrunches down to fit her head in the crook of my shoulder, resting a knee and thigh over mine.
 

It’s strange, lying in so familiar and intimate a way with a girl I barely know; but it doesn’t feel awkward, though, and that’s the strangest part about it. It feels totally natural, totally normal.

Comforting.
 

I rarely just hold a woman like this. If there’s a woman in my bed, she’s not just lying there. That’s part of what sets Leila apart, in my mind.
 

It’s not that I don’t want her that way, but I don’t want it to be casual. I’ve had casual, and I’m over it. I’m enjoying this feeling, the closeness, the sense of affection in the way she’s resting her head on me. There’s a sweetness and an innocent tenderness in the stillness between us, a comfort in the easy silence. Her hair tickles my face, and I smooth it away. I want her, I do, but she’s different and, as I’ve said before, I want to wait for her.