Everett
Six months ago
I look down at the slight man sitting in the passenger seat of my car. Rafi is tiny, maybe just over five feet tall, with pretty brown skin, a short, well-groomed beard, thick eyebrows that highlight his beautiful cheekbones, and soul-stealing, whiskey-brown eyes. There are a few bruises on his face, but his knuckles are bloodied and beat to hell.
Not ten minutes ago I pulled him off my buddy Roly, who he’d been beating the shit out of. As I was dragging Rafi away, Roly choked out a name I thought I’d never hear again.
Asadi.
In a gym full of combat vets and special operators, a lot of us knew that name.
Roly was the only one who’d put together that Rafi was Asadi’s widower, and we instantly understood there was no way in hell Roly was ever going to press charges.
He knew what we all knew: Rafi hadeveryright to be angry.
I don’t have an eidetic memory, but I do remember the key personnel in every mission I ever undertook. Now that Roly made the connection, a few details bubble up—Rafiq Shadid, interpreter for the team that supported Asadi Noorani, the most useful asset we ever had. They were married about two years ago.
Asadi went through hell and flipped on his own family to help our side. When he was finally able to settle down into the life he deserved, he died. I don’t know why Rafi went off on Roly, but I’ll let him tell me in his own time.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask, refocusing on the vibrating bit of rage and anguish sitting in my passenger seat.
Rafi looks over at me as though he forgot I was driving. His voice is gentle and softly accented. “Uh, yeah. I guess. Not sure what got into me back there.”
“Not to disagree with a man who’s clearly willing to take exception, but I feel fairly certain that you know exactly what got into you. Wanna talk about it?” I ask, pulling my ’69 Chevelle into a parking space in front of his apartment. One of his neighbors is a police officer, and my pulse quickens at the sight of an empty cop car one space over.
Rafi unbuckles his seat belt and brings his feet to the seat, lowering his head to his knees. The hitch in his breathing is muffled by the ring of his arms, his body shaking as the floodgates open. I place a broad hand on his slender back and try to ignore the fact that my hand nearly spans the width of him.
His sobs ricochet in the small space, pummeling us for several minutes. The pain radiating from his folded-up figure is overwhelming, a third presence in the car, and I’m helpless to make it better for him. Glancing at the cop car, I’m reminded I have places to go and a body to dispose of.
But the dead will wait.
“Do you need a hug?”…is a question I may live to regret.
He lifts his tearstained, reddened face and gives me a tight, pained nod. I’m not quite sure what I had in mind, but as I unbuckle my own seat belt, he fills my lap, all delicate limbs and bony knees. He pushes his wet face into the juncture of my neck and shoulder, wrapping his arms so tightly around me that my lungs feel the squeeze.
His beard is soft against my skin, the sensation nearly undoing me as I will my dick to stay in check. Rafi is perfect against my larger frame, but that can’t be my focus right now. He’s hurting, so I sit here and let him cry.
This goes on for a few more minutes until his tears give way to loud, wet sniffles and the tight muscles of his body soften in my arms.
“What’s going on, Rafi? Can you talk to me?”
His face still buried in my neck, he nods and sniffles again. I lean forward to open the glove box, grabbing a handful of Starbucks napkins. He takes several and wipes down his face, then blows his nose loudly.
“I’m so sorry. I’m disgusting. You don’t even know me. I’m so sorry.”
I tighten my grip around him and dare not contradict him.
“Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger than to confide in people who know you well.”
Blowing his nose again, he shakes his head, nuzzling back into my neck. “You’re just saying that because you’re trying to flirt with me.”
I cradle him closer, inhaling his soft scent. “Rafi, no. I can’t just let a man cry in my arms without finding out how to help him, how to make it better. I’m not going to leave someone stranded, physically or emotionally.”
The rotting corpse in my trunk says this is shit timing to start being a good person, but when Rafi pulls back, his pretty face is a mess, and I have no willpower for that sort of thing. His eyes are red and swollen, as is his nose, and his lips are rough and nearly bloody from the scraping and biting he’s inflicted on them.
“Do you know about my husband?”
I decide against lying to him. “A little.”
