“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, backing away from the table.
He smiles warmly and gestures to the table. “Tables are at a premium; I don’t mind sharing with you.”
“Thank you. I’ve had a horrible night,” I say, setting my drink on the table.
He cocks his head to the side. “I’m from Mosul. If you don’t mind me asking…your accent…where are you from?”
His soft voice and soft belly remind me of my beloved, and the anxiety of being around all these men settles for a second.
“I was raised in San Antonio, buteayilati min Karkuka.”
My parents are from Kirkuk.
“No wonder your accent is so slight,” he says with a genuine smile, his eyes sparkling. “What mosque do you go to?”
“Oh, uh, my parents are Christian, and I don’t go anywhere,” I say on a shrug, my eyes catching on a medallion that looks vaguely familiar, like it might be a religious symbol. It’s always weird to talk to someone from Iraq because the assumption is that I am Muslim, and I never know what direction the conversation will go once I drop in the fact I’m actually not religious at all.
His face is kind. “Ah. I don’t really have a mosque, either. Not much of a fan of organized religion, considering most are not fans of people like us.”
I nod, relieved I don’t have to explain myself yet again. If Everett doesn’t want me, then this guy might end up being a really good dry-spell breaker. I consider canceling Parker but then decide I’ll just try for a number. “True. My husband always felt more comfortable practicing his faith on his own.”
“And just to double-check, you’re not married anymore?” he asks, his grin soft and inviting.
I smile back and shake my head. “No. He passed about a year ago.”
He slides his hand up my forearm with a gentle grip. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t break my heart and tell me you are married still, but I am sad you were widowed.”
I enjoy the warmth of human touch on my arm and actually relax. “Thank you… It’s been a hard year, but I’m starting to feel better. A little at a time.”
I realize as I’m talking to him that, though he’s very nice, he reminds me a little too much of my Asa, and any thoughts of him breaking my dry spell crumble to dust.
His gentle eyes have a knowing look, and he pats my arm again. “Something tells me I’ve lost you all the same. I apologize, was I too forward?”
Tears beckon, but I manage to hold them back. “Oh, you’ve done nothing wrong. But you look and sound a little like my beloved. He was from Mosul, too, and it’s a little too close to home for me.”
“Yes, Asadi was a good man. I’m sure he would be proud of you.”
I smile at the happy sentiment before an undefined ugliness puts a chill on my warm thoughts. I had absolutely not told this man Asa’s name. His hand on my arm tightens as my grip on reality falters.
The soft look in his eyes hardens, but his smile stays plastered in place, revealing the viper that he is. Pulling back his jacket to give me a peek of his holstered gun, he warns in Arabic, “If you make a scene, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
I should probably be more afraid. There are a ton of people around, but most of them are in the bar area, and the evening shadows are beginning to fall under the trees. Asa never spared the details of what happened to him. He always figured if I asked the question, I was ready for the answer, which is true because I finally recognize the medallion with the scorpion on it. I know as much as I know my own name that I am looking into the eyes of one of the men who tortured my Asa. If I had a gun in my hand, I would point it at his head and pull the trigger without hesitation.
But I am unarmed in more ways than one, rendered still by his words. Just as I’ve given myself over to the idea that I will suffer my husband’s fate, a familiar voice rings out.
“Hey, look. You found someone to speak Arabic with.” My heart drops.No no no.Parker is standing next to me, an adorable vision in an outfit she probably just threw on, sipping on a martini. “Hold on, I’ve been practicing. Um…aismi Parker, ma hu asmk?”
Her expectant smile is warm…until she sees his grip on me. Her expression freezes, and just as her eyes find mine, a second man comes up behind her. From the outside he’d seem like an old friend, hugging a buddy from behind, his grin a perfect mimic of the frat-boy smiles going around the bar. The huge serrated knife pressed flat against her sternum tells a different story.
They drag us in the direction of a path that cuts through the trees to the street that runs alongside the bar. The cold fear in Parker’s eyes fires up a protective instinct in me. Fuck, I can’t just accept that we’re going to die. If this is it, I’m not going to let them take us to some unknown location where our bodies will never be found.
If we’re going down, we’re going down swinging.
Calling on our shared love of true crime podcasts, I wait till we make eye contact and yell out, “No second location!”
Her eyes go from abject terror to grim determination in a single second. Neither of us has enough leverage to kick or punch, but she snarls and yells back, “Deadweight!”
We both stop struggling and let our weight go, dragging them to a halt as they lose their grip on us. My guy still has a bit of a hand on me, but Parker drops to the ground, the knife glancing up and striping her cheek. Without stopping for a second, she pivots and punches up into his groin with all her force.
