Knock-knock.
He stops, counts to three and gives three more brief knocks.
Knock-knock-knock.
The coded knock works, and the door opens.
A woman in full hijab greets us. I can only see her blue,greeneyes, turning warm, loving even, as soon as her gaze meets the Frenchman’s.
The Bedouin takes her hand, gently presses his lips against it, and waves at me to get inside.
The interior of the safe house sports the same clay-ish color as the outside, and there are wine-colored carpets with a Bulgarian design, both hanging from the walls and laid on the floor.
The woman and The Bedouin are having a conversation in French, so I don’t understand anything they are saying, but I’ve picked the wordAmerican, and I’m pretty sure they are talking about me. Also, the woman is looking at my direction, and so it kind of gives it away.
“Take a seat. She’s going to treat your wound,” he orders as the woman disappears behind a curtain.
“Do you think it’s safe for her to see my body?” I ask. As soon as I lift my garments, she will notice I’m not a man. It worries me. I don’t trust anyone.
“She already knows you are a woman. She’s okay, I trust her.”
“Rage?” I say through the earpiece.
“The Bedouin trusts her. You should too, but stay on your toes.”
“Copy that. By the way, do you ever sleep?” I ask him as I sit on an old green couch.
“Now that you mention it, it’s been a while since I’ve had more than three hours’ sleep,” he confesses without a smidge of concern.
Does he mean that he hasn’t slept enough since I’ve left the States?
No, it can’t be.
“Why not?”Life asks.
He wouldn’t do that.
“Go ahead and ask him. That should be easy enough for a bitch like you.”
Fuck you, Life. Fuck. You.
“Love you too, baby.”
“Rage, are you saying you haven’t rested properly since I left the States?”
Silence.
“Answer me, Rage,” I demand.
“Maybe,” he mumbles.
I lean forward, paying no attention to the throbbing pain coming from my waist, and cover my face with my hands in an attempt to hide the shame I feel right now.
The day we officially met in his office, I thought he was going to hurt me badly, but it turns out I’m the one doing the hurting. I’m hurting us both.
It hurts not being able to return the feelings he has for me right now. It’s clear that everything he does for me, to help me, is out of love. It pains me, and somehow, it feels wrong to accept that help.
He wants more, and I know it. He has been supporting me all the way here, step by step.
