Authors: Jasinda Wilder
Leila shakes her head. “I’ll fight him. I’d rather die than marry him.” The unspoken implication is that she’d lose the fight.
“I’m not okay with that.”
“It’s not your choice!” Leila shouts. “This is
my
life,
my
family,
my
problem, not yours!”
“What if I make it my problem? What if I tell you I’m not going to let you leave?”
Leila rolls out of the bed, clutching the sheet to her chest, eyes blazing now. “I’m so
sick
of men thinking they can control my life! This isn’t your choice, Carson! I’m in love with you, yes, but I have a duty to my family too. I just…I can’t let Hassan hurt them because of me. I don’t expect you to understand, but you can’t make this choice for me, and you can’t tell me what to do.”
“That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that, Leila. I just meant…god, this is not how I expected this morning to go.” I stand up and round the bed, take her by the arms and pull her against my chest. She resists at first, stiff and unmoving, but I wrap my arms around her anyway, kissing the top of her head.
“You don’t have to do this alone, Leila,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you what to do. That wasn’t what I intended. I just meant that I have a choice in this too, and I won’t sit idly by while you marry some crazy thug or ifrit king or whatever just to protect your family…who’re the reason you’re in this mess to begin with, I might add. If I want to risk my life to help you, that’s
my
choice. If you try to run off, I’ll follow you and I’ll find a way to fix this mess you’re in or I’ll die trying.”
She melts a little, tilting her head up to look at me. “Why? Why would you do that for me?”
“It’s how I’m built; it’s in my nature to protect. It’s why I became a cop, why I wear the badge. But more importantly…I love you.” It’s getting easier to say those three words. “I’m not going to let you go. Not without a fight.”
“You barely know me.”
“Stop playing devil’s advocate. I know enough. I know you’re sweet and caring, and I know you’re stubborn and smart and athletic, and I know you’re an ifrit princess, and that you control the winds and that you control my heart. I know you’re sexy as hell and that you can turn me on just by looking at me. I may not have known you for very long, but I feel like I’ve known you forever, and I can’t picture my life without you in it.” Leila lets go of the sheet and wraps her arms around my neck as I speak, playing with the hair at the back of my neck, the pressure of our bodies holding the sheet in place. “I will do anything I have to—
anything
—to keep you in my life, and to protect you.”
Leila’s lips part, but no words come out. She wipes at her face, at the tears that track down her cheeks. “How did we get to this place?” she whispers. “How can you know that?”
“I just do. I…as stupid as this may sound, I feel like I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.” I shake my head, laughing at myself. “God, listen to me. I sound like some stupid romance movie. But you know what? It’s true, however cliché and cheesy it may be.”
Leila lets the sheet fall away, crawls onto the bed and presses her naked body against mine. She gasps as my cock nudges between her folds, she moans as I sink into her, sighs against my neck as I slide deep into her wet warmth. I kiss her peaked nipples and urge her to move, cup her lush taut ass with both hands and grind her body down against my thrusts, and I relish the bite of her nails as they claw down my chest, exult in the slippery slide of our bodies and the rush of heat and the wet sucking of her pussy as I drive up into her soft slickness. She rides me with wild abandon, her hips rolling without slowing or pausing, gasping and groaning and growling low in her throat, fingers digging into my chest, clawing and scraping, hair flying as she thrashes on top of me. I feel her hot tight pussy clench tighter as the climax rushes over her, and I lean up to lap at her thick, rigid nipples as she comes, and when she’s limp and leaning over me and trying to stay upright, I roll over and pin her beneath me, cup her beautiful face with my palm and pulse into her, thrusting slowly and gently to my own climax, which explodes in me like wildfire, but I keep my eyes on hers and let her see into me. I move slowly, trembling and silent, letting her see my love, letting her feel it as I fill her.
The winds are silent as we come, but the flood of magic skirls between us, twining our selves into an oblivion of unity.
*
*
*
Eventually, Leila makes me go home to shower and get clean clothes. I refuse to leave until I’ve gotten a promise from her that she won’t do anything until we’ve had a chance to talk more. I hate leaving her even for an hour, but a part of me knows I need some time alone to process everything I’ve learned since Leila crashed into me outside the gym.
I end up back at the gym, lying beneath the free weights bench, pressing the loaded bar with a furious intensity, but it’s not desperation driving me this time. I’m flushed with a kid-like excitement at the prospect of being with Leila, happier than I’ve ever been. I still smell of her, feel her skin against mine, remember the look of love in her eyes as we came together, and that drives me to pushing the bar harder and harder until my arms quiver with exhaustion, and yet still I lift and lower again and again.
I know I shouldn’t be lifting free weights without a spotter, especially with the kind of weight I’ve got on the bar, but the gym is empty and I need the challenge to get my thoughts in gear. I push the bar back up on the hooks and rest for a few moments between sets, thinking.
The situation Leila describes definitely presents a few problems, certainly, but strangely I feel no fear. Maybe I should, since even the small glimpse I’ve gotten of her powers shook me to the core, and by her account, this Hassan is even more powerful than either Miriam or Leila. And now that I’m thinking about it, Hassan does sound like a kind of hopped-up Mafia kingpin with X-Men powers, and honestly that
does
worry me. What if bullets don’t work on ifrits?
I really don’t have much of a plan beyond driving down to Chicago and confronting Hassan and Leila’s father. As much as I hate to admit it, the idea of that confrontation does send a thrill of fear down my spine; I’ve seen first-hand what Miriam’s fire-powers can do to a body, and I’ve seen Leila’s powers toss automobiles around like confetti. I sure as hell don’t have a death wish, but I’m not willing to stay out of it either.
I need to do some research; if I’ve learned anything as a detective, it’s that all problems are better handled with more information. I know a few people down in Chicago; maybe I can make few calls, see what I can find out about this Hassan al-Jabiri, and Leila’s father, as well.
With a grunt, I push the weight bar free again and lower it to my chest, lift it up and tighten my grip when my sweaty palms shift on the metal. I growl, heave, and get it up, then go for one more, my arms trembling now. I lower the bar to an inch above my chest, but this time it feels like more of a barely-controlled fall. I strain and push, but the bar lowers the last inch and comes to rest on my chest. Three hundred pounds are crushing my sternum, and I’m pushing, pushing, gasping and straining, but I can’t quite get it up far enough, and I can’t breathe, spots blinking in my vision as a lack of oxygen begins to sap my strength. I feel a fleeting burst of panic as my vision blurs and my lungs burn, the bones in my chest cracking. I’m moments from blacking out, succumbing to the pain, and then a pair of huge black hands grabs the bar and lifts it free easily and suddenly I can breathe again.
“Easy now…” The voice accompanying the hands is deep and smooth. “You all right, Carson?”
I’m still gasping for breath and unable to move, trembling with the after-effects of panic and adrenaline. I force my breathing to slow, and my vision eventually stops swimming enough for me to make out the features of Wallace Dixon, who goes by the nickname “Juice”. One of the personal trainers at the gym, Juice is
enormous
, standing six-foot-six with arms bigger than my thighs, legs like tree trunks, and scars and tats on his ebony skin that speak of time behind bars. I work out with Juice all the time, since we’re both here nearly every day, and I consider the burly but quiet ex-convict a friend, despite his mysterious past.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine now,” I say. “Thanks. I don’t know what happened.”
Juice chuckles, a low rumble like boulders colliding. “What happened is you was thinkin’ instead of lifting.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” I agree.
Juice is a complex man, I’ve come to realize. Our many conversations over the years spent side by side, pushing weights, have shown me that Juice possesses a quick mind and a penchant for philosophy belied by his heavily muscled and thickly scarred exterior. Juice has lived a rough life, I suspect, although he always avoids any discussions of his past. I’ve never pushed him to talk about it and never will, but I’ve seen an enormous amount of long-buried pain in his eyes, in the hard-earned wisdom he displays when he does talk.
“Care to talk about it?” Juice asks in his slow, musical voice.
I hesitate: there’s a lot I can’t talk about, a lot that Juice probably wouldn’t even believe if I did tell him, since I’m having a hard time believing it all myself.
“It’s complicated, you know?” I don’t want to offend my friend, but it’s best if I just don’t get into it.
Juice nods, his eyes narrowing. “‘It’s complicated’ always means a woman’s involved, in my experience. They got a way of complicating things.”
I laugh, nodding. “Yeah, they do. Especially this one.”
Juice sits down on the weight bench opposite me, a fifty-pound free weight held in each hand, lifting them in a one-two rhythm, slowly and methodically. “Is she worth the complications?”
I nod immediately. “Yeah, she really is. It’s just…there’s a lot that could keep us apart, and I’m not sure where to start trying to fix things, or if I even can.”
Juice doesn’t answer right away, focusing on finishing his set first. Then he rests his elbows on his knees. “Well, I can tell you don’t wanna get into specifics, which is fine. When shit gets overwhelming, I’ve learned to pick the biggest problem and fix that one first. Everything else will seem simple by comparison. If she’s worth it, you’ll get through it, one way or another.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just—”
“Hey, it ain’t none of my business,” Juice interrupts. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I’m just offering my two cents.”
“Thanks, Juice.” I stand up and put the weights away, wipe down the bench I used. “I’m gonna get out of here. I’ll talk to you later.”
Juice nods, shakes my hand and returns to his weights.
Driving back to my apartment for a shower, I review the situation again, this time isolating the biggest problem: Hassan.
After a shower, I sit down with my cell phone and my laptop and do some research. One phone call leads to two, which leads to four, which leads to a Google search and a printed set of directions to a particular address in Chicago.
I’m in detective mode; the lover, the worried protector, he’s buried for now, set aside to make way for the relentless hunter.
A buddy in the FBI emails me a file containing a few pages of basic profile information, a couple photographs, and a list of crimes Hassan al-Jabiri is thought to be connected to. It’s extensive: drug deals, murders, assault and battery, breaking and entering, rape, money laundering, kidnapping, assault on a police officer, bribery of a public official…the list goes on, and my stomach rebels against the idea of Leila ever being touched by the man these files portray.
The file is marked “Do not apprehend” in bold letters; a small-time badge from Detroit has no business going after a guy like Hassan, the warning implies. But the fact that Rob even sent the file means he knows I won’t listen, and that I might as well know what I’m getting into.
If Rob only knew.
A few more searches turn up another name: Ibrahim Najafi. There’s significantly less information on him, but what there is reveals a shrewd and cunning businessman, successful and well respected. There are suspicions of illicit dealings on the side, but nothing concrete.
I eventually close the laptop, roll up a few changes of clothes and stuff them in a backpack, then put my personal firearm at the small of my back and swing into my car.
It’s time to pay a visit to one Ibrahim Najafi.
Chapter 14: Sitting in the Ashes
Leila
After Carson leaves to hit the gym and change, I dress for a run and strap my iPod to my arm, enjoying the slight soreness in certain places on my body, smiling at the memory of how I got to be that sore. Running cools my head, gets my thoughts pushing through the fog of day-to-day life. It helps me think. Now, sex-sated and love-saturated and knowing Carson is coming back to me soon, I run with the wind, a bit careless in the way I let it blow me along, letting it fade my edges into invisibility. It’s a brilliant, sunny day and I finally feel
alive
, finally feel like something might be going right.
I make some decisions while I run:
I’ll go back to Chicago, talk to Father, and tell him I simply will not marry Hassan. There
has
to be another way. Father has to have some back door to all this mess he’s gotten himself into.
And if not…I’ll face Hassan, come what may.
I take a long, scalding-hot shower when I get back, and I daydream again, wishing Carson were in here with me. I feel insatiable, now that I’ve had a taste of him.
When I get out of the shower and dry off, though, something in my apartment feels…off. I wrap myself in my towel, suddenly sure of what I’ll find when I emerge from the bathroom.