Jack and Djinn

by Amber Sweetapple

  “Yeah,” Miriam said, “but I was hoping you’d cut me a deal. And the mechanics at those other garages are all ugly. And rude.”

  “And that makes me…what?”

  “Nice. And sexy…” Miriam heard the words come out of her mouth, but she hadn’t meant to say them.

  Jack laughed, a little awkwardly. “Thanks?”

  Miriam went for broke: “But you’re right, I really did come to see you. I can’t thank you enough for what you did the other night.”

  Jack’s eyes hardened. “Anyone in their right mind would’ve done the same thing.”

  Miriam shook her head. “Not everyone. It’s happened before, just like that. There was a guy walking out to his car, and he started to say something, but Ben just glared at him and the guy left.”

  “Fuckin’ coward.” Jack shook his head. “Listen, I’m off in like twenty minutes. I just have to finish this car real quick. Do you wanna grab a burger or something?” Miriam told herself she shouldn’t. Just go home.

  “Sure, sounds good,” she told him, feeling butterflies in her stomach.

  Jack was as good as his word, emerging twenty minutes later, the top of his coveralls unzipped and thrown back, revealing a white tank-top and hard, toned arms, a Celtic knot tattooed on his left bicep with what she guessed was Gaelic script underneath it. Miriam left her car at the garage, sitting behind Jack on his bike.

  He took her to his apartment, an aging red brick two-story building. “I’ve gotta clean up real quick. Okay?” Miriam just nodded and followed him to a second-floor apartment, a neat and sparsely-furnished one-bedroom. It smelled of oil paint and turpentine. A canvas sat on an easel in a corner of the living room, where a TV might usually go. There were faint pencil sketches on the canvas, but nothing Miriam could identify.

  Jack followed her gaze, shrugged. “I love to paint. The garage pays the bills, but the painting is where my heart really is. Making money as an artist is nearly impossible, though, so I don’t quit my day-job.” He swept an arm at the apartment. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be quick.” He stepped into the bathroom, pulling his shirt off on the way. Miriam turned away, although her thoughts followed him into the bathroom. A stack of canvasses leaned against the wall near the galley kitchen, and she flipped through them carefully. He was talented, she realized, although she was no artist herself. There were landscapes, still-lifes, portraits. One painting in particular caught her eye, a depiction of a candle flame seen from close up. It looked as if it could resume flickering any moment, the candle and wick just barely visible at the bottom of the canvass, the wax caught mid-drip and pooling near the wick. The flame seemed hypnotic to Miriam, as if she could feel its heat, see it wavering and dancing in the darkness. Staring at the painted flame, Miriam felt some coiled energy deep in her core expand and unleash, sending waves of heat from her in distorted shimmers. The push of power was consuming her, burning her, pressing on her chest so hard she couldn’t breathe; she had to get it out, she had to release it somehow. Miriam extended a finger to touch the image of the flame, and at the moment of contact the painting began to dance and waver, became impossibly real. She felt heat coming from the painting, so hot she thought it might scorch her skin and catch her clothes on fire. When her hand left the surface of the canvas the dancing candle flame went still, returning to dead paint.

  Jack spoke up from behind her, she jumped, gasping. “Like it?” he asked, his voice at her ear. She could feel the heat radiating from his body. She didn’t have to turn around to know he would be still wet, hair mussed and damp, a thin towel wrapped around angular hips, looking like it might fall of at the slightest touch. She took a deep breath and turned to face him, knowing she shouldn’t. She forced her gaze upward, forced her hands to stay at her sides.

  “It’s amazing,” she said, not certain whether she was talking about him or the painting anymore.

  “You can have it, if you like it that much,” he said. He seemed to have caught her accidental double entendre, returning it in the tone of his words and the smile in his eyes.

  “Really? I would love it. It would go great in my room.” She was sure she was blushing. She hadn’t blushed since high school. She was almost thirty, and blushing. What was wrong with her?

  “I’ll bring it over sometime, then.” He was inches away, looking down at her. Miriam’s hands were lifting on their own, tracing the lines of his abdominal muscles, drifting toward the V where his torso met his hips and groin. Her fingers followed the rolled rim of the towel, inching it farther downward, loosening it. She hadn’t meant to touch him, but where her fingers brushed his skin she felt an electric tingling, a flutter of wings in her belly. She stepped away before her hands helped the towel fall off, pushing him towards his bedroom.

  “Go get dressed,” she told him, “I’m hungry.” Jack complied, a little reluctantly. As they walked out, Miriam noticed a candle flickering on the counter in the kitchen. She was sure it hadn’t been there before. It was a plain white candle, thick and round, with wax pooled near the wick and spilling over to drip in clumps down the length of the candle. The drips had not yet reached the countertop. Miriam dismissed it from her mind, or tried to, but the image of the dancing candle flame on the canvas stuck in the back of her mind.

  “Should I blow out the candle?” Miriam asked.

  Jack stopped in his tracks, confused. “What candle?” Miriam shrugged and crossed the room to blow out the candle. “That’s weird. I’ve never bought a candle in my life. Did you bring it?”

  Miriam just shook her head, and Jack dismissed it, although he glanced back at it before he shut his door. Miriam had an idea where it may have come from, but she pushed the thought from her head. No way. She’d just imagined the painting coming to life. Right? It was just her imagination. Maybe one of Jack’s sisters had brought him a candle and he’d just forgotten. That was it.

  Jack took her to Mr. B’s, got them a pitcher of Killian’s and a plate of cheese sticks, waiting for Miriam to order before he did. She was used to Ben ordering for her, taking her to fancy restaurants and buying bottles of expensive wine, freaking out about every little thing she said, getting offended, always talking talking talking, just to fill the silence. Jack was calm and confident, able to sit and peruse the menu in companionable silence, not needing to fill it with endless chatter. He kept the conversation light, and Miriam was grateful.

  Halfway through the meal, his cell phone rang and he answered it, spoke briefly and ended the call. “Sorry,” Jack said. “That was my older brother. We’re having a get-together next weekend, and he was finalizing plans. Hey, you should come.”

  “You have a brother?” Miriam, having been an only child, was always curious about people with siblings.

  Jack laughed, “Yeah, I have…two brothers and two sisters.” He paused for a split second before he said ‘two,’—a slight thing, but Miriam noticed it. She tilted her head in a silent question.

  Jack shook his head, as if wishing she had missed it. “Well, technically, I have three brothers, I guess.”

  “Technically?”

  There was a sadness in his eyes, and Miriam wished she hadn’t pushed the subject. “My oldest brother, Joe…” Jack hesitated, drank from his beer. “Joe hung himself when I was fifteen. It was weird though. I fell asleep during history class and had this intense dream, where I came home from school and found Joe in the garage, strung up by a noose around his neck, a chair kicked over beneath him. I woke up halfway through class, sweating, almost crying. It had been…just so real. It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like…like a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

  “I cut the rest of school and ran all the way home, knowing what I’d find. And I did find him, exactly like I’d dreamed. So now I only have two brothers.” He waved his hand, as if dismissing the memory.

  “Oh god, Jack, I’m so sorry! I had no idea,” she said, wishing she could comfort him somehow. It was still a raw, painful memory, apparently.

  �
��Of course you didn’t. How could you? It was a long time ago.” Jack took a drink and changed the subject. “What about you? Any siblings?”

  Miriam shook her head, “No, I was an only child.” She hoped he didn’t ask for details. There was a lot there that she didn’t want to explain. Not yet.

  He nodded, his eyes searching her for something. Apparently he felt her unspoken desire to talk about something else. “Ah. Well, you should come to the party next weekend. It’ll be fun. My family is a riot at parties, lemme tell ya.” A hint of Irish crept into his voice. “Dozens of drunk Irishmen? We’ll all be your siblings. My sisters always wanted an extra girl in the family anyhow.”

  She tried to imagine what it would be like to have that much family. She couldn’t wrap her brain around it. “I’d like that. It sounds like fun.”

  “Oh it will be. These family get-togethers are always a right crazy ruckus, as my grandpa says.”

  He took her home well past midnight. Once again she found herself standing a step up from him, staring into his wide blue eyes, wondering what he was thinking. They were at that awkward distance, not quite close enough to kiss, but almost. She hesitated, her eyes locked on his, not pulling away, not moving closer. Jack broke the tension by kissing her. Miriam froze with hands at her sides, trying to resist, trying to keep things simple, but it was far too late. His lips were soft, and he kissed her gently, hesitantly, feeling her resistance and giving her the chance to pull away. His arms were around her waist, at the small of her back. Her shirt was hiked up in the back, exposing a strip of skin above the waistband of her pants; his fingers found this gap, exploring tentatively, warm palms sliding up her spine and she couldn’t resist anymore, leaned in against him and tangled her fingers in his hair, kissed him back, pressed her body against his. She could feel his heart hammering wildly, felt his exploring hands tremble against the flesh of her back near her bra strap; he was as nervous as she was, and this endeared him to her all the more.

  Time slowed and stilled, and Miriam felt the same odd rush of warmth in her gut, heat spreading throughout her, setting her skin alight, making her scalp tighten and every sense heighten so she could hear Jack’s heart beating and felt every brush of his hands on her skin like arcing electricity and she could smell him, aftershave and paint and leather. Miriam was breathless, she was drowning; no, not drowning, but burning up, she was being consumed by the fires within her…

  Jack was the first to pull away, suddenly, hissing between his teeth. “God, you’re…you’re hot, like physically hot to the touch.” He looked at his palms as if expecting so see the skin melted. He grinned at her, “I mean, you’re hot too, in the other sense–like, beautiful.” Miriam laughed, glad he wasn’t bolting in fear. She had thought for a moment that she might actually burst into flame, or singe Jack. He was looking at her with obvious hunger, visible desire, his hands resting on the swell of her hips. She knew it wasn’t fair to compare them, but she couldn’t help it: Ben had never, ever looked at her like Jack was looking at her now, had never touched her the way Jack was touching her now, had never kissed her so passionately. Ben touched her as if he owned her, as if he had a right to her. He kissed her as part of foreplay, so he could sleep with her. He looked at her…Miriam tried to categorize how Ben looked at her, and couldn’t. Ownership, again? Contempt? Smug possession seemed to be the most apt term.

  “What are you thinking?” Jack asked. He was perceptive. Her face must have betrayed her thoughts.

  “Just…” she couldn’t tell Jack what she feeling. He’d want to continue this–this whatever this was, and that would only get him hurt. “Just that I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have–I’m sorry.” She turned and ran up the stairs, leaving Jack there.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked. She could hear the hurt and confusion in his voice.

  Miriam paused halfway up the steps. She couldn’t let him think this was his fault. “You didn’t do anything,” she said, turning around but not descending. She didn’t trust herself to get near him again. “I promise, Jack, you didn’t do anything. Bad, I mean. Or wrong, or whatever. You stopped Ben, and I’m thankful for that. You’ve been so nice to me…too nice. I can’t do this with you. I mean, I just met you, and…” She tried to think of a better reason, but he was coming up the steps toward her, and the desire in his eyes washed away her logic.

  “I know what it is,” Jack said. “You’re trying to protect me. You’re afraid of him finding out about us, and what he’ll do to me.” He was two steps below her now, and she felt her will to turn away weakening.

  “I–no, I mean, yeah. A little, I guess.” She wasn’t making any sense. She took a deep breath, tried again. “Listen Jack. You’re right. But it’s not that I don’t think you can take care of yourself. I just know Ben. I’ve seen him take down guys twice his size, two or three of them at a time. I’ve watched him take a beating most men couldn’t survive and get back up. He’s…you don’t want to mess with him.” She backed up a step. “You’re amazing, Jack. I mean that. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Not for me.”

  “I’m sure he’s a badass,” Jack said, a wry edge to his voice. “He looks like he could rip my arm off and beat me with it. I’m sure if I knew him, I’d be pissing myself. You’re his girl and he’d kill me for even looking at you. I get it, Miriam. But what if I don’t care? What if I’m willing to take that risk?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Jack. You just met me. You don’t know me.” He was getting too close. He had burrowed under her walls somehow and found her vulnerable heart, saying exactly what she had always wanted to hear, and it scared the hell out of her.

  “Yes I do. You may be his girl, but you don’t belong with him. You deserve better.”

  “And you can give me better, I suppose?” She was getting defensive now, and she felt her walls rising up. Not because she didn’t trust him, or believe he could and would treat her better, but because she did. She wanted to, desperately, and that was dangerous for both of them.

  “Yes! I can. I will,” he said; bang, the walls were up, gates closed. She wanted him more than anything, but she knew how it would go. He’d be all nice and charming now, but if she left Ben for him, he’d change. Assuming Ben didn’t literally kill him, of course.

  “It won’t work Jack. I’m sorry. You should forget you met me.” She turned and ascended the steps, refusing to look back.

  “Yeah, right.” Jack actually laughed at that. “You can’t push me away that easily, Miriam. I know what you’re doing and it won’t work.”

  She stopped, but didn’t turn around. “What am I doing, then?”

  “You’re trying to start an argument so you can be mad at me. Among other things. Listen, you like me. I can feel it. And god knows I like you. More than I should for having just met you.” She was walking away, and he was raising his voice, not yelling, not desperate, only insistent. “You can’t scare me off, and you can’t push me away. Just give me a chance.”

  Miriam wanted to, more than anything. She wanted to rush back down to him, but she refused to let herself. She unlocked her door and closed it behind it her, leaned against it and trying not to sob. This was stupid, she told herself. She just met him. He didn’t know what he was talking about.

  All men are assholes, she reminded herself. No matter how perfect they may seem at first.

  The trouble was, Miriam didn’t believe herself.

  Chapter 3: Now

  “So what do we know about Benjamin Omar?” Jenn asked. She set a chipped white porcelain mug down on their shared desk and flipped open her manila file folder.

  “Twenty-nine years old,” Carson said, “Born in Beirut, moved to Dearborn with his parents when he was ten. Born Farid ibn Omar, changed his name to Benjamin when he was eighteen. Joined the Corps at nineteen, did two tours in Afghanistan. Wounded once, returned to active duty. Fluent in Arabic, Urdu, and English. That’s about it.”

  “Have we talked to anyone he knew?”


  “I spoke with a friend of his from the Corps, briefly. We’re meeting him at Starbucks in twenty.”

  * * *

  John Douglas looked every inch a Marine. Perfect posture, muscular, confident. He sat in a plush red chair, sipping coffee. He stood when Jenn and Carson approached and shook their hands with a strong, crushing grip.

  “So, what happened to Ben?” John asked.

  “Well, we’re still investigating that,” Carson answered.

  “Well, how did he die? Was he shot? Hit by a car?”

  “We can’t discuss details of the investigation at this time. I’m sure you understand. All I can say is that we suspect it was a homicide.” Carson spoke the standard do-not-discuss lines with practiced ease.

  “So what do you need from me?”

  “Did he have any enemies? Anyone who would want him dead?” Carson had a small notebook, the prerequisite of all detectives.

  “Not that I’m aware of.” John glanced up and away, thinking. “I mean, he wasn’t the easiest person to know. Especially after he got back. He got fucked up, over there. A lot of guys did. He handled it, but maybe not as well as he could have. Drank a lot. So did he have enemies? Like, people who hated him, wanted him dead? No. I don’t think so. He got in a few bar fights here and there, but I don’t think they were anything that would lead to him getting murdered. He liked to scrap. You get to miss the rush of a fight, after a while, you know? Maybe you don’t, I don’t know.”

  “He liked to knock girls around, huh?” Jenn spoke up for the first time.

  John shifted, uncomfortable. “I didn’t hang out with him all that much…”

  “Did he?” Jenn was pressing the issue. Carson wasn’t sure where she was going with it, but he let it go.

  “I’d heard that he would get a little nasty, after he’d had a few. I know he went after me a few times, drinking off-base. But that’s different, you know? I don’t do that shit. I don’t hit girls. Ben, he got messed up in the head pretty good, but he tried to hide it.” John leaned forward, “What does that have to do with his murder?”