He leans close to my ear. “Be grateful,” he says. “I could have left us finished in the position we started. Ye would have had a mite more to explain than being alive.”
I had wondered at the reasoning for the shift. At first, I thought perhaps he had done it to ensure I was an active, willing participant. He had placed such an emphasis on that aspect of his previous lovers. I also considered it might have helped him in rendering me unconscious after we finished.
Either way, it had ensured that there was no trace on me of the act we had been engaging in just moments prior. I looked like I had been in a fight rather than having what was probably the best sexual encounter of my twenty-seven years. I dared not think of the consequences had anyone detected the evidence or scent of sex in that jail.
“Do you make it common practice to tell your captors where to find you?”
He is closer now; I have once again failed to notice him getting so close to me. It seems all of my abilities as a soldier disappear around this godforsaken man. “The people I tell are rarely my captors, and ye have been the only one I was certain would seek me out.”
His smirk becomes an easy smile, far easier than I have ever managed. “I was right. I usually am.”
His hand is at the back of my neck now, and he is pulling me toward him for another kiss. I can’t begin to find it in me to resist. Our lips meet, and this time it is slower, less heated than our exchange months ago. He tastes less of rum as well—though I imagine that the flavor is as permanent as the sweet, almost herblike one I detected before. Our tongues dance over one another, writhing slowly, tracing the mouth of the other in a way that feels far more sensual than I would have thought the man capable of being.
“Any chance I can convince you to try out those sea legs for a spell?” he asks as he ends the kiss.
“Why not find out if you can be persuasive enough?” I ask with a smile, almost as natural as his own. “Or are you certain of the answer already?”
“I am certain of the answer,” he says, moving closer to my ear once again. “But the persuading is the fun part.”
A storyteller before she could write complex sentences, E.S. DOUGLAS has had a love of weaving a tale since childhood. She knew that her career would be somewhere in writing, and for a time, it was. E.S. was lucky enough to work with words for five years in the newspaper industry in Maryland. While there, she interviewed people on the street, government officials, and even governors and senators. Still, it was not the kind of writing she wanted to do. With a change in careers that takes her on a totally new path, E.S. now has time to focus her writing back on what she has always loved most: telling a story from her own imagination.
If the story happens to involve two attractive men and a bit of romance, all the better.
Sometimes, as she writes now, she wonders what the government officials would say if they knew the sort of writing she did on the side when she wasn’t writing about them.
OBJECTIVITY
K.J. JOHNSON
IT WAS the sound of the water splashing gently that tipped Matthew off, something in the minute difference between the noise of liquid hitting plastic rather than tree roots that made him look up. There was no point in trying to see, and he knew it, having spent almost two weeks on the African coast. The night was pitch black and impenetrable; they only did this on the darker nights.
He caught whispers of stray voices speaking to each other around him, disembodied and low. He could make out a few French words, but his schoolboy French didn’t get him very far here. Their English was good enough, though, enough for him to make himself understood, enough to get his interviews, his exposé… provided he got out of here in one piece.
Someone dropped down next to him, a silent rush of air and rustling of leaves. “Matthew,” said a soft voice next to his ear, and Matthew swore under his breath as he started.
He didn’t need to hear his companion chuckle to know who it was, and felt a thrill low in his stomach. “Achmed.”
“Enjoying yourself, friend?”
There were, as always, traces of mockery lacing Achmed’s voice, and Matthew couldn’t stop himself from being very aware of the pistol that had permanent residence on Achmed’s right hip, as well as the closeness of Achmed’s body. “It’s fine,” he replied noncommittally.
Achmed smiled; they were close enough that Matthew could see the faint glint of his teeth. For a moment, he kept his eyes on that smile, picturing the face that he couldn’t see right now but was beginning to know well. He shook himself. “You are bored,” Achmed said, again with that faint trace of mockery.
Matthew looked away, staring out into the blackness and pretending he could see the water lapping at the tree roots, pretending he could see the sea beyond the curve of the inlet. UN ships patrolled this part of the world, though he had yet to see any of them. “I might be,” he replied. “Not much to do except watch you coming and going.”
Achmed chuckled again. “True, but then, if I came to your paper and told you I wanted to come with you to interview… say, the president of the United States, would you say, ‘Sure, Achmed, come along and see how I do this, what my secrets are’?”
In spite of his discomfort, Matthew laughed. “No, fair enough. Also….”
“Hmm?” There was a brief rustle of leaves as Achmed turned to focus on the entrance to the inlet again. Someone said something in French, not far from the two of them, and Achmed replied.
Matthew kept silent as he listened to the splashing of water, louder this time, the dinghy either being tied up and abandoned or hauled ashore. He strained to hear, finally concluding that it was merely being tied up, carefully hidden under the canopy of plants.
When silence returned, Achmed turned back to him. “You were saying?”
Matthew looked at him just as a breeze rustled some of the leaves above them, creating a quick play of dots of moonlight across Achmed’s face, allowing him to see Achmed’s calm expression. “Well….” This was the problem he’d been debating for as long as he’d been working on this story. “I’m not sure I should be going along. Legally speaking, I mean.”
Achmed was silent for a few beats. “You can write about us, be here, speak with us, but coming along would be… wrong?”
“Yes.” Matthew couldn’t help holding his breath a little.
“Right. Very logical.”
Before Matthew could think of a reply, Achmed tapped his shoulder, the contact making him jump. “What?”
The chuckle again. “Time to go, friend. We’re done for the night.”
WHEN they returned to the camp, the sun was glimmering on the horizon, but all Matthew could think about was sleep. He dragged himself into his hut, remembered with faint awareness to check the mosquito nets before crawling into bed, kicking his shoes off with his last burst of energy. He was fast asleep only moments later.
When he woke, the sun had heated the earth and mosquitoes were buzzing angrily around his nets, eager for the prey trapped inside. He blinked against the brightness of the light coming between the slats of wood, rubbing his eyes. His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t quite shake the lingering stiffness in his muscles, the result of the constant, simmering undercurrent of danger he was surrounded by.
Resigned to his own choices, he reached for the bottle of DEET, a morning ritual he now did thoughtlessly, and stripped off his T-shirt to put the lotion on his skin. He’d just finished applying it to his face and was working his way down his chest when the door opened and Achmed entered unceremoniously, without knocking.
“Ah, I thought you’d be up.”
Matthew froze mid-motion, forced to look up from his position on the floor to Achmed’s imposing stature, shirtless as was his custom during the day. He swallowed at the sight, unable to stop himself from looking and admiring. Finally, he remembered to peel his fingers away from his own skin, unable to shake the feeling that he’d been caught with his hand down his pants.
Achmed sniffed the air. “That
stuff is… what’s the word? Vile.”
Matthew felt a blush working its way up his skin and hoped the darkened interior of the hut would hide it. He shrugged to cover his embarrassment. “It does its job.”
“Hmm.” Achmed crouched down so they were face to face. “There is something I want to show you.”
As always, Achmed made the plans and determined where they went, and Matthew just followed. Unconsciously, his eyes strayed to the gun strapped loosely to Achmed’s hip, a gun he had, so far, never seen used except for target practice. He dragged his eyes up over Achmed’s trim chest again, away from the pistol, telling himself to ignore the attractive sight in front of him. He swallowed. “Okay… what is it?”
“You’ll see.” Achmed met his eyes, looking at him for a long while, until Matthew had to force himself to stay still and not twitch. “Be ready in thirty minutes.”
He stood up and turned on his heel without waiting for a reply, leaving as unceremoniously as he’d entered. Matthew has stopped expecting him to cater to social niceties, and merely took a few deep, steadying breaths to prepare himself for the events of the day. And to will down his half-hard erection.
THEY drove away from the coast into the blistering heat of the desert, Achmed in the driving seat and Matthew beside him. It was just the two of them this time, and Matthew leaned back, trying to find some relief in the feeling of the hot air rushing across his face. Achmed glanced at him and laughed, reaching behind his seat with one hand, the other on the steering wheel to avoid the worst of the potholes. He retrieved a canteen of water and dropped it in Matthew’s lap. “Westerners.”
Irritated with the mockery lacing his voice, Matthew snapped, “Yes, I know how you feel about us.”
Achmed raised one eyebrow behind his reflective sunglasses. “I don’t hate you, you know.”
Matthew gave him a skeptical look. “You just rob us.”
“Not you.” Achmed shifted in his seat, resting one arm on the door of the jeep, and leaned back, glancing at the sky as if he was forgetting the empty road ahead of them for a moment. He focused back on his driving. “Although I still might. I haven’t decided yet. Mo says your camera is worth a lot of money.”
Matthew almost placed a protective hand over his bag, although this kind of ribbing wasn’t new. He stopped himself at the last moment. “Not as much as a yacht.”
“Or a ransom.” Achmed glanced at him again. “Is everyone worth that much in the West?”
Matthew sighed. “No.”
“Huh.” Achmed chuckled. “Don’t worry; I won’t let Mo take your camera. I’ll tell him we want our story told.”
Matthew turned in his seat, but Achmed’s face, aided by the sunglasses, was inscrutable as always. “Why do you want your story told?”
Achmed took his eyes off the road again, this time holding his gaze on Matthew’s face long enough that he knew he was being scrutinized. “I don’t,” he said finally, voice level and almost devoid of the emotion that usually laced it. “You asked to tell it; I don’t object.” He shrugged. “Besides, I like you. You asked nicely.”
The mocking tone was back. Any other interview subject and Matthew would have probed, but here…. It’s a way, Matthew’s editor had said when he’d pitched the idea to him, explained that he might have a contact, to get a cover story. Or to get yourself killed. He’d been here two weeks and he still didn’t know which it was going to be. He was getting used to living with the fear, with the possibility of his own murder shimmering on the horizon, like a mirage. “There’s nothing you want to say to the world?” he tried.
Achmed’s mouth tightened. “There’s plenty I have to say to the world. But not through you.”
There was a hardness to his tone that Matthew usually only heard when Achmed spoke with his men. He couldn’t help suppress a shiver in spite of the heat, and covered it by taking a sip of water. “Okay.”
Achmed smiled thinly, a glance thrown his way that Matthew knew to be deprecating even though he couldn’t see it. “Look at you and me. I’m ten years older than you, run my own business, happy man. Not without danger, but hey, I like danger. You, you’re young and rich and you go find your fun on the coast of Africa because you don’t have enough adventure.” He shook his head, laughing suddenly. “Doesn’t your family worry about you?”
Matthew stared at the road, suddenly hit hard by memories and things he was trying to forget. He covered it by doing what he always did when his family came up, reaching for the anger that would drive him forward instead of looking back. “They do,” he said, turning back to study Achmed’s response. “Is this the part where you put a gun to my head and make me call them?”
Achmed met his eyes over the sunglasses, ignoring the way the car shook as they went over a bump in the uneven road. After a few moments, he tipped his head up again and laughed, becoming as inscrutable as always. “Good idea. I should do that, see if you are worth many dollars too.”
Matthew stared at the horizon, rendered blurry by the heat rising from the ground. A strange sense of betrayal sat in his chest, and that was just ridiculous. “I’m not,” he replied past the lump in his throat.
He sensed Achmed turning to look at him but kept his eyes fixed ahead.
AFTER an hour and a half, they arrived at their destination. It was a lively, bustling town, and Matthew found himself clinging to the door when it became obvious that right of way was determined by playing chicken with the oncoming traffic. Achmed, unperturbed, negotiated this by gunning the engine a little every time any vehicle came within sight, causing most other drivers to flinch away and let them pass.
When they finally pulled up at what appeared to be the local bar, Matthew was reconsidering ever getting into a car again and Achmed was grinning like he’d just had a fabulous time. Matthew cleared his throat. “Do I want to know how many road deaths this place has a year?”
Achmed lowered his sunglasses, looking at him with eyes dancing with mirth. “You Westerners and your rules.”
Matthew held his gaze, unable to look away from the sparkling, dark eyes. “We aren’t all the same, you know.”
Achmed raised an eyebrow. “Westerners? You all look the same.”
Matthew let that insult slide, choosing to follow Achmed into the bar instead.
The moment they stepped inside, the place, lively and rowdy as they’d crossed the threshold, fell into a deep, ominous silence that made Matthew feel like he’d stepped into a Hollywood film. He risked a few glances around, expecting to be the subject of the attention, but to his surprise, most of the eyes were focused on Achmed.
He said a few words in French, interspersed with too much of the local dialect for Matthew to follow any of it, and walked to a table in the corner, sitting down and kicking back a chair as a clear invitation for Matthew to sit also.
He did, and realized he was sitting with his back to the room as he did so.
Behind him, conversation started up again in a low buzz, suggesting they were the subject. Matthew resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, no matter how much his skin started to crawl.
“Oh, relax,” Achmed said, grinning. “They don’t care about you.”
“How do I know that?” Matthew shot back.
“I’m telling you,” Achmed replied, but his eyes were looking at something over Matthew’s shoulder.
Before Matthew could ask what he was looking at, or risk a look himself, a young woman stopped at the table and put down two cans of Coke. She gave Matthew a quick smile before exchanging a few words with Achmed, who handed her some money. She left again, and Matthew reached for one of the cans, cool and beading with condensation.
He would have loved to press it against his skin for a moment, but he resisted; nothing about this place suggested that doing something out of the ordinary was a good idea. Achmed’s eyes were on him when he looked up, giving him the unearthly sense that Achmed knew exactly what he was thinking and was mocking him for it. It was unsettling and made hi
m shift in his seat.
Achmed looked away again, glancing at the door, and Matthew began to wonder if he was expecting someone. He popped open the can and took a long sip, the cloying sweetness of the drink invading his senses. When he put the can back on the table, now half empty, he met Achmed’s eyes again, dark and intense.
Matthew found a challenge in that gaze. “So what are we doing here?”
To his surprise, Achmed blinked and seemed momentarily unsettled. “Just see,” he said curtly.
Matthew drank some more of his Coke and watched from underneath his lashes as Achmed opened his own can and drank from it, the muscles in Achmed’s throat working and the condensation from the can dripping from his fingers.
He dragged his eyes up to meet Achmed’s, and they looked at each other, neither of them saying a word. Fear coiled low in Matthew’s gut, a sense of being found out, of being discovered, but there was no disgust, no rejection in Achmed’s gaze, and he started to open his mouth, started to think of a way to ask without giving himself up.
A woman pulled up a chair and sat down in it, giving Matthew a glance before focusing her attention on Achmed, and Matthew tore himself away from the moment. She was clutching a handbag and some shopping bags, food items poking out above white plastic, as she spoke rapidly with Achmed, voice low.
Matthew risked a glance around. No one in the room seemed to be paying them any attention anymore, but that could be deceptive.
Achmed replied to the woman, answering in a voice wholly devoid of either the tense tone of command or the mockery he preferred otherwise. Matthew caught a few stray words, something about money and bills, and the woman replied, too fast and too different from his schoolboy days to be understood.
After a few more words back and forth, Achmed reached into his back pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, and peeled off some bills, handing them to the woman. She thanked him, taking her bags and leaving the bar.
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