He isn’t staring at you, Ella. You aren’t much to look at, especially in jeans and an over-sized sweater. He has probably moved on. It was just a passing glimpse.
This is definitely my intoxicated head giving me reason to look at him once more. As I do, I am captured, held in place, by his intense stare. A deer in fucking headlights, unable to pull from this invisible hold he has over me, unable to breath, unable to comprehend why I would ever want to leave his gaze. Suddenly, he shifts his body forward, removing his arms from the back of the sofa and bearing deeper into me. His stretched arm leaves the back of the sofa to come to rest on his thighs as he pulls me deeper into this gloriously tantalizing trap. A trap I want to remain in for as long as possible.
Suddenly, I’m cheated, let go from this sweet capture by a black suit stepping in between us, dissolving this invisible tryst.
It is ridiculous to think anything just happened between this guy and me from a simple look across the room. It is more likely the amount of wine at dinner and the conspicuous sour green concoction I downed are hallucinations of an obscure seduction.
Results of too much alcohol and not enough sex.
I sit up straight and try to think soberly. I need to find Nat and get out of here. Rising from the sofa intent on seeking her out, I find myself wanting to go back to those mesmerizing eyes.
The suited interrupter has shifted over, revealing this extraordinary man, but only for a second as he follows the other suit, bringing any substance of a mystic rendezvous to a halt.
With my head swimming now, I lose him, the ensnaring, warm, comfort of his gold-flecked, brown eyes. Through the crowd, Serena resurfaces, bouncing back toward me, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Did you see them?”
“Nat and Logan?” my mind now refocused on getting out of here.
“Duh, the princes!” she exclaims, somewhat annoyed by my disinterest. After the night I’m having, a narcissistic prince high on himself, throwing some luxury end-of-semester party, is not my thing. There is only room for so much arrogance in this fucking room. Speaking of arrogance, I’m about to give up the search for Nat and just leave when I spot her in a corner on the other side of the loft. Her brows are furrowed in frustration as she argues with someone hidden behind a column. Just as I leave Serena’s side to get Nat’s attention, a hand darts out from behind the column, taking her arm.
Truth be told, I hate my sister right now, but if someone is starting shit with her I am going to protect her. I’m only a short distance from her now and about to call for her when the owner of the hand comes into view, heated and intense.
Logan?
Their dueling frustration is obvious in his hardened jaw and narrowed eyes as he pulls her flush against him. Caught in the moment with them, I’m unable to take another step as I watch the exchange unfold; the seductive stare, the deep breathes, the desire, the lust. Slowly Logan moves in and kisses her. Wrapped in the disbelief of what I am seeing, I stand there, staring at them as the kiss turns ravenous.
I was right; she made a play for him. The air around me is too thick to breath. If I don’t get out of here I am going to pass out. Turning to escape a little too quickly, I stumble. Serena takes hold of my shoulders before I crash to the ground. “Whoa, Ella, are you all right? Here, let me get Nat.”
I shake my head, making the room spin. “I have to go.”
I try to move past her, but she tugs on my arm, keeping me from escaping. “Wait, she’s right there. Let me get her.”
Of all the reactions I could have right now, tears are the ones to surface. I half-heartedly laugh. “Don’t bother. She’s busy closing a deal.”
People like Serena can be easily confused and my words have done the trick as I pull free of her hand and rush for the front door.
I pull my coat tightly around me, buttoning it quickly as I step out of the building and see my sister’s parked car. I don’t give a shit about the stuff I left in it. I just need to go home.
Poor Serena; she had no clue what I meant by Nat closing a deal. As I walk on, I glance behind, checking to make sure Nat or Logan aren’t following. If I see either of them, I don’t know what I will do. In all honesty, I don’t give a shit about Logan. But Natalie, looking out for herself, my own blood doing that sneaky shit to me? It can really fuck with the faith you have in the world when your family turns against you.
As the leftover winter wind presses against me and no way of getting home other than the bus, I walk to the nearest stop for the long ride home.
As my brother follows close behind, I’m still distracted by that girl sitting on the lounger across from me. Something about her made her more interesting than anyone else in the room. More interesting than anything about this fucking party my brother insisted we throw before ending the semester. Something about her made scanning the room less intriguing than what was going on behind her eyes, a sea of blue green I could get lost in. While I have spent time with plenty of blue-eyed, green-eyed, and brown-eyed women both here and back home in Jordan, the way this girl seemed lost among the backdrop of the guests attracted me.
“What is it about?” I ask my brother in Arabic as he walks ahead of me. With my father’s health, receiving a call from him this late is worrisome.
Zaid runs his hand over his rough unshaven chin, then shrugs as his eye is caught by the American woman exiting the restroom to the right. As she walks in the opposite direction of us, Zaid half turns and follows her with his eyes. I’m not blind; I like looking at tight asses, but not when I have a waiting call from my father in Jordan. His lack of concern himself is frustrating. “Zaid.”
He glances at me, then back at the woman. “I don’t know. He said it was important. I told him I would get you.”
Zaid motions to one of the guards and lowers his voice. “Get her for me.”
He glances back at me as he slows his backward walk. “I will be there in a moment. I need to tend to a guest.” His wry smile gives his motive away.
I watch him follow after the guard already stopping the girl for him. Zaid slides his hand down her back as he speaks to her. Discretion is not his strong suit. My brother is many things: commander of the Jordanian Armed Forces, well educated at the best schools and university in Amman, a persistent socialite, and owner of a perpetual sexual appetite and fiery and daring temper are a few. Zaid is ten years older than my twenty-three.
Two of the five bodyguards my brother brought with him when he arrived yesterday are sitting in my room when I enter. While it is necessary for us to have security at home in Jordan with the climate of crisis at our borders, it is not necessary here and I think my brother insisted upon it more for the show of pageantry rather than safety.
The men rise and one of them hands the phone to me. Taking it, I dismiss them and bring the phone to my ear. “Baba, As-Salamu alaykum.”
“Wa-Alaykum as-salaam Rajaa,” my father responds shakily.
Knowing my father’s comfort with English, I speak freely, concerned for the early-morning call. “Are you all right?”
“Everything is fine,” he says, clearing this throat.
“Mama? Is she safe?”
With the way Islamic state fighters have brought terror to those advocating for the refugees and women in the Middle East, it supports my concern.
“Fine. Everything is fine, Rajaa. Don’t worry so much. It shows weakness.”
He knows it’s something I can’t help when it comes to family.
“I spoke with Zaid again about your decision to be benefactor for the center in central Amman, Makan Lil Amal.”
Of course he brought up the center with my father again.
I know how he feels about my decision to support the center, but calling to discuss at this hour, I could only think my brother rekindled concern in his mind. Zaid does not approve of the proposal for the program, or any involvement for that matter. He calls it a foolish attempt to save Amman by giving asylum to those with no loyalty.
“They don’t regi
ster with us, do not follow our beliefs, yet you want to feed them, clothe them, give them money, and take from our own people? We need to feed our own people’s mouths and fight back against these terrorizing pissant militants,” Zaid says.
While I would expect my brother to successfully lead attack with the power of the Jordanian Armed Forces, I fear he is underestimating what would result from it. I see more benefit helping stabilize the refugees we have brought into our country, changing the climate of Jordan from within. I know programs like the one I have proposed will bring sustainability rather than a temporary adjustment building a crisis on top of a crisis.
I can’t blame on Zaid for his narrow views. He is my half-brother, and while our father and mother tried to rear him toward a more progressive Islamic way of living, her majesty Yaasmeen al Hashemite, the first Queen, held a more doctrinal view of ruling and living within Islam and instilled it in Zaid at a very young age. He idolized his mother, as any son might, and when she passed, it broke him, from what my mother and father have explained. He was only nine years old when she died from complications due to pneumonia. A few short months after her passing, my father and mother fell deeply in love and within a year married, crowning her the new Queen of Jordan.
My father was fifteen years older than her, she of a new generation of Islam. A queen that would be known for her progressive views of human rights, women’s rights, a Jordanian valuing education for all women, giving aid to the impoverished, and safety to those seeking refuge. She believed we could be a faithful Muslim family in a new age of the Middle East, and while her vision was one my father, sister, and I embraced willingly, my brother rebuked the ideals, maintaining the old ways of Islam and the Middle East were the righteous ways.
I had finally gotten through to my father, with my mother’s persuasion, to become the silent benefactor for the Makan Lil Amal center, established years ago through Caritas. I envisioned the program two years ago at a lecture on foreign humanitarian aid and diplomacy hosted by Mr. Tom Stern, director of WorldTeach Washington D.C. branch here at Georgetown University. While it was expected to encounter such a topic in my major, Bachelor of Science in Foreign Service - Culture and Politics, I didn’t anticipate the passion it stirred in me, to find a way to fund his program and partner with Caritas, a non-profit humanitarian relief organization in central Amman.
In recent months, Jordan’s funds and ability to support the copious amounts of unregistered Syrian refugees have dwindled to nearly nothing. They have been unable to offer many services through the Makan Lil Amal center. In speaking with Mr. Stern, I knew his passion for the cause was just as strong as mine, and when I proposed it to my father, the King, he immediately refused. My mother had her hands in many humanitarian programs, and while my father was already concerned for her safety, he didn’t want to have me in danger as well. Shortly after my first proposal to the King, the Queen’s safety was compromised, putting a stop to all humanitarian relief funded by my family. A bounty had been placed on her head. Zaid fed my father’s fear for his Queen’s and family’s safety, making any compromise impossible, just like the one he was trying to put to a stop right now.
It wasn’t until six months ago when I visited home and asked him late one night to reconsider my being a silent benefactor for WorldTeach and Caritas when he agreed to my proposal. He made sure I knew he was only agreeing because of my being a silent contributor.
“You are truly passionate about this cause. Almost two years you have been after this.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Your mother, she says while you have the heart for the people, you have the focus and training of a steadfast leader. My little flower is rarely wrong, but many in our country do not feel the same as we do. It is hard for me to say, but your brother is one of them. Day by day I see the old views of your grandfather, his mother rising within him. The near attack on your mother was a sign we must be vigilant about our influence, our presence. I can’t have you at risk, Rajaa.”
Remembering his words, I respond, “You know where I stand on this, Baba. While my heart is for the people, my focus is steadfast and safety is key. I have already talked with Mr. Stern about my anonymity and the funds have been transferred. With my returning home after the semester, I can remain watchful over the program—”
My father interrupts, “But removed! See, this is why I am unsettled. You say you want to remain watchful over the program, but how is it possible without physically being there?”
“Baba, it isn’t completely possible. If something happens at the center, I need to be present. The staff and volunteer there are serving on our behalf; they need protection.”
“And then again our family is at risk for attack! You are at risk!” I hear my mother’s passive voice in the background trying to calm him as he loses his temper again. He starts to cough, then clears his throat.
I breathe in deeply. “Look, Baba, I have been trained to protect myself. I have gone on four military missions with you and Zaid as a First Lieutenant. If I am trusted to defend the King, then I will be more than capable of protecting myself at the center with guards present.”
He could not argue my ability to defend myself and those around me. From an early age, he made sure my brother and I could defend ourselves because of our status. At one point, Zaid continued the pursuit of military defense, while I turned to learning about the diplomatic influence and the power it held.
Zaid walks in and I want to throw the phone at him for starting this cyclical discussion with my father. Zaid shrugs, feeling the brunt of my glare, mouthing the word, “What?”
Forcibly holding back my frustration with Zaid, I add to my conversation with my father, “Maybe my brother will accompany me to the center.”
Zaid’s gaping mouth shuts tightly, realizing what I might have just assigned him to.
“He is a decorated commander of the Jordanian Armed Forces with countless tours,” I boast, then smile cleverly at Zaid.
He rolls his eyes and leans back against my headboard, crossing his legs and grinning ear to ear, not denying my praises with any modesty.
“Only if you need to become more involved with the center,” my father clarifies.
“Only if I need to be involved,” I repeat. “Sometimes risks need to be taken to gain the security we need for our country, Baba.”
My father breathes out deeply into the phone receiver. “With your knowledge, your heart, your passion for our people, I sometimes wonder what kind of king you could have been, Rajaa.”
By all rights, the firstborn son will always be heir; that is how it has been under the house of Hashemite and how it will continue to be. My father’s comment is a whim, but it’s troubling that he could consider me over Zaid for any reason. “Zaid will be a strong leader.”
I wait a moment for him to agree, but it doesn’t come. I ignore the uncomfortable silence and my brother’s glare from hearing his name being associated with his ability to lead. As he lays on my bed, watching me, I end the call. “I will see you soon, Baba. Maasalama.”
“Maasalama,” he says before I hang up.
“What was that about? Why did you mention me being a strong leader?” Zaid’s curiosity and defensive nature are immediate as he crosses his hands behind his head.
Feeling trapped by his question and stabbing eyes, I challenge him by changing the subject. “No, let’s talk about why he called. Why is Makan Lil Amal center in question again?”
Zaid shifts off the bed and walks toward me with his hands in his pockets. “I am worried you will put yourself at risk the moment we land in Jordan, Rajaa.”
“My intention is to help our people and you know how I plan to do it.”
I turn away from him and glare out the frameless windows lining my bedroom, overlooking the city. “The funding has already been transferred, the deal is done. Since you are concerned, it would make sense for you to visit the center with me.”
I look back at him and repeat the declaration to
feed his ego and hopefully end this discussion. “I would never put the future King of Jordan at risk. That is how strongly I feel about this, Zaid.”
My brother folds his arms over his chest and rocks back on his heels as he grins. “Yes, I know how strongly you feel, but feelings are transient and a weakness.”
My grandfather’s and father’s view of weakness shine through in him and is meant to diminish my resolve. Not going to fucking happen. “Mine are not transient.”
Unifying Muslims and Syrian Christians in the inner city of Amman and making a path for the new Middle East to rise once this maddening civil unrest ends in Syria is what I see.
He raises his finger with exception. “You will only become involved when it is necessary, just as our King has said,” he warns.
“Agreed.”
“Hi, Ella. It is nice to see you again.”
“Yeah, nice to see you too,” I say to Tom.
I follow Tom Stern, the local director for WorldTeach, into his office.
“I have to tell you. I was kind of surprised by your call this morning,” he says, setting his keys down on his desk.
After a sobering two-hour bus ride home and no sleep last night, I decided I didn’t want to wait to change the path my life was taking. “Yes, well, I have had plenty of time to think about this since meeting you. I’m sorry for bringing you into work on a Saturday.”
He sits down at his desk and opens his laptop. “No, don’t worry about it. I was planning on coming up today. We just received a generous amount of funding from our benefactor, so I had to work on the accounting.”
He leans back in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. “So, you are wanting to move forward with applying for a summer placement.”
“Yes.”
“Have you considered which placement you would like to apply for?” he asks.
I really hadn’t thought about it. “Where would I be the most useful?”
He smiles, then leans and taps on the keyboard of his laptop as he browses the screen. “Well, we have a few summer placements available in Chile, but we have a large amount of placements open in Amman, Jordan.”
Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1) Page 5