Broken Crescent (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 2) (5 page)

CHAPTER 5

There was a storm brewing in Afia at odds with her normally temperate state. She gripped the steering wheel, determined not to burst into tears. Tears were the helpless last resort of those who had given up, and she hadn’t given up. She had left the biker bar with Rayan by force, but she was fed up with his dominance, especially in light of his submission to alcohol.

He groaned, as a car sped past on the other side of the road, headlights illuminating the car and sending shards of pain through his skull. He clutched at his temples and fought the urge to vomit. “Slow down,” he muttered, slurring his speech.

Afia decelerated a fraction, eyes on the rearview mirror for cops once she realized she was driving over the speed limit. It was her racing thoughts she was trying to outrun. She could see herself in a future of her parents’ and her brother’s choosing.  She would marry some boring clod of a man and eventually learn to appreciate him, but she’d never love him. Her love was devoted to a man they were intent on her not having, her parents unwittingly, and her brother through force.

They were well-intentioned. For her parents, who had grown up in a world where a woman’s carefully cultivated reputation could mean the difference between life and death, old habits die hard. Afia was expected to dress, speak, and carry herself a certain way to be conservative and marriageable. In their culture, marriage ensured a stable, productive future with a man who would devote himself to her safety and prosperity.  She understood Islamic tradition required her to marry another Muslim, but she couldn’t imagine Allah had created this beautiful universe with so many diversities simply to keep people at odds.

There was nothing morally wrong about love, and they were all created as one by One. It was ritual and tradition that kept them apart, not divine will.

Afia stared ahead at the road, driving on autopilot to her parents’ house where Rayan resided as a result of being evicted from his townhome. She would have to sneak him inside without her parents knowing. How the blazes was she supposed to do that?

Afia sighed and took the exit before the one that would take her to the family residence. She turned to Rayan to gauge his coherence. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t sleep or passed out. “We need to talk,” she replied. His thick black lashes fluttered open, and he stared at her with a sneer.

“What is there to talk about?” he goaded. She turned the car towards her own apartment. He needed sustenance and something to bring down his intoxication, and she would cook for him. Rayan didn’t protest. He gazed out the window, seeing his reflection in the glass. He looked terrible. His hair was shaggy and unruly, and there were dark circles under his soulful brown eyes. He wanted to run away from the sight, but no matter how fast they traveled, he had to face himself. Rayan closed his eyes again.

Afia parked on the side street and waited patiently for her brother to leverage himself up out of the car. She stood next to him, ever the devoted sister, and let him drape his arm over her shoulder so she could assist him up the stairs and into the building. Afia had appropriately replaced her hijab, hiding her face. She prayed anyone seeing them together wouldn’t notice her brother was stumbling drunk. It was embarrassing.

They made it to the elevators and up to her floor, where Rayan made a stronger attempt to put one foot steadily in front of the other. “I can walk,” he growled, pushing away from her. Afia covered her face and moved quickly up the hall to unlock the door to apartment 212. She stood at the threshold waiting for him to drag his weight along the wall and into the apartment.

The first matter of business was to get him something to eat. She directed her brother to the sofa and helped him out of his shoes, putting his feet up and his head on a pillow. Rayan dozed. Afia stepped into the kitchen and dug out her cellphone to call Bionca. Her friend had to be frantic, wondering what had happened.

Bionca answered the cellphone on the first ring. “I’m on my way home. I heard. One of Sam’s friends told me there was some kind of problem in the parking lot between Sam and someone you left with. Tell me it isn’t who I think it is.”

“My brother,” Afia said tiredly. “He’s here. Listen, friend, I’m at the apartment, and I’m going to talk to my brother. Tonight.”

“What was he doing at the biker bar?”

“I have no clue, Bionca. Your guess is as good as mine. He pulled a knife on Sam, and things are getting out of hand. I can’t let this situation continue like this. I’m going to tell him he can’t run my life anymore. He needs help, Bionca!” She teared up, thinking how low Rayan had descended from the big brother that fought her battles to the big brother who called her a whore and harlot and threatened to kill the person she loved. “The drinking is out of control. Do you remember you told me you had a connection or knew someone at the rehab center?”

Afia grated onions and pulled a pack of thawed, boneless chicken cutlets out of the fridge. She would make kebabs. She mixed onions, lemon juice and salt in a bowl as she talked on the phone. She didn’t have time to let the chicken marinate for long, but she set it aside and leaned against the kitchen counter, listening to Bionca.

“I’ll be home in the next fifteen. I’ll help you talk to him. I can tell him all about the place. It’s not like the usual center.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I better do this alone. He’s not going to take it well coming from me. I can imagine how he’ll take it coming from a complete stranger. His problems have always been deep, dark family secrets, and he won’t appreciate me telling you.” Afia melted butter on the stovetop, dissolving slivers of fragrant, colorful saffron with the butter. She pulled a few metal skewers from under the kitchen counter, just enough for her and her brother.

“In that case, I have a couple of spare pamphlets in my bedroom you can use to show him about the place. Check in the top drawer of my dresser. It’s my junk drawer. In the meantime, I’ll linger out instead of coming right home.”

“Where are you going to go?” Afia asked in curiosity, as she threaded the chicken pieces onto the metal skewers.

“Met a guy,” Bionca said mysteriously. Afia could hear the smile in her friend’s voice. “I ended up leaving the bar in a hurry to get to you, but now that I know it might be better for me to linger out for a while, consider me off the radar for the night. Call me if you need me though. I’ll keep my ringer on.”

Afia preheated the countertop grill and placed the chicken skewers on it, brushing marinade on top. “Will do. I’ve got this covered though. I’m taking off the gloves. If Rayan wants to fight dirty…then, he’s about to see I can do the exact same.”

“That’s it, baby! Fight like a girl. Kick his ass!”

“It was a metaphor,” Afia giggled, lightening up. “I’ll talk to you later, friend.” When she hung up the phone, she felt a bolster of confidence. She threw a bag of quick rice on the stovetop to boil and placed a bag of veggies in the microwave to steam.

Afia left the chicken skewers, planning to come back and baste after she checked in Bionca’s bedroom for the pamphlets to show to her brother. Bionca’s room was orderly and well-organized. It was often odd to think of her flighty, free-spirited best friend as the neat-freak of the household. As Bionca had said, Afia found the pamphlets in the top drawer. The junk drawer was laid out like an office desk with coupons clipped together next to a ball of rubber bands, a handful of writing pens bundled with a band, spare lighters, a few boxes of playing cards, and other knickknacks. What she sought was a stack of glossy folded papers in the bottom. She tried not to displace Bionca’s things as she slipped a brochure from the stack.

Afia padded back into the living room while reading. The facility was private-run and staffed by local physicians and psychiatrists, offering both detox and recovery programs with the option to stay on-grounds after detox or come in for daily check-ups. She could imagine the benefit her brother would get from therapy and counseling sessions. What Rayan needed most was new ways to cope with the problems he faced living with a strong sense of entitlement but a very poor work ethic.

The mouth-watering aroma of chicken wafted through the apartment, and she stepped back in the kitchen to turn and baste the food and check the rice and vegetables. She pulled out plates and set them on the bar where she and her brother would eat. Tiptoeing into the living room, she peeked in to see if he was awake, but he was snoring softly. Afia wrung her hands, wondering if she should abandon the plan. Maybe she should just accept that she couldn’t be with Sam.

But that wasn’t acceptable. Besides, if Rayan didn’t get help for his drinking, his life would be ruined by it. The two seemed tied hand-in-hand in her mind. She knew if her brother’s personal life hadn’t been destroyed by his drinking, then he would be more rational and logical about her relationship with Sam. They had both grown up in this country. Muslims married secular partners every day in America, didn’t they?

She sighed and nudged Rayan’s shoulder to wake him.

“What?” he grunted, disoriented.

“I cooked for you. Come eat, brother. We have things to discuss, and I didn’t want to talk about this stuff at Maman and Baba’s home. You’re at my place.”

“Your place?” he scowled and sat up, swinging his legs around to the floor. He seemed a little better in charge of himself. Afia stepped back and cautiously watched him amble to the kitchen area where the countertop served as a bar with stools on the side of the living room. She gestured for him to sit and moved into the kitchen to fix their plates.

“This is getting out of control between us. We never used to fight like this,” she muttered. Afia served the rice, kebabs, and vegetables. “What’s happened to us?”

“You think I want this?”

She moved to the kitchen sink and poured a glass of cold water. He’d need it to flush the alcohol out of his system. “I think you rely too heavily on booze to cosset you from real world problems, and you jump at shadows, ready for a fight at every second as a result of it. So, yeah, I guess I do think you want this, because you keep it going.”

She slapped the brochure down on the counter next to his plate. Rayan glanced at the cover. The navy blue pamphlet pictured a sparkling steel and glass facility on the front overshadowed by a smiling practitioner. “What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s help. Like the rehab facility Maman and Baba got you admitted into the first time.” She picked up her fork and started to eat though she wasn’t hungry. She encouraged Rayan to do the same.

“You’re worried about the wrong things. I’m a man. I can handle myself. It’s you I worry about. These American ways have subverted you, changed you from the wholesome, virtuous woman you used to be into someone I barely recognize. You leave me no choice, Afia. I’m telling Maman and Baba you have been consorting with the biker.”

“You don’t know of what you speak,” she hissed angrily. Her fork clattered out of her fingers, and she turned her body on the stool to face Rayan. “I stopped seeing him because of you, because of my respect for you and in an attempt to do what I thought must be right. But, I have prayed, brother. I have sought counsel and studied the Word.”

“Then, you must know that to be with him puts your soul in danger,” Rayan countered. He wasn’t about to back down. He knew that he was right.

Afia sighed and averted her gaze, having nothing she could say to defend herself. There was little uncertainty to it. She was wrong, religiously, to be with Sam. Yet…she didn’t care. “It’s my choice,” she whispered. “My soul is mine to bear.”

He pointed at her with the fork. “Which is exactly why I’m telling our parents. Maybe they can talk some sense into you.”

Afia’s eyes flashed. They were the color of shifting sands and sunrises, soft brown with golden flecks, and ringed in rich brown. She told him seriously, “If you tell my Maman and Baba about Sam, then I will tell them about you and your drinking.”

He faltered, his fork lowering to the near clean plate, appetite sated. Rayan wiped his mouth and muttered expletives, furious at Afia for leveraging his drinking against him. “So what if I drink!”

“So what would Baba say, eh? What would he think about you throwing away everything he has invested into your future, our future! At some point, you have to grow up and realize there is more at stake than reputations where your alcoholism is involved. You steal from our parents to support your habits. You gamble away the money they give you, and now you live off of them like a child. You’re not a man, Rayan. You’re a leech. And, you worry about my soul? What about yours?”