Hot Nights in Morocco

by Catherine Wiltcher

  “Fine,” I mutter as he stalks out of the room.

  But it’s not. Far from it.

  Collapsing onto the edge of the bed, I pick up the phone but I can’t bring myself to dial the airline’s number. I’ve pushed him too far this time. I saw it in his eyes. He can insult me and throw my mother in my face with impunity, but if I do the same to him, I get stonewalled.

  Staring blindly at the ceiling, I blink back hot, frustrated tears. The worst part is, he’s right. The whole bonus thing was just a throwaway comment. It was meant to be funny. So, why did I have to act so crazy and irrational over it? Because my brain malfunctioned and my mouth hit freefall. This evening he came closer than anyone ever has to rattling the perimeter fence around my heart, so I did what any irrational person would do. I hit the floodlights and called security.

  Now all I have left is regret.

  And a very awkward trip back to Morocco.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jake’s bad mood follows us all the way to LAX. It’s radiating off him like thick, black smoke and choking the light out of everything. He doesn’t address a single word to me other than to check if I’ve alerted the transport team in Morocco to our new arrival time.

  I’m just as angry at the way he’s treating me but he’s far more skilled at prolonging a grudge than I am. This is quickly shaping up to be the worst kind of one night stand, the sort of big mistake that has the propensity to bleed repercussions into the next morning, and the next, until it’s made an indelible stain on the whole fabric of your life.

  I swore I wouldn’t go there, I wouldn’t light that match, and now look at me. I never let anyone in for a reason. I can’t risk it. My heart shattered a long time ago, and its nothing but cracks and fissures now. One more break is going to kill me.

  Max is going to know something’s off, as well. The last thing I want is for my big mistake to get back to him and jeopardize our working relationship. I want to scream and scream at Jake. He’s the one who kissed me first. He’s the one who started all this. I want to blame him entirely for this ghastly scenario—beautiful mercurial bastard that he is.

  As we exit the SUV we’re assaulted by a gang of paparazzi with untidy goatees and faded black T-shirts. This doesn’t improve Jake’s mood in the slightest, not since he’d elected to travel back to L.A. without a single bodyguard. He barges through the men in his haste to reach the terminal, sending two sprawling into the gutter with their bags and camera paraphernalia, and leaving me to deal with their questions about his recent breakup with Cassie.

  How to add insult to injury.

  It seems implicit to these strangers that I’m just an assistant and not his new girlfriend, and I brood on that all the way to the security gate.

  Trailing Jake into the first class lounge, I watch him make a beeline for the complimentary bar and bark out his order to the two gaping hostesses. “Double Macallan. Make it quick.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Two slim hands collide in their haste to reach the scotch bottle first.

  It’s not their fault…even though the irrational part of me wants to set fire to their fake eyelashes. In a room of wall-to-wall beauty, Jake’s lethal alpha vibe is front and center. All eyes are on him.

  I’m determined not to cry, but it’s only sheer obstinacy on my part that’s holding me together. Meanwhile, the squabbling in front of him has intensified.

  “Give it to me!”

  “No way, I had it first!”

  In the end he accepts his drink from a triumphant-looking brunette. Like a prized asshole, he laps up her complementary flirtations, as well, and a delicate blush spreads across her cheeks as he leans over and whispers something in her ear.

  I can’t stop staring at them. I’m like a masochist seeking a fix, whereas he’s a hurt-seeking missile of pain, on course to inflict as much as possible on me in the span of twelve hours.

  The blush deepens and the hostess starts to giggle. It’s at this point that I turn away.

  …

  Jake ignores me for the entire duration of the flight. I, on the other hand, endure a cartwheel of emotions for fifteen hours straight. I barely touch my food as I gaze unseeingly at two of his blockbuster movies on the in-flight entertainment system. I try a book—Vanity Fair, one of my favorites—but not even Becky Sharp can meddle me out of this funk.

  I can still taste him in my mouth. There’s a lingering dull ache between my legs. He kept his promise to treat me rough, and I loved every minute of it…except the part when we started yelling at each other and it all turned to shit.

  The plane banks sharply. We’re starting our descent so I rip off my headphones and stuff them into my bag. There’ll be no going back with Jake, but there’s no going forward, either. Right now I’m stuck in some kind of sex purgatory. Was mentioning his father such a crime? He drew first blood, after all. Surely, he must have guessed how much I’m trying to distance myself from my mother’s life choices.

  The captain’s announcement is shrill and unpleasant as the plane taxis up to the terminal. Unclipping my seat belt, I switch on my phone to check my messages. There’s one from Rachel, and I groan when I read it. While we’ve been in the air, the Moroccan national airline has decided to go on strike and most of the internal connecting flights have been cancelled, including ours.

  Can this day get any worse?

  Jake seems to share my assessment when I hold up my phone up to show him the message.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he roars, swiping it out of my hand. People are giving us a wide berth as we disembark. “I’ll be suing the ass off someone for this.” He starts punching in a number, slamming his finger into the keypad so hard he’ll be cracking the screen any minute.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The Airline’s VP. He’s an old acquaintance.” He snaps my cell phone to his ear but it rings out. “Answer my call, you dickhead!” he explodes when the call rings out again.

  But the VP doesn’t. The guy obviously comes from the same school of let’s-aggravate-Jake-Dalton-as-much-as-possible as I do.

  Three tortuous hours limp by.

  We’ve been camping out in a terminal that hasn’t been updated since the 1970s, crammed in side by side on a small bench next to a disgusting toilet cubicle. All around us, travelers of every nationality are bawling into their electronic devices while small children play at their feet. It’s a hotbed of sweat and irritation, and the air conditioning unit is so crap it could melt an iceberg.

  Jake shifts his weight in protest at the conditions. As he does, his left leg strays over to my side, past the orange foam oozing out of the red fabric bench like a decapitated teddy bear. It touches mine briefly and then springs away as if stung.

  “Can’t you just summon up your private jet?” I’m losing my cool, and fast. After zero hours sleep, my tolerance levels are plummeting.

  Jake grumbles something about routine maintenance again. “Call Rachel,” he orders, tapping in the VP’s number for the fiftieth time. “See if she can send a production driver out to pick us up. We need to get back to that set tonight.” He holds up his hand as his phone connects with the VP’s voicemail. “Harrak. Dalton again.”

  “But Erizo’s a fourteen hour round-trip,” I argue. “You can’t expect him to drive both ways without stopping. It’s dangerous.”

  “Any better ideas then, sunshine?”

  I fight the urge to smack him one in his beautiful face. “This isn’t my fault, and spare me the fake endearments, Mr. Dalton. Only friends get that privilege.”

  After last night, “Books” appears to have been permanently shelved.

  “Sure thing, sweetheart. You should have checked for flight issues before we left L.A.—Rachel would have done so. That’s if she ever stops mooning over my brother.”

  “You leave Rachel out of th
is. She’s far more loyal to you than you deserve.”

  “That’s because she’s my assistant. I knew you were a mistake the minute I met you.”

  “You mean it was a mistake to screw me,” I counter bitterly.

  “Keep your voice down!”

  We’re encountering interested glances from our fellow stranded passengers now.

  “Why? Worried some passing paparazzo might shop you to the press? ‘Famous producer caught slumming it!’ Shocker!” I’m horrified to find tears in my eyes.

  He opens his mouth for a crushing reply when a young, dark-skinned man with chocolate-brown eyes taps him on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, sir? May we speak?” His voice is low and hesitant, his accent rich and colorful.

  “If you’re selling getaway vehicles, I’ll take five,” drawls Jake.

  The man looks blank for a moment. “You need to get to Erizo, no? I have a taxi. It’s a long journey through the mountains but I would be happy to take you for a price.” He sweeps his long robes to one side and crouches down in front of us to await our response.

  “Done,” says Jake without consulting me. He grasps the young man’s hand and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.

  “My village lies on the way.” The man’s smile is warm and genuine. “Join me and my family for dinner. I insist.”

  Jake hesitates and I know what he’s thinking. Kidnap. Rape. Extortion. Take your pick. He’s the richest man in Hollywood.

  “Of course your beautiful wife is invited, too,” the man says, his smile widening at me.

  We’re both so shocked by his assumption that even Jake can’t muster a comeback. At least it clears one thing up—this guy hasn’t a clue who Jake is.

  “We’re n-not—I mean w-we’re—” I stammer.

  “She works for my brother,” says Jake crushingly. “We’re colleagues, nothing more.”

  No need to spell it out, Jake. I’m getting the message loud and clear.

  The young man looks embarrassed, shifting his weight from one brown sandaled foot to another. “I apologize. I assumed from the way you were talking with one other…”

  “Unfortunately, this woman hasn’t yet grasped the concept of a hierarchal working relationship,” says Jake, not looking in my direction. “Thanks for the offer. We appreciate the invitation, and thank your family in advance for their hospitality.”

  “This is good news.” The young man’s face lights up again as he rises to his feet. “My name is Hassan. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Jake Dalton,” says Jake, shaking his hand again. “And she’s Charlotte.”

  She?

  “Charlie,” I correct him coolly.

  “Please,” says Hassan, picking up my suitcase. “My car is this way.”

  Now it’s my turn to hesitate. Why do I feel like this voyage into the unknown isn’t the only one I’m trapped on right now?

  Chapter Seventeen

  It’s late afternoon by the time we exit the airport, and the sky is a splash of amber and rose. It’s a vista of fine color compared with the dusty brown parking lot in front of us, but the heat still hits me like a furnace.

  Hassan’s taxi is a crumpled Mercedes that’s welded together with dents and paint chips, but it’s such a relief to leave the terminal that I covet it like it’s Jake’s Maserati.

  After climbing into the back, I pick my way across the road maps that are strewn across both foot wells. Hassan leans over me with an apologetic smile and stuffs them into the seat pockets. Otherwise the car is spotless, though the smells are crisp and pungent. There’s a beaded pine air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror and a spicy incense stick burning on the dashboard. All in all, there’s an epic power struggle for odor ascendancy going on in here.

  Jake chooses to sit up front in the passenger seat. No surprises there. Next to him, Hassan is fiddling with the radio, skimming through stations and excitable Arabic chatter until he finally settles on one that he likes. It’s playing the most bewildering, melancholic music I’ve ever heard, and I sit back to listen as we pull out of the parking lot. The heavy beats and jagged melodies are having a soporific effect on me. I can feel my eyelids drooping already.

  “Today we travel through the High Atlas Mountains,” I hear Hassan tell Jake. “We should reach my village by nightfall.”

  “What time will we get to Erizo?”

  “By first light. Tell me, my friend, what business brings you to my country?”

  “The business of liars, deceivers, and make-believers,” Jake says, gazing out of the window.

  I’ve never heard him talk about the movie industry like that, and I make a mental note to ask him about it. You know, when we’re actually speaking again. Which might be in a couple hundred years, if today is anything to go by.

  The next thing I know, he’s looming over me, smothering me with cedarwood and citrus and shaking my arm. Hard.

  “Charlie, wake up.”

  Surely, a hundred years can’t have passed by already?

  I shift in my seat and open my eyes. “Are we there?”

  “Not yet. Get out of the car. You need to see this.” He takes my hand and guides me out of the vehicle.

  I’m half asleep but still hyper-conscious of his touch. “What is it?” I mumble, disarmed by his golden warmth that’s seeping into my skin.

  “Quit talking and look.”

  Reluctantly, I follow his outstretched arm. We’ve gained altitude since we left Casablanca, and the sunburned highway has undergone a stunning transformation. The scenery before us is a vivid patchwork of greens, rugged and lush, with small gray villages carved into the hillsides all around.

  “Ourika,” explains Hassan, walking over to us. “It is lovely, no? You are lucky to have this view. In a few minutes this will all be darkness.”

  There’s a strange swell of emotion rising up inside me. I never dreamed anywhere could be this beautiful. It’s like I’m standing on the edge of paradise.

  “Once in a lifetime,” Jake murmurs.

  Is he as moved by this as I am? For some reason, this surprises me.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Couple of hours.” Reality reasserts itself and he drops my hand like a stone. I try not to take it personally.

  “Thanks for letting me sleep.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  I wait for the inevitable snarky follow-up, but it doesn’t come. His dry, mocking undertone has disappeared, as well.

  “What time is it?”

  “Does it matter?” He turns to look at me, a slight frown on his face. There are faint shadows under his eyes and his stubble is at least two days old, but the sight of him is just as magnificent as the backdrop.

  We stand together in silence, watching the horizon nibble away at the setting sun until the fierce orange glow is no stronger than a twenty-watt lightbulb. He’s right. Time has a magical pass here. Hours will drift at their own immitigable pace, regardless of deadlines and budgets. The frenetic rules of L.A. and London no longer apply, and we’re suspended in this alternative universe together.

  “Come,” says Hassan, turning and strolling back to his car. “You must be hungry, and my village is not far from here.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hassan’s village consists of ten stone cabins built into a steep gradient and arranged in a staggered semicircle above the Ourika River at the heart of the valley.

  The car stops halfway down a dirt track, and a small army of doe-eyed children pours out of the cabins to greet us, pounding the sides of the Mercedes with their tiny fists and shrieking out unfamiliar words in great excitement.

  “As-salām! As-salām!”

  “Lam naraka mundhu muddah!”

  They greet Hassan like the long-lost brother that he is, eagerly showing h
im their grazed knees and treasured toys as they jostle with each other for prime position.

  I watch Jake closely as we exit the car, knowing his distaste for in-your-face displays of devotion. This is a man who would rather swim with piranha than pose for the paparazzi. To my amazement, he receives the children with the same enthusiasm as Hassan, kneeling down to accept their curiosity, and then tickling and chasing them until they’re screaming with laughter. For the first time I catch a glimpse of the boy in the photograph, and I feel the ground shifting beneath my feet.

  “Come, come!” they cry at me, too. A girl of no more than five or six years old takes my hand and pulls me toward the first stone cabin, while the remaining children fight with one another to clasp their arms around Jake.

  We’re greeted on the steps by Hassan’s parents, older siblings, and elderly relatives, and they welcome us into their small home with warmth and encouragement. “Please sit,” they urge in broken English, guiding us toward a number of faded, patterned cushions set around a low wooden table in the center of the room.

  Jake shoots me a look as we take up our places opposite one another, but I can’t read the subtext. I wish I could slice through that tough exterior and catch a glimpse of those true colors he spoke of yesterday.

  Two plates of steaming couscous and some sort of soft, cooked, orange vegetable are placed in front of us, and I smile gratefully at the server, a girl of about sixteen, who smiles back at me shyly. There’s a constant hum of excited chatter in the room and much jostling for position as Hassan and his relatives take their places, as well.

  I’m awkward at first. My fork feels too heavy in my hand. My bangs keep falling into my eyes and I’m in no hurry to push them away. I feel like I’m intruding on someone else’s life, but my hosts are trying so hard to put us at ease. Smiles are currency. Laughter is an open doorway. In this small home, these qualities and the sense of family are all-embracing. Their love for one another is so clear and unapologetic that I can’t help feeling included in their affections.