“You’re worried I’m going to tell you I don’t like you doing this.”
He studied her. “Maybe you should.”
“I’m not going to run your life, Micah. It seems you get a lot of pleasure out of this. Why would I tell you to let it go?”
Her simple statement sent a thrill through him, but Micah was careful not to get his hopes up too high. “I could die out on that bike. Or worse…live to suffer with lifelong injuries. Are you prepared for that?”
“Just promise me you’ll do your best not to,” she smiled. “I love you. All that you bring to the table. I met you in a biker bar. I accept all of you. When you’re ready to walk away, I’ll be here for you, and as long as you feel the need for speed, I’m here for you. Just try to be careful, okay?”
He chuckled, dropping his hand on her knee. “I’m gonna marry you one day.” He laughed again, staring out at the view. “Watch and see.”
CHAPTER 19 Zoya had been summoned. Her parents rarely called her through the week, so when her cellphone rang the next Tuesday evening, she knew something had to be gravely wrong. Zoya answered with trepidation, and her father’s wavering voice sounded alarmed. “Zoya, have you seen your brother?”
“Miad? No, I haven’t seen him.” Her heart raced, and she sat up in bed, looking at the time. It was almost nine on a Tuesday night. It wasn’t that unusual for her older brother to be out at that hour. “He’s probably just out with his friends, Baba. Is something wrong?”
Musa sighed, turning to Taba and shaking his head regretfully. “She hasn’t seen him.”
“Tell her to come home. I need to touch my children. I need to know everything is alright,” Taba sobbed. She had a feeling. There was a churning in her gut, and her heart fluttered in her chest. Miad had been missing since Sunday night. She hadn’t heard from him in three days.
Musa pressed the phone to his ear and sighed wearily. “Zoya, we need you to come.”
“Baba, what’s happened?” Zoya asked, getting nervous. Had Miad made some snide comment about her that had put her parents on edge? She needed to know what was going on. It wasn’t like them to call in the middle of the night, much less request her presence.
“I’ll explain when you get here. Just come.” Musa hung up the phone. He had a heavy weight on his shoulders, being the head of household where his children respected their parents less and less. Miad was up to no good. He was sure of it. Musa was keeping his suspicions to himself until he had some proof though. No sense in stressing Taba, with her fragile health. Neither of the children were aware of how serious their mother’s heart condition had gotten.
“Lie down, Taba. Stop pacing. Walking a hole into the carpet won’t bring him home any sooner.”
“It’s been three days, Musa. You tell me don’t worry. Don’t worry, Taba! How can I not? My only son!” She dashed tears from her eyes, bowing her head and taking a seat on the side of the bed as her husband had instructed. “I am sorry, my love. I mean you no disrespect.”
Musa laboriously kneeled his heavy weight down on the floor beside her and looked up into his wife’s still quite lovely face. In all their years of marriage, he had been a generous husband, understanding and kind. But, in this, he needed to stand firm. “I will not have you waste yourself with worry. You must rest. The boy is no longer a boy. Although he acts like an insolent child, he’s a grown man. What he does with his life is up to him now.”
“And, Zoya?” she lamented. “There is something up with our daughter, Musa. A mother knows.”
Across town, Zoya left a note on the kitchen counter telling Callie where she was going and slipped out the door to run to the elevators. She willed it to move faster, a sense of urgency in her step as the doors finally eased open and let her out into the lobby. Zoya jogged through the doors and down the sidewalk to her car, unlocking the doors and climbing into the driver’s seat with a jangle of her keys and breathless sigh.
She drove quickly to her parents’ house. When she entered the place that had been her home prior to getting her apartment with Callie once she started graduate school, she sensed the change in the atmosphere of the house. It wasn’t something that could be touched or directly pinpointed, but there was a feeling in the still, empty living room that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. Something was wrong.
She closed and locked the front door behind her. She strolled through the archway into the hall. “Baba?” she called uncertainly.
Musa stepped out of his bedroom with a relieved expression. “She’s here, Taba. Come, Zoya. Your mother is resting. She wants to see you.”
At the expression on his face, the sad, weary eyes and tense frown lines at the corner of his mouth, Zoya threw down her purse and rushed up the hall to her parents’ bedroom, a room of the house she seldom had cause to enter. She saw her mother lying in bed, looking frail and worn, and her heart leapt in her throat. “Maman!” she said in alarm. “What’s happened to you?”
“Shush, I’m fine,” Taba smiled, easing up on her elbows and sitting up in the bed. “Your brother has been missing since the weekend. I’m worried sick, but I’m fine.” Taba waved Musa out of the room, and he left, albeit reluctantly. She had things to discuss with her daughter. She patted the bed, and Zoya tentatively stepped deeper inside.
The walls were painted a deep burgundy, and authentic Persian rugs covered the floor in various patterns and rich hues; each rug overlapped the other haphazardly. Upon the rugs rested a hand-carved, skillfully built four-poster bed with delicately painted panels stenciled with a “Tree of Life” motif. Taupe bedding patterned with dark red roses covered the mattress. She stepped past an intricately designed dresser with mother of pearl inlay topped with ceramics and a vase of silk flowers. A wand of incense burned aromatically from a Qajar incense burner filigreed with peacocks and parrots.
Zoya sat on the edge of the plush, comfortable mattress and put her hand on Taba’s slippered feet. It was time she told her mother what she knew of Miad’s recent descent into debauchery. The thought of him missing for several days sent fear through her. He could be hurt. There was no telling what had happened to him, roaming drunkenly around the city at nights.
“Maman, I didn’t want to tell you this because I didn’t want you to get upset…Miad has been drinking again, only it’s much worse than before. I’ve seen him around town, drunk and picking fights.” She held up her hands as Taba sat forward, shocked by what she was hearing. “Now, don’t let your imagination get away with you. He’s probably just spent the last few days with his friends. I’ll call around and see if I can locate him for you, but I needed to tell you in confidence about his alcoholism. I don’t know what else to do. Perhaps with your help we can convince him to go to the rehab center I told him about.”
“Zoya,” Taba said her name sharply. “What places have you been frequenting that you might stumble into your brother in such a state anyway? It’s true, isn’t it? You’ve been living like the loose women you go to school with.”
“What?” Zoya was taken aback. “No, Maman, I’m trying to tell you—“
“You will not speak of this to your father, you understand me? You speak ill of your brother to take the scrutiny off of yourself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you spend less and less time here at home with us. If I find out you have been living in ithm …” She tapered off the threat. Her heart couldn’t handle the strain. Taba slumped back tiredly. “Leave me,” she said weakly. “Let me rest.”
Zoya rose to her feet, feeling like she had been pummeled by her mother’s words. She had come seeking to unburden her conscience and get help for Miad, but her Maman had turned the admission against her. She fled the bedroom, fighting sobs. Musa was in the living room trying to read without his glasses. He looked up when she entered. “Zoya? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing, Baba.” She found a shaky smile and pasted it on her face, sniffling discreetly and ducking into the kitchen away from his close wa
tch. Zoya sat at the kitchen table. She took her cellphone from her pocket to call around and locate her brother. She didn’t know many of his friends, but she decided she should eliminate the jails and hospitals. It was a starting point. With a sigh, she waited patiently for the hospital receptionist to go through the patient list.
“Sorry, ma’am, we don’t have anyone by that name here.”
“Thank you,” Zoya replied. Hanging up, she dialed another medical center and got the same response. Fingers shaking, she dialed the police department. Zoya had to go through several channels to get to the person she needed to speak with about recent arrests. She struggled to explain that her brother was missing and had a drinking problem. “His name is Miad Rao. Do you have…record of him coming in?”
“You’re in luck. We got him down here.” The woman on the other end chuckled in a raspy voice. “I don’t even have to look him up. He’s made quite a name for himself, spoutin’ off about his wealthy daddy and the shit we’ve gotten ourselves into by arresting him.”
Zoya squeezed her eyes shut, embarrassed. “Can you tell me why he was arrested?”
“You said you’re his sister? Public drunkenness and disorderly conduct. He would’ve been out by Monday if he hadn’t earned himself another charge, assaulting an officer. Now, he’s gotta post bail to get out.”
Zoya had no idea about anything dealing with the legal system. She had never gotten into that kind of trouble and didn’t know anyone who had. As she hung up the phone, she wracked her brain for solutions to the problem. She could tell her Baba, but it would only make him angry to know that Miad had acted so immaturely, and her mother had warned her not to let her father know about Miad’s drinking. She bit her lip, ready to give up.
Then, it occurred to her that Micah had a checkered past. He had been in and out of correctional facilities in his younger days. Maybe, just maybe, he could tell her what to do. She reached for her phone again, stealthily dialing his number. Zoya kept her eyes on the kitchen entrance and prayed neither of her parents decided to make an appearance. As the line connected and Micah’s sultry, sleepy baritone spoke from the other end, she felt a thin tendril of hope. “Micah…I need your help.”
CHAPTER 20 The Sunday night Miad ran into trouble started like any other weekend night. The olive-skinned Iranian playboy stepped out of a phantom white Camaro and threw the keys to the valet. “Take care of my baby for me. Don’t hurt her. She’s the only woman I’ve ever been in love with,” he said, as he laughed in a raspy tenor voice.
The uniformed valet nodded and murmured, “Of course, Mr. Rao,” knowing Miad. It felt good to be known. It felt great to be respected. A saxophone solo spilled out into the night when the door opened. Miad strolled into the upscale restaurant dressed in a thousand-dollar black suit, looking every inch the consummate businessman. He brushed past women in cocktail dresses with perfect hair and men who looked like him.
The slate gray shirt he wore beneath the black blazer was opened at the collar to reveal thin strands of gold chains, and gold rings were on each of his hands, an opulent watch around his wrist—the spoils of a gambler. They were things he’d have today, maybe not tomorrow, but he looked good for the night. Miad knew it, and other people noticed it, which made him smile the debonair, charming smile of a gambler betting it all on a bluff.
“Reservation for Rao,” he murmured in fluent, slightly accented English to the maître d’.
An attractive, petite, blonde hostess wearing a black dress materialized next to the stiff dining room attendant and smiled seductively at Miad. “Right this way, Mr. Rao.”
His thick black hair fell in loose waves across his high forehead above his chocolate eyes, and he flicked it back with a casual dismissive attitude at her appreciative once over. He was used to beautiful women fawning over him, but Miad wasn’t there for pleasure. He was there for business. She had a nice tush though, and the black sheath style dress hugged her curves, exposing her voluptuous bosom.
The hostess led him to a discreet table set for two tucked in a quiet corner. Miad’s stride was the self-assured swagger of a man who had everything in control. He was a master of illusion. What was less apparent was the nervous tremor of his hands, as he pulled out the swoop back chair and murmured his gratitude to the hostess as he sat down, a sheen of perspiration faintly visible along the bridge of his nose. Miad desperately needed a drink, but he had forced himself to refrain. When the server in a black tuxedo appeared to take his order, Miad asked for water.
He was meeting someone. A vein along Miad’s temple throbbed painfully, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to appear calm and assertive. In the back of his head, Miad was running calculations and coming up short. Always short. Short on money, short on friends to borrow money from, short on time to come up with the money. He cursed soundly and sipped the insipid water with a scowl at not having anything stronger. Within a few minutes of Miad’s arrival, the young doctor pushed through the doors and was led to Miad’s table. “Have you got it?” Dr. Javid Vahidi got straight to the matter at hand, as he hurriedly sat down.
“Friend,” Miad said with a bright, false smile. Extending his hand in welcome, he gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit. Drink with me, eat with me. Then, we talk business.”
Javid cut the air with his hand. “Don’t fuck with me, Miad. I didn’t come here to play games with you. We had a deal, and you didn’t hold up your end of the bargain. Now, I want my money!”
Javid, Zoya’s former potential fiancé, waved away the server who returned to take his drink order. He wasn’t there to be wined and dined. He glared at Miad, ignoring the posh surroundings and the patrons of the restaurant who were gawking at him for raising his voice. Struggling for aplomb, Javid visibly steeled his jaw and sat back. He crossed his arms and watched Miad fumble for a response.
“Um, technically, I have it,” said Miad. “But, you should give Zoya more time. I can get her to come around!”
“That’s what you said before,” Javid fumed quietly.
Miad threw up placating hands and said, “Yes, yes, I know what I said. She’s proving more…difficult…than I expected but—”
“Precisely. I don’t need a difficult wife. I need a docile, compliant, levelheaded woman who knows her role. You promised me she’d be an asset, and now you’re telling me she’ll be a struggle. When I first met Zoya, I admit I saw promise in the match, but the more I learn of her, the less I like what I hear. You can keep your fickle sister. There are plenty of other good Muslim girls who will do for what I need. The deal is off. I want my money.”
Miad gulped, eyes skating to the left and right. The jazz band played on, mellow and smoky under the amber lights of the restaurant, but the music did less to soothe him, rattling his nerves even more. The crystal chandelier overhead and the marble floor beneath his feet offered no answers to his problem. His gaze skittered back to Javid’s pissed off face.
He didn’t have the money, and there was no chance of getting it. No matter how much money he borrowed from Baba and Maman, the itch to gamble it away was too persistent to ignore, and the alcohol was starting to be a problem, too. Miad had always struggled with the two vices. When times were good, he could ignore the cravings. When times were bad, not so much.
Miad owed Javid over ten thousand dollars in gambling debts racked up over the course of the year they had known each other.
Inwardly, he cursed Zoya’s rebelliousness. If she had only played her part, he would be out of this mess already! Javid had initially agreed to absolve the debt if Zoya married him. Miad was well-aware of the doctor’s reasons for needing a speedy marriage, and he understood Javid wouldn’t wait much longer for Zoya to come around, but all Miad needed was another month, maybe two, to either convince her to do her duty or come up with the money.
Leaning forward, Miad countered, “I can get you the money, but you’ll have to give me more time…Don’t forget I have dirt on you, too, friend.”
“Mi
ad, you’re a drunk, a thief, and a swindler. I’m a doctor. Which one of us do you think people are going to believe? Don’t you forget, unlike you, I actually have the money to make my problems disappear. You have two weeks.” Javid calmly placed a few fifties on the table. “You look like you need a drink. This one’s on me. I know you can’t afford it,” he sneered. Then, he rose to his feet and breezed out of the restaurant, leaving Miad to stare after him with growing fear.
He had messed up. Miad was adept at calling a man’s bluff, but Javid had too much to lose to make idle threats. He would make good on the promise. “How am I going to fix this?” Miad whispered, dropping his head into his hands. He shoved his thick fingers through his wavy black hair and looked around with wild eyes, seeing no answers. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams. He angrily snatched up the money and shoved it into the inner pocket of his blazer, not wanting to take it but not having a dime to his name.
Things had looked so promising. When he had met the young medical student, Miad had thought he’d found an easy mark. Javid was wealthy and had no qualms about spending his money on Miad, loaning him cash when he needed it, supplying him with alcohol, and giving him a chance to hang out in the type of lavish environments where Miad imagined he belonged. Miad had eventually realized Javid’s interest in spending time with him was more than platonic and tried to get out of the friendship, repulsed by Javid’s homosexual inclinations. However, by that point, he owed the man too much money to extricate himself completely.
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