Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “You know Muhammad was a warlord.” Joe stepped closer to her palm tree. The wind trickled through his short hair, making dark shadows along with the light.

  “It’s a religion thing, war, conquest. I imagine your Jesus Christ was all about conquering nations too.” She ran her fingers over the ridges of the sturdy palm bark as she studied Joe. He had an interesting forehead, firm, but artistic. The moon bathed his entire face in light, washing out the blueness of his eyes. This afternoon with him had been perfect.

  “Not at all.” Joe rested one leg on the brick garden edge and leaned on his knee. “ ‘My kingdom is not of this world,’ Jesus said. When his follower drew a sword to keep the Jews from delivering Him to death, Jesus rebuked him.”

  “Okay?” So over this conversation. Kay pushed her sleeves up. Wind blew in the abaya’s loose arms, brushing her skin, making her feel almost human again. She shed the second skin and stepped one foot closer to Joe. The shadow of the palm tree cut across her white tanktop.

  “Jesus never bought a house or owned more than a pair of clothes. Muhammad created an entire empire off his religion. He ordered anyone who didn’t agree with him put to death.”

  “Christians put enough people to death in the inquisition. The violence inherent in spiritual rules is why I reject all organized religion.” She twisted her finger in the links of her red and black beaded necklace. The wind whipped the edge of her skirt against him, whipped it to where she wanted to be. The moonlight obscured his mouth, but it couldn’t hide the tiny crevices in his lips. When she’d kissed him, she’d felt the texture of his skin as his mouth caressed hers. Irrational as it might be, she couldn’t help but like this guy.

  “Sure, people who wore gold crosses and went to Latin church services put people to death . . . a millennium and a half after Jesus walked the earth. They weren’t exactly following Jesus’ marching orders like Muhammad’s generals when they slaughtered hundreds of women and children in cold blood.”

  “Hate all you want.” She smiled at him. “But I love this moment right now in the land of Arabian Nights and I think Islam’s a beautiful religion.” She let her headscarf flow through her hands, bearing the sound of mystical prayers, lyrical voices, and the smell of Arabian scents. With a splash, it fell against the square stones. Two feet separated him and her. She flicked her fingernails against his palm. The tip of her finger brushed over the chafed skin of calluses.

  “I wouldn’t call them prayers. Just rote sayings. No personal conversation with God.” Joe squared his shoulders. Did he conceal a gun beneath that box-shaped jacket? The fabric looked like duck cloth, though it should have been made of leather. The guy had zero fashion sense, and she got the impression he liked it that way.

  She felt herself smile. “You really out-loud talk to an invisible ‘person’ all the time?” Fingers still brushing his, she looked at Joe. Six inches closer and she could touch her mouth to his, let him close his arms around her, hold her tight to him. The starlight glistened on his blond hair like some el Cid figure riding out of the night. All Joe lacked was a horse, a lance, and shadowy hordes bent on conquest obeying his every whim. What would he do if she stepped forward and pressed her body up against his as she kissed him?

  “I’m the one in the majority here. Most people around the world pray to some higher deity.” And so Joe broke the mood.

  Kay let her hand drop. They came from different worlds.

  Joe’s jacket gapped, revealing the blue shirt that stretched tight around his chest. Good thing Arabic women had zero sex drive and never lusted or those rock-hard abdominal muscles could cause some serious defrauding. Why again did Saudi women have to wear abayas and not men?

  Joe dug his thumbs into his jean pockets.

  The wind whistled between them, pushing them apart, making six inches of space feel like miles. Her sigh whipped away in the wind. If only he and she had come from the same background.

  “You really never think there might be a God up there?” Joe pointed to the sky. Not a single cloud obscured the stars high above.

  She glanced after his finger. Her tanktop scrunched around her collarbone as she shrugged. “Not really.” Though many a time as a child she’d wished for some all-powerful deity to beg help from. Sometimes when she looked up at the stars and all the vastness of space, she thought, maybe this much splendor necessitated a Creative force. But that was irrational.

  “Never think there’s a higher purpose with all that’s going on down here?”

  Kay kicked the brick ledge that fenced off the playground. How had Joe dragged her into a religious conversation again?

  Joe’s voice had a musical quality. As the stars shone on his face, and his shadow fell across moonlit sand in the birthplace of Islam, she could almost imagine he had a point.

  What would it be like to have someone to turn to any moment? What would it be like to think, in the middle of your problems, oh I’ll just stop and talk into thin air, and some Higher Power will take care of it? Kay bit her bottom lip.

  Her grandparents had believed in a higher power in their own quiet way. Before her grandma passed, she’d given her a white leather Bible that had belonged to her grandmother’s grandmother many long years ago.

  Joe looked at her through the darkness, the allure of spies and government intelligence in his stance.

  Way too much thinking about an invisible person who one had absolutely zero proof existed. She bumped her shoulder against Joe’s, laughter in her eyes.

  He touched her fingertips. The moonlight made one long shadow of his nose. If she stepped into his space, would he initiate the kiss? Oh, to run her fingers underneath that horrible T-shirt of his and feel the product of a redneck-amount of hours around barbells.

  He reached through the darkness and brushed his hand against her shoulder, bare skin against bare skin.

  Now she knew why all the Catholic school girls got pregnant. Meeting a guy really was way more fun when you had a curfew and the threat of a furious male relative.

  Bending his neck, Joe kissed her. His arms pressed tight against her shoulder blades. She twisted her arms around his neck. She could feel the sinews of his neck muscles. The ribbed edge of his T-shirt rubbed against her hand. She tasted his kiss. The warmth of his chest spread into her, his body so hard against her own.

  He opened his mouth, a look of such reverie in his eyes, as if completely focused on this moment. Her heart skipped beats.

  A searing white light blazed across the playground. Kay jolted out of Joe’s arms.

  Spotlights flamed around them. Footsteps crashed. Men in black police uniforms surrounded them.

  A man in a black beret raised his voice. “You are hereby detained until further notice for the crimes of theft, disturbing the public morality, and indecent exposure.” He turned his glare toward her. “Cover yourself.”

  Dropping to a crouch, Kay grabbed for her abaya and head covering. Her heart pounded against her chest. Unlike the mutwas, actual cops would have a database to check any fake IDs against.

  “It’s not what it seems.” Joe stepped in front of her. “We are both American. The embassy will step in. Better to let us walk on and we will never allow something like this to happen again.” Joe dug into his jacket and flashed an official-looking government badge.

  The police officer inspected it. He nodded, bobbing his thin beard.

  “It’s merely a cultural misunderstanding.” Joe turned to her. “Kay. Your I.D.”

  Hugging the abaya up to her chest, she swallowed. Her hair still fell free around the black, her naked face exposed. Why did her heart pound like this? She’d merely kissed a friend in a park. How bad of a ticket could Saudi Arabia issue for curfew violations? Also, she’d driven a car. Would Uncle Muhammad find out about this?

  “You brought your U.S. passport like I told you, right?” Joe hissed.

  “Not exactly.” Kay shifted to her other foot.

  One officer looked to another. “Perhaps since you are
foreigners, if you are prepared to pay a fine here and now, we could let the immorality slide.”

  Another police officer marched closer, hand on his baton. “What about the theft?”

  “We haven’t stolen anything.” The moonlight reflected off Joe’s white government ID.

  “We saw her get out of the SUV plate number 3CB7-XXX?” The police officer stabbed his thumb at her. “You have stolen Muhammad Al-Khatani’s car.”

  Kay gripped the car keys that jangled in her abaya pocket. “I didn’t steal it.”

  A shout came from the other side of the playground. Designer slacks flapping around his legs, a man charged over the hill. Muhammad. “That woman stole my car, I tell you.”

  Kay’s heart pounded. The police would know she hadn’t stolen the vehicle. She should feel good. But what if Muhammad struck her again?

  Muhammad stopped short. “Mariam?”

  “Uncle.” Kay’s voice warbled. She grabbed for her headscarf. “See, just a misunderstanding. No theft.” Muhammad looked ready to explode into flames. Her knees weakened.

  “You have dishonored my house. You were supposed to marry an emir of the faith tomorrow.” Muhammad waved his hand through the air.

  “Tomorrow?” Kay jolted back. She stumbled on a broken stone. Her head struck Joe’s shoulder. Rather than steady her in his embrace like moments before, he lurched away from her.

  No words crossed his mouth. He stared at Muhammad.

  “You must die to save the family honor.” Muhammad stood tall, his classy dress suit and the smell of expensive cologne incongruous with his medieval words.

  She gripped the rough bark of the palm tree. “You’re joking.”

  Muhammad glared at her. Around them, the black-clad police officers made a wall.

  Joe turned pale. “She is not your niece. She is an American, Kay Bianchi. I can show you her passport.”

  “Is that the lie she told you?” Muhammad glared at him. “She’s no American, despite that she has acted like an American prostitute.”

  The police officer’s black shirt swelled as he grabbed her arm. “Your niece is under arrest.”

  “I will punish her crimes privately. No need for my family’s name to be dishonored in a police report.” Muhammad grabbed her other arm.

  Punish by honor-killing her? She thrust away from Muhammad and turned to her police officer savior. She’d welcome those handcuffs and jail bars. Sweat poured down her face.

  “Your family’s name is already nothing. Your niece has acted as a prostitute.” The police officer jerked her back. She stumbled on the stone.

  Joe jumped toward her. Another police officer cut him off. The man whipped out handcuffs.

  “When your niece is released from jail, then you may do as you wish.” A heavyset police officer pulled out a notepad. He scratched a pen across the page.

  “I only kissed him.” Kay threw her arms up. The black abaya fell down over her skin, her arms pale in the moonlight.

  Muhammad looked ready to draw a gun.

  “Honor-killing is illegal. You will get three years in jail if you’re caught.” The police officer spoke in a monotone, as much concern in his voice as the Harvard security guards enforcing the “don’t feed the ducks” sign.

  Three years in jail for her murder? Kay trembled. “I’m not your niece. I took Mariam’s place.”

  The police officer grabbed Joe and shoved him toward a police car. He struggled against the men.

  The officer’s black beret slid off.

  “She’s an American, I tell you.” Joe’s voice rose, the Arabic words breaking through the darkness. “Call the embassy. You can’t do this to an American citizen.”

  Muhammad rolled his eyes. “She’s not an American. She’s my niece.”

  “I only kissed him,” she yelled. The words swelled out into the darkness, lost in the desert sand.

  The cop cuffed the first handcuff link. The metal joint caught in her black abaya threads. Fear slid through her. “I’m an American,” she screamed.

  “No, you’re not.” With a roll of his eyes, the officer clipped the other cuff around her right wrist. One hand on her head, he shoved her into the police vehicle.

  That day twelve years ago in the locker room closet when she’d lost her virginity to the quarterback at her high school flashed through her mind. She’d worried about catching an STD or an unplanned pregnancy and the possibility that pro-life fanatics would make her keep the baby. Unlike today, she’d never feared the consensual act would lead to her execution by the religious police.

  If she ever made it back to America, she’d apologize to every overzealous anti-choicer waving graphic pictures of aborted fetuses yelling that they had all been products of rape that she had ever mocked.

  She’d welcome an unplanned pregnancy just now.

  Honor-killing? Surely Muhammad couldn’t truly mean that? She’d only kissed Joe. What would happen in jail? Would she get released? How long could the Saudi government imprison a woman caught kissing a man?

  When they released her to her male relative, who would stop Muhammad from carrying out his threat? Kay gasped for breath. The stench of grease clogged her nostrils.

  The officer slammed the door shut. Hands cuffed behind her, she stared at the floor, littered with fast food wrappers.

  Muhammad meant to kill her and the police certainly wouldn’t do anything to stop Muhammad’s intent.

  Friday, October 7th, 6:01 a.m.

  The cinder block cell grew smaller by the minute. Leg irons cinched Kay to the metal chair. If only she could pace.

  The metal door creaked. A hefty woman walked in. A niqab covered her entire face. “What is your relation to Joe Csontos, U.S. government official?”

  “I met him at Muhammad Al-Khatani’s house. We text sometimes. I only kissed him. I swear I didn’t do anything past first base.” Fear churned in her stomach. An hour had passed and no lawyer, Miranda rights, or American diplomat had materialized. Kay laid her handcuffed wrists on the table. Metal clicked against metal.

  “We are prepared to release you.”

  Really? Breath whooshed from Kay’s lungs.

  The big woman cleared her throat. “To your uncle.”

  “No!” Kay grabbed the table lip. “Take me to the U.S. embassy.”

  The woman stood over her, hands on her waist. “We shall release you to your mahram male relative in accordance with the laws of the land.”

  Cold fear pierced Kay. Muhammad had said he’d murder her, and she had no doubt he’d do it.

  Several Hours Before

  Thursday, October 6th, 11:58 p.m.

  Darkness surrounded Muhammad. His fingers shook as he dialed the last number he wished to and the last person he wanted to learn of his niece’s sin. If the police made their report though, not only Abdullah, but all of Riyadh would find out. How could Mariam shame the family in this way? The whore. “Abdullah, sir.”

  “What is it?” Abdullah’s gruff voice crackled through the phone. “Have you discovered a way to bring Joe to Bahrain?”

  Not just Riyadh, all freaking Saudi Arabia would know his family’s shame. Muhammad’s head pounded. He couldn’t have his family name dishonored in this way, have the Al-Khatanis subject to humiliation every time someone looked up a public police record. If he could convince Abdullah to bribe the police to skip the report, then he could take Mariam’s life before the wedding, and his family honor would remain intact. “No, sir. It’s about the wedding.”

  Sweat poured down Muhammad’s brow. The liquid drenched him, exuding the smell of alcohol. He’d thought a marriage alliance with the El-Amins would bring glory to his family.

  “I already cut the check for the venue. You can rest assured it will be more splendid than any your family has ever aspired to.” Abdullah’s voice rasped through the Samsung phone.

  Glory to his family? Thanks to his niece’s wantonness, his family would receive a dung heap of dishonor, not glory. How could she do this to h
im? “It’s about my niece.” Muhammad swallowed through a dry throat. “She snuck out at night with a man. I will see her killed, of course, to restore your honor. Only, I’d rather not have the police involved. I need your wasta to get her out.”

  “She did what?” Anger exploded through the phone.

  “I found her with him in a park not a half hour ago.” Muhammad hung his head, his voice a mumble. Now Abdullah knew his shame.

  “The infidel. What sort of mahram are you? Not even controlling the women of your own household. My women would never have acted in this way.”

  Abdullah spoke truth. What had his brother been thinking sending a female to the United States to study? If only he could undo this and spare his family’s good name. Muhammad stared after the disappearing police cars. A tendril of exhaust wafted out the back of the cars. “I’m very sorry.”

  “You owe me a bride. I’ll take yours.”

  “What?”

  “The woman you’re betrothed to. Give her to me and I’ll make the police report go away.” Abdullah spoke with the disdain of a man whose women had upheld his family honor, not shamed it.

  No! He’d paid a lot of money to arrange this betrothal and wedding. Alma was to be his wife. Muhammad clenched his phone. “I do not know that Alma’s father will agree for her to be a third wife.”

  “See that he does, or I will see your family’s dishonor broadcast throughout the kingdom.”

  Muhammad’s fingers trembled. Abdullah had to agree to stop that police report. “Please, emir.”

  “If you expect me to do you this favor, I also want Joe kidnapped. When will you accomplish that?”

  “Well, he’s in jail right now. He was the one with Mariam.”

  Dead silence, then Abdullah’s voice rose an octave. “Joe has a love crush on Mariam?”

  “Never fear, I will kill her and restore your honor. Please stop the police report.” Muhammad trembled as the night air pierced his suit.