Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1)

by Venessa Kimball

  “Time to go! Yalla Yalla!” I sing in a soft voice to get the girls’ attention. I rise and back away from the table ask the girls file in toward me. As I lead them out into the courtyard, I notice two soldiers standing with the one I thanked this morning. The added security made me feel safe to bring them out, and was the only reason I agreed with Ana this morning on letting them play. The sun is overhead and the heat is at its peak.

  Adjusting my veil, I remember the way Raj’s hands pulled it away, how it sent waves of desire through me, a feeling I haven’t been able to appreciate in a very long time. The desire, his words, his touch stayed just at the forefront of my mind for the rest of the day. My focus on my girls was still there. I did find myself drifting away to the world Raj had created once or twice, but their energy kept me in the moment with them.

  Ana and I walk into the volunteer meeting Tom had called. While I smile and hug a few of the other volunteers I have become close with, I am more focused on seeing if Raj is here. Surveying the room between hugs, hellos, and smiles, I don’t see him.

  Tom starts the meeting quickly, saying he doesn’t want to keep us too late. “Prince Rajaa could not stay as he had expected. He has been called away to an engagement for the royal family. He did want me to convey his heart-felt appreciation to those he wasn’t able to see today. I’m sure he will visit with each of you soon.”

  As Tom discusses the day and how the plan of protocol will continue as it is for the remainder of our time here, he comments on the media leak creating an added concern. He tells us there is not a need to worry, as the soldiers will keep them out of the center, but he will need us to refrain from talking to the media until they back off.

  While I should be listening to all the questions from the volunteers and the dialogue Tom is having with us, I find myself wondering what could have pulled Raj away from staying for the meeting, something I assumed was important to him. I mean, a royal engagement, really? I am familiar with engagements, royal or not. In America, an engagement either means the literal term or a party and I’m certain it means the same here, just segregated to royalty where ours are segregated to the most influential. Could this party have meant more to him than the support of this program? Or was this entire program his parents’ idea, to improve their royal image?

  Suddenly, his chivalry, his seductive notions seeming sincere in the classrooms, sweeping me away into an intimate place only for us and building a fantasy within me of how fate has linked us, pulling my sex-deprived ass right in, doesn’t seem as untainted as it does now. Could this royal prince be a royal ass, like his brother Zaid? Could he be a fucking Logan Bristol? I should know better, coming from a family thriving on strategic moves within the confines of our status of American royalty. This whole program could have been a strategic move for Raj, nothing more. I could be a strategic move.

  Feeling my blood boil the more I think on it, I don’t realize everyone is rising to leave.

  “Is that it?” I ask Ana.

  She puts her bag on her shoulder and looks at me oddly. “Yeah. Hey, are you okay? You have been distracted all day.”

  My defenses already on the rise, I snap at her, “No, I haven’t.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me, identifying with the tone quickly. “Okay, something has crawled up your ass. I’m out of here. See you tomorrow.” Ana was definitely a no-nonsense type of girl, and my jumping her wasn’t cool at all. “I’m sorry,” I call after her as she walks away. She waves her hand at me, a small indication of her way of forgiving and forgetting.

  Tom assigned us each drivers to take us home. “It’s late and I want you all to get home safe. Prince Rajaa provided us with drivers.”

  Of course he did. It looks good for the press waiting out front for us as we drive away in royal cars.

  “Thank you for serving,” I mutter under my breath. His appreciation to Ana and me earlier was just words, a cordial sentiment asshats say to the people serving for them.

  As I exit the center, only a handful of newscasters remain. I’m sure they have moved on to the royal engagement the prince is attending tonight. I toss my bag into the SUV waiting for me before climbing in.

  Once Ella was through the cafeteria door, I close it and wait for her to put distance between us. Her sharp response to my brother was not received well and I needed her to leave quickly to save her from his wrath.

  “What are you doing here, Zaid?” My voice reflects my irritation with his presence.

  He watches Ella as she sits down; a thousand curses fill his eyes, ready to spear her. “You may want to talk to her about watching her place around men, brother. Well, since you are so comfortable with her it may not be the best idea. Maybe I should teach her a lesson or two.”

  I ignore his provocation and ask for his response. “Zaid?”

  “We have to meet with father before tonight. I have come to get you.”

  “A meeting? Why do we need a meeting before a family celebration?”

  This meeting sounds bogus, like a ploy to pull me from the center.

  “Because the list of guests has grown and it now involves Prime Minister Shafar Badran and a few of the Cabinet members, along with others.”

  “How can a fucking party turn into a state of affairs?”

  He breathes in deeply, seeming put off by my frustration as he turns away from me and waves me on. “When it involves the Amir of Kuwait. Now, come. We have to meet Father back at the house soon, and you have already made me wait long enough while you were sniffing around Ms. Wallace, drawing fucking attention to this place with your presence.”

  I rush to him and match his stride as two soldiers fall in beside us. “The Amir?”

  Zaid keeps walking. “This party is for Princess Haleema’s sixteenth birthday. Your mother decided to host it at Raghadan Palace weeks ago.”

  Princess Haleema is the daughter of my father’s sister, Princess Izza al Jabara. She is married to a Kuwaiti Sheikh Haneef Abdou, who in turn has strong association with the Amir of Kuwait, and Daya’s father.

  My brother continues, “Since we are honoring a princess of Kuwaiti blood, I suggested we invite the Amir and his family.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did.” I’m positive Daya would be there because of his suggestion.

  Zaid overlooks my comment as he continues, “Tonight may be the night our father and the Amir agree upon ties more binding, including your marriage to Daya. You should bring up the discussion topic.”

  As we exit the back door of the center, I follow Zaid into the backseat of the truck. Once the door is shut, we are moving fast down the narrow alley. “Will this sit down include a discussion about your alliance with Tariq?”

  My angled question has Zaid look at me warily at first. I know it is because of the Kuwati and Syrian relations being severed.

  “A discussed another time, later, once Kuwait’s and Jordan’s future has been well established. Oh, and we will talk about your center!”

  His last comment ending on a rather high note, like he has a surprise to tell me.

  “What about the center?”

  He scoffs and pulls out his phone, opens the screen, and shows me a picture of the front of the center on the Jordan Times news feed. “Your program has drawn attention yet again.” His sarcastic tone quickly rises to anger as he growls, “I have soldiers blocking the courtyard of your precious center holding off the fucking paparazzi because they found out you were there. Soldiers shouldn’t be policing these hounds and if your ass wasn’t there...”

  He cuts himself short mid-sentence, realizing his anger is getting the better of him. He leans his head back against the headrest, closes his eyes for a moment.

  I take my chance defending the good that can come from this. “Let the media see what this center will do for the refugees and Jordan. Our father said it himself. We need to show those fucking attackers we will not hide from them. We will protect those we have welcomed into our country.”

  I pull out my phone to
dial Tom. Zaid notices. “Who are you calling?”

  “Tom. I need to tell him why I left without telling him. I’m supposed to attend a meeting with the volunteers.”

  Zaid reaches for my phone and takes it from my hand. “I have already talked to Tom, while you were flirting with Ms. Wallace.”

  His tone of disgust when he says her name pisses me off. “What did you tell him?”

  Zaid tosses my phone on my lap. “I told him to brief the volunteers on why you will not be attending their meeting tonight and how gracious you are for their service. I have also told him he needs to make sure the staff and volunteers keep their fucking mouths shut around the media! The leak came from one of them and I told him the funding for this program can go away as quickly as it came if anything else is leaked. This bullshit is what got the Queen into her predicament months ago, and now here you go following in Mama’s foot steps!”

  I want to pummel him in the fucking face for speaking about her, but I yell at the driver instead. “Stop the truck!”

  “What the fuck are you doing, Raj?” Zaid sounds nervous for the first time in his life. “Don’t! keep going!”

  My blood is boiling and it is close to spilling over unless I get out of this truck now.

  “I said stop the fucking truck!”

  Both the driver and passenger security details exchange a quick look, then pull over quickly. Without warning, I turn to my brother and even my glare with his. “This program will not go away. This bullshit will be what saves the Middle East from itself, and if you ever speak for me again to anyone, I will beat the shit out of you.”

  I open the door before security can get out of the car to shield me. I’m an open target as I walk to the truck behind us, but I don’t care. I’m so fucking angry, I could spit fire. Speaking for me, pulling me from the center, talking to Ella the way he did. What would he do next? Propose to Daya for me?

  The guard barely has time to get out of the front seat, as I come up to the side of the truck and open the rear door to get in. As soon as I slam the door shut, the caravan of trucks is gunning it as we weave through the streets of Amman toward home.

  I hold the tumbler and swirl the golden liquid with the smallest turn of my wrist. The wedge between my brother and me is driving deeper, making the space between us wider. While my father has hoped I can bring him to understanding, I have lost almost all of mine.

  I drink down the last quarter of whisky in one gulp. I’m glad I brought this along when I came home. I’m not a drinker, but I fear tonight I will need it. The short meeting at home before arriving here at Raghadan Palace was monopolized by Zaid, discussing the future of Kuwait and Jordan, how the Prime Minister’s attendance would show the Amir our solidarity in wanting this bond to no longer be talk, but action. The proposal between Daya and me would come soon, and the possibility of announcing a crown prince, heir to the throne, sooner to relieve any pressure on our father. He even had the balls to bring up the center, Makan Lil ‘Amal, and how he has had a change of heart about its purpose and how I have been the cause of it.

  He had mapped and contrived his discussion points artfully, bringing me into it. He never once mentioned his ally, the Syrian Sheikh he has been working with covertly. Of course he wouldn’t, not with the known climate between Kuwait and Syria.

  “Looking for a quiet place, I see.”

  My father is standing in the doorway behind me, using his cane for support. He knows me well. I place my empty glass down on the side table near the window and go to my father. “Yes, have they arrived?”

  “They are beginning to,” he says as I walk toward him.

  Tonight my father appears strong, even if he isn’t. He has not walked with my grandfather’s cane in weeks, but tonight he is meeting with leaders, will be photographed at a very public event. He must appear strong, well, for the people. I place my hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling, Baba?”

  Matching my height almost exactly, he raises his chin with pride. “I am feeling well. It is you I am not sure of.” He continues toward me and I meet him halfway.

  “What? I’m well, Baba.” I make sure my air of confidence is on point as we turn and walk out of the office.

  “In the meeting before arriving here, you did not say much. It isn’t like you.”

  I make an excuse as I avoid looking at him directly. “Just observing.”

  “Yes, well, your brother had plenty to say.”

  I remember the relief my father and mother both displayed as Zaid maneuvered his talking points, reflecting my own visions as his own about the center, highlighting the transformation it will bring.

  “I did not think it was possible, Rajaa. Just the smallest amount of time at the center and he is already changing his views of the refugees.” He smiles contentedly.

  I nod. “Yes, it would appear so.”

  “It is because of you,” he says faithfully.

  He should not have such faith in me since I have done nothing. “It isn’t because of me.”

  “Baba,” Tamanna voice follows behind us. She is dressed in a beautiful teal dress, the sheerest matching shawl covering her shoulders. “Come back to the party,” she pleas.

  She looks at me now accusingly. “Why are you hiding up here?”

  I laugh at her observation, even though it couldn’t be truer. I was hiding, mostly from Daya, who I know will arrive any moment, if she hasn’t already.

  I see my mother come around the corner, her expression firm, then my father. “The Amir just arrived. I need you to come down with me. He says he needs to have words with you both.”

  “Where’s Zaid?” my father asks.

  She shakes her head, “I’m not sure. I saw him earlier speaking with Daya and some of the cousins, but then I lost sight of him.”

  “I saw him speaking with a man in the courtyard,” Tamanna adds as she walks away from us. She waves to me and smiles. “Come say hello to everyone, Raj. I will show you where Daya is.”

  “Tamanna, go back to the party; your brother and I have to speak privately with the Amir.”

  She pouts as my father turns her request down. Appearing flustered, my mother sharply demands, “Tamanna, listen to your father. Go.”

  She is holding my father around the shoulders, walking with him slowly with me on the other side. Her apprehension and serious focus on getting my father down there has me worried about what we are walking into. “Mama, what did he say it was about?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. He seemed disturbed and he said it was urgent.”

  My father pushes my hand away and stops walking. “Here, you go down with the guests. Rajaa will accompany me. Go, zahrat baladi. Go, my flower.” He squeezes her hand then releases her.

  “I will look for Zaid,” she says as she walks swiftly down the hall. I remain alongside of my father.

  The remainder of the walk and short elevator ride down seemed saturated with a disrupting anxiety set apart from any other. What could this be about? Is he upset about my not proposing yet? Could it be as simple as that? If that was the case, I was armed with a loose tongue due to the whisky and I might just be brave enough to tell him the bond of Jordan and Kuwait would not be weighing on a marriage between Daya and me.

  The sound of music and laughter fill the main hall as the elevator opens to the second level of the palace. My father and I get no more than a few steps out of the elevator when Amir Hussam and two of his guards approach us.

  My father tries to appear jovial even though he is concerned about the Amir’s temper. “Hussam, my friend. I’m told you needed to see me urgently. What is it, my old friend? Is everything all right?”

  The Amir’s smile is tight lipped as he approaches my father, taking him by the shoulders with open arms as they exchange the traditional kiss on the cheek once, then twice.

  “Ammaar.I am well old friend.”

  The way the Amir caters to him gently in both handling and voice, it is evident he knows his frailty. The A
mir moves to me, his arms open and his smile mild, but genuine. “Rajaa, it is good to see you.”

  He takes my shoulders as he did my father, and I his, accepting the traditional greeting. “Amir, it is wonderful to see you again.”

  Being in the Amir’s presence has always been a pleasant one, but the tension tonight among us is tangible. Unable to withhold the concern, my father asks again anxiously, “What is it, Hussam? Whatever it is, my friend, I know it can be resolved.”

  The Amir looks around us. “Is there a place we can speak privately?”

  Once we have relocated to a more private room, my father moves around the table to sit opposite the Amir. I join my father’s side.

  Hussam raises his chin and looks between my father and me. “There is something I fear may prevent a deeper bond from happening between our nations, Ammaar.”

  I’m surprised by Hussam’s revelation, as is my father, sitting frozen, unable to fathom what could have possibly affected the Amir’s adamant desire for unification.

  My father’s hand begins to tremble on the table, unable to withhold the symptom stirred by the tension in the room. “I don’t understand. What could possibly prevent it?”

  He levels his eyes with my father. “It is your son, Ammaar.”

  My father looks to me accusingly and I immediately consider what the Amir has somehow discovered as my sin. Could he know that I do not want to marry Daya?

  “Not Rajaa.” His admittance is a relief. “It’s Zaid. I have been made aware a Syrian guest, Sheikh Tariq bin Khaddam, has been given temporary asylum here in Jordan. Your son Zaid is said to be keeping company with him, partying frequently, among other things.”

  Too familiar with this story, I glance at my father as it unravels before him, something I fear will destroy him. My father listens to the Amir continue to unhinge Tariq’s and my brother’s involvement. “My sources say he is funding the revolution by moving the drug through the Arab states and supplying it to the Islamic state fighters.”