His words cause my blood to pump and adrenaline to surge. To be the only one on this story when everyone else is chasing their tails would be a major I’m back to the other reporters and a huge In your face, I’ve still got it to my bosses.
“Who else knows?” I murmur, hoping he says no one.
He shakes his head and puts one finger up and then points it at me. Sweet. “When?” I ask, pointing to my watch. “Who?”
He begins to speak at the same time I start to hear the click of the shutter. I’m so in my element, pumped with the promise of a killer story – one I know any military liaison would never let me embed on – that I don’t question it because Stella used to click away at the world behind me when I was on a meet, and I never had to worry. It’s almost as if for a moment in time, I forgot.
Concern washes across Omid’s face, and I can see his struggle over telling me anything additional. “It’s me, Omid. I’m not going to tell anyone else or get you in trouble.” In my primitive sign language, I make the lock-and-key motion over my lips.
His heavy sigh fills the silence, and I hate that since we’ve started this conversation, his eyes have mostly been on his fidgeting hands. It unnerves me, makes me wonder if I’m being set up now with his lack of contact. But if that’s the case, Omid deserves a damn Oscar because he looks just as nervous to be passing along this information as I am being here.
He finally begins to speak, stumbling over words that I can’t make sense of, when over my shoulder, clear as day, I hear a feminine voice speak in perfect Dari. Omid’s head whips up at the same time I turn around to see Beaux standing there, camera to her face, taking a picture of two little kids playing in another offshoot of the alley.
She lowers the camera, her head scarf falling off some, and looks straight at Omid, as if the fact that she speaks fluent Dari were nothing unusual. I swear I have to pick my jaw up off the ground, both surprise and disbelief fueling my unfounded anger.
Beaux is fluent in the native language and didn’t tell me? What the fuck? I’m partially thrilled because it means so many things will be easier with her here, and at the same time she didn’t tell me. I can’t give it much more thought, though, because of the riskiness of the situation. Things could go south at any moment.
I think Omid is just as caught off guard as me because when I tear my eyes from Beaux to look at him, I see the confusion and immediate wariness. He just stares at her, eyes flickering back and forth to me repeatedly. I put my hands up in an it’s okay gesture – palms facing him at my chest level – and just when I think he is starting to believe me, I hear the click of a shutter and see his eyes widen to epic proportions.
I turn around to see Beaux clicking the shutter, lens angled directly at Omid. Her disobedience of my rules causes rage to erupt inside me because I know how skittish this contact is and she’s now documented his face on record.
“What the fuck are you doing?” My voice is a quiet but harsh scold as the excitement over the information that was just promised me turns to disbelief. “Did you not hear a thing I said to you?” I don’t want to draw attention to us by yelling, but it’s pretty fucking hard not to when she just played every single one of her stupidity cards in a single hand.
Beaux’s eyes are wide and her face must look similar to the way mine did when I heard her fluency, but I can’t worry about her right now – I have to salvage Omid’s trust in me. The problem is when I turn around, Omid is gone.
My hands are fisted and my temper is raging. I’d love to turn around and throttle Beaux for her lack of judgment, for her disregard to the situation, for not following my set of rules.
And because she’s not Stella.
I take deep breaths, trying to calm the tumult inside me. It’s no use even trying to find Omid – the man is a ghost in the wind right now – so I do the only thing I can. I leave. Without saying a word to Beaux, I walk right past her and head toward the end of the alley, not wanting to be in this dangerous part of the city any longer than I need to be.
As we emerge from the alley, I slow my pace and cautiously survey my surroundings before I walk into the flow of foot traffic and back toward our cab. I know Beaux is behind me. Only a deaf and blind man would not be able to sense her presence… or maybe I’m just a lesser man who has fallen under her goddamn spell even though I swore that I wouldn’t.
Despite being completely irate with her, I can still smell her perfume over the stagnant scent of destitution that blankets things here and hear the shuffle of her shoes against the dirt-covered cobblestone sidewalks. Beaux tries to strike up a conversation by apologizing disjointedly while she follows me at a quickened pace through the crowded streets, but I refuse to acknowledge her.
I’m more pissed than I think she even realizes. I’m angry over so many things that it’s better if I don’t speak to her right now; otherwise I know I’ll say a lot of things I’ll regret regardless of how fucking truthful they are. With each step we take, my displeasure intensifies over the many reasons I have to be angry with her.
When we reach the cab that is surprisingly still waiting for us, I open the door for her to get in and say only one thing. “Get us home.”
She scoots in and looks up at me, a thousand things running through her eyes, and the minute she speaks, I just slam the door shut, not wanting to hear her explanations. By the time I take my seat in the front passenger side, she’s just finishing telling the driver where to go.
First of all, there’s no way I’m attempting to communicate with the driver while she’s sitting back there laughing her ass off while I make a fool of myself. Secondly, who the fuck is this woman? She comes on to me, we sleep together, and now we’re in this predicament together and she just screwed me over with one of my biggest sources? I mean what kind of power play is she going for?