Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
He shrugged. “They do that for heretics who disturb the system. She went against the norm, and they cannot tolerate dissenters. Anything to stop a domino effect.”
I tried to collect myself, but I couldn’t stop crying. Memories I’d desperately tried to forget over the last fifteen years crashed over me, forcing me to admit truths I’d tried to bury. “That’s how they killed him.”
Two brawny arms wrapped around me, pulling me against a warm body. A large hand rubbed my back as I continued to cry. The man who’d held a gun to my temple not too long ago was silent, simply offering the comfort of his embrace as I remembered watching the first man I ever loved executed.
“I don’t believe in it, you know.”
I looked up as he spoke. His voice was hoarse, but his words flew with the precision of the bullet of an expert marksman.
“All the bullshit about God. I heard this madness from the moment I was born.” He chuckled softly. “I still can’t figure out why so many people believe in it. I don’t know what they get from it. It’s always seemed fucked up to believe in something that induces fear. It’s all I’ve ever seen. I know exactly what kind of vengeful notion God is.”
I buried my face in the cotton of his button-down shirt. “I stopped believing the day they told me that God wanted my father dead.”
Warm hands framed my face, pulling me away from his chest. I gazed into the steel-gray eyes, and for a moment, I wanted to believe that we were someplace else. That I was someone else.
“What do you mean, God wanted your father dead?”
“I wasn’t born in America. I came here just before I turned ten. I was born in Iran. My father was politically active. He was a good man who was tired of seeing his friends and neighbors persecuted for everything they did. I remember him telling my mother that it felt like even breathing was haram. That’s what it means. When you’re doing something that goes against God. Impermissible, whatever the fuck that means. It’s a joke, you know, calling things Haram, especially when the ayatollah does it. They sanction prostitution to make it Halal. Permissible. Then they marry the prostitute to the clergy or whoever comes along and give money to the ayatollahs. They marry her for a short period, whatever timeframe the man wants: a week, a day, an hour, or minutes. She’s forced into whatever sexually deviant act the man deems fit, and she can’t object. It’s fucked up when you think about it. That’s the thing with the ayatollah and the clergy, isn’t it? Those men are supposed to be holier than thou, but they’re devoted to a god none of them believe in. They walk around claiming to be good Muslims, but they’re not. Not a single fucking one of them.”
“That still doesn’t tell me what happened to your father.”
Could I tell him what happened to my dad? I wasn’t sure I could talk about it. I could speak of the ayatollah and the regime and everything it did to innocent people, but could I talk about how I watched my father’s neck snap?
Somehow, the words came despite my doubts. “The Islamic call of prayer. A holy sound. It was the last thing I heard before they snapped my father’s neck and showed me his lifeless body. So you see, I’m not a fan of prayer or holy chimes as a harbinger of death to slay innocent people. I thought we escaped the barbaric holds of religious manipulation and subjugation, but I guess I was wrong.”
Emerging from the memories, I lift my gaze to the man before me. “You said you’d never see me again, Callum.”
“Correction, pretty girl. I said you’d never see me again.”
19
ATLAS
“What the fuck, Callum? What’s she doing here?”
“She’s hurt. I needed to take her somewhere.”
“How about a fuckin’ hospital? Fuck, maybe call the cops and have her rushed off in an ambulance.”
“How the fuck would I explain what I was doing there, Atlas? ‘Sorry, officer, but he was bothering my stalking victim, and I can’t handle men being mean to her. I’ve got a problem. That girl is mine, and anyone who fucks with my shit gets it.’” Callum shrugs as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Besides, I would've hated the little shit to pick me out of a lineup. Didn’t have time to take care of the problem properly.”
I step toward Callum. “You don’t need to worry about being picked out in a lineup.”
Callum doesn’t step back. Instead, he steps toward me. “How can you guarantee that, pretty boy?” He crosses his arms, and his smug smile makes me want to punch his arrogant face.
I chuckle. “Your location setting.”
Callum frowns and digs in his back pocket, pulling out his iPhone. A scowl replaces his smile as he pushes a few buttons. “Motherfucker. I turned this off.”