Page 105 of Whisper
Behind David, the truck idled. Kris spotted boxes in the truck bed, duffels stuffed in the cab. “You brought everything?”
“I’m never going back.” David’s gaze slid sideways. “I can find my own place. I’ll start looking tomorrow. We didn’t talk about this, and I’m not trying to—”
Kris squeezed his hand. “Stay here. Stay with me.” It would be cramped, but they’d make it work. Maybe they’d get something bigger, together. The thought stole his breath. They could live together.
“You sure?” Hope shone from David’s eyes.
“I’ll have to tell all my other boyfriends to stay away.” Kris sniffed, lifting his chin. He tried to look playful in David’s hoodie.
David took both of Kris’s hands. The snow kept falling. “I don’t have anyone else. It’s just you.”
Was thistheconversation? They’d never discussed it. Kris was too busy during the week with war preparations, being the CIA’s doom and gloom pariah, and keeping an eye on the Bin Laden cables, to do anything other than go home and crash. Sometimes he fell asleep in his clothes. There hadn’t been anyone else, not since David came into his life. There hadn’t been anyone else since September 10, 2001.
He didn’t want anyone else.
“It’s only you, David.” Snow stung the backs of his hands. “I want you to move in with me. I want you to stay. For as long as you want. And I hope that’s a long time.”
David nodded. Flakes stuck to his eyelashes, the corners of his lips as he smiled. “I think it will be.”
They kissed until the snow burned their cheeks and Kris started shivering, despite David’s arms around him. David made him go inside, and he ran bags and boxes from his truck to Kris’s living room, seven trips in all.
Half of Kris’s studio filled up with David’s stuff. Snow melted onto the carpet. Kris didn’t care.
He pulled David to his bed. “Welcome home.”
They came together, and apart, in pieces. Clothes fell away, and then more, the last barriers separating them from joining completely. Kris imagined turning his chest inside out, placing his heart outside his body for David to hold. He felt David’s trembles as their skin brushed together. He felt like a naked star, like every one of his dreams was laid bare for David.
Kris’s body burned as David made love to him. His bones scorched him from the inside, and he felt David in every cell of his being. David hovered over him, his hands mapping Kris’s body, his eyes memorizing every expression. He drank in each of Kris’s moans, his sighs. He kissed every gasp that fell from Kris’s lips.
David’s lips found a home on his neck, spent hours lingering at his jaw and below his ear. His breath branded Kris, exhales matching the tides of their bodies. “Kris,” David breathed, chanting his name. “Kris… I love you. I love you.” His buried his face in Kris’s neck, pressed his lips to Kris’s collarbone. “Ya hayati, ya habib alby.”My life, love of my heart. He gasped. “Ashokrulillah, Kris...”Praise Allah for you.
Kris grabbed his head, fingers digging into his scalp, sliding through his hair. All the parts of David, all the pieces that made him the man Kris loved, were tumbling within him, slipping inside of his soul. Vows of love in Arabic and English, prayers to Allah, Kris’s name, the name of his lover, aman. David shuddered, his body quaking in Kris’s arms. Who was David when he bared everything?
“Habib albi,” Kris breathed. “Enta habibi.”Love of my heart. You are my love.
David pulled back. Their eyes met. “Ya rouhi,” David whispered.My soul.
Kris kissed him. Their bodies were still joined. David still filled him, body and soul. “You are my soul, too.”
Chapter 17
Falls Church, Virginia
August 2003
Kris stared at his ringing Blackberry. He blinked.
Why the fuck was George calling him at nine o’clock at night?
He pushed off David and sat up on their couch. They’d been watching the news, another nightly report of rising tensions in Iraq and Washington DC.
Five months after the invasion of Iraq, the moral undergirders of the war had collapsed. No weapons of mass destruction had been found. The image of an Iraq armed to the teeth, ready to support every jihadi in the world, had fallen apart. The supposed links to terrorist groups, the narrative that Iraq was a broad state-sponsor of terrorism that imperiled the world, had turned to dust and smoke. No al-Qaeda camps were found in the country. No terrorist training facilities. No documents outlining an alliance, no proof of cooperation, no indications anywhere.
Even Saqqaf had vanished from Kurdistan before the invasion began.
But online, his reputation had never been greater. The man Bin Laden had refused to meet, the thug Zahawi had decried as being too unintelligent for al-Qaeda, had turned into the darling of online jihadis. Moments after the secretary of state’s speech to the UN, jihadist message boards had lit up with praises and blessings.
Saqqaf had gone from third-string nobody to the new terrorist superstar, thanks entirely to the United States.
