Exodus 28:15: You shall make a breast piece of judgment, in skilled work. In the style of the ephod you shall make it—of gold, blue and purple and scarlet yarns, and fine twined linen shall you make it.
“Mean anything to you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
He searches for “the fair one” and the snippet from the Song of Solomon appears:
My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
I still shake my head. Tila is beloved to me, of course, but the quote doesn’t jump out to me in any significant way. Does she want me to come away with her?
He frowns. “I’m sure we’ll find out something. There’ll be a kink in this trail somewhere.”
He tries a general search, not in the Bible, of “the red one, the fair one, the handsome one.”
“Got it,” Nazarin whispers.
The triliteral Semitic root ADM: red, handsome, fair. And a word from it, “adamah,” meaning “ground” or “earth.”
“Adam.” The word rasps from my throat. My head spins and I lean back on the chair, closing my eyes, hiding my face in my hands.
“The first man? Does that mean anything to you?”
Of course it does. And it has nothing to do with the original Adam from Genesis, the rise of Eve’s original sin or the fall of man. It has everything to do with a nice boy with a genuine smile, laughing through the pain as he tried to catch green grapes in his mouth, his left arm a stump on the pillow, his infected foot propped up on the bed. A lifetime ago. A world away across the bay.
“It does. We knew a boy named Adam. But I don’t know how the hell he’d have anything to do with this.”
“Maybe Mia wanted us to speak to him. Where is he?”
Not opening my eyes, I say, “He’s dead. Died ten years ago, in Mana’s Hearth. Maybe she meant another Adam. Or she was babbling nonsense hopped up on Zeal or Verve. Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t think about this any more.” I take my hands away and reach for the bottle of SynthGin. It only has enough for half a glass.
“Any more?”
He brings out the bottle of SynthTequila. Holds it out to me like an offering.
“That’ll do.”
*
Our empty SynthTequila glasses sit on the table by the window, glowing silver in the moonlight. Nazarin and I are on the bed. The detective is splayed against the wall, his arms crossed behind his head. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips parted. I’m lying on my side, my head resting on my arm. He makes a pretty picture. In this soft light, he does not look so fierce. I can’t see his scars.
Nazarin stretches, his shirt lifting just enough to show the muscled planes of his stomach.
“Do you want another drink?” he asks, his voice quiet.
“No,” I say. I sit up, move a little closer. We pause, six inches apart, sizing each other up. We both know what the other wants. What we don’t know is if we should cross that line.
The old Taema wouldn’t have. The old me would have decided it was too improper, unprofessional. The new me, though? The one who has given up everything, who just nearly killed my foster mother in a dream world? She’s a different creature entirely.
Nazarin opens his mouth to say something.
I close the distance between us.
His mouth is warm. His lips part further, his tongue darting against mine, soft and tasting of tequila. His stubble scratches my chin. I pull him against me, and his body is the opposite of his mouth—hard, angular, strong. I roll on top of him, and his lips move from my lips to my neck. I close my eyes, a small smile curling my lips.
I sit up and Nazarin pulls my shirt off of me. His fingers trace their way down my scar before reaching behind me, unclasping my bra. I slide it down my arms, tossing it to the floor before helping him out of his clothes.
We are not slow. We are not gentle. We are not tender. We each take what we want, what we need, yet we do give the other what they desire. It’s been almost a year since I broke up with David. It’s a long time to be alone. I concentrate entirely on Nazarin and the sensations he gives me, determined to quiet my racing mind.
Afterward, I lie on top of him, my breasts pressed against his muscled chest. From this close, I can see all his scars, crisscrossed against each other. I trace my fingertips along them as he drifts off to sleep, wondering what story lies behind each one.
His heartbeat is in time with mine.
FOURTEEN
TAEMA
I wake up curled up against Nazarin’s side.