Broken Crescent (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 2) by Kathryn Thomas Page A
Authors: Kathryn Thomas
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Sit, sit. How are your studies? You know I said to you before that you might be taking on too heavy of a course load. I’m hoping you’re almost done with this.”
“You say me that every time, Baba.” Afia grinned, realizing from the sign of things that Rayan hadn’t said a word. She plopped down on the couch and put her feet up. Her father launched into a recounting of his week with questions about hers, and she listened and answered drowsily. She was tired from a night of working on school work and watching reruns. In the end, she had opted not to invite Sam over while Bionca. She wasn’t sure who would be watching her place.
“Jabar asked after you,” Fatima said brightly. “Afia, come help me in the kitchen, would you?”
Afia pushed up from her comfortable seat and ambled into the kitchen to help her mother cook. It was the only time of the week the entire immediate family sat down to eat together, and Fatima put a lot of love and energy into making sure Saturday meals were veritable feasts. The menu was usually traditional Iranian food, the makings of which spread out on the counter. There were also pots simmering on the stove and in the oven.
The savory smell of meat cooking and the sugary sweetness of desserts baking made her stomach rumble in pleasure. “You’re outdoing yourself,” she murmured, smiling. Afia stuck a finger in batter and tasted.
Fatima swatted her away. “I’m thinking you should have some good news for me. Jabar says he has kept in contact with you, right?”
Afia hid a frown. The suitor her parents had picked out for her was in his residency at Memorial Lake Hospital, and he had kept in touch with daily emails and occasional text messages, but Afia hadn’t really paid him much mind. She simply wasn’t interested. “What sort of good news are you thinking I should have for you, Maman?” she asked. She pulled her mother into a hug and looked her in the face. “Maman, I’m not marrying him,” she said soberly. “There’s nothing about him that appeals to me.”
Fatima sighed and swatted her away. “Ach!” she said with frustration. “No one ever appeals to you. I guess you’ll marry your books and your degrees then. I’ll be a grandchildless woman, I guess. You don’t love me enough to please your poor, dear, old Maman. Is that it?” She grumbled, stirring a pot, and Afia giggled.
“You know that isn’t it. I love you with all my heart. I just don’t care for the men you choose.”
“Is there someone else?” Fatima asked with interest.
Afia hesitated. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that there was, but how did she explain Sam to her mother? “Not really,” she hedged.
Fatima looked up from the pot, eyes like a hawk. “Not really or no? You haven’t gotten mixed up with the wrong kind, have you?” She shook her cooking spoon at Afia, and her daughter quickly denied.
“Of course not, maman.”
“I worry about you living on campus with that strange girl. Don’t let her ways rub off on you. You should come back home and live with us like your brother.”
Afia broached the subject, eyes on her manicure. She picked at a nail. “How has Rayan been doing with the job search?”
Her mother’s expression went from placid to a soft scowl. Fatima shrugged noncommittally. “Work comes and goes. He’ll be working again soon. It was a misunderstanding with your cousin is all. The money will come up someday, and we’ll all laugh about it. Get the plates, daughter. Set the table for me.”
Afia sighed and made herself busy, thinking her parents were deluding themselves. She couldn’t see how they could walk around with blinders all day. There was no job search. Rayan spent his nights drinking and his days recovering—if he wasn’t gambling or swindling someone else out of their money. Afia reached into an overhanging cabinet and pulled down dinnerware. Over her shoulder she
“You say me that every time, Baba.” Afia grinned, realizing from the sign of things that Rayan hadn’t said a word. She plopped down on the couch and put her feet up. Her father launched into a recounting of his week with questions about hers, and she listened and answered drowsily. She was tired from a night of working on school work and watching reruns. In the end, she had opted not to invite Sam over while Bionca. She wasn’t sure who would be watching her place.
“Jabar asked after you,” Fatima said brightly. “Afia, come help me in the kitchen, would you?”
Afia pushed up from her comfortable seat and ambled into the kitchen to help her mother cook. It was the only time of the week the entire immediate family sat down to eat together, and Fatima put a lot of love and energy into making sure Saturday meals were veritable feasts. The menu was usually traditional Iranian food, the makings of which spread out on the counter. There were also pots simmering on the stove and in the oven.
The savory smell of meat cooking and the sugary sweetness of desserts baking made her stomach rumble in pleasure. “You’re outdoing yourself,” she murmured, smiling. Afia stuck a finger in batter and tasted.
Fatima swatted her away. “I’m thinking you should have some good news for me. Jabar says he has kept in contact with you, right?”
Afia hid a frown. The suitor her parents had picked out for her was in his residency at Memorial Lake Hospital, and he had kept in touch with daily emails and occasional text messages, but Afia hadn’t really paid him much mind. She simply wasn’t interested. “What sort of good news are you thinking I should have for you, Maman?” she asked. She pulled her mother into a hug and looked her in the face. “Maman, I’m not marrying him,” she said soberly. “There’s nothing about him that appeals to me.”
Fatima sighed and swatted her away. “Ach!” she said with frustration. “No one ever appeals to you. I guess you’ll marry your books and your degrees then. I’ll be a grandchildless woman, I guess. You don’t love me enough to please your poor, dear, old Maman. Is that it?” She grumbled, stirring a pot, and Afia giggled.
“You know that isn’t it. I love you with all my heart. I just don’t care for the men you choose.”
“Is there someone else?” Fatima asked with interest.
Afia hesitated. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that there was, but how did she explain Sam to her mother? “Not really,” she hedged.
Fatima looked up from the pot, eyes like a hawk. “Not really or no? You haven’t gotten mixed up with the wrong kind, have you?” She shook her cooking spoon at Afia, and her daughter quickly denied.
“Of course not, maman.”
“I worry about you living on campus with that strange girl. Don’t let her ways rub off on you. You should come back home and live with us like your brother.”
Afia broached the subject, eyes on her manicure. She picked at a nail. “How has Rayan been doing with the job search?”
Her mother’s expression went from placid to a soft scowl. Fatima shrugged noncommittally. “Work comes and goes. He’ll be working again soon. It was a misunderstanding with your cousin is all. The money will come up someday, and we’ll all laugh about it. Get the plates, daughter. Set the table for me.”
Afia sighed and made herself busy, thinking her parents were deluding themselves. She couldn’t see how they could walk around with blinders all day. There was no job search. Rayan spent his nights drinking and his days recovering—if he wasn’t gambling or swindling someone else out of their money. Afia reached into an overhanging cabinet and pulled down dinnerware. Over her shoulder she
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