Free Caught Between by Rima Jean

snore, did I?"
    "Like a fucking freight train," Luke answered with a backwards grin at her.
    Marya rolled her eyes. He was laying on the charm again. What does he want? She almost preferred when he was indifferent. At least then she could convince herself that he was bad news.
    She followed the other volunteers through the early Christian monastery, snapping pictures of the mosaic floors. Outside, she leaned out into the wind to see the famous view of the Jordan Ri ver Valley.
    "The Promised Land," a familiar voice said from beside her. He pointed into the distance. "There's Jericho, and sometimes we can see Jerusalem... Maybe if we look hard enough, we'll find the Ark of the Covenant around here somewhere."
    Marya smiled, shading her eyes. "Are you very religious?"
    Luke snorted. "Not remotely. Why, are you?"
    "No. I just know that people who study Middle Eastern archaeology tend to be religious," she said. "So I was just wondering."
    "Yeah, they do," he agreed. "But my interest in it stems from other things."
    She looked at him. "Like what?"
    "Mainly Indiana Jones movies," he said with a laugh. Then his humor disappeared. "I grew up in a Brooklyn neighborhood that was mostly Arab-American. My best friend was Syrian-American. When my dad was too drunk or high to give a shit about me, his family took me in."
    For some reason, Marya was startled by this admission. She looked at his face now, at the high cheekbones and sculpted jaw, the fierce brow and straight nose. He was becoming more human to her, and she didn't know how to feel about that. "I didn't know you grew up in Brooklyn," she said. "You don't have an accent or anything."
    "I worked hard to lose it," he said with a chuckle.
    They were quiet for a moment, looking out across the Holy Land, the wind in their faces. Marya glanced down at his hand, so close to hers. A man's hand, with calluses and rough fingernails. A pretty hand, however, with long fingers and a square palm. The image of that hand touching her flashed through her mind and she suddenly felt hot. Dammit.
    They climbed back onto the bus and continued their drive south to Madaba. This time, Marya was wide awake. Luke wore headphones and closed his eyes, and she wondered what he was listening to. What food did he like? Where did he live? Why did he lose his accent? And for the love of God, why did she find him so fascinating?
    She had been doing well on her "Luke Detox" plan, and now he was screwing all her hard work up.
    ***
    They had lunch in Madaba, a lengthy affair at an outdoor restaurant that served all of Marya's favorite dishes. Afterwards they walked around the town and looked at more Byzantine mosaics before boarding the bus and heading further south on the Desert Highway. The road was aptly named -- there was nothing to see but sand and layered rocks for miles. The desolate landscape was almost poetic, it was so stark, and Marya dreamed to her music as she gazed from her window.
    Luke half-turned in his seat, showing her his profile. "A whole lotta nothin' out here, Helwe," he said.
    "It's beautiful," Marya answered.
    He grinned. "Only a raghead like you would think so."
    In spite of herself, she laughed. Somehow, she knew he felt the same way she did.
    Petra emerged out of the golden rock and sand, truly an oasis in the desert. The sun was setting as the bus drove into the town, and Marya tapped Luke on the shoulder excitedly. "When can we see the ruins?"
    "Not until tomorrow morning. We've got to find ourselves a place to stay for the night before we can think about the ruins." He stood and slung his bag over his shoulder. "We're not staying at the Marriot, that's for sure."
    "It doesn't matter where we stay," Marya replied, beaming. "We're here ."
    Luke smiled at her. "A woman after my heart."
    The others were more concerned about the sleeping situation. "We need to find a hostel quick," Amy insisted. "There won't be any place for us to sleep."
    "How about you guys find us a hostel, Marya and I