"That was unbelievable," said Tucker, once we'd safely sent our patients to hospital, met up with Youssef, and locked the hotel door behind us.
"Very weird," I agreed, shoving my suitcase in the spacious closet and dropping my back pack on top of it.
"Nice digs, though, right?" He surveyed the king-sized bed and winked at me.
"Beyond nice." My family's vacations generally involved camping and/or sleeping in the car. The luxury surrounding us slowly permeated my IED-shocked brain, including the foil-wrapped chocolates on our pillows.
The bathroom seemed bigger than our entire apartment in Montreal. I admired the shower tucked into the bathroom's corner and a full-sized tub lying below a window with a lovely keyhole frame.
The choice of toiletries lined up between the double sinks knocked me out. Sure, shampoo, conditioner, soap, and lotion, but also eau de cologne, a toothbrush, a razor, and—get this—a vanilla candle.
For some reason, the candle brought tears to my eyes. Maybe we'd get to enjoy our month in Egypt after all.
I texted my family a photo of the desk, complete with a complimentary notebook and two silver pens. We made it to our hotel room! Love you, Mom, Dad, Kevin, and Grandma. Good night.
Ottawa's time zone lingered six hours behind us, but my dad or Kevin, my nine-year-old brother, might have picked up on the IED. Right now, I'd marked myself as safe. That was enough.
Good Wifi, I thought, and started to text my ex, Ryan Wu, before I remembered that he'd blocked my number. Ryan probably prayed nightly that I'd hemorrhage gonorrhea and chlamydia from the eyeballs down.
"You need a shower?" Tucker plunked his butt on the mahogany desk chair, pulled off his shoes, and nodded at the bathroom to the right of the front door, across from us and the closet.
"I need something." Something to stop the IED images circulating my brain. Washing off post-crisis was always a good idea.
Tucker plugged his phone's cord into a built-in USB slot on the lamp base. He acted like it was no big deal, so I did too, even though I was thinking, Wowee! This place has everything! "You hear from Gizelda?" he asked.
I shook my head and checked my home screen again anyway. Phillip Becker had been the oldest and most critically-injured tourist in the IED blast. His daughter, Gizelda, had taken down my new Egyptian number and promised to contact me on WhatsApp once her father was settled at the hospital.
Tucker frowned at his phone screen. "I haven't heard from the Mombergs, either."
The family with the injured father. I made a sad face at Tucker and tried not to feel guilty about mentally texting Ryan. Miss you, Ry. Love you. Even if you'd rather I burned at the stake for eternity.
Tucker got up and unfolded the luggage rack for his suitcase. "What are the chances that we'd run into an IED? They haven't had a tourist bombing since 2017."
"You told me." I kicked off my sandals and dug my toes into the beige hotel carpet. Its softness took the edge off my voice. "That was part of how you sold Egypt to me. You left out the part that the bomb killed four Vietnamese tourists."
"Only three!" Tucker flashed me a toothy grin. "The fourth person was an Egyptian tour guide."
"Yay."
"But that's the good news about today, Hope. They were relieved that no one was killed this time."
"Yet." They were not professionals, the grey-turbaned man, the tour leader, had said. His name was Muhamed. I'd taken his phone number, too, so we could stay in touch. I turned my head from side to side, testing my tight scalene muscles as I said, "It could have been worse. There was no second IED." Yet.
"See? Now you got the spirit of it. One of the other guys told me, 'You know how you have school shootings in America? We have bombs.'"
"Good to know."
"No one was hurt too badly. They mostly have eye injuries and PTSD and need stitches and glue, but they'll be all right."
"Except Mr. Becker," I pointed out.
"Yeah." Tucker picked up his phone. "You could call his daughter. I wish they were at the Cairo International Hospital with us so we could check on them."
"I guess the KMT Hospital was closer. I'll wash up before I message her." I yawned and reached into the closet for a pair of white terry slippers. They looked twice my size, but … free slippers!
"I'll come with." Tucker's eyes gleamed.
I couldn't help smiling. This guy would do me on my deathbed. As I unzipped my suitcase and scooped up my toiletry bag, I asked, "What did you make of Youssef?"
"He seemed like a nice guy." Tucker grabbed his razor and moved close behind me.
I shrugged. "Once he showed up."
"Well, to be fair, the whole area was blocked off for police and ambulances. He had to walk in. And he did keep in constant contact once he got our Egyptian phone numbers."
Youssef had looked 30ish, with dark, observant eyes, carefully-combed black hair, pleated grey dress pants and previously-polished leather shoes. He said he'd missed us in the airport between the toilet incident, us exiting the wrong doors, and—this was the big problem—us changing SIM cards.
"Yeah, but I e-mailed our new numbers to Isabelle and Sarquet Industries. They should have figured it out." I shook my head. No matter how courteously Youssef had led us to the Egyptian Classic Continental, offering us dinner and room service, I didn't trust the guy. "But at least he made sure we didn't have to go with the police to make a statement on the IED. Points for that."
"Want to join me in the shower?" Tucker wiggled his eyebrows at me.
I laughed. "I should probably wash off the blood and bomb dust first."
"That's what the shower is for!" He dropped his voice. "Ladies first."
I blushed. He meant that he'd make me come before he did. Most times, he succeeded.
"Oh, you think I jest. But wait 'til you see this." Tucker waved his phone at me and pressed play.
A drum beat and a tambourine immediately straightened my spine. I knew this song: "Walk Like an Egyptian."
"Nooooo!" I covered my eyes. Total '80s night cliché song for our Cairo debut.
"Yessssss," he said, shaking his hips in time with the first guitar chord.
By the time the Bangles started singing, Tucker was shimmying his shoulders, showing off his pecs and biceps.
I applauded.
He reached for the hem of his shirt, and I bent over, almost barking with laughter.
I needed this. Total decompression. No time to think about IEDs or blood or the old man fighting for his life on a hospital gurney.
Don't worry, the turbaned man, Muhamed, had told Tucker. Tourists get the best medical care. They pay for the best. Not like Egyptians.
I shook my head. No. Stop. Stay in the moment with Tucker.
Tucker lifted his shirt, flashing me his hairy stomach before he turned around to swivel his ass suggestively on the chorus, almost like he was belly dancing for me.
"Woo hoo!"
Tucker executed the classic "Walk Like an Egyptian" hand moves, flexing at the wrist and elbow and pointing one hand forward and the other behind his back and away from him. Then he whipped off his shirt.
"Ay caramba!" I wished I could call out in Arabic. I loved the muscles in his chest and abdomen and even his slight love handles. The hair on his chest and back had surprised me after Ryan's smooth skin, but I'd gotten used to it.
Tucker spun around to pivot his ass a few more times before he reached for his belt buckle. Once he got his belt free, he waved it in the air before he drew me closer and tried to spank me with it.
The hotel phone trilled in the air.
We both stared at the phone, a fancy, white, gold-trimmed contraption resting on the closest night stand.
"Forget that thing," said Tucker. He flexed the belt at me.
"But what if it's about the IED?"
He hesitated. "They'd call us on our cell phones, not at the hotel."
"That's true."
He smacked my ass with his belt. I yelped.
But the moment had passed, and we both knew it.
The phone rang and rang, a high, brittle sound that filled the room.
No. Unfair. I hadn't even had a chance to tell Tucker about Mr. Becker's last words (treasure? Kruger?). And this was our time. We deserved silence and privacy and shower fun.
Still, I crossed the room to pick up the phone receiver with the tips of my thumb and index finger. "Hello?"