Wanna Bet?: An Interracial Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  “Remember how we talked about safe ways to drink? And unsafe ways?” And the fact that you shouldn’t get like this if you’re coming home alone?

  That brought her up short. She sniffed, sounding almost like her sober self. Then she muttered, “Why do I even like you?”

  “Because, despite your many flaws, you have excellent taste.”

  “I have no flaws.” She gathered her mass of hair up with both hands, piled it on top of her head. Despite himself, Rahul watched the show. Took in all that bare, brown skin, the red lips, slightly parted, the glitter in her eyes. She said, “Show me a flaw, kitten.”

  He shook his head. “What did you do tonight?” Who sent you home alone like this?

  She let her hair fall back around her face in a soft, dark cloud. “I got dumped.”

  He froze. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me, darling.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were in a relationship.”

  She leaned forward until her chest was practically flat against her thighs. She’d always been flexible. Her tone conspiratorial, she whispered, “Me neither. And isn’t that a bitch?”

  Rahul frowned and decided to focus on her shoes. It was far simpler than this conversation.

  But his silence didn’t stop her from talking. Nothing stopped Jas from talking, actually, not when she was on a roll. “Paul told all his mates that I was his bloody bird! Can you believe it? Cheeky fucker!”

  Oh, she was so fucking drunk. Her dad’s city accent wormed its way through the plummy tones she’d learned to survive. Rahul rather enjoyed it when she got like this.

  “So I told him—not in public, mind, but I told him anyroad—don’t run about chatting shit like that.” Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Oh, he got proper shirty, he did. And he said he’s ending it. I said, ending what? You daft twat.” She snorted.

  Rahul felt slightly sorry for this mysterious Paul, who must be her latest fuck. If Jas were a goddess, she’d look down from the clouds, see supplicants kneeling at her altar and think, Who are they waiting for?

  He carefully unwound the straps of her right shoe, lifting her leg a bit as he went. There were criss-cross impressions in the soft flesh of her calves. He frowned. “These are too tight. They’ll cut off your circulation.”

  “Oh, you’re so dramatic. There’s nowt wrong with them.”

  He ran his fingers over her calf, felt the little indentations. “They left marks.”

  She shrugged. “My feet are small and my legs are not. Beauty is pain, my darling potato.”

  Rahul bit back a laugh.

  “Do you know what Paul said to me?” She asked. And then, without pausing for an answer: “He said I was going to die alone!”

  Any sympathy Rahul had had for Paul evaporated.

  “He said I wouldn’t even have cats because I’d never come home to feed them. Which is bullshit, because cats know how to feed themselves. They’re very resourceful creatures. In fact…” Jasmine paused, then said with an air of triumph, “Paul could learn a thing or two from cats! Fuck, I wish I’d thought of that at the time. Don’t you hate that? When you think of things to say after the argument?”

  “Yes,” he murmured. He wanted to say, Paul is a piece of shit and you couldn’t die alone if you tried. But he limited himself to Yes. Then he pulled off her second shoe.

  “Well, I’ve learned my lesson,” she mumbled. “No more gingers. Emotional fuckers. Don’t tell Mitch I said that. But it’s true, though!”

  He pushed down his laughter and managed a soothing hum instead.

  “I’m bored,” she said, stretching languidly. Her feet were bare now. He still hoped they wouldn’t find his dick. “Want to play a game?”

  This was the point where he refused and sent her to bed. Only she was looking at him with such hopeful eyes, and he was clearly fucking weak, because he couldn’t shut her down.

  So Rahul sighed and said,“Ah, why not?”

  She grinned. Looked a little too devious for his liking.

  He clarified hurriedly. “One game, yeah? Then bed.”

  “Alright.” Her grin didn’t falter. She reached for the drawer built into the coffee table beside them, pulling it open to reveal his not-so-secret shame. Jas had made a gambler out of him, and she hadn’t even tried.

  She chose a set of dice and shut the drawer. “Call it.”

  He arched a brow. “What are we playing for?”

  “Time,” she said.

  “Time?”

  Jasmine set the dice aside and scrambled to her knees. He averted his eyes as her dress rode up. Next thing he knew, she was right beside him: her arm around his shoulder, her chest brushing his biceps, her lips against his ear. A shiver danced along his spine at the ghost of her cool breath over his skin. He willed his cock to behave, because he wasn’t wearing any underwear and his pyjama bottoms were fucking thin.

  Then she whispered, her voice solemn, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  Ah. Nothing like guilt to suffocate an inappropriate hard-on.

  He turned to face her, then flinched as he found her lips even closer than he’d thought. Close enough to kiss.

  Dangerous thought. Move on.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning back slightly.

  She grinned. It was slightly manic, thanks to the alcohol, but he caught a flash of something that worried him much more. Sadness.

  He’d upset her. And now he felt like tearing his own heart out of his chest, and offering it in apology—but, realistically, all that blood would upset her even more.

  Was second-hand drunkenness a thing? He might be experiencing it right now.

  “If I win,” she said, “I get an hour with you tomorrow.”

  The words filled him with shame. “You don’t have to win time with me, Jas.”

  “Well I’m not gonna fucking ask for it.” Her voice, so light and teasing, was suddenly harsh. He had the sudden and instinctive feeling that, even beneath the liquid recklessness, she was hating every second of this. And that trying to deny her, to placate her, would make things even worse.

  So he nodded, swallowed hard, and said, “Alright.”

  She sat back, a look of satisfaction on her face, and picked up the dice again. “Call it.”

  “Seven.”

  “Nine,” she said, and threw.

  Snake eyes.

  She fell back against the arm of the sofa, releasing a huff. She looked like a petulant teenager, her brow creased in a sad little frown. “You win,” she mumbled.

  “Great,” he said. “I win an hour with you.”

  She looked up at him. “What?”

  “You never asked me what I wanted.” He caught her hand, laced their fingers together. “That’s what I want. You and me, tomorrow. One hour.”

  For a moment, she eyed him darkly, scepticism all over her face. He wondered if she’d push him away like she did sometimes, when she thought he was getting too close.

  Not physically; never physically. Other things bothered Jas much more.

  But then she smiled slowly, and said, “Okay. What are we doing?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Her smile widened. Sometimes she got so excited over things, so genuinely happy about life, that he wanted to give her the world on a plate.

  But then, as if remembering herself, she cleared her throat and pulled away. Her smile was hidden. Clapping her hands with all the regality of a queen, she announced, “Time for bed!”

  “Oh, is it?” He murmured dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  She scrambled off the sofa. His thighs felt cold without her feet taking up space there. “Look at you,” she said as she wobbled to her feet. “Half-naked. You slut.”

  “You know me.” He stood and guided her towards the bedrooms, a hand hovering near the small of her back. There were several moments when he thought she might fall, when he thought he might have to catch her—but she always righted herself. And then they reached the pair of doors that marked
their respective bedrooms, separated only by a narrow hallway.

  “I haven’t done my twelve-step,” she whispered. “Scandalous.”

  “I think your skincare can wait until the morning,” he said.

  “Skincare waits for no bitch, sugar-tits.”

  “Good God, Jasmine, go to bed.”

  She leant against the door frame and bit her lip. White teeth sank into crimson gloss. Enunciating every letter in the word, she said, “Bossy.”

  “Brat.”

  “You say that a lot.” She grinned. “Type it into Pornhub.”

  Before he could digest that baffling statement, she slipped into her room and shut the door.

  5

  Six Years Ago

  “So… you’re not her feller?”

  Rahul shook his head firmly. “No, Sir.”

  “You’re just her… friend?”

  “Yes, Sir. And that is not a euphemism.”

  There was a tense pause.

  Rahul didn’t know what he’d expected of the father his friend loved so dearly—but it certainly hadn’t been this hulking, tattooed skinhead with a face that spoke of violence. The silence between Rahul and Jasmine’s dad stretched out, taut and stringy.

  Then Eugene Allen burst into booming laughter.

  Rahul laughed along, mostly because he didn’t want to be gutted like a fish. His gaze strayed to the window of Eugene’s study, which had been pushed wide—but that didn’t do much good when the air outside was swollen and heavy with heat.

  He wasn’t searching for a breeze, but for a familiar figure. My garden is behind Dad’s study—that’s what she’d said to him.

  Yeah; that was another surprise about coming home with Jasmine for part of the summer. Her house was fucking huge, and the grounds were extensive. He’d gotten so used to her private school accent that he’d forgotten what it meant. He’d forgotten she must be loaded.

  Apparently, her father worked in paper.

  The man in question jabbed a meaty finger at Rahul and said, “I like you, son. Fancy a drink?”

  Since it was hot as fucking hell, he said, “Yes, please.”

  “You a lager man?”

  “I don’t drink alcohol,” Rahul said. “I’m happy with water.”

  Eugene’s grin widened, displaying a gold tooth. “I like you even more. Tell you what: my Marianne’s brought some pink lemonade round. Don’t know what she puts in it, but it’s right nice. Fancy some?”

  Ah. Now Rahul felt slightly cornered. He didn’t know Marianne, and her lemonade sounded nice, but he did know that Jasmine was quietly and frantically freaking out about the fact that her dad had a girlfriend.

  She certainly wouldn’t admit to it, of course—but Rahul could tell. She was freaking out.

  Drinking Marianne’s lemonade might be some sort of best friend betrayal. But then again, when he’d asked Jas how she felt about the relationship, she’d said, “I really couldn’t care less, poppet.” Plus, he was really fucking thirsty. So he smiled and said, “Sounds great.”

  “Nice one.”

  Eugene went to get the drinks himself. Judging by the vast slab of mahogany that served as his desk, the Bugatti on his driveway, and the fucking fountain in what Jasmine called the ‘main’ garden, he could probably afford servants. But he clearly wasn’t that kind of guy.

  While he waited for Eugene’s return—the kitchen was half-way across the damned house—Rahul stood and wandered over to the windows. They were an outdated sort, so the thin panes only opened half-way. He rested a hand against the wall, leaning in to catch the whisper of a breeze. God, that felt good.

  The garden outside was well-shaded by an oak tree and decorated with splashes of colourful flowers. His eyes scanned the lush foliage lazily—

  And then, all at once, he found what he was looking for.

  Jasmine.

  She emerged from a cluster of pampas grass with a hose in her hand and an absent sort of smile on her face. She wore a blue bikini top and tiny denim shorts. She hadn’t been wearing that when she’d left him with her dad twenty minutes ago, but he wasn’t complaining.

  She looked like something out of a painting. She looked like art. Her skin glistened with a thin veil of sweat, the kind he’d lick off if things were different.

  Yep. He was officially fucking depraved.

  When she caught sight of him, her smile widened. She walked towards him, the hose still in hand, its stream trailing over the grass as she moved. It struck him that he hadn’t seen so much of her body since they’d first met, since the day he didn’t think about. She was still unbelievable. She was better. Heavier, he thought. Her hips—

  Inappropriate. Think of something else.

  But her hips.

  Rahul committed himself to mentally cataloguing the assets of the last company he’d used as a case study. He’d only just begun failing miserably when she came within speaking distance.

  “Hey,” she called.

  He tried to come up with an interesting greeting and settled on, “Hi.”

  Inspired. Utterly inspired.

  She came closer. Aimed the hose at the bed of begonias below the window, and said, “How’s it going with Dad?”

  “Okay, I think. Why is he interviewing me, again?”

  “He’s not interviewing you,” she smirked. “He just thinks it’s weird I brought someone home, so he wanted to talk.”

  That sparked Rahul’s interest. “Is it weird you brought me home?” Jasmine knew a lot of people. She was well-liked. In fact, that was an understatement; she was almost universally adored.

  But since they’d become friends last year, he couldn’t help but notice that she spent more time with him than anyone else. Sometimes, that gave him a pathetic sort of hope. Then they’d go to a party and she’d disappear with some girl, or she’d introduce him to her current fuck buddy, and he’d remember that she’d never had a real relationship, and she didn’t sleep with friends.

  He was most assuredly her friend now. Her best friend. And she was definitely his. He hadn’t exactly meant for that to happen, but here they were.

  She shrugged her narrow shoulders and looked down at the water streaming from her hose. “I don’t know if it’s weird,” she said, “but I suppose I’ve never brought friends home from uni.”

  Rahul’s brows shot up. “You haven’t?”

  “That’s what I said, darling. Pay attention.”

  Smiling slightly, Rahul rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Then he stopped himself, because physical tics were unnecessary. “So this is your garden?”

  “Yes. But you should see it at night.”

  He gave the plants a skeptical look. “Um… why?”

  “You’ll see.” Her smile was familiar by now; it was the smile used when she was sure of herself, looking forward to charming the shit out of someone. Apparently, tonight, that someone would be him.

  He liked when it was him.

  “Where’s Dad gone?” She asked, as if only just noticing that Rahul was in the office alone.

  “Oh, he went to get me a drink.”

  She raised her brows. “A drink?”

  “Yep.”

  “What kind of drink?”

  Rahul felt a smile creep over his face. “I don’t know… he said something about pink lemonade?”

  Her lips compressed. “Marianne’s pink lemonade?”

  “Maybe. But you don’t care about that, because you don’t care about anything, and you certainly don’t need to talk about ‘emotional bullshit’—”

  His sardonic quoting of her own earlier rant was rudely interrupted. Without warning, she flicked the hose at him, drenching both the window and most of his head.

  Rahul swore, laughed, swore again. She was laughing too, the sound washing over him like the sunlight. He yanked off his glasses and blinked icy water out of his eyes.

  “Yeah,” he deadpanned. “You so don’t care about Marianne.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” she grinned
. “I’m adjusting.”

  He used the dry edge of his shirt to clean off his glasses, trying not to smile. “Might adjust faster if you talked about it.”

  “Talking is for nerds.”

  “Says the future lawyer.”

  “Future solicitor. Talking is for nerds; litigation is for warriors.” And then, after a pause, she said, “your hair looks better now.”

  He stopped cleaning his glasses and brought a hand to his head. Most of the product he’d been using to tame his uncontrollable hair had apparently been rinsed away. He sighed. “Great.”

  “Don’t be vain,” she said lightly.

  He didn’t bother correcting her. Vanity wasn’t exactly the issue.

  Control.

  “Sit down before Dad comes back,” she ordered.

  “Why? Am I not allowed to talk to you until I’ve been vetted?”

  “Don’t joke.” Her voice became solemn, her face haunted. “My father’s killed people for less.”

  He stared at her, horrified. “Are you serious?”

  And she, of course, burst out laughing. “Certainly not! Good Lord. You utter ninny.” She raised the hose again, and he shut the window. Water splashed harmlessly off the glass.

  She stuck her tongue out at him. Then she winked, turned, and walked away.

  Rahul sighed and looked away from the window, because it was better than watching her leave like some adoring sap. He pushed his now-dry glasses onto his face and returned to the chair he’d vacated.

  Eugene came back moments later, carrying two glasses of pink, fizzy liquid. He took one look at Rahul, raised his brows, and said, “Bloody hell. What’s happened to you?”

  Rahul wondered how the man would react if he replied, “Your daughter.”

  He must be hallucinating.

  The day had seemed to stretch on forever—but not in a bad way. He’d been with Jas, and her dad was actually alright, and she had a snooker room, so not in a bad way at all. But it had been so fucking hot and the sun set so fucking late—maybe he had heatstroke.

  Yeah. He had heatstroke, and now he was hallucinating.

  He thought he saw Jasmine standing over him, shaking him gently awake, in a paper-thin vest and tiny shorts that might as well have been underwear. The vest was red with a sunshine-yellow circle in the centre. The words Hakuna Matata were printed across the circle in bold black letters. That seemed an odd touch for a hallucination, but the mind was a wonderful thing.