Wanna Bet?: An Interracial Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  And he was waiting for her.

  When it came, the knock at his door shot through him like an electric shock. He’d been expecting her—had invited her—but all of a sudden he felt uncertain. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her over the last two years; he had. Of course he had.

  But carefully. He’d seen her very carefully. Never for too long. Never in London, the place that had become his chrysalis. Never alone, because Jasmine alone was a different person entirely, and Jasmine alone was so much harder to resist and so much easier to want, and Jasmine alone felt like his own fucking heart reflected back at him.

  No. No, he reminded himself, smoothing back his already-smooth hair. That was then. This was now. He’d cured himself of inconvenient love; he’d done what he had to do. She was just a friend. She was just Jasmine.

  He opened the door and she slammed into him like a heatwave. His skin tingled as she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tight.

  “You’re back,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

  Fuck. He hadn’t expected this. For all her casual touches and easy smiles, Jasmine wasn’t exactly the sort to act like she’d missed someone.

  Even if she had.

  The thought struck his heart like an arrow. What if she had?

  Rahul swallowed and allowed himself to hug her back. Hugging was a friendship thing. Hugging was not inappropriate, and would not necessarily lead to awkward feelings.

  But as he buried his face in the soft, scented cloud of her hair and breathed deep, his heart seemed to swell.

  Friendship, he told himself firmly. He was experiencing feelings of extremely innocent, very platonic, friendship.

  She pulled back slightly and beamed up at him. “Good Lord! I thought you’d be gone forever! It felt like you were!”

  “I told you I’d come home again,” he said lightly. “You know Mum would kill me if I ever moved so far away for good.”

  “True. I’d help her hide the body.” She winked at him and stepped aside, wandering off into the flat. “Oh, this is nice,” she called from the living room. “But you need candles. Every good flat needs candles. Tea lights! And maybe some plants…”

  She wasn’t about to feign politeness and let him show her around, then. That pleased him. He’d been worried, somewhere in the back of his mind, that after two years of relatively little contact the connection they’d had would be… cut.

  You wanted it cut. At least partially. The part where you felt things she never would.

  Regardless of what he’d wanted, it was good to know she hadn’t somehow transformed. That the easiness between them hadn’t disappeared. That he hadn’t ruined the best friendship he’d ever had.

  Rahul shut his front door and followed her inside.

  She was running her finger over some of the paperbacks on his bookshelf. When he came into the room, she turned a judgemental eye on him—but she didn’t say a word about his collection of James Bond novels. Which was just as well, since he’d never said a word about all the useless knick-knacks she used to cram into her uni flat.

  “What do you think about the tea lights?” She asked.

  “No.”

  “What about a succulent?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You know what dad calls this place? He calls it my bachelor pad.”

  Jasmine snorted. “I see. You’re far too masculine for succulents, then.” She moved away from the bookcase, stepping closer to him, a little smile on her face.

  “Most definitely,” he murmured, his eyes tracking her movement. His heart pounding as she came closer.

  Stop it, he snapped to his own bloody nervous system. Didn’t help. Happiness thrummed through his veins.

  “How about a cactus?” She asked lightly. “Much more appropriate, if you want to be all cis-hetero-caveman.”

  “Because of all the—?”

  “Don’t be awful.” But her grin widened, and she came even closer.

  “The pricks?” He finished.

  She laughed. Something about the sound brushed away the last vestiges of reserve between them, the hesitance that had formed at the edges of their friendship like cobwebs.

  They were less than a foot apart now. Smiling at each other in silence like fools. Her eyes flitted around the room like a child’s, from him, to the window, to the kitchen just behind him. She rose up on tip-toe and craned her neck, peering over his shoulder.

  “Nice table,” she said. “Shall we break it in?”

  His mind presented him with an image of Jasmine perched on the dark wood, holding out a hand just for him.

  He blinked and the image disappeared.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice steady. “Let me get the cards.”

  They were in his room because he’d hidden them from Dad during the move. He wasn’t a good Muslim like his father, or a good Hindu like his mother, and everyone knew it. But he did not need the father he worshipped to find out about he and Jasmine’s gambling habit.

  When he came back from his room with the old, worn deck, she was already sitting at the table, munching a bag of M&Ms. Apparently, she had no problem going through his cupboards.

  “Chips,” she explained, waving one of the colourful little chocolates.

  “You want to play poker?”

  “I’m in the mood.” She smiled. She’d cut her hair—just a little, but he loved her hair so much it felt like a momentous change. Instead of floating around her shoulders, it bounced around her jaw, the curls seeming even springier. Somehow, the length drew his eyes to her mouth. He had no idea why—no idea how the mysteries of haircuts worked—but it was ruining one of his many don’t-look-at-Jas-like-that resolutions.

  He hoped her hair would grow fast.

  Rahul sat down at the little table, opposite her, and they swapped: she took the cards, he took the M&M’s. Because she was a show off, she shuffled like some big-time dealer. “Three hands,” she said. Her hands were moving rapidly. She was pulling every trick she knew, it seemed; overhand, sure, along with the dovetail and the kutti.

  She nodded down at the M&Ms. “Do your thing.”

  Right. Rahul was faster at sorting their pretend chips, because he had an odd ability. He could look at a group of things and know, without counting, how many items were there. He could look at twenty dots on a page and say, Twenty.

  The minute Jas had found out, she’d become mildly obsessed with making him perform. He hated doing it for other people. He liked doing it for her because she acted like it was a skill instead of an unnatural ability.

  He emptied about half the pack, split them, and pushed hers across the table.

  “How many?”

  “Twenty-eight each.” He put five of his M&Ms in the centre of the table. “Your deal.”

  She put a card down in front of him, put one down for herself. Repeated the action.

  “What are we playing for?” He asked.

  “What do you want?”

  “How about… some of those caramel things your dad makes?” Eugene Allen’s super secret dessert, which he only wheeled out for birthdays and Christmas.

  Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Fine. In the spirit of your bet, should I win, I require some of your mother’s dosa.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.” He checked his cards. A pair of queens.

  She looked at hers, and then her dancing, midnight eyes met his. Her cat-got-the-cream look could be an act. Could also be pleasure over the game.

  Or even pleasure that he was home at last, for good. He’d known, over the years, that he was hurting her. With every visit he didn’t make, every call he didn’t take, he was hurting her. But he’d had to do it.

  And now look at them. Sitting down, playing like the old friends they were, and he didn’t want her at all. Not even a little bit. Not even when she tapped the cards against the soft pillow of her lower lip. Not even when she gave him a sphinx-like look he could never hope to decipher because she was so bloody good at this shit.

 
No; he didn’t want Jasmine anymore. He’d definitely done the right thing.

  He laid out his bet and she matched it with a feline sort of smile.

  “You didn’t improve your pokerface in London,” she murmured. “I thought you might return with a few more skills. Like, I don’t know—the ability to tell a lie.”

  He raised the bet, flicking a few more M&Ms into the centre of the table. “Isn’t honesty a virtue?”

  “So you’re virtuous now?”

  “Maybe.”

  She reached out, picked up a few of his makeshift chips, and tossed them into her mouth.

  “Jas,” he said, his tone warning.

  She smiled. “Sorry, buttercup.”

  He rolled his eyes and took more sweets from the bag.

  Jas called, then dealt the flop. Three cards, face up, in the centre of the table: a jack of spades, a four of hearts, a six of hearts.

  Hm. This could go either way for him, really.

  Jas was smirking slightly, twisting one of her curls around her finger. Sometimes her hair looked black, but when she stretched it out like that, he could see all the colours at play; deep chestnut and cool earth, with spider-fine flashes of bronze.

  She arched a brow. “Rahul?”

  Right. Right. “Five,” he said, and pushed his M&Ms forward.

  She smiled slowly and said in her silkiest voice, “Are you sure about that?”

  He gave her a hard look. “Do you really think that thing you pull will work on me right now?”

  “Thing?” She echoed, her smile widening. And then, as if the significance had just hit her: “Right now?”

  Oops.

  Rahul leant back in his seat and folded his arms, keeping his face blank. In what he hoped were dry, long-suffering tones, he said, “Stop fishing for compliments.”

  She ignored him, of course. “I have a thing?”

  “You know you have a thing.”

  “And it works on you? Rahul Khan, Master of Wisdom and Reason?”

  “Now you’re just being obnoxious.”

  “I’m always obnoxious, love. I thought you knew you me.” She grinned. She was so fucking gorgeous.

  Control.

  “Come on, Jas. Bet.”

  She winked, matched his bet, and laid out the turn card. Queen of spades.

  Well, fuck it. Without a word, he pushed ten of his M&Ms into the centre.

  She pushed hers in too. “So what did you learn in London, then? Since you didn’t improve your pokerface?”

  She was just ribbing him. He wasn’t that bad. “I learned how to use that pesky Accountancy and Finance degree. No big deal.”

  Her hand hovered over the deck, but she didn’t draw. “Did you do what you needed to do? Do you feel better now?”

  He froze. His eyes pinned hers. “What?”

  She smiled. “Have you met your own ridiculously high standards, now that you’ve lived and worked and learned in London?”

  He relaxed all at once, though he tried not to show it. Didn’t want her to realise the tension that had gripped him at her words, at the suspicion that she might somehow know.

  Of course she didn’t know. He’d been so careful. And now he was cured.

  “You know me,” he murmured. “When it comes to work, I’ve never quite met my own standards.”

  She snorted. “That’s what you need me for.” At his arched brow, she explained, “We balance each other out. Since I have no standards whatsoever.”

  He didn’t like the way she talked about herself sometimes. But she said it with a smile and a wink, and since he wasn’t in love with her, he shouldn’t want to protect her from every little thing. He shouldn’t want to protect her from her own harsh words. So he nodded towards the deck and said, “Draw.”

  “Nervous?” She asked. And suddenly there was nothing playful in her tone whatsoever; just pure confidence.

  She’d nailed him. He knew immediately.

  And fuck, he like that. He liked the fact that when it came to games like this, even games that relied on little more than chance, she would almost always screw him into the fucking ground.

  “Go on,” he said.

  She picked up the river card and laid it on the table. Two of hearts. “No shame in folding,” she said softly.

  As if he’d back down now, when she was watching him like that. He’d never been drunk, but he knew that she was it. She was inebriation. He pushed all his bloody M&Ms towards her, and she matched him.

  “Show me what you’ve got,” she said crisply, amusement tugging at the corners of her lips.

  He put his cards on the table. He’d had a pair of queens; three of a kind. A decent hand.

  But of course, she laid down an ace of hearts and a jack of hearts and said, “Flush.”

  He sighed. Looked down. For a second, his gaze caught on the delicate curve of her wrists, the smooth, brown skin of her arms, the edge of her scar that was visible. Then he dragged his attention back to the cards. “You played me. Like a fiddle.”

  She winked. “It’s what I was born to do.”

  Oh, she wasn’t wrong.

  9

  Now

  Rahul woke up naturally and cursed himself for it.

  No alarm. Which meant he hadn’t set one, which meant he’d overslept. Fuck.

  He rubbed a hand over his still-tired eyes before squinting up at the ceiling. Soft light filtered in through his curtains, a comforting, fresh sort of glow that might have made him smile if he wasn’t horrified at the prospect of arriving to work late. He’d never been late in his life.

  This was the price of Jasmine’s fun, he thought grimly, sitting up with a bone-cracking stretch.

  Jasmine. Jasmine lying in his arms, Jasmine’s hands in his hair, Jasmine’s mouth against his.

  The pain in her voice when he pushed her away.

  Okay. That was his daily pining allowance all used up.

  Rahul found his glasses and stood, shoving his hair out of his face. It didn’t help. The hair proceeded to behave exactly as it wished. He hoped that he’d have time to beat it into submission.

  A glance at his phone dialled down his panic somewhat. It was almost eight, true, but he could get to work within thirty minutes. He certainly wouldn’t have time for the gym, though—and would therefore be a mess of energy all day, unable to concentrate for more than five minutes.

  With a sigh of resignation, Rahul headed for the shower.

  Jasmine’s bedroom door was slightly open. Maybe she’d already gone to work; he had no idea. It occurred to him that he didn’t know a thing about her morning routine, even though they were technically living together.

  That was a weird phrase. Living together.

  He did know that she’d probably hate him after last night, that she couldn’t understand what the hell his problem was, and he certainly wasn’t about to explain it. He’d kissed her, and then he’d… well.

  He pushed the bathroom door open, a headache already threatening the back of his skull.

  And then he frowned.

  Because there Jasmine stood, in the shower… fully clothed?

  She saw him, and screamed with entirely too much drama, in his opinion—unless she’d been doing something really fucking weird in there, and he’d just caught her, and she was hysterical with shame. She was in an odd position, come to think of it, her skirt hiked up and one leg propped against the tiles.

  Then she hissed, “Fuck,” and dropped something. Something small and pink. She staggered backwards, and Rahul leapt to grab her like a fool—because how could he cross the bathroom and open the shower door and stop her from falling in time? He couldn’t. But he still tried.

  He failed. Luckily, she saved herself, windmilling her arms enough to regain her balance.

  He yanked open the door and grabbed her anyway, pulling her out of the shower. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” She demanded. “Jesus, I thought you were at work!”

>   “Overslept,” he said grimly. He knew, logically, that she was a solid sort of woman, but her arm still felt uncomfortably fragile in his hand. He loosened his grip slightly.

  She wobbled.

  He looked down to find that she was standing on one leg. “Why are you hopping? And why were you in the shower wearing clothes?”

  “I was shaving my legs,” she muttered. She was refusing to meet his eyes, and he missed her somehow, ridiculously and insensibly, and his chest ached, but he understood.

  Control.

  Rahul raised his brows. “I’m not an expert on that sort of thing, but I thought it usually involved nudity and running water.”

  She smiled, and then she looked at him. Her gaze was dark and sharp and dancing. “Are we still talking about shaving?”

  Rahul swallowed. His throat felt suddenly, painfully dry. He wanted to ask what she was doing, sparkling at him like that. He wanted to ask if this meant they were okay.

  Instead he decided to go with it, and said, “Behave. Why the hopping?”

  “You made me cut myself,” she sniffed. “Barging in here like a pervert.”

  “A—what? There’s a lock on that door, you know! Use it!” Rahul guided her firmly but, he hoped, gently, towards the toilet. Not ideal, but needs must. “Sit down.”

  “Why?”

  “Let me see.”

  She rolled her eyes. But she sat. “It kind of hurts.”

  A spark of alarm shot through Rahul. Had he ever heard Jasmine use the word hurts? Or pain? He wasn’t sure. He remembered the time she’d broken her arm in two places, hiking with her friends. Rahul had brought her a chocolate bouquet and asked how she was feeling. She’d said, Metal as fuck.

  He knelt down, took her left foot in his hands—and swore.

  “What?” She demanded.

  “Nothing.” He rubbed the blood covering his palm discreetly against his pyjamas. His mother had gotten them for his last birthday, and he’d started wearing them since Jasmine moved in. Now her blood stained the fabric. Sorry, Mum.