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Bollywood Nightmare
ISBN # 978-1-78184-175-4
©Copyright Victoria Blisse 2012
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright December 2012
Edited by Eleanor Boyall
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
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The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2012 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 2.
This story contains 88 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 6 pages.
Djinn’s Amulet
BOLLYWOOD NIGHTMARE
Victoria Blisse
Book two in the Djinn’s Amulet Series
Sometimes what seems to be a nightmare can change into a dream come true.
Kiya is the daughter of Rahul Khan, the biggest Bollywood star of all time and she is a talented actress in her own right. Her abundant curves have taken Bollywood by storm and now Hollywood is knocking at her door.
Johnny is the Khan family Djinn. He is responsible for Rahul meeting his true love Laura. Well, that’s what he tells people anyway. His Masters latest wish is the safekeeping of his daughter Kiya on her American adventure. How he ends up powerless and alone he’s not quite sure and how he’s going to rescue the kidnapped Kiya without his Djinn magic is a mystery.
Luckily, Kiya has many talents She sets about seducing her captor, Aseem but it isn’t just her virginity he takes, it’s her heart.
Will Kiya and Aseem beat the odds, escape the badlands warehouse and have all the wild, kinky sexy they long for? Will Johnny be wished free, will he go to his soul mate in Djinnistan and will they all live happily ever after?
Dedication
Without my husband this book wouldn’t have a title and would be struggling for a plot. Thank you for being my inspiration.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Ziploc: SC Johnson & Son, Inc
Concorde: British Aircraft Corporation
Chapter One
Johnny
I never meant to upset anyone. I swear I’m a happy-go-lucky fun-loving kind of guy, but apparently I rub some people up the wrong way. Hi, I’m Johnny, well, to you I’m Johnny, I don’t give my real name away to humans. I’m a Djinn and I belong to Rahul. His family captured me many moons ago and passed me down through the generations.
Rahul met a woman some time past, they were both young and in love and they married. It caused a huge stir as not only was Laura British she was white British—I’m talking like new-laid snow, folks—and a Bollywood star marrying out of his faith and his race caused a big kerfuffle all around the world, not just in Mumbai.
They’ve proved their critics wrong because twenty-three years later they are still together and as much in love as ever. It makes me sick to my stomach to see them fawning all over each other. It’d upset you too if you were stuck in another world far away from the one you loved. Back in Jennistan is my girl. I don’t even know if she is still my girl after all these years. I am hoping so. We were hopelessly in love back in the day. We doted on one another and were pledged to be married.
Anyway, that’s more than you really need to know. I’m getting old and stupid. I should keep my guard up more often but living with humans taints me, makes me weak.
So, I like to tell stories. Ask anyone. I told a really good one a while ago all about Rahul and his arranged marriage and how I saved the day. It was brilliant and would have been a massive hit if the damn author hadn’t decided to add in Laura’s side of the story too. She just doesn’t have the art like I do. Anyway, here’s a new story for you, I do hope you’ll enjoy it. Actually, I don’t give two hoots if you do or not, I’m just telling it to pass the time in this infernal hell of a human world I live in.
* * * *
So yes, Rahul and Laura married. It was almost a fairy tale. He worked in the movies and she became the translator she’d always dreamed of being. They were disgustingly happy and content and I had high hopes that Rahul would finally wish me free. Then one evening as he supped cold beer in the stifling heat of midsummer I asked him about it.
“So, you’ve got everything you ever wanted, right?”
“Yes,” he replied, lazily wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a hand.
“And you’re in love and so very happy, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” He still got that dewy-eyed possessed look every time he thought of Laura. Sickening.
“Then you don’t really need me anymore, right?”
“Wrong.”
“Come on, Rahul. You have true love and we Djinns can’t even grant that wish, nuh-uh, but I did, didn’t I? I got you married to your true love.”
“Your ego has no bounds, Johnny. Yes, no doubt you helped and I thank you for it but the true love came about naturally despite the odds.”
“Oh blah, blah, blah. Whatever. I thought you were going to wish me free when you were happy and settled and all that crap.”
“Yes, I was going to but something has happened recently to change my mind.”
“What’s happened? Has Laura come to her senses and shagged someone hunkier and richer than you?”
“Now you’re just being petulant. No, Laura has not. She has, however, given me some good news.”
“She’s returning to England and she’s taking her Britpop CD’s home with her?”
“No, Johnny. Just listen for a minute, would you? Laura is pregnant.”
“Oh.”
“Is that all you have to say? Geez. I thought you were meant to be the eloquent one.”
“Congratulations on the imminent birth of your little crying bratling. Here’s to sleepless nights, smelly nappies and toddler tantrums.”
I disappeared then into my little tea kettle. No puff of smoke, no drama. Just a fully grown man shrinking and slipping down the spout of a tall, Eastern-looking brass kettle. It might not be much but I called it home. Bottles were over-rated and don’t get me started on lamps. Pregnant. Shit. I hadn’t considered what would happen then.
“Please, Johnny. Don’t sulk.” I could hear Rahul perfectly well through the metal walls of my home. I really should think about getting them soundproofed. “I was all for releasing you, really I was, but now I’ve created new life. We’re going to have a baby, Johnny—well, Laura and I are, you’ve got nothing to do with it—and it’s a big scary world out there. How can I send my little Farishta out into it alone? It would be remiss of me to do so when I have the greatest gift known to mankind. I’m sorry, Johnny, but what’s a few extra years of being my se
rvant, really? I am a good master, I am not a slave driver. And once my little one is established then maybe I will wish you free.”
It was not the first time I’d heard the speech, in fact I’d heard variations of it several times over the years. Certain of my masters did seem to care for me and they would promise my freedom, then suddenly they had the prospect of becoming daddies and all sense went out of the window along with my hopes and dreams of freedom. Having your heart ripped out and your dreams stomped on wasn’t something you got used to but sadly it was something I jadedly began to expect from my arsehole human masters.
* * * *
So a few months later the bratling was born. All small and wrinkly and noisy. Laura would have told you the birth was a bitch but then she wasn’t a Djinn. Djinn mothers had a proper hard time of it—fire, brimstone, a week in labour and a baby with horns to contend with. Human women didn’t know their luck. Laura was in labour for ten hours and seemed to think she’d survived some great trial. Bloody humans always thought they were greater than they were.
Okay, so granted the little wrinkly human was pretty cute. I did like babies and no, not for my breakfast, that wasn’t something we Djinns did anymore. The bones got stuck in our teeth. I got quite attached to the little thing. I did have a little bit of sentimentality inside and when we first met she looked me straight in the eye and smiled.
Laura said it was wind and babies a few hours old didn’t smile, especially not to Djinns in full Djinn splendour complete with horns and sharp dagger-like teeth. But she knew nothing. That baby smiled at me.
They called her Kiya because apparently, Rahul heard the early-morning chorus of sweet birds chirping in the trees around the hospital as Laura popped out the sprog. How romantic. Kiya was a human baby, what more could you say? She cried, she pooped, she cried some more. She smiled though and one baby smile made you forget all the poop and the sick and the endless crying. It must have been a form of magic because it even worked on Djinns.
If I heard her whimpering in her cot at night I would go to her sometimes and sing to her lullabies from my world. She would always coo and sigh and sleep deeply after that. I would hold her occasionally and pull my funny Djinn face. She loved it and would howl with laughter.
“Johnny, would you stop it,” Laura would say, “you’ll scare her half to death with your real face.”
But she was never scared of me no matter the guise I used. I settled into staying human most of the time as she grew older because it would not be fair on the little sweetheart. She would have been laughed at if she told her mates that her old friend Johnny had many faces.
Kiya grew up as children do. She learnt to talk then walk and as soon as she got the hang of those two things she flew off into adulthood like a speeding bullet. School came and school went. Term after term flew by until the tiny baby who smiled turned into the teenager who scowled. She no longer found me funny. Mostly because she knew she could not command me, only Rahul could and that annoyed her.
“It’s time to go home.” I showed up at a party to escort her back to her family.
“Oh, Johnny, it’s still early.” She sighed dramatically and flicked her delicate wrist at me. Her friends laughed.
“Yes, it is early, so early that the sun is about to rise. You told your father you’d be home by midnight.”
“I lied,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, bravo. Lying is such an important skill for a well-to-do young woman.” I clicked my fingers and the humans beside us decided to wander off. I could do that—influence humans. It was terribly easy when you knew how.
“Oh, Johnny, stop it. I was having fun,” Kiya snapped and pouted her baby-doll lips.
“Yes, well, fun is not all it is cracked up to be. You are but sixteen, my dove, and there is alcohol and men with bad intent at this party. You need to go home and apologise to your parents. They’re worried sick.”
“But, Johnny, I was just talking to this really hot guy and I think he liked me.”
“Kiya, I am sure he did. You are a very beautiful young lady but think about it. If you defy your parents now what will they do? They will make me accompany you everywhere again and you know neither of us enjoy that experience.”
“They wouldn’t!” She gasped.
“Oh, my sweet, they would, I know it. They love you and want to look after you and they also have a magical Djinn. It’s not hard to join the dots, is it?”
“Okay, fine, I’ll come home. Let me get my coat.” She moved a step away from me and I clicked my fingers again. Her light shrug appeared in my hand.
“Here you go, I’m not falling for that trick again.”
“You’ll be the death of me.” She tutted.
“If you don’t see me off first!” I retaliated.
* * * *
It hadn’t come as much of a surprise when Kiya had decided she wanted to be a Bollywood star. She had the eyes for it—dark and sultry blue like midsummer evenings. Her hair was as dark as the sultan’s shadow, black as the ink she used to pen her diary entries—what, I was merely curious, that was all—and her skin was the colour of spiced tea and cinnamon bark.
One thing would have held her back if she hadn’t got the mystic powers of an ancient and mythical beast behind her. How did I put this delicately? She was fat for a star. What? For a Djinn that was very reserved! I mean she wasn’t huge, not like my best mate’s mum, who lived in a bog somewhere now, well, technically she was the bog. But Kiya had her father’s looks and her mother’s eyes and curves.
I didn’t think it was a bad thing, I really thought thin humans were a waste of space, you’d need a dozen of them to make a good meal. Kiya would make a decent-sized snack on her own, yummy.
She didn’t lack for suitors though, in fact with each new one Rahul got greyer and greyer. Her sweet nature, quick wit and erm, ample attractions made her popular through high school and college and I didn’t even have to use my magic on anyone.
However when she announced she was auditioning for Garm Suryast Rahul made a sneaky wish and boom, she got the main part and suddenly Bollywood loved curves.
And then Hollywood decided to get in on the act and that was where it all went to pot.
Chapter Two
Kiya
I am sure most girls would love to have a mystical genie around them all the time but when the bugger will only answer to your father’s wishes it really isn’t much fun. That’s why I am writing this because I can’t trust Johnny to tell it to you straight.
* * * *
If you asked anyone they would tell you that I might look most like my dad but I was definitely more like my mother when it came to personality. Hence the usage of British slang—I especially enjoyed scaring old Indian ladies with it. I loved to see their eyes widen and their heads rhythmically wag in disgust. It was brilliant fun and tended to make Daddy smirk too, though he might lightly scold me for it afterwards—he had been brought up to be a good and proper Hindu, after all.
As long as I could remember Johnny had always been around. I had never questioned it. I did remember a particularly strongly worded conversation with my mum when I was about eight. She had tried to explain to me that not everyone had a Djinn and that talking about it in public only made people jealous and uncomfortable. She’d later explained that my teacher had approached her, worried about my outrageous lies. Ironically I had been forced to lie to make the people around me think I was telling the truth.
So I grew up in a world that thought I was normal within a family that was anything but. Mixed-race parents, one of whom was a Bollywood star, the other a Brit, and a genie at home at my father’s beck and call. Was it any wonder I’d tried to dye my hair blonde when I was fourteen and even made an attempt to run away?
I felt like my life wasn’t my own, and though the other girls in my class all had disapproving and over-protective fathers overseeing their every move, they didn’t have a Djinn following them about for what felt like twenty-four hours in
every day. But of course, none of my plots worked, my black hair was impervious to any dye and that damn Djinn could track me down anywhere. I grew used to my life and at the age of eighteen I decided to use my circumstances to my advantage. Dad really wanted me to become a lawyer, Mum would have loved to see me as a Doctor, but I wanted to be a star just like Dad.
“But sweetheart,” Mum said with a sigh, “are you really sure that’s what you want? With your brains you could be anything you set your mind to, a doctor for example.”
“Or a lawyer,” Dad replied, tearing a chapatti roughly as he spoke.
“No, I want to be in the movies like you, Dad. I’ve been on set so many times and I’ve memorised so many of the scripts. I know I can do it.”
I dipped my flatbread into the spicy stew before me, just playing with my food. I had no appetite, my stomach knotted.
“But, pyar, you are not the usual style the producers look for.” Dad looked flustered and proved it by dipping his chapatti in his lassi instead of his curry.
“Are you saying I’m too fat to be in Bollywood?”
“You’re perfect!” Mum rushed in.
“Yes, no one is prettier,” Dad added, biting his mango yoghurt-flavoured bread distractedly, “but I’m not sure the producers would see that. They’re very stuck in their ways. All Bollywood ladies are lithe and willowy.”
“Well then, it’s time for a change,” I snapped.
“Don’t snap.” Mum shook her head. “Your dad can’t change how the industry works.”
“No, but Johnny can,” I replied and was answered by silence.
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