Nina smoothed a hand over the blazing red satin of the party sari she’d spilled across her bed. It looked like a river of blood…and like a cascade of triumph.
Unlike the floor-to-ceiling photo panels some stars opted for, Nina had actual, authentic paintings of herself decorating the walls. Gaudy, historical-themed portraits. Nina as Jhansi Ki Rani, as Messalina, as Cleopatra. Rahul half expected to see the Bandit Queen and Sultana Razia. The brushwork was terrible—something you’d see posted on the wall at a cheap roadside guesthouse. He wondered who’d paid for the commissioning. One of her young stable of lovers? Unlikely. His father? Probably. The poor bastard. If it weren’t all so vulgar, it would be funny.
“Good God, man.” Davey echoed his thinking. “It’s like being in artists’ hell.”
“Trust me, yaar: if it involves Nina, it’s like being in everyone’s hell.” He feigned a smile, giving the expression a thorough trial run since he would need it throughout the course of the evening.
As he and Shaw made their way through the bungalow to where the party was in full swing, Rahul felt like he was being monitored. There was a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, not unlike the warning one’s body gave them just before someone loosed a volley of arrows or bullets at their spine. Nina likely had her security cameras trained to record him from every angle so she could study the tapes later…like a sports team watching game footage to improve their plays.
“Bit of a shoe-on-the-other-foot, isn’t it? Being the stalkee instead of the stalker?” was Davey’s only observation when Rahul related his collection of metaphors. “At least you haven’t taken to videotaping Priya’s every move. Have you?”
“Sod off.” He frowned in response. “It’s not the same thing at all.”
“Trying to wear down her resistance? Controlling her career moves? No, no, that bears no resemblance to your darling sautali-ma at all. You’re nothing like your stepmum. What was I thinking?”
“Your pronunciation is wretched, and you’re just smug because you’re getting shagged on a regular basis,” he snapped.
“My pronunciation is impeccable.” Davey popped his Ps for emphasis. “And you’re damn right I’m getting shagged on a regular basis. Quite beautifully.”
“Oh, really?” The two words were the equivalent of a bracing bucket of ice water. Sunny swished into their view, resplendent in a peacock green sari and bold sapphire jewelry. Rahul watched Davey go from jovial braggart to tight-lipped and contrite in a matter of seconds, like a thoroughly drenched cat. To his credit, he recovered his wits and his arrogance in record time.
“Hello, darling,” he murmured, kissing Sunita’s cheek and taking her arm as though they were about to enter a Regency ballroom. “Didn’t see you standing there. You look ravishing.”
Rahul was so occupied laughing at the daggered look Sunny shot Shaw in reply that he missed his own darling’s appearance. As if out of thin air. Rising from sea foam like Aphrodite. Armed and dangerous like Durga. Priya stunned him simply by existing…and by being furious with him. Her pain had yet to ebb, he could feel it. She wore it like her lipstick, her kajal, like the brilliant, jeweled purple silk of her form-fitting lehenga.
“Priya!” he gasped, like the boy of twenty-three who’d first been gob-smacked by her sweetness. “You came.”
“I was invited, Rahul. Same as you.” She greeted him, coolly, with a slight incline of her head, before turning to their companions. “Namaste, Sunny-ji. And…?”
“Davey.” Happy to have a distraction from Sunita’s ire, Shaw turned on the charm. “Davey Shaw. Delighted to meet you, Priya. Rahul’s told me so much about you.”
Another woman would’ve taken that as bait, as an opening to ask what exactly had been said about her. Priya, he knew, would not give them the satisfaction. Nahin, she’d already given him just about as much satisfaction as she thought he deserved. “Rahul’s told me nearly nothing of you, Mr. Shaw. Kafi rude hain, na? No manners.” She shook Davey’s hand, gracing him with the radiant, laughing, smile she wouldn’t—couldn’t—give Rahul.
Pleasantries exchanged, they all regarded the entrance to Nina’s bash with matching expressions of wariness. “Cleopatra’s barge awaits.” Rahul sighed before grasping Priya’s elbow and sailing her—unwilling, muttering protests at his familiarity and tacking on Bengali expletives—down the Nile.
Being in Nina Manjrekar’s bungalow was like touring through a wild game reserve without the benefit of a truck and a field guide. Davey didn’t quite know what to make of it. Hell, he still didn’t even know why he’d merited an invite. A lowly TV producer shouldn’t have been anywhere on the woman’s radar. He knew next to no one in Mumbai. It was only his connection to Rahul that gave him any sort of currency amongst the Bollywood set. All at once, the light flickered on, and his exclamation of “Oh, of course!” caused Sunny to stop her seething and gaze at him, her magnificent brows arched in curiosity.
“Just divining our host’s motives,” he elaborated with an answering smile. “Since she can’t possibly know of our liaison—” this merited a sharp “Shh!” that he blithely ignored, “—it must be my school days with Rahul that brought me here. And that, my dear, means Ms. Manjrekar is up to something.”
“But what can she possibly want with me?” Sunita frowned. “Kya faidha? What is the point? What have I to do with Rahul?” Even as the astute question left her lips, he watched her face drain of all color. She went as white as the obnoxious heart-shaped loveseat that dominated one side of the party space. For, not twenty meters away, stood her ex-husband, Sam, and his lover, Vikram Malhotra.
Despite their one degree of separation, through Rahul, Davey had never actually met the infamous Sam or his less notorious—and far better—half. He’d certainly Googled them. They made a striking pair, almost as perfectly matched as he and Sunny. Viki was tall, muscular and athletic. All Indian, he supposed one would say, as opposed to all-American. Sam was short, slender, as deadly as a rapier. His face would’ve been handsome, were it not for an impenetrable hardness in his eyes and the sharpness to the way he grinned when he sensed their attention.
“Oh, of course.” Sunita echoed his earlier words, swaying into his side and reaching for his hand, to grasp it tight. “Sam has school days with Rahul, too, na? And enough history with me to make a dozen epic dramas.”
“But there were happy times, too, weren’t there?” It wasn’t the right forum to ask such a personal question. Not that he had much cause in the production booth or the bedroom either. But as Sam strode toward them—thinking it best to get all the awkwardness out of the way immediately, no doubt—Davey couldn’t help himself. “Surely it wasn’t all bad, was it?”
“It is never all bad. That is the big problem. There was always at least one perfect day where I didn’t miss his absence. One hour where I didn’t question a phone call. A holiday at the sea beach with Jai where he was almost a real husband.” She shook her head. “That only makes it worse, Mr. Shaw.”
“Davey,” he reminded, just before he had to repeat it again as a greeting. “Hello. Davey Shaw. Have we met?”
But Sam didn’t even look in his direction. Nor did Vikram, who trailed him like a particularly god-like shadow. “Sunny. What are you doing here?” he demanded, in a low, rasping voice that was tailor-made for villainy.
“I was invited. Same as you.” She stepped away from him, and Davey instantly missed her warmth. “Viki.” Her acknowledgment of her ex’s boyfriend was only a few degrees more cordial. “Kaise ho? How are you?”
Before the conversation could get any better, it got monumentally worse. For Nina, their hostess, chose that moment to appear in their midst. If Sam’s voice was made for villainy, then Nina’s was made for cookery…or, rather, post-cookery, where you scraped leavings from the dishes with discordant clangs and scratches. She attempted to simper as she greeted them all with false kindness. Davey was back on the game reserve, feeling as though, any second now, she would cease the mati
ng dance and attack. Sure enough, as her gaze fell upon him, he felt very much like an oversized antelope brought forth to the slaughter.
“Mr. Shaw,” she cooed, red-tipped nails punctuating the syllables. “And how are you? Could your friend, George, not come?”
George. Georgie. Oh, hell. He remembered, at once, that brief phone call Nina had interrupted. And, at once, the seemingly innocent query was really the opening shot of a bloody skirmish. No, it was a grenade, lobbed into the center of an already explosive situation.
He watched Sunita react in shifts. Her Sam-induced paleness leeched further. Her eyes thundered like gathering clouds. “George?” she repeated, incredulously. “Who is this George, Mr. Shaw?”
“Just a friend,” he assured, finding Rahul suddenly on the edge of their little circle, concern clear in the crease of his brow. Davey shot him a look that, hopefully, translated to, “For God’s sake, stay out of your stepmother’s line of fire. I’ve got this!”
“So sorry.” Nina smiled with bared teeth, making soothing motions with those talon-like hands. “My mistake, na? I simply thought you were…” She cut an emphatic glance toward Sam and Vikram, her meaning apparent, and her confusion anything but sincere. “You know. A gay.”
“I’m not gay. I’m just British. You’re not the first to get the two all cocked up, as it were.” It was by sheer force of will that he kept his tone even, and by sheer force of Sunita that he dismissed Nina from his attention. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” The woman was truly repulsive, feigning innocence while knowingly exploiting her guests’ history with one another. And his woman…she was like white-hot ash, no less capable of burning than a blaze. “Sunita,” he prompted her as he turned his back to everyone else. “Darling, are you quite all right?”
Any pretense of a purely professional relationship was tossed aside with the way he spoke, the way he looked at her. The whole fucking party could watch him pin his heart to his sleeve for all he cared.
“No. No, I am not.” She followed the path of Nina’s intimation, from him to Sam. Something heavy settled in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know how to proceed, or what precisely to say. The question trapped in his throat was one he didn’t want to give voice to. “Don’t,” Sunny said, as if she sensed it. But her next words proved that assumption wrong…and very nearly broke his cynical heart. “Don’t be like Sam, Davey. Main bardash nahin karpayi. I could not survive it.”
Chapter Sixteen
“What do you mean, ‘don’t be like Sam’?” There was something in Davey’s eyes that she couldn’t identify, but it felt very much like judgment mixed with confusion. Nahin. It was worse. Like…disappointment. “Sunny, do you really hate what Sam and Vikram are to each other that much? Is it that unconscionable to you?”
Suddenly they were, all of them, watching her. Sam, so pale and tight with emotion—tugging at her goddamn heartstrings like he did when they were just stupid kids. Vikram, holding him back, shushing him as she and Davey stared each other down in deafening silence. Rahul and Priya…so pitying and sympathetic. Toward whom, she did not know. Most likely not her. Ms. Manjrekar had created the perfect photo op, loosed the perfect sound byte. One that painted her as a woman yet again fooled by a gay man…and a woman who hated gays because of it. Her Shaw, her handsome, arrogant Davey Shaw, was looking at her as though she were a cockroach that had crawled across his perfectly shined shoes. Sickness rose in the back of her throat, and Sunny choked.
“Don’t you dare make this about bigotry. I don’t hate. Yeh koi ‘phobia’ nahin hain.” Her voice shook. All of her shook. She was an earthquake. “Do you think it’s easy living this way? That it’s all in fun being Sam Khanna’s ex-wife? Being the mother of his child? Wow, kya picture hain. It’s just like a romantic comedy, na? Perhaps I should move in with the boys? Maybe I should be flitting around town with my personal homosexual harem, watching Sam and Vikram make love on alternate Tuesdays like they’re a porno, na? Well, I have a son to think about. I have to put him first. Humesha. Always. And I cannot trust another liar and a cheat.”
“I’m not a cheat. Or a liar. I’ve only ever been honest with you.” Davey threaded his fingers through his hair, fairly yanking at the strands. It was the way he pulled on hers when they made love in his large, lonely bed. “And, Sunita, Jai’s fine,” he ground out through his gritted teeth. “You don’t have to be so goddamn scared. From what I’ve gathered, he’s remarkably well adjusted. A bit cheeky, honestly.”
God, as if she hadn’t heard that a thousand times from Sam. To hear the same tape from Davey was nearly unbearable. “Because we protected him! Nahin, because I protected him. Because woh asli duniya main nahin rehtha. Jai doesn’t live in the real world. He has a car and driver. He goes to English-speaking private school, where everyone’s parents are stars or doing business or politics. He doesn’t know his father could be beaten in the street like a stray dog, or that his precious Viki Uncle could be thrown in jail for obscenity. He doesn’t think about the danger they face and how easily he could lose them. He lives in a big, colorful Bollywood fantasy, where his father and his boyfriend are bloody gods. Well, I’m not a god. Main sirf insaan hu. I’m only human…and I have to live with the reality while the rest of you all playact and party like life is perfect.”
“My God, Sunny. Bas. Stop. It’s okay.”
Now, finally, Sam broke in. He crossed the room, reaching for her. His hands were kind. His eyes kinder. She could not remember him ever looking at her so softly. Not even when they were flying high like a pair of kites. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “You think Jai is that naïve? With us as parents? He knows what I am, who I am. He knows how many times I’ve gone to rehab, and how many times Viki saved me. He had a front-row seat for it all. He knows I could’ve died a hundred times while he was growing up, for all sorts of reasons. Chiefly mera stupidity. And he’s got the Internet, for God’s sake. When the High Court chucked out Section 377, Jai called my mobile and told me the good news. He wanted to go for chaat to celebrate. He wasn’t even twelve yet, Sunny, and he knew what it meant for me. What it meant to me. Protection ka zaroorath nahin hain. He doesn’t need to be sheltered. If anything, he’s been looking out for us. Don’t you understand? Sunny, for years, he’s been protecting you.”
That was absurd. She was made of iron and stone. A fortress. No one needed to stand and guard it for her. “Me? What nonsense. Why do I need protecting?”
Sam glanced over his shoulder, sharing some long, impenetrable look with Viki. And then he shrugged. “Because I broke your heart.”
His simple, matter-of-fact line delivery was like arrows, piercing at her flesh. Her knees jellied, and the very organ he was claiming to have broken throbbed with an old agony. Actors were devils. Fuck the lot of them. “Fuck you. You don’t get to be sorry about that now, Sam. You don’t have the right to say it to me. Fifteen years have passed. It’s too late.”
“No, it’s not, Rani Sahiba.” Davey’s arm encircled her waist, keeping her standing when she would’ve stumbled, giving her a wall instead of a cliff. His breath was warm against her skin, lips dry and cool on her cheek. “It’s not too late for apologies. It’s not too late for forgiveness. And it’s damn well not too late for you and me. You can’t live your life in fear, mired in rage. You have to let it go…and simply hold on to me.”
She didn’t believe a word of it. Not really. So she took solace in the lips that shaped the lies. She twisted in his embrace and slipped her arms around his neck, kissing him in front of one and all. Kissing him because it was the only truth she had.
Rahul was still trying to gather his thoughts as some invisible director finally called “Cut!” on the tense little scene. Nina had vanished mid-drama—not one bit surprising—Shaw and Sunny were wrapped in each other’s arms like the world’s longest freeze frame, and Sam was practically shaking his fist with theatrical rage. “I’m going to kill that bitch. I swear to God, baby, Nina Manjrekar is dead,” he was declaring for al
l and sundry—but mostly Viki, who had the patience of a maharishi. “I’m going to put her in the goddamn ground.”
Ever the practical one—really the most sensible one in their entire lot—Vikram snaked an arm around Sam’s shoulder, stroking his cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Arré, Sam, cool down. Tension maat karna. She will get hers.”
“Yeah, and I am going to give it to her. Samjhe?” At his boyfriend’s quelling look, he added, “Nonviolently. Is that okay?”
“Perfect. I am very proud of you.”
“Brilliant. I live for your approval.” Fond sarcasm was a positive sign, but Sam still looked murderous—only just a shade less outraged—and Rahul was happy to leave him to the task of tearing into Nina tonight. He would deal with her later. In due time.
As the guys moved away, hand in hand, heads bent together and voices laced with fury, he was left with Priya, who looked as awkward as he felt. It was just them…and the lovebirds, who only had eyes for each other. The air was hot, thick with intimacy and tension. It was like they were intruding on something. That Shaw was gloriously, insanely in love with Sunita was apparent—and Rahul understood that sensation. It supplanted all else. Like jaadu, magic, it took root and then grew over all reason. He could easily empathize with the need to take the woman you loved in your arms and hold her so tightly that there wasn’t even room for a breath between you.
Turning to her was like turning toward the sun…and finding the sun turning toward you also. Priya stood there, beautiful eyes fraught with a thousand emotions, lips parted as if begging to be kissed. By him. Only ever by him. He couldn’t help himself, closing the few meters that separated them and taking up her hands in both of his. “Pree…” But she was so much more than a sweet, childish nickname. She was beloved, just as her full name implied. “Priya,” he said, meaning it with a ferocity that shocked him.
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