Spice and Smoke

by Suleikha Snyder

  Everything except one thing…which was currently across the room, nursing a G&T and talking about cricket with Harsh.

  Harsh…who was so beautiful Trish couldn’t take her eyes off him, and so straight that Avi would never get his hands on him. Fate was ice cold. No, it was tepid, like his bourbon. The rocks had long since melted, and the liquor tasted more like water than anything else. He downed the last swallow anyway, leaving it on a side table before crossing the veranda. Michael watched his approach, even though he seemed deep in discussion. Avi could always tell, sense it deep in his bones, and he knew even before he joined in on the idle chatter about Sri Lanka’s last test match that Michael was going to be leaving the room with him in the next ten minutes. Five if they were lucky.

  “Trishna looks great,” Harsh murmured offhandedly. It was a total non sequitur that had absolute fuck-all to do with cricket, and Avi felt indignation momentarily overtake the lust coursing through his system. He curled his fists protectively, zeroing in on the taller man with his most territorial scowl.

  “She always looks great. Like a goddess. Untouched and untouchable.” Of course he’d touched her hours ago. All over. Marking her skin with his teeth and the gentle scoring of his nails. He’d had her in ways that Harsh could only dream about…except even Harsh’s dreams were probably sanitized by a censor board. He was too good, too clean, to have a single filthy thought.

  Hell, he was too well bred to even acknowledge Avi had just warned him off his wife, instead smiling and mouthing some platitude about how the only thing more effective than Trish’s beauty was her drive and determination. What bakwas, what total bullshit. If Trish’s drive had really been that powerful, she would’ve bedded this glorified department store mannequin years ago and gotten him out of her system. But even his wife’s considerable charms couldn’t penetrate a man made of stone. Avinash shook his head, disgusted, and wheeled back to Michael, who had watched their odd little exchange with interest. “I’m going to have a smoke. Join?” he offered, tapping his jacket pocket.

  “Sure. Why not?” Michael shrugged, putting down his gin and tonic and following him out. The old haveli had a thousand corridors, nooks and crannies that were perfect for a film about divided loyalties and working against the British rule. It had energy and history…and a wealth of walls. They found one attached to a more secluded, private veranda, leaning against it as Avi went through the motions of tapping out two cigarettes and looking for his matches.

  “So, there’s some history between Harsh and Trishna, yeah?” Michael observed.

  “My father-in-law took Harsh under his guidance when he was on A Handful of Stars with her.” He shrugged, knowing that Michael didn’t need to hear all about Trish’s years and years of unrequited passion. “They were just kids, na? He played her brother, Chaudhury-saab helped launch him, but they’re not friends. We don’t socialize.”

  “Hmm.” Michael tucked his cigarette behind his ear instead of between his perfect lips. “He wants to fuck her.”

  His fingers slipped, and he burned himself on a light. “What?”

  “You don’t see it?” Michael’s brows drew together and he tilted his head, as if calling forth images of Harsh and Trishna for himself. “He tries so hard not to look at her, not to notice her. I was surprised he didn’t snap from the effort. When he said she looked great…it was so bloody obvious that he was forcing himself to be casual.”

  “Bahenchod!” Avi swore, only realizing the irony of the insult when Michael laughed. Sisterfucker. Oh. Right. “I swear to God, if he lays a hand on her I’ll kill him. This is the last thing Trish needs, some asshole messing with her head.”

  Laughter quickly faded into something more somber. “What are you doing out here with me, Avinash, if not playing games? I don’t want to be some pawn in the middle of your marriage. I don’t sneak around, I don’t do that bullshit.”

  He gave up trying to light his smoke, stuffing it back into the pack. “You’re not in the middle of my marriage,” he assured, meeting Michael’s coolly speculative gaze. “We’re…polyamorous.”

  He made a face as he enunciated the word. It sounded ridiculous in his half-American/half-Hindustani accent and felt even more ridiculous as a label. In the six years they’d been married and the seven they’d been together, he could count on one hand the number of other people Trish had actually slept with. He was the one who had a parade in and out of their bedroom. Sometimes she would join in, but mostly she was content to watch. “I like to direct, big shot,” she often chuckled. “Maybe someday I will become a producer of blue films.” His in-laws would be so thrilled by her career aspirations, na?

  Michael studied him for what felt like the longest minute in the world. “I don’t like to share,” he said finally, turning to face him so only one shoulder touched the wall. “Especially not with women. Too many cases of straight guys looking to experiment. It’s not my scene. Samjhe? Understand?”

  “I don’t need to experiment, yaar. The theory has been proven. Airtight.”

  When Michael still looked unconvinced, Avi gave in to the impulse that had been eating at him all evening. He hooked his fingers in the belt loops of Michael’s jeans and pulled him into a kiss. Michael held still, letting him do all the work. His mouth was curved into a smug smile that Avi had to tease open, and he growled in frustration and warning. A sip of the gin on Michael’s tongue wasn’t enough. He wanted to be drunk on him, pounding back the shots. But when Michael at last kissed him back, it was painstakingly gentle and slow, the very opposite of how Trish always met and matched his aggression. Michael threaded his fingers through Avi’s hair, cradling the back of his head. His kisses were anything but the burn of liquor. No, they were sweet bites of dessert that left Avinash’s pulse racing with an automatic sugar high. Michael sucked teasingly at his lower lip, fighting Avi’s assault with tenderness.

  He hadn’t been kissed like this in a long time. Like it was the point and not the prelude. When Michael pulled away to tame his uneven breaths, Avi surprised himself by following the motion of his body, fisting his hands in his shirt. Because his knees felt like mango chutney, and he wasn’t sure the wall would hold him up. Michael chuckled, leaning his forehead against Avi’s. “I don’t like to share,” he repeated quietly. “Not even for what would, no doubt, be a sodding amazing fuck.”

  Michael slid his cigarette out from behind his ear, snaking Avi’s matches from his jacket pocket. He lit the tip, inhaled deeply…and then left Avinash standing alone in a cloud of smoke.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, chasing it with a hail of other words just as descriptive and frustrated. What was so complicated about a little fun between the sheets? What did Michael Gill want from him? A public declaration of his naughty homosexual intentions? A bloody floor show? Well, Avi couldn’t give him that. He could only dream of it…

  The scenario: 2008’s Dostana. The crowd cheers for the two men to kiss to prove their sincerity. They stare at each other, bewildered, not sure if they can make that kind of statement in front of so many eyes.

  Avi knows the burden of proof is on him. It is time to put up or shut up. He leans forward slowly, uncomfortably aware of the bright stage lights and all the eyes cataloguing his every move. Michael watches him, expectant but guarded, as if he knows he might jerk away at the last second and declare that he can’t do it. Perhaps that doubt is why Avinash winds his fingers in Michael’s long hair so there is something to hold on to, a rope tethering him to the only thing that really matters: not everyone out there but this man in front of him. He doesn’t jerk away, no; instead he attacks Michael’s sensual mouth in a bruising kiss. Almost awkward in its intensity, in its purpose. Saying, “You’re mine, and I don’t care who knows.”

  The cheering fades into a dull buzzing. Everything melts away except the feel of Michael flush against him and their painfully blatant erections straining against the zippers of their jeans. Begging for more than just the friction of denim.

  Avi co
uld take Michael in his hand right now, make him come apart. Or he could sink to the floor with him, spread himself beneath him, choking back groans and swears against the fleshy center of his palm as Michael slides inside him. That’s how goddamn sincere he is. That’s the kind of statement he’s willing to make. Michael Gill is the only one he wants. Michael Gill will fill all the empty spaces in his soul just like he’s filling his body. To Hell with anyone else.

  Chapter Four

  Joshi had narrated the story to him over coffee at the Oberoi. “It’s going to be beautiful, Harsh. Promise!” he’d gushed, the dollar signs bright in his eyes as he described a haunting tale of star-crossed love and a family torn apart by loyalty to the English governing system versus their bond with Mother India.

  “Who else do you have for the picture?” Harsh had asked, which had elicited all kinds of kowtowing about how “Of course you are number one, Harsh”.

  Please. He had not been born yesterday. Joshi had huffed and puffed for several more minutes before finally revealing his big coup: He had signed Avinash Kumar and Trishna Chaudhury for their first joint film in years. Harsh said yes without hesitation.

  He had to wonder about that decision now, watching the press make their way out of the haveli while Trishna chatted up the DP and Rahul Anand, one of the producers. Probably making certain that she would receive top billing and lots of close-up shots. She would get it all, of course. No one had ever denied her anything. No one except him.

  Harsh winced, looking towards the hallway down which Trishna’s husband and Michael Gill had disappeared a few minutes before. He wasn’t stupid. It was clear they’d gone off for a little Dostana action. Boys being boys. But not before Avinash had seen fit to make the boundaries very clear: Trish was off-limits.

  Perhaps he didn’t realize that Harsh had set that boundary for himself ten years ago. Of course, he had stupidly stumbled right over it by taking this role in The Raj. Idiot. Bewakoof. Putting himself right in the path of temptation.

  Trishna Chaudhury was the most beautiful woman in the world. Second only to Aishwarya, and even that was debatable.

  He’d wanted her since she was just a spoiled brat with spectacles and thick braids that smelled of coconut oil, spouting off the most comic lines of A Handful of Stars in one take. She had spent every afternoon in his dressing room, trying her best to conquer his self-control. What she hadn’t known, and what he hadn’t realized until years later, was just how impenetrable that wall he’d put up had been. Utterly convincing. His best performance. Shabbash. Congratulations, Harsh Mathur.

  He was still caught in that bittersweet self-congratulation when Trish finished up her latest rounds and came to stand in front of him. Her blue silk sari hugged her like a second skin, the silk clinging to each curve. Except for the pallu: The cloth over her shoulder had come loose, spilling down one arm as though she were a model in a window showing off the intricate work. Or as though she was a woman on the verge of getting undressed for the night.

  “Harsh. You’re still here?” Her brows drew together, and her lips made a perfect pout. “It’s growing late. Shouldn’t all good boys be asleep?” Shouldn’t all good boys be in bed? That was what she would’ve said when they were younger, when she still tried to flirt and knock holes in his resolve. But now her tone was cool, and her eyes even colder. As pale as ice.

  “I came with Michael. I wanted to make certain he didn’t need a ride back to the hotel.” The next words were out before Harsh could stop them; they were words no one would ever believe capable of issuing from his throat. “Though he may be getting a ride from your husband right now, na?”

  Trishna’s hand flashed out, and he felt the sting of the slap almost before he saw it. “Khabardar, Harsh,” she warned. Take caution. Beware. “You go too far.”

  He had to laugh. There was simply no other response, except maybe a flood of regretful tears. “No, Trishna. I think I haven’t gone far enough.”

  As she huffed, turned on one heel and spun away, he traced his fingertips across his cheek, memorizing the imprint of her palm and the sharp pain. Perhaps later, he would spin it into a caress he didn’t deserve. Now, he spun it into a might-have-been…

  The scenario: 1969’s Aradhana. The lovers have stolen away together, married in secret and taken shelter in an abandoned cabin. Shadows thrown from the firelight dance on a sheet hung for privacy, and a man’s sensual voice sings of the temptation of beauty.

  He wants her so badly he cannot only taste it but breathe it as well. Wrapped in a thin, dry cloth, washed clean of makeup, Trishna has never looked lovelier. Harsh pulls her into his arms, and she makes a token sound of protest before meeting his kiss with anything but shyness.

  They shouldn’t do this. There are a dozen reasons why it is forbidden. But when she slants her mouth against his, presses against his bare chest, whispers his name…all sense flees him. He bears her down into the cushion of their still-drying clothes, nudging her thighs apart with his knee. The blunt head of his cock teases her sex; he still hesitates, even though she is wet and ready and saying, “Yes.” Her nails dig into his shoulders, urging him on, and it seems an eternity until he finally gives in…burying himself deep inside her with one, sure stroke.

  “I love you, Harsh,” she cries out.

  “I love you, too,” he gasps against the generous curve of her breast. “I never stopped. I never will.”

  The ride back to the hotel was quiet, except for the driver’s radio, turned just loud enough to afford them some privacy, and the tapping of Harsh’s fingers against the screen of his iPhone. Michael knew it was a tacit message of, “Keep your bloody thoughts to yourself,” since Harsh was entirely too well behaved to say such a thing aloud. When he’d come back from the veranda, Harsh had stared at him like “I’ve been shagging Avi Kumar” was tattooed on his forehead. Never mind that less than ten minutes would’ve been a right poor showing if he’d indeed been off doing so.

  People had thought worse things of him, of course. It was only natural. He was famous. He was rich. Going from modeling to blockbuster cinema, it was taken for granted that several lakhs’ worth of cocaine had gone up his nose and he slept with anything willing. He ignored it all, felt secure knowing exactly what his principles were even if the rest of the universe had no idea. But somehow feeling this disdain from Saint Harsh was almost unbearable. They weren’t mates, but they got on well. They had done several pictures together with no problems.

  Michael kept quiet for several kilometers, counting the bumps in the road and watching auto rickshaws go by at ridiculous speeds. Until the lights of the hotel were visible in the distance. “Out with it,” he said then. “Jo bolna chahiye, bolo.”

  Harsh’s clear green gaze flashed over his face like a searchlight before returning to the screen of his fancy mobile. “What makes you think I have anything to say to you?”

  A laugh, or something like it, burst from his lips before he could stop it. “Because you haven’t said one word to me since we left the muhurat.”

  Harsh likely saw the same absurdity in the moment, because his grim frown turned into a grim smile. He tucked his mobile into his jacket and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just this: I think you are making a mistake with Avi Kumar.”

  This from the bloke who hadn’t taken his eyes off Avi Kumar’s wife all evening? Michael sighed, stretching his legs out in front of him as far as the roomy interior of the car would allow. “You weren’t there with us, Harsh. You don’t know if I made a mistake or not,” he pointed out. “You only know what’s in your own heart.” What was in the man’s heart was written all over his face as well. “You’re not so great of a performer as you think. Maybe they will have to take away your FilmStar Award.”

  Harsh either didn’t comprehend him or didn’t want to. “What bakwas are you talking?”

  “Trishna,” he said, simply. “You are the one making a mistake.”

  Harsh let loose with a string of filthy words in both Eng
lish and Hindi. The kind of language his adoring audience of grandmothers and teenage girls would find shocking. Even the driver twisted around to peer at them and ask, “Sab tik tho hai, sahib?” before he pulled into the hotel’s circular drive.

  “Haan, haan. Everything’s fine,” Harsh assured, cheeks flushing. Michael had no doubt that he would go to the local mandir in the morning and ask to be purified with holy water for the breach of protocol.

  “We’re on a dangerous road, yaar.” He sighed. “A very, very dangerous road.”

  People assumed a great many things about Michael Gill. That beauty was all he had. That he kept model fit by doing drugs…or by doing models. That he was too English, or too Punjabi, or not enough of either one. The one thing that could never be said of him was that he was a fool. He knew, all too well, that if he and Harsh Mathur were to let Avinash Kumar and Trishna Chaudhury under their skin, even a dip in the Ganges wasn’t going to cleanse them of their sins.

  Chapter Five

  In the days following the party, they were too busy blocking their lines and hitting their marks in the brutal midday sun to do much besides collapse into bed at night…sweaty, boneless heaps instead of pampered stars. Trishna had embraced the role with vigor, becoming Nishta, the reckless but loyal young maiden who was strangely drawn to a freedom fighter. Diva or no, Trishna was never caught unprepared. Never…except when she was removing the last traces of foundation from her skin after a long day of shooting and watching her husband’s reflection in the vanity.