Spice and Smoke

by Suleikha Snyder

  The look Viki gave him then was painfully familiar: weariness tempered with condescension. His words…they were familiar, too. “You will always trouble me, Sam.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Vikram was lying flat, in savasana, soaking up the sun that warmed the small private yoga salon…and suddenly there were two pairs of eyes peering down at him. Michael and Harsh arriving to wherever he was in the hotel was beginning to become a pattern. He took his time sitting up, tempering his breathing and trying to keep the calm he’d fought for—the calm he needed to hold on to. “Yaaron, what’s up?”

  “Nothing, man. We’re just catching a break from Avi and Trishna.” Michael was the first to drop beside him on the mat, sprawling out like they used to when they were just starting out, doing B-movies that required mostly shirtlessness and some flying fists and high kicks—basic mar-peet. Viki frowned at the thought. Come to think of it, not much had changed. He still engaged in ninety-percent shirtless fighting scenes.

  Harsh chose to slide down the wall, tipping his head back against the cool stone. The sun streamed in and framed him perfectly, almost as though he’d planned it. “Avinash and Trishna are wonderful—they’ve become our fast friends—but they are very…emotional.”

  His green eyes were full of quiet amusement, and there was no mistaking the way he paused on Trishna’s name. Viki remembered how that used to feel: saying someone’s name and revealing your soul.

  You might want to take care, he needed to warn Harsh…but somehow couldn’t. They were in the middle of nowhere, for God’s sake. If Harsh Mathur wanted to talk about another man’s wife like she was a heaping bowl of pistachio kulfi, so be it. No one from Masala or Stardust or Cineblitz was here to take mark of it.

  “You know who else is emotional?” Michael picked up the thread as though they’d rehearsed it. Viki wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that they had. “Sam is emotional. The crew’s still talking about the scene he made with Joshi.”

  “Is that all they’re talking about?” He looked from one to the other. They both wore angelic expressions that made him feel like a dacoit about to rob a train to Benares.

  “Nahin. Rahul Anand and Priya Roy have some kind of history. Nicky Kohli wants some Justin Babbar or Beebler kid from Amrika to sing for his next record. Also, Laltu the tea boy thinks that Mili in makeup is sweet on Mohan the driver.” Harsh rattled these bits of news off without even skipping a beat. At Viki’s gobsmacked look and Michael’s burst of laughter, he only shrugged. “What? People talk freely around me. They think Mathur the Monk won’t tell anyone, na?”

  Vikram made a mental note never to presume the same. “So, Sam…they are worried he will cause more scenes?” He hoped his voice was casual, not betraying that he was afraid of that very thing himself. That he was afraid of one thousand other things, too…nine hundred and ninety-nine of them involving him and Sam falling into bed once more.

  Michael’s eyes were keen, knowing. After all, like recognized like, na? Before Sam—a time that was grainy, like a black and white film—he and Michael had been together a few times. Nothing memorable, nothing serious. Just some messing around after some workout sessions at the same gym. It had been simple. No mixed-up emotions, no promises. Just two guys itching their scratches. Now, such a concept was foreign to Viki. There was no simplicity after Sam Khanna. Still, Viki’s instinct was to defend, to reassure. “Sam’s sober now. He is changed. We will not remake our old movie.”

  Harsh was the one who convulsed with mirth then. He shook his head, perfect hair bouncing like he was doing an advert for hair oil. “Arre, chhoro, Viki. The moment you said that, you doomed yourself. You two are on the path to ruin.”

  It wasn’t anything Viki hadn’t already told himself. He forced a lighthearted grin. “More news from Mathur the Monk? Where would Saint Harsh get such ideas? I am shocked.”

  He shrugged. “Saint Harsh is a saint no longer.”

  “That isn’t what the tattoo on your arse says,” Michael interjected.

  Vikram’s eyebrows met his hairline of their own volition, but Michael didn’t even acknowledge his surprise, just continued to tease his blushing friend. Something about too much gin and stealing of bed sheets. Before too long, he drew Viki into the jokes as well. “Don’t worry, yaar,” he drawled, draping an arm across his shoulders. “As long as you don’t destroy a dressing room this time, you’ll be fine.”

  If only that were true.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Days later, Sam was still fuming, even though it was no longer his right. Viki and Michael looked damn cozy, heads tilted together as they watched some video on Michael’s iPhone. They made quite a picture. The beautiful image of two secure, superior men who’d never suffered a day in their lives. It made him sick.

  So sick that he almost thought his head was buzzing…until he realized it was just his mobile registering a message. The third one in an hour. Jaidev again, prodding him for details about the shoot. Sam ignored it, and the one from Sunita that followed—probably harassing him to ring his son. God, Sunny, he thought. Sometimes dealing with her was like still being married…but he couldn’t deal with her or Jai right now. Not when Viki was lodged in his brain like a bullet.

  As if presenting himself in the operation theater for surgery, Rahul appeared in Sam’s field of vision. “Everything okay?” he asked, the very picture of concern. He was spending so much time on set, Sam wondered why he simply hadn’t let a suite at the hotel and moved in for the duration. It would certainly make watching his investments and babysitting The Raj’s problem child easier.

  Sam couldn’t keep the disgust from his tone. “Why? Have you heard something else? Want to give me a drug test?”

  “No, no, it’s cool, yaar,” Rahul assured, before throwing a none-too-subtle glance at Vikram and Michael. “I know how long shoots get. There’s nothing wrong with worrying about an old friend, is there?” Translation: I just saw you staring at Vikram. Are you going to kill him or fuck him?

  He had to laugh, and it sounded lunatic to his ears. Pissing in a cup wasn’t going to pick up traces of that. “Shit, Rahul. Go count your money and make your important telephone calls, okay? There is nothing for you to stick your nose in.”

  Rahul lingered for a few seconds longer, until he registered that Sam was done making chitchat. Then he shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets, and sauntered away whistling the first few lines of “Jaadu Teri Nazar”. As if Sam was the same as Shahrukh’s crazy character in Darr? Stalking Vikram and waxing poetic about his eyes and the joy of his arms? Not likely.

  Sam spun away, making as if to study the new call sheet for the week. Little bastard. Son of a bitch bahenchod. Rahul was off base…so far afield…only not. He tried to ignore how his hands were shaking. How his nerves felt like live wires and his entire body itched. He was in withdrawal; he knew the symptoms well. But he was not itching for a drink. Not for some hash or a line of cocaine. No, he was in withdrawal from Vikram. Desperate for a hit of the way he smelled, the way he tasted. For the vulnerable spot on the inside of his thigh that made him beg for mercy whenever Sam put his tongue to it. Was that Michael Gill’s place to worship now? He didn’t think so, not with how the man was constantly at Avi Kumar’s side, but still the images flashed before his eyes. Like he was in the cheap seats of an adult cinema hall. Then the picture changed, fashioning him as the leading man.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Just once, said the ugly voice in his head. It was pushing, wheedling. Sirf ek bar. Be with him just once. It won’t hurt. You will still be sober. Sam was a master of rationalization. After all, ganja and gin had been his idea of sobriety for years. Now that same talent for self-delusion was shoving him back at Viki, telling him that falling off this wagon was not so bad. It wouldn’t wreck him. Not this time. All he had to do was hold back his heart, na? Guard it and keep it safe…well out of the path of the high.

  Sam could almo
st feel the moment he gave in. Like he’d clicked a switch marked “surrender”. It was comfortable, like sliding into his favorite True Religion jeans, or a broken in pair of sandals…or Vikram’s mouth.

  When Viki bid his khaas dost Michael good evening, Sam shadowed him…feeling as blissed-out as if he were chasing the dragon.

  He felt, rather than heard, Sam’s footsteps trailing him. Felt them in every corner of his soul. This was how it had been on the tour. Pacing one another through dark hotel hallways. Nothing asked, nothing offered. All of it simply taken, riding the adrenaline wave of being on stage and screamed for and adored.

  He was just entering his rooms when Sam, lean and hungry like a feral tomcat, caught up with him. Just like a cat, he peered up at him, wanting to be stroked, but too aloof to beg for it. “Kya chatha hu, Sam? What do you want?”

  His only answer was a rough exhalation. It was enough.

  They had barely shut the door behind them before they crashed into the wall, hands scrabbling for purchase. Vikram’s every sense was screaming for him to stop, to run, but still he kept kissing Sam. It was too much. Familiar lips. Familiar tongue. The same heat. Like petrol and a match. The scrape of Sam’s day-old stubble against his skin lit fire within him. It burned through his defenses, and he clutched the back of Sam’s head, threading his fingers through his hair. Yeh mera hai. This is mine. Maybe he was growling that traitorous sentiment, but he would not admit it. Nahin. No. They were chest to chest, groin to groin, and Vikram met Sam’s teeth with his, with sloppy, violent kisses that spoke far more profoundly than pretty declarations.

  Sam’s fingers bit into the skin beneath his waistband, urging the madness on. Sam never talked without profanity, and now the most eloquent sins tore from his throat. “Motherfucker. Kaminey. Saala. Haram kohr.”

  They shed their jeans, lost Viki’s shirt, and nearly went sprawling over the sofa instead of landing safely on its cushions. No perfect choreography for this. No pretense of tenderness, of care. Nothing except fingers roughly pulling at each other’s cocks. Viki knew Sam liked short, fast strokes. Sam knew Viki liked it when he licked him from groin to knee. Even years apart couldn’t erase what their bodies knew.

  Vikram lowered his head, licking a slow, tortuous path up Sam’s chest. Sam paid him back in kind by biting down at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Hard enough that makeup would have to cover up the irregular imprint of his teeth tomorrow. They bit and licked and pulled and pushed, until Sam’s body arched beneath Viki’s, and Viki’s pressed down between Sam’s narrow thighs, and they each came with messy spurts and mingled groans.

  He breathed Sam in: that unique combination of smoke and sex and sandalwood…and minutes didn’t even tick by before Sam was pushing at his chest. They were still warm and sweaty—three years ago they would have lain together for hours, tangled like knots—but Sam’s dark eyes were cold, distant. Like he’d just gotten off with a stranger in the back alley of a club.

  “This doesn’t mean anything,” he murmured, rolling away and reaching for the cigarettes Viki knew he kept in his shirt pocket. “Just a good shag for old times’ sake, yeah?”

  Haan. More than good. His body was still crying out for a second round. He was hard again; too soon, because it ached in a way that passed pleasure and met pain. But Sam was wrong about the rest. It meant…everything. It always had.

  “You’re still a son of a bitch, Sam Khanna,” he whispered, casting the words more towards the sofa cushions than the man who was now righting clothing and searching for cloths to clean up with.

  Sam’s smile was humorless, his eyes as black as night. “What you mean is…I’m still an addict. You’re right.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Whose man are you, Shankar? England’s or India’s?” Varun asks. “This is the question we must all ask ourselves. That is what they have asked in Meerut.”

  Meerut. The heart of the rebellion. Just the mention of it makes the bile rise in his throat, and his hand falls to the butt of his rifle. His bullets are not greased with pig’s fat. How lucky he is to not be forced to turn against his masters. “You should go, Varun. They are looking for you. For Alok. What he and Nishta have done…has only fanned the flames.”

  “What they’ve done? My friend…all they’ve done is fall in love. They love their motherland, and they love each other.”

  Shankar is suddenly struck with the urge to wipe the sad, knowing smile from Varun’s traitorous face. He does. He gives in to the impulse to strike. “Then they should also learn to love their certain death.”

  “You planning to jump or what, yaar?”

  Vikram looked up to see Avi Kumar leaning companionably against the parapet, just above him. Smoke curled from the tip of the cheap rolled beedi he was drawing on, and Viki wrinkled his nose at the scent. “Nahin,” he assured. “Just enjoying the view.” Avi chuckled, the sound a low rumble that probably turned on women the world over. It only raised his hackles. “Are Michael and Harsh on holiday? Did you get nominated to come out here and play psychologist instead? Is that what this is? Dr. Kumar is in session?”

  The chuckle bloomed into a laugh. “Me? I am not qualified to psychoanalyze anyone, yaar. I just came out to smoke somewhere my wife won’t find me. Bahut controlling hai, na? Is kiliye.”

  Now it was Vikram’s turn to laugh. Trishna controlling? Sure, she was a bit fearsome at times, but from what he’d seen, Avi could do a cabaret dance in the hotel lounge wearing nothing but a tiny polka dot chuddi, and she wouldn’t blink. It was plainly obvious she’d given up custody of her husband. Or was at least jointly sharing him with Michael. Avinash was either unaware of how unsubtle his motley crew was being, or he simply didn’t give a damn.

  “The fact is, Viki, there is tension on set. Tension we do not need. That is all I would say to you.”

  “How would you suggest we squash this tension? Group hug? Group sex?” He snorted as Avi finished his smoke and tossed it over the ledge.

  “Our group is invite-only. No new members need apply.” This was Avi’s only acknowledgment of whatever kinky doings were happening in his camp. “But sex is a great idea. Take Sam, get your Dostana on, and you’ll both feel much better.”

  It amused Vikram that such a recent movie had come to stand in for being gay and doing gay things. He could barely remember how people had talked about it before…or if they’d talked about it at all. He wasn’t about to tell Avinash that the “great idea” of sex had been tried already…tried and failed spectacularly, given how he and Sam had barely spoken afterwards.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” he said instead. “Taking Sam will kill me.”

  The look Avi shot him then was so full of pity and understanding that he could barely stomach it. “Yaar, from where we are all standing, it is being without each other that’s killing you both.”

  Nishta and Alok steal precious moments of happiness despite the tension brewing in the village and in the haveli. Varun and Chandu keep silent watch as they play in the wheat field and compose songs to the glory of love. If the English wolf paces back and forth at the edges of their idyll, they pay it no mind. For now.

  Much to Sam’s surprise, filming went fine for a few days. Harsh Mathur finished a handful of scenes and one song picturization and then flew back to Mumbai to dub for another picture. Sam was amused to see Trishna, who had committed for the whole shoot in Bihar uninterrupted, try to pretend she did not miss him and fail miserably. She yelled at the assistants, terrorized Joshi and even mouthed off to Rahul, who was in for a day to check on their progress—and Sam’s behavior, of course. Sam had pulled a lot of shit in his time, but antagonizing a producer was too much, even for him. Trish might as well have been wearing a placard announcing, “I am cheating on my gay husband.” The world thought she was a competent actress? Ha. What nonsense.

  Sam prided himself on recovering from his own embarrassing display quite well. He hadn’t complained about being forced to work with Viki
since his first day on set. He hadn’t had a drink. He was one hundred days sober. It was a bloody miracle.

  His analyst and his son (who were sometimes the same person) would probably say that was because he’d simply traded one addiction for another. Being with Vikram again, just near him, was better than getting high. He’d known that would happen. But the difference was that unlike Trishna, Maharani of High Drama, he knew better than to let his heart get involved. His goals were simple. Getting this picture done and getting Viki naked as often as possible in the process. Why fight the fact that he wanted him, that he’d likely always want him? Yaar, chhoro. Denying that part was useless. But emotion didn’t have to be a part of the equation, and the sodding melodrama…? Could be saved for the cameras.

  Perhaps it was the same thing Vikram was thinking. Because soon enough he found Sam in the hotel’s back gardens contemplating an empty bottle of Johnnie Walker someone had left behind. To his credit, he did not blink at the booze, didn’t leap to ask Sam if he’d been drinking. He looked tired, not as fit as usual. When he spoke, it was with a false note of cheer that made him sound almost hysterical.

  “Woh Avi hain, na? Avi and Michael and their camp? They want us to ‘play nice’. Can you believe?” Viki rubbed the back of his neck, uneasily shifting from foot to foot. “They are a walking advertisement for pornography, and we need to behave?”

  “I believe it.” Ninety-nine percent of the world was of the “do as I say, not as I do” family. Of course Avinash and company would dole out advice they were not taking. Sam spun the bottle in the grass, acting as though he wasn’t waiting to hear where Viki was going with his chatter.

  Vikram had always played the adult in their relationship. Towering over Sam now, he seemed a giant. A very conflicted giant. “What do you think? Can we be friends? Mujhse dosti karoge?”

  It was on the tip of Sam’s tongue to snidely call him “Bobby”. Viki was the polar opposite of Dimple Kapadia, hulking and muscled and all man instead of soft and girlish. But the look in his eyes…it was just as sweet and innocent as the girl from the cinema. It burned a hole in Sam’s gut. Worse, it turned him on. He suppressed a shiver of anticipation and then rose, dusting off the seat of his jeans. Viki’s gaze was automatically drawn to his arse and Sam nearly smiled. Sure, “dosti” was all he had in mind. It would be friendship…with benefits. They only had to negotiate the specifics. “If we’re going to be friendly, kuch rules hona chahiye. There’ve got to be rules.”