First Comes Like

by Alisha Rai

  “That’s cool.”

  It wasn’t, but he was trying to make a point. “Did something else make you frustrated today? Something other than Bagel Bites?”

  She fiddled with her collar. “Maybe.”

  She had moved on to speaking Hindi now, and he followed her there. “Tell me.”

  “I want to go to school.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You go to school.” Her tutor in India had been one of the best, and Dev had kept the woman on, despite the hefty salary she commanded. She taught Luna virtually, willing to accommodate their new time zone.

  He opened his mouth, but Luna held up a finger, her words coming fast, like she’d rehearsed them. “I have no real educational structure right now, except for the one my tutor makes up.”

  “You’re two grade levels ahead of your age. Your structure is the four hours you work with your tutor in the mornings, plus any homework she assigns. Is it that you feel as though you don’t have a dedicated workspace? I’ll buy you a desk.” Actually, he quite liked the idea of that, both of them working side by side in his office in the apartment when he wasn’t on set.

  “Please hold comments until the end.”

  Not for the first time, he wondered if Luna was actually a too-serious forty-five-year-old businessperson in a child’s body. He mimed zipping his lips.

  She held up a second finger. “While I do get to participate in many activities, group sports and social events are not possible. I want to join a football team, or play cricket—or baseball, whatever—or be on a fancy dress party committee.”

  She had a point there. He had no doubt Luna had gotten to do many things her friends didn’t, by virtue of being a Dixit, but team sports and the like hadn’t been one of them.

  He noticed she didn’t say theater. She’d demonstrated no interest in the art, and he wasn’t about to push her into it. There had been enough unnecessary pushing in this family.

  A third finger. “Currently, I have no friends except you and Adil Uncle. I am thirteen years old and require more friends my own age in close contact. Studies show this is when our brains develop to learn how to have relationships.”

  That, he couldn’t argue with. He forever felt guilty that Luna wasn’t around kids her own age. It was the reason she was even allowed to have social media, so she could keep in contact with her friends.

  “What if we leave here in six months?” he asked. Hollywood was fickle.

  “I don’t care. I want to go to a real school.” She swiped her hand at a curl over her eye. “I know how to work Uber or whatever other service they have here. I can take a car to school and back. You wouldn’t have to come to any events. It wouldn’t take any more of your time.”

  He raised his hand to stop the flood of words that mildly broke his heart. “I am not too busy to drive you to school,” he said gruffly. “My concern is that you’ve never gone to school before.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “Only because Baba said tutors were easier for him.”

  Rohan.

  “I know you think an American school will be like 90210, but it’s not that glamorous,” he warned.

  She gave him a blank look. “What’s that?”

  “It’s not like the TV shows, I mean.”

  “I don’t want to go because we’re in America. I’ve wanted to go forever.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because I needed time to think of reasons to give to you for me to go.”

  “You are a great debater,” he conceded.

  “Aji said I could play a great lawyer.”

  “Or you could be a lawyer.” He might not pressure her, but their elder relative was a different story. “Why don’t we discuss this in the morning.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “That means no.”

  “It means yes. However, it’s too late to determine which school you should attend.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Really?”

  He smiled, relieved that the dark clouds in her eyes had vanished. “Really.”

  “I don’t want it to be a fancy school.”

  “If you’re going to school, it will be the best school.”

  “I’ve heard the best private schools are quite the party places. Rich kids.”

  He narrowed his eyes. His schools had been decidedly middle class until sixteen, and he could concede she was right. “You will go to the second-best school.”

  “I’d like to go to a public school.”

  He reared back. “Luna, that is too much.”

  “Don’t be classist. A public school will allow me to meet different kinds of people.”

  “I’m not . . . fine.” He gritted his teeth. He supposed his instant dislike of a public school for his niece was classist. Besides, it wasn’t like he had the money to justify this particular ism right now. “We will investigate both options.”

  A smile spread across her face. “Thank you, Kaka.”

  He wanted to hug her, but he kept the space between them. Physical affection had never been something he craved, but he’d never before been faced with a young curly-haired orphan with his brother’s chin and a polite smile and haunted eyes. “You will study at home independently, though. I want you ahead of your class, so you won’t face any trouble if we return to India and you’re back in a more rigorous curriculum.”

  “I’m okay with that. School doesn’t take me much time.”

  She always had been a quick student, and Dev had told her tutors to advance her where necessary. “Perhaps they’ll let you skip a grade—”

  “No. The goal here is to be around people who are my age.”

  He tugged on a curl. “Very well.”

  “Can I call Aji to tell her?”

  “Certainly. Tomorrow.” He was perpetually surprised by how close Luna and his grandmother were. Lord knew, Shweta Dixit, Legend of the Silver Screen, hadn’t done much but toss cash at her grandchildren, especially the two she hadn’t met until their teenage years.

  Dev might harbor some rejection and resentment over that, but he took those emotions and dealt with them the way he dealt with all emotions: bundled them up into a ball and stuffed them deep deep down. Like all healthy people did.

  “How was the party?”

  It glowed for a few minutes. “Fine. Like any other party,” he said, with a twist to his mouth Luna probably wouldn’t catch.

  “Did you meet anyone?”

  Those fierce eyes popped into his mind. Yes. “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Luna crossed her arms over her chest. She wore an old Coca-Cola T-shirt of his. Vintage, she’d called it, when she’d politely asked if she could take it from his donation pile during the move. “Adil Uncle said you needed to find a woman, or you’d lose all your money, and since all you do is work, these parties are your only chance.”

  Adil. Why. “He said that to you?”

  “No. I heard him on the phone.”

  “He’s incorrect.” No, he’s not. “I’m quite content as I am.” No, you’re not.

  Luna nodded slowly. “If you say so, Kaka.”

  “I do.” He busied himself pulling her blanket up higher so she wouldn’t see the frown on his face. Her mother had never been in the picture, and the therapist he’d obtained for Luna had stressed the need for consistency and calm since her father had died. His brother had been neither consistent nor calm, so Dev figured it was extra important he give her a stable home, and a stable home didn’t include talk of shaky finances or an asshole of a grandfather essentially cutting his grandson and great-granddaughter out of his will. “Time for bed now. You have lessons early tomorrow. No more phone for the night.”

  Luna groaned, and it was music to his ears. He’d much rather she play the role of a conventional teen as opposed to the withdrawn, too-mature child he’d taken custody of. “Fine.”

  He took her phone and placed it in the dock on her nightstand. “Good night.”

  “
Night.”

  He quickly undressed once he was in his room, and neatly hung his suit up, next to about a dozen suits like it. Every year or so, he had his stylist replenish his closet with clothes he could easily put together. He was hardly the fashion plate his cousin was. Dressing in neutral clothes didn’t speak to his soul, but it ensured he didn’t embarrass himself.

  When he took his watch off, something glinted in the light coming from the bathroom. He brought the watch closer to his face. The thread was tiny, an itty-bitty souvenir from the night stuck between the links. He pulled it out and blew at it gently. It fluttered to the floor.

  His version of a face routine consisted of removing his contacts, a quick wash with a cleanser, and a pat down. He eyed his shower but decided to tackle that in the morning.

  He opened the bedroom windows and listened. Santa Monica wasn’t Mumbai. It was a different ocean and different sand, but if he closed his eyes he could imagine the clock had turned back. That his brother hadn’t gotten drunk on a boat and died, leaving Luna and his astronomical debts to Dev. That he hadn’t had to uproot his whole life because he couldn’t stand to remain in the same country of his loss. That the fate of his small family wasn’t resting on his shoulders, in a place where he couldn’t simply glide on his family name.

  Dev closed the windows. He’d love to fall asleep to the noise of the ocean, but when he slept, his brain couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and fake. He didn’t want to wake up homesick.

  You told me you’d searched the universe for a woman like me.

  He climbed into bed naked but for his boxers. Dev removed his glasses and placed them on the nightstand, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tired, but he couldn’t shut away her memory. Why couldn’t he? He was usually so good at compartmentalizing.

  He held his hand up and studied it. It was blurry without his glasses on.

  Who was she? It made no logical sense, her reaction. Was she a fan? A stalker? He shuddered at the latter. He’d already had a couple of those, and he’d rather not repeat the experience, no matter how much of an instantaneous connection he’d felt with her.

  If she was a stalker, though . . . he should know who she was, right? For his own purposes, for protection?

  Yes, you most definitely need protection from that little scrap of a woman.

  He hesitated, then rolled over and grabbed his phone. His agent had arranged for an assistant for him here. He’d met the boy, John, earlier in the week, and found him to be eager and bright.

  Dev typed out a quick text. Can you get me a guest list for tonight’s party? Tomorrow is fine. He’d surely be able to narrow the hundred or so women down before he googled the more likely names.

  Though it was late, John immediately replied. Sure. I’ll email it to you right now.

  Of course he would. Dev typed a thanks, then went over to his email. One refresh, and there it was.

  He opened the attachment and quickly scrolled the names. He’d try the more familiar ones first.

  There were only three possibilities. He tried the first two, but came up with actresses he didn’t recognize. The third one, though. There he hit gold.

  Dev didn’t really like social media, was reluctant to even have the apps on his phone. His agency handled those things, adding periodic photos of him, updating his appearances, if any, posting things like tributes to his brother and grandfather.

  Jia Ahmed, though, really liked social media, judging by the links that popped up from a name search.

  He clicked over to YouTube. She wore a green dress in her profile photo, her eyes popping from the green eyeliner she wore. She was as stunning in emerald as she was in gold.

  He ripped his gaze away. She had a ton of videos under her name, and even more followers. He raised his eyebrows at the number of subscribers she had. Literally millions.

  He clicked on one video at random. Music blared through his speaker and he fumbled the phone, nearly dropping it.

  He toggled the volume down to a more manageable level in time for Jia to layer over the melody. Her voice was pitched slightly different, professional, peppy. When she’d walked up to him at that party, it had been lower, more tentative.

  Her face was shiny and makeup free, but it didn’t matter. She was beautiful with the makeup and without it, and so confident it honestly wouldn’t matter what she put on her face.

  He’d seen that kind of innate confidence in his cousin and brother and grandparents. As the only seminormal person born into a family of exceptional artists, it was fascinating to him.

  Dev wanted to click away and learn more about her, about who she was, what her story was, but she’d mesmerized him. There was an irrepressible gleam in her eyes, like she held a secret he needed to discover.

  “Start with eyeliner, at the corner of your eye. Follow the line of your lower lid, you’re going to draw a triangle, and then connect it to the line over your lid . . . Great, you did one beautiful wing. You’re half flying! Now we copy it on the other. Remember, they can be sisters, not twins.”

  He checked the date. This video was almost four years old. She had been doing this quite some time. He scrolled up. Her more recent videos had millions more views, plus better production quality.

  Dev rolled to his side and clicked on another video at random. Tomorrow, he’d ask his assistant to discreetly check to see if she had any kind of history with other actors or famous people. If Jia was an obsessed fan, he’d protect himself and Luna from her.

  What if she’s not?

  Well, then, in that case, his path was a little more complicated. He tucked the hand that had touched her dupatta under his head and closed his eyes, her voice wrapping around him. And when he finally did sleep, she wrapped around his dreams.

  Chapter Three

  USUALLY ONCE Jia woke up for morning prayers, she started her day. Today, she’d groggily crawled right back into bed. Sleep was nice. Sleep meant she didn’t have to face herself.

  Unfortunately, she had an internal alarm that didn’t quit, even when she wanted it to. Jia blinked open one crusty eye, then the other. She loved this room, with its cotton candy pink walls and feminine white furniture. It was the first place she’d lived on her own, outside her parents’ home, and had been free to decorate to her taste.

  It was far too bright for her mood this morning, though. She’d forgotten to close the shades the night before when she’d crept in, and the Southern California sun was blinding, reflecting off all that white furniture.

  She groped for her phone on the bed next to her but came up with a spoon instead. Her therapeutic ice cream binge had clearly exhausted her. Thank goodness she’d tossed the empty ice cream container before falling asleep clutching her utensil like a security blanket, or she’d have a real sticky morning today.

  Jia swallowed and made a face. Blech. That’s what she got for not brushing her teeth before falling into her ice cream and depression coma.

  She peeked under the covers and the pillow for her phone. She always woke up with her phone under her or beside her, the result of falling asleep while scrolling.

  Except last night, when she’d thrown her purse—with the phone inside—on her bureau and dug face first into her dessert.

  She eyed her purse, the strap innocently hanging over the side. Her fingers itched, but she knew what she’d do as soon as she had it. She’d click on Dev’s texts, read them incessantly, and obsess over what the hell had happened. Maybe even text him more. Something subtle, like what the fuck or who the fuck or why the fuck, though years of being hyperconscious of playing role model to her young fan base had knocked most of her swearing tendencies out of her.

  Jia shoved back the comforter and rubbed her exhausted eyes as she rose. Her golden shot dress was draped over her armchair in a crumpled heap. She normally took good care of her clothes, but that particular dress could stay crumpled. Like her romantic dreams.

  Jia yelped when she entered the bathroom and saw her own re
flection. Yikes, this was not pretty. Raccoon eyes, smeared lipstick, one fake eyelash clinging to her cheek. Her bun had slipped loose at some point while she slept, and her hair was a tangled mess.

  Luckily, her counter was filled to bursting with skin products and hair supplies—another perk of having her own space—and she cleaned herself up as best as she could. Once her face was scrubbed and her hair was relatively knot-free and in a low ponytail, she left the bathroom.

  She got dressed quickly in tie-dyed sweatpants and a sweatshirt. “Sienna, where are Jas, Katrina, and Rhiannon?” she asked out loud.

  There was a beat, and then a red pad next to her door lit up. “Jas has left the house. Rhiannon and Katrina are in the kitchen,” came the pleasant robot lady voice overhead.

  It was a little past breakfast time, but Katrina had gotten more flexible since her boyfriend had started a master’s program. “Thank you.” She always thanked the AI, on the off chance the robot came to life one day and went on a murderous rampage. Sienna was the brainchild of one of the start-ups Katrina invested in, and she seemed to know more than Siri and Alexa put together.

  “You’re welcome, Jia. May I say, you sound lovely today.”

  Her lips twitched. Katrina had programmed Sienna to give compliments, and Jia was not above liking them. “You, too, Sienna.”

  She had two options: avoid her roommates, or go right to them and blurt out all the deets on what had happened last night. Discretion wasn’t her strong suit.

  She made her way downstairs to the kitchen. Jia had lived here for almost a year and a half now, and she still hadn’t lost her awe for the airy mansion. She’d grown up firmly middle to upper class, and though her work had left her with a solid savings account, there’d be no way she’d be able to afford a home like this on her own yet. She glanced out a floor-to-ceiling window at the view of Santa Barbara nestled below, the ocean a slice of blue in the distance.

  Wealth disparity aside, Jia had wondered in the beginning if she’d be able to carve out a home here. This was Katrina’s house, and she and Rhiannon shared a history, a deep friendship going back years and a business partnership. Rhiannon might have grown up in Jia’s hometown, but she was closer in age to Jia’s older sisters than her.