Spice and Smoke (2 page)

Still, he hadn’t been cruised this blatantly in years…and certainly not by someone in the business. They’d seen each other around, of course. At the FilmStar Awards, at parties. Avi was taller than him, broader and hairier, too. Stubble framed his jaw and crept up his cheeks, whorls of dark hair peeked from the vee of his open shirt collar. People called him a “kept man” because of Trishna’s family legacy—as Sanjoy Chaudhury and Roma’s daughter, she was Bollywood royalty. Both her parents had been huge stars in the 1970s. But Avi had established himself as a screen stud well before he’d taken the marital turns with her around the sacred fire. He’d only gotten better-looking in the years since. He was a man who seemed too rough-and-tumble for a suit, but balanced the dark, brooding air with a wry smile. A confident smile. A smile that at this very moment was saying, “I want you.”

The heat coiling in the pit of Michael’s belly, and the sudden, uncomfortable tightness of his jeans, told him everything he wanted to say in response.

Michael was only giving half an ear to what Nicky Kohli was going on about, his attention fixed halfway across the dais, until some nebulous part of the conversation leaked back into his brain. “…Sam couldn’t be here because he’s finishing up dates for Lakshman Verma at Film City. Vikram will come at the end of the month, after he wraps that shoot in Miami and visits his mummy-daddy there also.”

“What?” he blurted out incredulously, forcing his focus back to Harsh and Nicky. “Someone was crazy enough to cast Vikram Malhotra and Sam Khanna in the same film?”

The men shrugged; their baffled expressions no doubt mirrored his own. As Trishna and Avinash drew closer and picked up the thread of the conversation, they, too, looked shocked.

“Has Joshi gone mad,
yaar
?” Harsh marveled, releasing Trish’s hand and moving to firmly shake Avi’s. “Nobody in his right mind would sign those two for the same picture.”

“Maybe he’s trying to save on set striking costs,” Avi suggested, gaze still flitting to Michael with brazen appraisal.

While it was hardly public knowledge, Vikram and Sam hadn’t worked together since a vicious breakup some three years before. Spot boys still talked about how their dressing rooms had looked like a typhoon had struck, how the walls had rattled like the stunt master had instructed them to brawl as though the studio was meant to crumble around their ears.

It had occurred to Michael more than once that maybe they hadn’t been brawling. Maybe they’d been having one last goodbye fuck…slammed up against the wall, tearing at each other’s clothes, desperate to be close one more time. The vision was stuck in his head now…only it wasn’t Sam and Vikram he saw pressed flush against a wall. No, it was him and Trishna Chaudhury’s husband. Forget what had knocked out Joshi’s sense,
he
had to be out of his bloody mind.

Almost hauntingly on cue, Trish laughed at something Nicky was saying. Of course, she
was
an actress; it was likely she could do
everything
on cue. Far from riding on her parents’ coattails, she’d actually come up through the ranks like he had. A supporting part on a television serial when she was sixteen had led to her first film role, and from there the rest was cinematic history. Her beautiful face was splashed across every billboard in the country, selling everything from cold cream to toothpaste. She had makeup contracts, too, though her huge, fringe-lashed, grey eyes and petal-shaped mouth barely needed adornment. Every straight man wanted to fuck her, and most gay men he knew wanted to
be
her. He finally got the inclination, because being Trishna meant having Avinash in your bed, and having him anywhere else you wanted him, too…

The scenario: 1998’s
Kuch Kuch Hota Hai
. The gazebo is silent but for the sound of the rain coming down, and the characters dance to the music in their hearts. The touch of their hands is enough to make them temporarily forget the outside world.

Michael’s palms slide up Avi’s red shirt, popping buttons as they travel, and he doesn’t even care that he’s ruining expensive silk. All he cares about is this moment with this man, who has been the only one for him since the instant they met. Their breaths mingle in the heavy, humid air. They sway towards each other, nearly kissing, and Avi cups his cheek with one hand. The twinkle lights lining the gazebo catch the glint of his wedding band, and Michael feels the hesitation ripple through him even before it reaches his eyes.

“
Dar gay ho?
” he wonders.
Are you afraid?

“
Nahin
. Avinash Kumar is never afraid of anyone,” he assures Michael arrogantly.

Good, Michael thinks with relief.
Good
. Then they stumble against one of the posts of the gazebo, hands fumbling and tearing at what’s left of their clothing. Avi’s fingers close around his cock, stroking in time to the pounding downpour. He grips Avi’s muscled ass, teasing the cleft with rainwater and clear intent. Kissing each other is practically the last step, but for him the most crucial. He closes the gap between them and takes Avi’s mouth. Something undeniable happens between them, then. Something he doesn’t even really understand.

Chapter Three

The hand-shaking and sound-byte-giving portion of the event lasted so long Avinash felt like he’d aged a year and a day. He was restless, moving from investors to mob thugs (sometimes indistinguishable from one another) to members of the press. Trish was good at this shit…smiling and cooing and offering up perfect quotes in her perfectly modulated, private tuition English. She was born to command the spotlight.

Avi had always preferred the shadows, slipping both literally and figuratively into someone else. Tonight, he wanted that someone else to be Michael Gill. It didn’t matter that he still smelled faintly of Trishna’s perfume and sex. The hunger was something that always lived inside him. That need to consume, to take, to make someone his. He’d used it to fuel his career, going from rocking out in the States to acting on this side of the ocean…exchanging the refuge of a drum kit for characters named Rahul and Ravi and Raj. Marrying Trish had been perfect for his career, and for his soul…she was everything he wasn’t, and everything he needed.

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.”