Spice and Smoke (3 page)

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 could 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 English 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.

It had only been a few days, but already he looked a stranger. Angry, hollow-eyed, like the revolutionary he was pretending to be for the cameras. But what was
his
cause? Avi had told her after the
muhurat
that Michael rejected him—what passed for pillow talk for them would no doubt stun other couples—and his fury seemed twice that of a typical rejection. Not that there were many. Her Avinash was irresistible. Look how easily he’d reeled
her
in. But Michael Gill…whatever had happened between them…
kuch alag tha
. Something was
different
.

“Are you okay?” she wondered as she unpinned her hair.

“Fine.” He prowled across the bedroom like a tiger, shoulders rolling under his tight T-shirt. “I am not the one who was making eyes at Harsh Mathur all day long.”

“That is the
part
,
bewakoof
!” she hissed, slamming down her hairbrush and rising to face him. “I am acting.”

“But you do it so
well
,
darling
,” he said, making the endearment mockingly sweet. “One would almost think you’ve been in love with him your whole life. Oh…wait…
sai baat
…you
have
.”

“Don’t pretend to be jealous. I know you are not. Anyway, you don’t have the right.” Had she not given him everything these past seven years? Indulged his every whim, made reality his every fantasy? Protected him? What was a pale memory of a childhood crush in the face of that? Looking at Harsh, longing for him, was nothing compared to sharing Avinash with strangers. “You haven’t touched me since we began shooting,” she pointed out, the words coming out hard and sharp, like bits of betel nut. “Is your need for Michael Gill so great? Do I disgust you now
? Tum mujhse nafrat karthe ho kya?
”

Avi closed the short distance between them, and his fingers bit into her shoulders through the thin satin of her nightgown. “What do you want from me?” he rasped, voice as rough as the path of his bearded cheek against her throat. He rubbed his jaw against hers, and the contact made her shiver. “This?”

Heat blossomed low in her belly. Like she’d been pushed close to an artificial fireplace. It was warmth…purely manufactured. Yet she could not pull away from his furious kiss. No, instead she gave it back tenfold, matching his rage with her frustration.

“I want what I have always wanted,” she told him, gripping his shirt tight enough to tear the cotton. “What makes you happy. Anything you’re willing to give.”

“That is enough for you?”

“
Haan.
Yes.”
Liar
, she thought. But she wasn’t going to dwell, in this moment, on how Harsh’s cheek would feel against hers, on how
he
might hold her as if she were something precious…not something just meant to be suffered through. She wasn’t going to wish for things she had made her peace with long ago. She wasn’t going to think any of it while her husband was looking at her and imagining she was a hauntingly beautiful man. “But it isn’t enough for you. It never has been. I am your wife. But whose husband are you, Avi?”

The sound of the door slamming behind him was more brutal than the words that echoed long after it: “
Shaithan ka.
”
The Devil’s.