Bootie and the Beast

by Falguni Kothari

  Shifting to get more comfortable—though with the carry-on, the baklava box, and her jacket on her lap, it was impossible—Diya turned to face Krish. “Can you imagine how Sheikh Al-Hanna reacted? Do you know how conservative he is?”

  “It’s the second time you’ve mentioned it in two minutes, I’d have to be deaf and a moron not to get the message.”

  “Ha-ha, Krish, you’re soooo funny. Not. Anyway, the sheikh finally declared he would not tolerate a son-in-law who was an Amreeka kisser.”

  “What?” Krish’s mouth twitched. “Another one of your weird made-up terms?”

  Diya sighed. “Not mine. The sheikh’s. Anyone who flouts Sharia law is an Amreeka kisser.”

  Krish shot her a long look, clearly trying to gauge if she was making it up.

  Diya shrugged. “He won’t allow his daughters to step foot on American soil, not even for a holiday. Not his sons, mind you. They can do as they please. The world is full of sexist double standards. Too bad there isn’t a magic wand to restyle people’s minds. Anyway, the whole merger thing is up in the air now, and Hasaan is in the doghouse with his family. They’ve threatened to disown him and pull all investments from Scheherazade.”

  If Hussein made good on the threat, it would not go down well for the brothers. Scheherazade was Hasaan’s baby.

  Krish took an exit off Interstate 30 and drove through a picturesque residential neighborhood that meandered uphill and downhill, branching off into by-lanes or private driveways at whim. Diya didn’t recognize the Dallas suburb from her previous visit with Krish. True, it had been a few years since she last paid him a visit, and his neighborhood might have gotten an upgrade. Still, she was good with roads. Which meant he’d moved.

  “Exactly what does this Twilight episode have to do with you and the pregnancy rumor?” asked Krish before she could ask him where they were.

  Diya suppressed a sigh. The story was proving too complicated for the numbers man.

  Also, she was stalling.

  “Someone took photos of Hasaan and me at the Arabian Nights party—well, at the after-party—and posted them all over social media, okay?” she confessed. “The pics are kind of blurry, but it’s not impossible to guess who’s who if you know who you’re looking for. My tattoo is distinctive, and Hasaan is … well, he’s Hasaan.” Avoiding the Beast’s beastly glare, she turned her head to stare out of the window and at the lovely, flowering lawns and the super-cute to gorgeous houses rolling past.

  Why didn’t anyone tell me he’d moved?

  “Again, what does it have to do with the rumor?” Stubborn and obtuse—that was Krish.

  Diya huffed out a breath. “It was a smash-hit party, Beast. Most of us were wasted or naked or both.”

  A long pause and then a growl. “Which category did you fall into?”

  She threw him a cheeky look, which only made Krish frown even more ferociously.

  “Both. But only semi of both,” she added in a rush before puffs of red-hot steam shot out of his eyes, nose, and ears.

  And she’d left the party at a reasonable hour because she was exhausted from the traveling and long nights and even longer days of media pandering and mingling and schmoozing. She needed sleep more than a good time right now, but she didn’t tell him that. After all, she had her frivolous image to uphold—especially in his eyes.

  “Damn it, Diya. What happened then?” He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had gone white and the sexy vein flat.

  “I told you! The pics went viral. Add that to the already-simmering cauldron of baby rumors and interfaith trolls and …” Diya trailed off, feeling horribly helpless again. There really was no way to control wagging tongues or idiots. “So, I told Hasaan to use the hoopla about us to his advantage … if he wanted to get out of the marriage yet save the merger. I can’t believe his family is forcing him into marriage in this day and age.”

  Who was she kidding? Across the world, marriages got arranged as much now as they had fifty years ago and for less glamorous reasons than dynastic mergers. But not in modern-thinking families.

  Not in my family!

  “I can’t believe Daddy thinks I’ve shamed him on purpose. I can’t believe he’s turning into an old ogre, just like his mother,” Diya burst out as Krish veered the Range Rover off Hemingway Drive and into a private driveway.

  From the private diary of Princess DKM.

  Read further and DIE!

  I’m floating on cloud sixteen! Last night was my birthday party at Olive restaurant. OMG! The Shoe Cake!!! Chocolate and fudge on the inside and pink, blue, and silver buttercream frosting on the outside—the exact colors of my dress. So totally awesome!

  The blight? Ravi. What kind of boyfriend falls ill on the most important day of his girlfriend’s life? Well, ex-boyfriend now that he’s proven to be a weak, sickly jerk. Obviously, he’s not my prince. Imagine my horror that I almost went stag to my own party! (Maybe Leesha is right. Maybe I shouldn’t brag about my In a Relationship status so much.)

  I did say, almost. The Beast offered to be my birthday knave :O Go figure! (Oh, yeah. Krish’s down from Dallas for a mini vacay before he takes up some fancy-schmancy internship.) Tonight, he completely reversed my opinion of him. He was by my side the whole evening and even slow-danced with me at the very end. He addressed me as Princess Diya all night long. My friends are beyond jealous because they think I have a college-age boyfriend. I love it! Who knew the Beast of Malevolence could reform into the Prince of Benevolence, even without true love’s kiss?

  Oh, he confuses me so. If I marry him, my initials will remain the same—DKM. How cool is that? Also, is that a sign or what?

  Happy sweet 16 to me!

  Chapter 3

  Krish drove the Rover down a one-lane cobblestone driveway that led to his temporary home. Tall, gracious hardwood trees, lining the narrow lane, waved in usual welcome. Normal, wholesome, natural—that was his life.

  He got out of the car as soon as he pulled up in front of the double garage, allowing himself some deep breaths of relief and fresh air that wasn’t soaked in Diya’s perfume or drama. Could the woman not do anything in an ordinary way? He needed a moment—maybe a dozen—to digest what he’d heard into some kind of logical perspective. Then, he walked to the back of the car and began unloading the three pink trunks.

  This was what he was talking about. Pink! The color was absurd on luggage. It was absurd anywhere and on anyone who wasn’t toddler-sized. A grown woman should not use this much pink. And since when had Diya’s narcissism reached the level of monogrammed luggage? Krish stared at the brown and beige curlicued DKMs branded into the pink leather in stupefaction.

  “O-M-jeez! You bought a house? When? What happened to the no-fuss, no-muss bachelor pad of yore?” Diya squealed while peering through the windshield at the reddish-gray edifice peeping out of the woodlands.

  With a heave-ho, Krish yanked one heavy trunk to the ground and then jerked straight up as if stung by a bee. Heave-ho? Twenty minutes in her company, and he’d reverted to fairy-tale speak.

  “I sold it. I’m looking for a new place, and until I find one, I’m crashing here.” He wondered if his new place would be in Wisconsin. He had until March to make a decision. Where to live? Where to work? What the hell did he want out of life?

  “You know I hate living in hotels. The house belongs to my friends—Rayna and Darren Peters. Not sure if you ever met them?” When Diya shook her head, he explained, “They’re my college buddies. Rayna is an economics professor at my alma mater, and Darren is a writer. He writes historical fiction. They’re both on sabbatical, doing research in Cambodia … which worked out perfectly for me.”

  “Ooh, you’re house-hunting? I love house-hunting. I’m going to help you find your dream house, Beast,” Diya declared, grinning at him over her shoulder.

  “Absolutely no, thanks. I don’t want to end up in some drafty old castle that’ll bankrupt me with its first electric bill. Or worse, I
refuse to get stuck in some hobbit hole.”

  “Suit yourself.” Shrugging, Diya turned away to face forward again and began stuffing her jacket, hat, and the baklava in her handbag.

  Krish wrestled the other trunks out without any heave-ho-ing, each baggage heavier than the last. By the time he accomplished his goal in triplicate, his shoulders ached, and a nice little muscle spasm burned between his shoulder blades.

  To his shame, Diya jumped out of the car on high heels while holding her handbag and set it down by the trunks with one hand as if it weighed nothing. Her handbag weighed twenty-five pounds easily, proving that she was in much better shape than he was. She’d always been.

  “I’ll bring it all in.” Krish rotated his shoulders in preparation for more exertion and jerked his head, indicating the house. “Go on. Explore. I can see you’re dying to.”

  Diya gave a little hop on her stilettos, devouring the storybook house with happy eyes. The setting was absolutely delightful and whimsical, from the stone-peppered driveway that wove through the woods to the gray-paneled two-car garage to the red-gray pavers that hopscotched up a dozen steps, leading up to an arched alcove. And, as Krish had brought the hobbit hole to her mind, the dark brown door with its arched top and solid iron door knocker looked as if Frodo Baggins might answer when she knocked. Old-fashioned lanterns swung on both sides of the door, and veils of ivy, intertwined with braided branches, hugged the exterior walls of the house, magically parting away from the windows and doors.

  “The Beast of ‘Bad Romance’ lives in a fairy-tale house. Lah-lah-lah-lah-lah! Da-da-da-da-da-ah!” she belted out, shaking her body to Lady Gaga’s famous song.

  Of course, he snorted at her antics. Besides being a brooder, Krish was a class-A snorter. “It’s just a house, Dee-Dumbs. Calm down.”

  A little wider, a little higher, a moat, a drawbridge, maybe a turret or two, and it would transform into a mini-castle. No, it wasn’t just a house. It was the house of her dreams. Well, not the house itself, but the setting was quite similar to it. Her dream house was a mud-walled, brightly painted cottage nestled in a vibrant glen in the middle of the woods on the banks of a tinkling brook with a redbrick chimney puffing out clouds shaped like silver hearts. She still had the drawing stashed away in a drawer back home along with her lock-and-key journals.

  “Tell me there’s a brook tumbling close by.” Widening her eyes and clasping her hands to her chest in hopeful prayer, she spun around to face him. She would die if he said no.

  “But of course, milady. Would this lowly knave dare to invite you to your dream cottage with no brook in sight?” he said, giving her one of his patented Grim Reaper stares. But his humor got the better of him, and he burst out laughing.

  Diya’s heart liquefied like it always did when Krish’s teasing turned sweet. She wanted to leap into his arms and hug him. She hadn’t seen him since Leesha’s wedding. Hadn’t spoken to him—really spoken to him—in years. She wanted to press her lips to his and slake all of her shivery, unquenchable desires. But, of course, she didn’t—she couldn’t—knowing and fearing that, instead of melting with her, he’d freeze. He’d stop teasing her. He’d stop smiling altogether, and like he’d done on her twenty-first birthday, he would push her away.

  So, Diya locked her kisses away and kept up the lighthearted banter. “Lead on, knave. Take me forth to my bedchamber, which needs must look over the brook.” She bent and hefted a rose-pink trunk upright and yanked up its handle.

  “Leave it, Diya. I’ll come back for it.” The growly baritone traveled up her spine, and she nearly groaned.

  Stop it! Do not succumb to patheticness, she sternly told herself.

  What was wrong with her that she found Krish’s grouchy authority so totally shiver-worthy? She knew plenty of bossy-type men. Plenty! She’d even dated a few … and then never had the urge to repeat the mistake.

  “Three trunks and one handbag. Two of us, so two each.” She counted for the numbers man. When he started shaking his head, she stiffened her spine. “Equality is the word of the decade, darling. Unless elves and dwarves are going to crawl out of these woods to help us, there is no need to go all macho on me. Besides, I refuse to give you a reason to bitch about how spoiled and helpless homeland desis are in foreign lands. Seriously, Krish, I know how heavy those trunks are. Let me help.”

  “Why make them so heavy and so many and so pink that they hinder my hospitality and my manliness?” he muttered under his breath, but she heard him.

  She shot him a look of abject pity. “Dude, if the mere sight of my pink luggage threatens your manhood—” She broke off, squealing, when he lunged for her and began to run around the car when he tried to grab her again. “Wouldn’t have guessed you suffered from pink-o-phobia, Beast. Or is it a fetish?”

  I’ll show her a phobia and a fetish, thought Krish, shaking his head.

  Diya had a mouth on her, and she used it inventively. Never failed to amuse him. She was baiting him to come after her, but instead of regressing to childhood behavior, he climbed back into the car. He wasn’t going to help her break her legs by giving chase. He had no idea how she’d managed to bounce about on the cobblestones in mile-high heels without falling on her face.

  He ignored her chicken pluck-pluck-pluck sounds and steered the SUV into the garage, sliding it in next to his silver Porsche. Hail had been forecasted for the next few hours, so both cars needed to be roofed.

  He retraced his steps to the trunks where Diya waited, a sweet smile lighting her gorgeous face. His breath caught in his chest at the sight of her all flushed and happy, and without thought, he pulled her close. Then, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug like he should’ve done at the airport.

  “I’m glad you came. I’ve missed you,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat.

  They hadn’t seen much of each other in the last few years; work, life, their own hasty actions had gotten in the way of their friendship.

  “Krish …” His name slipped from her mouth no louder than a warm breath, and she pressed her lips against his jaw where his pulse beat.

  She seemed breakable all of a sudden, liquid, as if his confession had melted her bones. He tightened his hold. He wanted to wrap her up and shield her from the whole nasty world—himself included. He might not be able to sort out any of her problems, but he swore to himself that he wouldn’t add to them. Starting now.

  She was trembling against him. The change in the air was apparent, the storm imminent, even though the sun shone bright above them.

  “You’re cold. Come on. Let’s get you in the house. Go in through the garage. It’s easier, less of a climb.” He briskly rubbed her bare arms, smiling into her face half-hidden by the retro sunglasses. She stepped back, smiling. Yet he got the feeling he’d missed something. Something important. “What is it?”

  She shook her head and grabbed the handle of the upright trunk with one hand and her handbag in the other. “Come on, hobbit. Your elf-mistress wishes to get settled in.”

  He set one trunk in front of him, and the other one behind, ready to roll. “If I’m a full two and a half inches taller than you, who’s the hobbit here?”

  She looked down her nose at him. “Not me when I’m wearing pointy shoes. And, in case you’ve failed to notice, oh sight-challenged Beast, I’m prettier than you are, and I have less body hair.”

  And amen to that, Krish thought.

  * * *

  Together, they rolled, pulled, pushed, dragged, and eventually kicked the luggage up the steps of the garage, through the kitchen, up another short flight of stairs, and down the hallway to the bedrooms. Krish was set up in the guest room next to the hall bath. As the second spare bedroom was too small to accommodate Diya’s luggage, it was decided that she should use the master bedroom.

  Diya looked about the spacious, charmingly cluttered bedroom once her pretty-pink trunks had been divided as per need and had been stacked either inside the walk-in closet or against its outside
wall. “Are you sure your friends will be okay with me using their room?”

  Krish nodded. “It’s the only room with an en suite bathroom. I knew you’d prefer that.”

  “Much appreciated,” she replied. Not having an attached bathroom would’ve seriously sucked. And sharing the hall one with the Beast would’ve ended in murder or a suicide.

  She recalled a few family vacations when the M Brigade—made up of the awesome Menon and Mathur kids—had shared rooms and bathrooms. As the only guy in the foursome, he’d asserted his manhood by endlessly torturing them. He’d banged on doors while they were inside, or he’d locked himself or them in the bathroom just to annoy the crap out of them. He’d hidden toilet paper rolls and their toiletry bags; he’d squeezed out the toothpaste and dumped their shampoo in the drain. Once, he’d packed a bunch of dead lizard tails in Priya’s duffel. Diya would never forget how her sister had screamed when she unpacked it at home. Priya had not only thrown all her clothes out, but their mother had thrown the bag out, too.

  Diya did not trust Krish to behave himself, even now. Besides, a girl needed her own bathroom like she needed form-fitted clothes; while she would make do with ill fits and wrong sizes, she’d be self-conscious in them.

  “I want to see the brook,” she announced, throwing open the large patio doors opposite the bed. She stepped out onto a cute little brick terrace with dramatic views of a picture-perfect woodland.