Bootie and the Beast

by Falguni Kothari

  Diya reached out a hand and cupped Krish’s cheek, forcing him to look into her eyes this time. “I won’t make any such promise. I don’t need to because I know you. You are a good man, Krish. And you are strong. What you are not is a shadow of someone else’s DNA.” She sat back and picked up a piece of Gruyere. “If that was all that was bothering you, then pfft, it’s over. Done. Let’s finish this yummy cheese before the ants attack it.”

  Krish gave a half-perplexed, half-resigned groan. “You amaze me, desi girl. You’re the strong one.”

  “Aw, shucks!” she said in a very un-desi Texas twang, and they both laughed a little.

  * * *

  But it wasn’t so simple.

  Diya mulled over his revelations in her head on the hike back home. Krish was silent, too, shooting her nervous glances every so often. Once home, they saw that Maria had come and gone, waving her cleaning wand about, and now the house sparkled like a Sanjay Leela Bhansali movie.

  They both went into their respective rooms and ran through their individual bedtime rituals. When she came out of her bathroom, he was waiting by her bed in just his pajama bottoms.

  Neither of them smiled. Somehow, another line had been crossed, and all Diya wanted to do was leap back.

  She walked forward. He helped her out of her nightshirt but left her panties on at her request. She pushed his pajamas down over his hips, and he kicked them off.

  He asked if they could go all the way. He wanted an irrevocable, physical consummation.

  “I can’t,” she lied to him.

  “It’s been five days. Shouldn’t your period be over by now?” he asked, circling her navel over and over with a featherlight touch.

  She shivered. “Not yet. I’m still spotting.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said quietly.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Tomorrow?” he pushed for an answer, a promise. A commitment.

  “Maybe,” she lied again, a chill settling over her heart.

  Tomorrow was her last day in Dallas, and she was no closer to believing their fairy tale than she’d been on Monday. It felt like a fantastic dream, one she’d wake up from any minute. The situation was scary enough without adding the pressure of her virginity into the mix.

  She simply wasn’t ready to give Krish full and absolute power over her.

  * * *

  Saturday dawned, sun-soaked but cold, over the Dallas–Fort Worth metroplex. Despite the chill in the air, Armadillo’s farewell hoedown was a honking success.

  Krish strode through the packed barnyard, eager to get back to Diya. He’d left her on the dance floor, line-dancing with a throng of people in her biker boots and having a gala time. He’d coaxed her to wear the boots, arguing that what she did in Dallas would stay in Dallas and not make its way into the Turkish Pomp Adore. Also, the boots were more fitting for a dusty horse barn than practically any shoe from her wardrobe. She’d agreed, only because she wasn’t stupid even if she was shoepid.

  “Shoepidity,” she’d educated him, “is the act of wearing utterly ridiculous shoes because—come on—they are incredible.”

  Apparently, fashion magazines not only showcased fashions and fashionistas; they also fashioned trendy words.

  Krish tapped Diya on her brand-new Stetson. In a checkered pink-and-blue shirt and jeans, she blended well into Texas. She spun toward him, fun and laughter dancing in her eyes, and his heart broke a little as he watched her joy. He would never again be the reason she stopped laughing.

  Yanking her close, he tilted his head to one side to avoid clashing their hats and kissed her as if his life depended on it. And kept on kissing her. He didn’t stop through the wolf-whistles, wisecracks, and applause springing up around them.

  Her arms slipped around his waist, and she pressed herself against him. He tasted corn and mustard on her tongue and wondered if she could taste the hot dog he’d just scarfed down. And her scent—sweet and tart with a hint of jasmine—made him shiver. He knew her scent. He was never not going to know her scent. Even with the country air saturated with the smells of food and horse, his nose had honed in on her scent.

  The song changed to a slow-paced number, and she swayed to the beat. And, still, he kissed her. Softly now.

  Last night, he’d thought he’d made a huge mistake, confessing his fears. She’d been too quiet on the hike back. But, no, she’d been quiet most of yesterday and this morning, too. She was having doubts like before. He would erase all of her doubts until all he saw were hearts in her eyes.

  Only when it became absolutely necessary to draw breath did he lift his mouth from hers.

  She dazzled him with her smile. “What was that for?”

  “Stay.” It came out like an order, so he softened it. “Don’t go. Stay here with me. For two more weeks, and then we can travel to Mumbai together and get married in March.”

  “Krish.” Not just her voice, but her eyes also rebuked him. She removed her hands from his waist and readjusted the angle of her Stetson from askew to jaunty. “I have to be in Istanbul by Monday and then in Mumbai by Friday. The following weekend, I have a show in Dubai, and … I’m sure there’s something after that, too.”

  No, he hadn’t imagined it. She’d grown cold feet since yesterday.

  “So, you have no time for us? No time to get married? Is that what you’re saying?” His heart squeezed with hurt. He wanted to howl in rage.

  “We are having a trial engagement, Krish. What’s the rush to the altar?”

  “You said five days. I’ve given you five days, Diya. Make up your fucking mind.”

  They were back to glaring at each other in the middle of the dance floor while waves of people twirled merrily around them. Abruptly, she spun on her boot heel and dodged through the foot-stomping crowd.

  He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and went after her.

  He’d had it up to his nose with her attitude. Why didn’t she just tell him what was wrong? She’d demanded honesty, and he’d given her that. He was trying to be less of a brute, but the more chivalrous he got, the more impossible she got.

  Halfway between the line-dancing and the food stalls, he got waylaid by a group of old colleagues and teammates and had to stop and chat as they offered their congratulations and good-byes. He excused himself as soon as he could. He wanted to go home with Diya. But he couldn’t yet. There were speeches to be given, toasts to be made, farewells to be said. Krish would give the final speech in honor of Dillo.

  He could have sworn, had anyone asked, that he’d be able to spot Diya anywhere, no matter the density of the crowd. The fashion world claimed Beauty Mathur was incomparable, even among her peers, so she should stand out in a crowd, right?

  Wrong. He couldn’t see her anywhere. His temper frayed at the edges as he searched for her across the barn. Stupid woman couldn’t stay put in one place, could she? Always had to hop from place to place, job to job. Man to man.

  He kicked up his pace, making a circuit around the dance floor, strung with colorful fairy lights, and the live country band again. He discounted the barbeque and food pavilions because Diya had already eaten and sprinted flat-out toward the family area where there was a little country fair going on. He hopped inside the Moonwalk; Diya was more than capable of bouncing about in there like a toddler. She wasn’t in there or on the Ferris wheel. Or at the hair-braiding station. He covered every inch of the hoedown without any luck.

  Krish halted by the barn where the women’s restrooms were. It was the only place he hadn’t searched. But, if he went in there, there’d be a riot.

  And then he heard her laugh. The giggly, throaty, musical sound that only Diya made.

  Blindly, he moved in its direction. He found her by the paddocks that were separated from the festivities by a line of magnificent live oaks. She was chatting with Jenny, Dillo’s wife. Her youngest grandson, eight-year-old Jimmy, and a bunch of other children were riding ponies in the paddock.

  Jenny warmly hugged him wh
en he walked up. She’d given him plenty of those today. He kissed her cheek, feeling lost and bereft all over again. He was going to miss the Joneses.

  Diya had turned away from him and was watching the young riders. She’d zipped her fleece vest up to her chin. The wind had picked up in the past hour, and it had grown chilly. But he was oblivious to the weather as his blood was running hot because of her.

  “Hey, y’all.” Dillo’s middle son, Jackson, joined them at the paddocks to watch his son, Jimmy, ride the pony. “Hey, Krish,” Jackson said after he hooted and praised his son. “Ms. Aya’s looking for ya. She’s by the stage.”

  At last, Diya deigned to meet his eyes, but he wished she hadn’t bothered. Her glacial expression tried to burn a hole right through his gut.

  Krish sighed and accepted that it was just not his day.

  * * *

  It was six in the evening by the time the hoedown wound down.

  Despite everything, Diya had had a great time. Dillo and Jenny had been absolutely overwhelmed by the speeches and toasts and tokens of love and admiration everyone had shown them.

  “She knows Dillo well, has worked for Armadillo. She had to be there,” Krish said as he drove them home.

  Once again, they were in the Porsche, pissed off at each other.

  “Of course,” she said. “Did I imply otherwise?”

  “I should have told you she would be there,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. Like he was feeling guilty that he hadn’t warned her. “It slipped my mind.”

  “It’s fine.” She really didn’t want to discuss Aya Ahuja now.

  But that didn’t stop Diya’s brain from envisioning her. Aya was a pretty little thing. “Little” only in height, as she was voluptuous everywhere else. Diya recalled another one of Krish’s girlfriends from way back; she’d been short, cute, and busty, too. His type was becoming pretty evident to her. Another reason for the golf-ball-sized knot of panic lodged in her throat.

  She was not short, not cute, not top or bottom heavy. She was not his type at all. Not physically, not spiritually, not practically. She believed in God. He was an atheist. She lived in the east, he in the west. She was a good-time girl. He was a sober numbers man. Why did he love her?

  “Diya, why are we fighting?” he asked softly.

  “Are we fighting?” She was finding it difficult to breathe.

  “Why are you behaving this way? What did I do wrong?” He flicked on the indicator, glanced in the rearview mirror, and changed lanes. “Look, it was supposed to be a surprise, but since you’re pissed off about it … I plan to propose to you at our engagement party in Mumbai. I’ll go down on my knee with roses and tuxedo and anything else you want and beg you to marry me in full view of our families and friends. Okay?”

  He thought this was about that? Yes, of course he did. To him, she was a superficial bubblehead, wasn’t she? A drama queen. The whole world thought it.

  But he should know better. He should know her by now.

  She kept her silence. If she spoke, she’d start to cry.

  “For God’s sake, don’t pout.”

  His temper was fraying. She could tell by the way his fingers tapped against the steering wheel. She got ready for a nasty yelling match, but he said nothing else for the rest of the drive.

  She went straight to her room once they got home. Two of her trunks were loaded, locked, and upright. Krish had a huge, roaring fight with her when she started packing the third one.

  “I’m asking you to stay for two lousy weeks.” He flung his Stetson on the bed, and then he rolled up the sleeves of his cowboy shirt. He fisted his hands by his thighs like a gunslinger, minus the guns.

  “I cannot. I have a job, too.” She ripped off her cowgirl hat and flung it on the bed right on top of his.

  “The world won’t collapse if you don’t show up to shoot some hair-dryer commercial or attend a designer party,” he hurled the hateful words in her face.

  “Don’t you dare belittle my career,” she raged, so she wouldn’t cry. “Yes, it panders to the pretentious desires of life, but believe me, you have to be smart and lucky and bloody gorgeous to climb to the top.” Oh, she had a lifetime of venom to get out of her system on this one. “I’m insanely good at what I do. I’m at the top of the food chain in my profession, so why the hell would I jeopardize that for two lousy weeks? Do you know … do you have any idea what my hair-dryer and designer-underwear commercials pay me?” She tossed the number out to the numbers man and had the satisfaction of seeing his face go white in shock. She told him what she expected to make from Scheherazade. “That makes me exponentially more successful than you, Krish. More successful than Leesha, Priya, my parents, and probably Aryan combined.” She paused, breathing hard. “Or maybe on par with Aryan because he’s filthy, stinking rich, too.”

  She felt sick, talking to Krish about money, so she snatched a dress off the hanger and began to fold it. “It’s not about the money anyway. It’s about my reputation.”

  “What reputation?” he asked hoarsely, still shell-shocked by her financial disclosures.

  “My reputation as a model, you jackass. I never bow out of my commitments. Never! Not unless I’m dying. Everyone in the industry knows that, once I give my word, that is it.”

  He went rigid then. “And you haven’t given your word to me. You won’t commit to me.”

  Diya balled up the dress she’d folded between her hands. “Krish …”

  “You really don’t want to marry me,” he said starkly, as if it had only just dawned on him. His eyes were huge behind his glasses. Hurt. Angry. Fearful.

  She wanted to fling herself into his arms and scream, Yes, yes, yes, I want to marry you! She’d done exactly that nine years ago.

  “It’s not a no,” she whispered, her anger fizzing out.

  “Okay. Okay, that’s good.” He took a deep breath and blew it out, his relief blatant. He sat on the bed and patted the spot next to him. “What is this about then?”

  She sat down beside him, utterly miserable. “You have this hold on me, Krish. You’ve had it since I was born, I think. I can’t deny you anything. Even when I don’t want to do something, if you ask it of me, I always end up doing it. And then I start resenting you for it.”

  “I don’t mean to force you.”

  She took his hand in hers, palms kissing. “You have never forced me. It’s just that I have no backbone where you’re concerned. That’s one thing. Another is …” She turned to squarely face him. “Where do you see us living together?” She still couldn’t say marriage. It still seemed an impossible dream. “Here, right? In Dallas?”

  He nodded slowly, wariness still reflected in his beautiful brown eyes.

  “I can’t live here. What would I do here? I’m moving to Istanbul. Hasaan wants me there two weeks out of every month for the next two years. More, if we decide to renew my contract, which seems highly likely at this point. I’ve even put in a deposit on a flat there.”

  Krish removed his hand from hers and stood up.

  “Then, there’s all the traveling I do—not just for Scheherazade, but also for the other brands I’m in contract with or for fashion shows and …” She shuddered out a sigh as if she’d just finished an atrocious crying jag. “I have a lot of commitments, Krish.”

  “What else?” he asked and began pacing up and down the room.

  She felt relieved he was listening, actually listening, and not shooting her down. “There will be parties, lots of them. You’ll have to escort me to at least some of the major industry events.”

  She didn’t add that he would need to upgrade his lifestyle to match hers. Krish was no dummy. He knew what she meant. Yes, he had money, but he’d already pledged it to the Outreach School Project. He had enough to maintain his current lifestyle, even after that, but if something went wrong, he was prepared to live frugally until his investment paid off, he’d told her. As his wife, he would expect her to live as he did.

  Well, Beauty Mathur
did not do frugal. As her husband, Krish would have to learn how to live as she did. He would essentially have to live with her, let her foot at least the fashion bills. Would proud, self-sufficient Krish agree to that? She had her doubts.

  “I will decide when we have children. Not for two years definitely.” She got to the part he would find the most difficult to swallow. “My public image or the lack of it that titillates the world will not magically vanish when we marry. I will still be bitched about, slandered, dissected … and so will you. There will be rumors and fake news. Can you handle that?”

  “I thought—” He choked off the rest of his words and cursed a blue streak.

  But she had been ready for that, too. She knew exactly what he’d thought. “You expected me to give up my job, move to Dallas, and merge my life with yours.” Her heart wept for him, for herself, for what their choices had done to them. “I would have happily done that nine years ago, Krish. I can’t now. I will not now.”

  “Is this because you think I rejected you?”

  Was it payback?

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  The girl she’d been loved her Beast to the point of madness. That girl still lurked beneath the strong, shiny shell of the woman she’d become. It was up to him to soften the veneer and get to her core.

  It had always been up to Krish to prove his love for her.

  Chapter 19

  A week later, Diya stormed into her Mumbai flat, heading straight for her parents’ bedroom on a pair of shoepidly high platforms. When she found the room locked, she banged on the door as if the house were on fire.

  “Come out! You interfering, nosy, stubborn old man,” Diya yelled at the top of her lungs. She was going to rip Kamal Mathur limb from limb and feed him to the tigers at the Mumbai Zoo.

  The door opened, and an older, plumper, sari-clad but no less flawless version of herself walked out. “Oh, you’re back. How did the interview go, baby?”