Wanna Bet?: An Interracial Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  He bit back a laugh. Brought a hand to her face, as if he was keeping her close so they could hear each other. Really, he just wanted to touch her. “I think you made me a friend.”

  “Well if I didn’t,” she smiled, “you’d never have any!”

  That was sadly true. Rahul went through the world with specific goals, and tended to bear those goals in mind to the exclusion of all else. It didn’t leave much space for making friends, and trying never really occurred to him.

  But Jasmine made friends by accident and occasionally palmed them off on him, like sharing old clothes with the community.

  He kissed her cheek, just because it was there. It occurred to him that he was probably kissing her too much, but she hadn’t complained yet.

  In fact, she didn’t look like she’d be complaining any time soon. She wore the soft, absent grin that suggested she was in the early stages of Jasmine Drunkenness. Slightly flushed, extremely enthusiastic, liable to forget her train of thought every five minutes. He slid a cautious eye over her and judged her stable enough, balance-wise.

  Still, he asked, “You okay?”

  “I am golden,” she replied in extremely serious tones. “Let’s play on the giant Pac-man.”

  So they did.

  Depressingly, she hadn’t been wrong about her ability to beat him while drunk. By the time they came to the counter in search of a prize, Jasmine had strings of paper tickets draped over her shoulders like a mantle.

  The ‘Adult Emporium’ part of Lucky’s name didn’t just refer to the bar. While there were typical arcade prizes on offer, there were more than a few questionable items available too.

  He leant against the huge, circular counter and watched as Jasmine grinned in delight at the bottles of flavoured vodka on display. There was a tense moment when she hovered over a glass case labelled ‘XXX’, which actually held sex toys. He wasn’t sure how to tell a slightly drunk Jasmine that taking a cock ring from a dodgy, if enjoyable, arcade wasn’t the wisest decision.

  Thankfully, she ended up choosing a pair of Chip and Dale soft toys. They were each the size of an average ten-year-old. Rahul wondered how he was supposed to get them in the car—until Jas turned to him with a huge smile, her arms wrapped around each chipmunk’s neck. Then he decided he’d call the things a bloody taxi if necessary.

  It didn’t turn out to be necessary. He shoved one in the boot, its softness making it easy to compress, and lay the other across the backseat. Technically, Jas still had control of the music—but she spent the drive home dozing, her breathing soft and deep, her eyes opening every so often for a few bleary moments before they fluttered shut again. He wasn’t complaining. Her music choices were questionable at the best of times.

  By the time they parked outside his building, she’d managed to sleep away most of her drunkenness. She was now mildly tipsy, so she led the way to the lift as he carried Chip and Dale’s remarkable combined bulk.

  When they reached his door, she slid her hand into his jeans pocket. Looking up at him, her dark eyes glittering, she fumbled around for his keys. And it was an incredibly bad idea, but as she searched without looking, he bent his head and kissed her nose.

  She smiled. Then she said, “Why do you keep kissing me?”

  Now, there was a question he couldn’t answer.

  She found the keys and unlocked the door, but he didn’t imagine he was off the hook.

  He put Chip and Dale safely on the sofa, then came back to find her crouching down, fiddling with the little buckles on her sandals.

  With a sigh, Rahul sat on the floor beside her and pushed her hands gently away. He felt her eyes on him as he undid the first strap.

  “Well?” She said after a long, silent moment.

  He sighed again. Apparently, sighing was his thing now. “I can stop,” he said finally. “If you want.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Her voice was soft. He looked up sharply and met her gaze, sleepy and gentle and slightly more sober than he’d prefer for this conversation. “I just want to know why you’re doing it.”

  He shrugged as he moved on to her other shoe. “I like kissing you. You’re very easy to kiss.”

  “On my nose?”

  “Anywhere.” He tugged off the sandal and helped her to her feet. “Let’s go to bed.”

  For him, that meant stripping and brushing his teeth. For her, that meant washing her face with seventy different products, and wearing one of those weird, white masks with the eyeholes cut out for ten minutes. But she skipped that tonight, probably because she was tired—so he wasn’t alone in bed for long before she appeared, turning off the lights and sliding in beside him.

  His arm curled around her waist as he dragged her closer. He would never get used to this. To touching her the way he’d always wanted to, not just when they made love but at times like this—times when her breathing slowed, when she was soft and vulnerable and their legs tangled together beneath the sheets as if they were one body. The first time they’d fallen asleep together after sex, she’d been worried. He could tell. Her awkwardness, the tension in her muscles when she’d woken, had dragged a blade of regret across his heart.

  But then it had happened again, and again, and again. And now she didn’t bother sleeping in her own bed. She slept with him. She held him at night and she didn’t regret it in the morning. Not recently, anyway.

  Maybe she never would.

  Jasmine snuggled closer into Rahul’s comforting warmth. She breathed deep, drinking in the scent of him from both the sheets and his bare skin. Perfect. Perfect. God, she was tired. And drunk, clearly, because she felt disturbingly content, and when she tried to search for dark thoughts and worries to ground herself, none were forthcoming. It was as if Rahul had put all her stress in a box again, but he wasn’t kissing her. He was just holding her, his face buried against the silk scarf covering her hair, his thumb sliding back and forth over her hip.

  She slid her foot up his calf, feeling muscle and skin and soft hair. “Thank you for tonight,” she whispered, her voice disappearing into the dark.

  He squeezed her slightly, his voice sleepy. “You don’t have to thank me. You know I love being with you.”

  Fuck. He said it so simply. As if the words didn’t bring tiny tears to the corners of her eyes. God, she really was drunk. Suddenly she felt pure, almost golden gratitude, not towards him, but for him—like life had given her something far more precious than it should. Sometimes, she couldn’t believe he existed, someone who made things so easy and simple and told her he cared without being embarrassed. Sometimes, she imagined losing him because nothing so perfect could last forever.

  She mumbled, “I’m so glad I saw you.”

  He sounded half-asleep as he said, “Saw me?”

  “At—” she broke off. It occurred to her that she’d never told him this before. It wasn’t hard to see why exactly—it was fucking weird. But she told him so many other things, so many other secrets…

  “Jas?” He sounded a little more awake now. She felt him shift back slightly, imagined him squinting down at her in the dark.

  She took a breath. Might as well. “At uni. I saw you going into the library one day, while I was leaving. You and that kid you always hung out with. What was his name?”

  He sank back against the pillows. “Ben?”

  “Yeah, Ben. I thought you were…” Gorgeous. His hair had been wild—it always was, back then—and gleaming in the sunlight. His glasses were covered in raindrops because it had been drizzling nonstop, so he kind of jogged into the foyer with those fierce brows screwed up, dragging his friend along. Then, once they’d gotten inside, he’d pulled off his glasses to clean them. He’d smiled. The sight had gone straight to her head like champagne.

  Maybe he sensed she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, finish her sentence. His thumb still gliding over her skin, he said, “When was that?”

  Her lips stretched into an awkward smile he couldn’t see. “The week before we met.”

&n
bsp; He stilled. But he didn’t shove her out of bed or call her a stalker. Then again, why would he? All he knew was that she’d seen him, and then they’d coincidentally bumped into each other at a later date…

  “What did you do?” He asked, laughter barely hidden behind his words.

  Ah. She’d overlooked the fact that he knew her. He could probably take a guess at exactly what had happened.

  Her cheeks heating, she mumbled, “I kind of followed you in, I suppose.”

  “Followed me?”

  “Well, I planned on talking to you. I was going to ask your name, or something. But I couldn’t work up the nerve. Maybe I was having an off day.”

  “Right,” he said slowly, drawing out the word. She couldn’t tell if he was still laughing, but she also couldn’t stop talking now she’d started.

  “You guys went up to the accounting section, and I felt like I was being creepy, so I left. But the next day I decided to find you, so I…”

  “You… went to the accounting section?”

  It was easier, now that he’d said it. “Yes. And I saw you, but I chickened out again. So I left. I came back the next day and you weren’t there. So I just… sat down. I thought you might turn up and sit next to me.”

  He hadn’t. Not at first. And she’d tried not to be disappointed, and wondered why she was being weirdly hesitant and kind of pathetic over one random guy. She certainly couldn’t be shy, she’d told herself; that wasn’t in her vocabulary.

  So what was it? She’d never been quite sure.

  For a moment, Rahul was quiet. Then he said, his amusement clear, “So you hunted me down using your A+ spying techniques to… what, seduce me in the library?”

  A reluctant smile tilted her lips. “I suppose. I mean, I wanted to make sure you weren’t an arsehole, so I could… you know. Shag you senseless.”

  He laughed. Relief floated through her at the familiar sound. She had no idea what had possessed her to tell him any of that, except the mighty power of alcohol and an odd certainty that he wouldn’t hate her for it, or push her away. That he’d laugh and tease her and want her anyway. That he wasn’t searching for a reason to get rid of her, because he wasn’t. He wasn’t. She told herself that and meant it.

  His laughter faded as he pulled her closer. “I can’t believe you. Actually, I can. Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “I shouldn’t have told you now,” she mumbled. “I’m mortified.”

  “Are you blushing?” She felt his smiling lips brush over her cheeks. “Don’t be embarrassed, Jas. Maybe I’m flattered.”

  “Are you flattered?”

  “I don’t know. Did you secure all your uni conquests like that?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Of course I didn’t.”

  “Okay.” He slid a hand over her jaw, angled her head slightly. “Then I’m flattered.” His kiss was as light and teasing as his words, just the gentle glide of his lips against her own.

  Then he pulled away and bumped his forehead against hers. “You know, you were my first time.”

  Reality came grinding to a halt. So many thoughts flooded her mind, she could barely speak; it felt like opening her mouth to let one thing out might cause a typhoon. Eventually, she managed to splutter, “I beg your pardon?”

  He snorted. “What? Are you surprised?”

  “Of course I’m bloody surprised!” She whacked at the place where she judged his arm to be and smacked his side instead. Close enough. “Good Lord! You can’t just… just… oh, Christ.” She sat up, pulling away from him, because lying down was making her brain jumbled.

  He sat up beside her. “Are you okay?”

  “Am I okay?” She could hear herself shrieking, just a little bit. “Are you seriously telling me I took your virginity? On the fucking floor?!”

  His tone wry, he said, “Didn’t you tell me virginity was an outdated and patriarchal concept?”

  “Piss off,” she snorted. “Oh my goodness. I feel terrible!”

  “Why?”

  Never mind why. “How the hell were you still a virgin at nineteen?”

  She could hear the smirk in his voice. “I suppose I never got around to having sex.”

  “Until I… until I stole your innocence!”

  “Yes,” he said dryly, “that’s exactly what happened.”

  “Could you not be sarcastic while I’m having an ethical crisis?”

  His hands came to rest on her shoulders, pushing her back onto the bed. She let him, because it was easier than arguing while her mind shifted everything she’d ever thought, then shifted it back because this didn’t necessarily change anything—or did it? She wasn’t sure. Time for another shift.

  “Relax,” he said, his thumb grazing her lower lip. She couldn’t tell, in the darkness, if he’d done it on purpose. “It’s not that serious.”

  She took a deep breath and told herself that, since it was his virginity, he could decide if it was serious. “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure.”

  “So you haven’t been carrying a traumatising resentment that’s secretly burned at the heart of our friendship, or anything?”

  There was a pause. Then he said, “I am definitely not traumatised and I could never resent you.”

  She’d been half joking, now that her initial shock had worn off. But he didn’t sound like he was laughing anymore; he sounded deadly serious.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “Well, that’s… that’s good.”

  “I only told you because I didn’t want you to be embarrassed alone.” He drew her in close again, the way they slept, all tangled up together in a way that shouldn’t work but made her feel impossibly safe.

  “So you’re embarrassed about it?” She asked, her voice muffled against his chest.

  “Embarrassed about my performance. But since I’ve had the opportunity to prove myself since…”

  She laughed. “Yeah. I suppose you have. But you were fine then, anyway.”

  “Fine? Charming.” He huffed out a little laugh, then said, “Go to sleep, love.”

  Love. She called him—everyone—that all the time, a habit picked up from her dad. But he didn’t.

  He probably picked it up from you. And he’s tired. And you’re tired.

  “Okay,” she mumbled, her lids already heavy. But her heart was light. Light, and still worryingly content.

  She was secretly and unreasonably happy to hear that she had been Rahul’s first. And she was absolutely elated to hear the word ‘love’ on his lips.

  As soon as she realised that, her pleasure cooled and congealed.

  This could not end well.

  19

  Ten Months Ago

  She could see Rahul shattering.

  She didn’t even know if he felt it. He was closest to the front, closest to the coffin that held his father. Everything about him was rigid, as it had been since the death. Harsh and hard as bone. Brittle. Soon he would break.

  Jasmine hovered at the back of the room as Muslim guests recited Salat al-Janazah. She had an arm around Rahul’s mother, since all of Deepika Khan’s children were praying. The smaller woman wept, as she had almost incessantly since her husband’s death, and Jasmine wondered which of the world’s many gods could ever be so cruel as to fracture a family like this. How was it that a couple like Rahul’s parents, who loved each other desperately, could be torn apart forever, while others—others like her mother—

  But Jasmine couldn’t bring herself to finish a thought like that in a place of worship.

  She rubbed a soothing hand over Deepika’s shaking back. Tears streamed down the woman’s face, tracing her laugh lines in mocking, silver tracks.

  Jasmine wished she could bring herself to believe in an afterlife. The thought of nothingness made her feel sick.

  But more than that, the knowledge that Rahul was being ripped apart, that his silently swallowed grief was eating him from the inside out, made something close to acid burn her throat. There were so many thin
gs she wanted to say to him, things that would fix him—would bring him back to life, would force blood into the mannequin he’d become these past days—and she was absolutely bursting to say them, only...

  She didn’t quite know what they were.

  Jasmine had never been good at talking. She was a doer.

  So she’d done what she could, and she kept on doing. After the funeral, she filled in the family’s stiff silences, thanking guests although it wasn’t her place. Then she convinced an unyielding Rahul that he’d done more than enough, that his sister and brother-in-law could take his mother home, that she and Rahul should go back to his flat.

  She needed him to sleep. He hadn’t slept at all since the death, bar snatches of unconsciousness gained by accident and tossed away with a self-disgust he thought she couldn’t see.

  When they reached his flat, she pushed him gently aside and unlocked the door. His hands had been shaking, shaking, shaking, no matter how hard he tried to still them. Perhaps, in the chaos and the devastation, no-one else had noticed.

  She had noticed.

  While he’d looked after his family—while he’d comforted his nieces and nephews, and made the arrangements, and shrouded his own father’s body—she had watched him and she had noticed. Not just the shaking hands, not just the lack of sleep, not just the fact he hadn’t eaten. There was something dark and devastating haunting him, and she’d do anything to fix it, only she didn’t know how.

  But she’d start with getting him to sleep. Putting him to bed. That would work, and if it didn’t, something else would.

  A sensible and quiet voice in the back of Jasmine’s mind told her to just wait it out, to leave it, to let time heal Rahul’s wounds the way it was supposed to.

  She’d never been good at listening to that voice.

  “Lie down,” Jasmine was saying. “You need to rest.”

  Rahul couldn’t exactly remember coming home, or even entering his bedroom, but now here he was.

  And here was Jasmine, speaking in low, soothing tones as if he were some wild creature. Guiding him onto the bed.