One day someone will come home early. One day they will be caught. Sapna will be sent far away, packed off in the post like an aerogram and signed for by an old man seeking a malleable bride, and Sanjoy will be lectured about his responsibility to his caste and his calling and told never to misbehave again. She will have it worse. Women always have it worse. But they can’t bring themselves to care about consequence. Not when they can care about kisses. Not when they can focus on now.
Sapna has never heard the word “orgasm.” She doesn’t know about feminism. Even her cousin sisters, who learned the basics of English in school, don’t know what these things mean. But she does understand pleasure. She does understand her own power. She feels it in the tightness of her womb, sees it in the depth of Sanjoy’s dark eyes. He can’t resist her. He doesn’t want to. And twenty years from now he will still remember what it was like to be in this bed with her.
*
He wades into murky, green, waist-deep water. The faded, red lungi clings to his thighs just like the leeches that cling to his ankles. Once ashore, he’ll peel them off, fat and rich with his blood. An everyday occurrence. He does not know how much essential fluid he’s lost to these parasites. He does not know how much of his soul he’s lost to things far worse. The midday sun beats down on his skin. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck as he casts his net again and again. He has raised a good crop of fish this season. They’ll sell well at the bazaar. He’ll have coins to warm his palms…and liquor to warm his belly. The latter is more important these days. And he knows it shouldn’t be.
He wakes up every morning, bathes, and sits down to pray. He makes offerings to the family goddess, and to Narayan and Ganesha, too. He prays to the elephant-headed god, the remover of all obstacles, in the pre-morning twilight. The only thing that has been removed from his life is the chance to love. The sacred thread, damp against his soap-scented skin, reminds of what his duty, his caste, his place in life is supposed to be. And then he moves towards the algae-ridden pond and lives what his life is.
One of his aunts used to tell him that he was a lively, chubby baby. That they expected him to go far in the world…become a great priest or teacher. He hasn’t moved more than a few feet from the very place he was born. And he is a great nothing. Doing something far beneath his dharma. Doing something alone. But sometimes, as he throws out the net and draws it back, as the gentle swooshing rhythm of the turbid water lulls him, he thinks he hears her voice. Her gentle laugh. He thinks he feels her hands on his arms, guiding him. And he recalls simpler times. Huddled together in the kitchen. Under the mosquito netting during a power outage. Her soft whispers of “Sanjoy, Sanjoy.” She was his liquor then. She was the bittersweet drug that made him forget everything and anything and made his head and heart ache after he’d had his fill of her. His father made him throw the bottle away. Shatter the glass and stomp it to pieces. He was too weak to stop it. Too cowardly to say “no,” to take a stand.
So, he takes his stand here, in the water…turning his back on a thousand years of duty to hold tiny quicksilver fish in his hands before they slip through the holes in his over-patched nets. Like so many of his wishes, hopes and dreams.
*
The woman who returns to the village is not the girl who left. Her sari is her own, bought with her own hard-earned currency. Her hair is a smart and short cut from a Dhaka salon. She can read. She speaks just enough English to give American tourists directions. She has changed. The small connected houses which once served as her home and her prison have not. They are still surrounded by overgrown grasses. Ducks still waddle in the dirt, and there is still a goat tied to one of the trees, blissfully grazing and fattening itself for slaughter. There is still a priest inside readying for evening prayers.
He is unmarried, the rickshaw-wallah informed her with a crass sort of glee, and only recently returned to his Brahmin calling. For years he was simply a fisherman, drowning his dharma in the property pond. His sisters wed and moved to Kolkata. His father died alone at their ancestral home in Bangladesh. The Chakravarty house was one of sorrow and shame until Sanjoy came again to his senses.
She knows this already. The first letter she ever wrote was to Indrani—just Indrani now, not “di,” not a term of respect her cousin never earned—to discover what had happened after she was sent away from Bengal. He’d had it worse. Against all odds, belying every expectation that their society laid upon them, her Sanjoy had it worse. She’d gone to a husband who wanted a partner, not a maid. A man who encouraged her to learn and to grow and to put names to the things about her own body that she’d discovered during so many midday interludes. She mourned when he died. She celebrated while he lived. Her guardian had intended punishment but had unwittingly given her freedom.
She uses that freedom now as she slips off her sandals and crosses the threshold of a room she has not seen in fifteen years. The floor where she once sat as a rapt viewer of romantic films and serials is cool beneath her soles. The bed in the corner is smaller than she remembers. The mosquito netting hanging off the wooden frame is like the pulled-back curtain of The Wizard of Oz, casting her adolescent fantasies into sharp relief. And the man who centered in them, who brought them to life, he stands with his back to her in front of a small shrine. The scent of freshly lit incense wafts around broad shoulders, settles into gray-tinged black hair.
“I need a blessing,” she tells him.
“Come back tomorrow,” he says gruffly in a voice roughened by vices.
“It is tomorrow.”
The truth washes over him slowly. She can see it in the stilted grace of his movements. In how his back straightens and his fists clench and unclench. When he turns around, the green silk of her sari is pooled at her feet like the pond that was once his haven and his hell. She makes short work of her blouse and petticoat as well. The shy creature who once kept his dinner warm is now a bold one offering him a feast.
“S-sapna,” he stutters, even as his ink-black eyes slake both thirst and hunger at once.
“I am not a dream,” she assures. For only in these intervening years has she learned to revel in the meaning of her name…and learned to make it reality. Just as she’s learned to reach out with both hands and take what she wants. To draw it—him—close.
He is not the boy she was torn from. The years have not been kind. They show in his face, in his thicker body and scarred limbs. She does not care. She never loved him for his youth, never craved him for his beauty. She is happy to learn his body anew, read it like so many books. He steps into the circle of her arms, lifts his own shaking hands to explore her new curves and angles. And then he’s clutching at her, clinging, the fisherman once more, struggling to keep her from being the catch that got away. She should resent that he could not hold tight to her before. She does not. She never loved him for his strength, never craved him for his security. She loved and craved him because of hers.
Sapna kisses him with open mouth. She embraces him with open heart. She whispers, “Sanjoy, Sanjoy,” in soothing tones as they stumble to the bed without fear or shame or threat of discovery. She guides his head to her breast. She puts his hands on her thighs. Each taste and each stroke an old echo of desire, but a new line on their map of need. She cants her hips. She parts her legs. She wraps her fingers around his needy, throbbing organ and guides it inside her. She welcomes it. And he welcomes her home.
She steals the afternoon. She wrests back tomorrow and next week. They claim the past and the future, too, bending time to their will. He licks his way down the dark column of her spine, laughing softly into the dimples at the base. She finds the spot below his ribs that always tickles. They play like the children they never really were and then come together again like the man and woman they can only be with one another. His true self. Her true self. Sparks that will never be extinguished. Forever burning in the bottom of a coal stove long-thought cold.
Giving Him Fitz
When Nik was generally invited into a room ful
l of sweaty, half-dressed men, it meant a wild Saturday night at the Drive. Not this. This was definitely not his scene. But as one of the premier image consultants in the city…hell, on this coast, it was his job to be unflappable even in the face of the most flap-inducing circumstances. Whether that was a starlet’s sixth consecutive stint in rehab, or a bunch of burly guys who’d probably started voting Republican in the womb and routinely kicked the shit out of dapper little guys like him for fun. Okay, a bunch of burly guys and the quarterback.
Quarterbacks and kickers, he’d been told, were built lighter. For grace and speed rather than brute force, like a lineman. What his football guru Shawn (who liked bears and the Bears) had neglected to mention was that it didn’t make them any less imposing to a regular mortal.
Emerson Fitzpatrick, Nik’s current assignment, was around 6’4 and built like the proverbial brick house. His shoulders were wide, torso tapered like a Calvin Klein model’s, and the hand resting on his locker door was probably big enough to cover both of Nik’s. His massive arms were bare of tattoos. His dark hair was cut in a fade, the curls tight on top. According to the bare-bones bio Nik had received, he attended a Baptist church whenever he could and had used his first big NFL paycheck to buy his mother a house. And he had dimples. They flashed in his cheeks as he responded to a teammate across the room.
“I don’t understand.” Nik swiveled to scowl at Gina Morrison, the shark of a publicist who had called him for this job, and Sparky Scott, the assistant head coach. “That man doesn’t need an image consultant. He needs to be plastered on recruitment posters. He’s perfect.”
“That’s the problem,” Sparky (and what kind of name was that anyway?) spat from around the girth of an unlit stogie. “Kid’s got no drinking habit. Doesn’t party. Doesn’t dress snazzy like Newton. No supermodel girlfriends like Brady. No pretty little wife and cute kids like Drew Brees.” That hot guy who’d led the Saints to the Super Bowl several years back. Nik didn’t keep up with sports, but he had been known to follow a pretty face or two. “We can’t get Fitzpatrick on the cover of Men’s Health, much less Sports Illustrated. He’s forgettable. Up until someone remember to ask why…if you get my drift.”
In an instant, he did. It was the mother of all clichés. When he wasn’t tossing around a pigskin, Mr. Perfect played for the other team. For Nik’s team. “You want me to help him play straight.” No. No way in Hell. As if to punctuate the distasteful idea, Emerson chose that exact moment to look up. To very, very thoroughly check him out. Nik felt an answering heat flush his body, and he suppressed it, keeping the scowl firmly in place as he stared up at ol’ Sparky. Gina piped up with immediate assurances to the contrary—“That’s not what this is, Nik! Of course not!”—but Nik didn’t even spare her a glance. Her, he would deal with later. When he could scream at her over a couple of White Russians.
“I will not help shove someone in the closet,” he said now.
The assistant coach didn’t mistake his tone or his expression, and his florid face went even redder. “No! No!” he blustered, no doubt scrambling to be PC. “Nothing like that. We just want to get him out there. Socializing. Seen with people.” Meaning women. “We want him marketable, endorsement-friendly—so guys want to be him and girls want to nail him. Just…teach him how to schmooze. Kid’s got no skills off the field.”
Probably because, like most career athletes, he’d spent most of his life on the field. Nik’s gaze was drawn back to Emerson, who was still nakedly appraising him with those deep brown eyes…and a little grin that was anything but innocent. It was the kind of soul-bending, “fuck me” look that would get him shoved up against a wall at The Drive in a heartbeat. The kid’s skills appeared to be fine.
He swallowed a chuckle and nodded curtly to Gina and Sparky. “Leave it all to me,” he murmured, before shouldering his way to the very center of the room.
***
They’d warned him they were hiring a consultant to “work with him.” Fitz had expected…well, honestly, he hadn’t known what to expect. Maybe a skinny Frenchman named Jean-Pierre or a bossy woman who could’ve been Morrison’s even more evil twin. Or some hatchet-faced guy with a briefcase full of torture devices who would strap him to a chair Clockwork Orange-style. Not this. He definitely hadn’t expected this.
Either Middle Eastern or Indian, the guy was dark-haired and dark-eyed. At least six inches shorter than Fitz, he was easily the smallest guy in the room, but he radiated complete confidence. It made him look lean and dangerous, instead of scrawny. His skinny jeans probably cost more than Mama’s mortgage payments, and his tight blue T-shirt was the team color, likely coordinated on purpose. He looked like he’d stepped off the soundstage of a Bollywood movie. Even from across the room, he made Fitz’s pulse jump. And he had to turn into the shield of his locker door, so no one would catch the automatic tent in his sweatpants. Sure, everybody got a little wood in the showers or changing. No big deal. But the state of his dick seemed to be a fucking national issue these days.
It had taken a season and a half just to settle in. Most of his teammates still expected him to throw a one-man Pride parade every time they scored a touchdown—and the homophobic shit they let fly despite mandatory sensitivity training was far from pleasant. But he’d expected all of that. He’d been through it before, playing college ball. This shit, with upper management freaking the fuck out because a single, dedicated, football player with no drama was, somehow, cause for alarm…it was unbelievable.
And here, now, was the cavalry. Fitz laughed as Captain Consultant cut through the other guys like a very hot knife through butter and came to stand before him. “Is this their idea of fighting my flame with fire?” he wondered. “Because, I’ve got to tell you, baby, I don’t think it’s going to work.”
Coal-black eyebrows winged together, not amused. “First things first, get used to calling people ‘dude,’ not ‘baby,’ and you better believe it will work, because I am damn good at my job.” Fitz itched to smooth those furrowed brows back out again and fisted his hands to keep them in check. The idea of calling this guy ‘dude’ was ridiculous. His low, crisp voice sounded faintly English, definitely like he’d been raised somewhere outside the U.S. He was no more a ‘dude,’ than Fitz was a ballerina.
“No, you’re definitely a baby,” he chuckled. “But if that’s not working for you, how about a name?”
The consultant’s brown eyes only smoldered with more disapproval. “I nearly believed there wasn’t a silent ‘because I’ll be screaming it later’ on the end of that,” he said, dryly. “Maybe there is hope for you, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“Emerson,” he corrected automatically. “But everyone calls me ‘Fitz,’ on account of me being Irish.” The pocket PR guy blinked, clearly unsure if he was joking. And Fitz had dealt with enough ‘wtf’ reactions that he took pity on the guy. “Great-granddaddy Fitzpatrick moved here from County Clare and promptly fell for a freedwoman and her rhubarb pie. His name and her recipe survived, his skin tone didn’t,” he explained, before shifting back to his favorite mode. “So, what makes you think I’d be the one doing the screaming, Mister…?”
“Shah. Nik Shah. And I don’t scream.” He flicked imaginary lint off his shoulder, everything about him icy except his eyes. “Second lesson: Don’t blatantly flirt with every boy that walks in the room. Subtlety will get you laid just as easily and keep your coaches happy.”
“I’ve never had problems getting laid, but okay.” He snorted, miming taking out a paper and pen. “Should I be taking notes? Is there gonna be a test later?”
As far as he was concerned, keeping his coaches happy meant his performance on the field. He already had enough eyes on him for being one of the few black quarterbacks in the league. What he did or didn’t do—or who he didn’t do—in his down time was his business. And his way of handling that business had worked pretty well so far. You didn’t see the guys on SportsCenter taking potshots at his personal life. He hadn’t landed on the cover of th
e Post for shooting himself in the leg, and he didn’t smack women around—his mother had raised him far, far better than that. But apparently that wasn’t enough for the higher-ups. He was damned if he acted a fool and just as damned if he didn’t. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, grabbing a clean shirt out of his locker.
“At least we agree on one thing.” Nik glanced around them with obvious disdain, shaking his head. “Get dressed. Meet me in the parking lot in 15 minutes. If I’m to get through to you at all, it clearly can’t be accomplished here.”
“So, you don’t scream and you don’t do it in public. Is that lesson number three?” Fitz knew it was asshole-ish to keep yanking the guy’s chain, but he couldn’t help himself. There had to be some perks to having your image consulted upon, right?
Nik’s mouth quirked in something that might have been a smile. It was sexy regardless, and Fitz was so busy staring at his bottom lip, full and totally suckable, that he almost missed the words. The warning. What was almost certainly a promise.
“Lesson number three is that you don’t fuck with me, because I just might fuck with you right back.” Then he turned around and walked away. Fitz didn’t particularly mind, because it allowed him to admire the man’s truly spectacular ass.
He showered and dressed faster than usual for after practice, not lingering to bullshit with the guys—just fist-bumping Eddie and Cortez on his way out of the locker room, his duffle slung casually over one shoulder. Fifteen minutes in the parking lot? He made it with three minutes to spare, looking around the garage and wondering what Captain Consultant drove. Whether it was small and efficient with a hot little engine, just like its owner. And he was hard all over again, just thinking about spreading Nik Shah across the still-warm hood and blowing him until he threw all his lessons out the window and screamed himself hoarse. Fitz had always had a thing for big, bossy control freaks in tight little packages.
Dil or No Dil Page 2
