Variables of Love

by M. K. Schiller

  Cover

  Title Page

  Variables of Love

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  MK Schiller

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  Omnific Publishing

  Los Angeles

  Copyright Information

  Variables of Love, Copyright © 2014 by MK Schiller

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  ...

  Omnific Publishing

  1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

  Los Angeles, California 90067

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  ...

  First Omnific eBook edition, September 2014

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, September 2014

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

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  Schiller, MK.

  Variables of Love / MK Schiller – 1st ed

  ISBN: 978-1-623421-32-8

  1. Multicultural—Romance. 2. New Adult—Romance. 3. College—Fiction. 4. Indian—Fiction. I. Title

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  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  To Patrick

  for keeping us stocked on faith, laughter, and ice cream.

  Prologue

  I WISH I COULD SAY I didn’t remember that day. I was sixteen, and it was the first sunny day of spring after a long, dark winter. There was sand, laughter, the lake, flip-flops, beer, and Matt Stapler’s shiny green eyes. But I’d been far too pissed off to enjoy any of it. My plan for the perfect first kiss ruined…because of his interference.

  He pulled me to the side, lowering his voice, but the words rang with such hostility, he might as well have screamed them. “You look like a slut.”

  How could I respond to that? I looked like the rest of the girls, in my hot pink bikini and denim shorts that slung low on my hips. Fuck him…I looked hot. I started walking away, but he grabbed my arm.

  “I’m not always going to be able to watch over you.”

  My bitter laugh was so biting that he actually winced. “Thank God for that.”

  “We are not like these people. We were raised differently,” he said in a much calmer voice, as if he was now trying to reason with me.

  “I am exactly like them. You’re not. Just because we share the same DNA, doesn’t mean I’m like you in any way.”

  “You can say that as much as you want, but they will never accept you. Just as we would never accept them.”

  “Live your own damn life and stop fucking up mine. I hate you,” I spat, doling out the words like cruel, heartless slaps. He didn’t scowl or sneer as expected. He looked hurt. Good.

  He stopped me from getting onto the shiny motorcycle, taking my place. I curbed my anger just enough to prevent an obnoxious scene, but inside I was seething. I wished I didn’t have a brother.

  Vijay turned to me and shook his head in smug satisfaction. I might have laughed at the sight of my conservative brother on a motorcycle, and the ridiculous fight he and Matt got into when Vijay insisted on riding bitch, but there was too much venom flowing in my veins. Instead, I got in my friend’s small convertible and watched them pass us from my side of the car.

  The screeching skid of tires snapped me from my selfish thoughts, jolting me upright. I watched in paralyzed horror as the shiny black motorcycle collided with the large SUV in front of it. It fell to the pavement, bouncing up again, looking as if it were made of elastic not metal. The rebounding motion happened not once, but three times—three heart-wrenching, tear-inducing, life-changing times.

  The desperate shriek lodged in my throat, silenced as my head crashed into the dash. My ears absorbed the foreign sounds as they mingled, merging into a new song that would forever infest my mind. The loud scrape of metal against metal as it twisted, bent, yielded, and broke. The screeches and screams combined in a nightmarish lullaby as the pungent aroma of burning rubber assaulted my nostrils and broken glass rained down on me.

  I had wished I didn’t have a brother.

  And just like that, I didn’t.

  Chapter 1

  I USUALLY TOOK MY TIME as I walked, but today I was breaking all pedestrian speed limits. I preferred to think of myself as prepared, but Raj called me anal-retentive. Neither description fit today. I was running very late thanks to my roommate, Rachael, who had unplugged my alarm clock to charge her iPod. And what an important day it was—the beginning of the end—my last year of college.

  I wasn’t looking ahead in the hazardous, crowded hallway but down at the loose papers in my hands, cursing myself for not having the foresight to staple my essay. That’s why the impact was so strong when my face slammed into a wall of uncompromising muscle. I reeled back but managed not to fall on my ass. The papers didn’t fare as well. They drifted to the floor like white flags of surrender. I wasn’t sure what had happened, except there was an intoxicating aroma encircling my head along with the imaginary birds.

  Strong hands gripped my arms, holding me steady. “Are you okay?”

  I looked up at him, blinking rapidly, trying to form a basic syllable. He held me at a short distance as he inspected my face with the most piercing blues eyes I’d ever seen. Of course, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen them, but never this close. They looked like several shades of blue combined to form the perfect color, like all the good blues in the world, from the bright summer sky to the deep churning ocean, got together and decided to be one.

  I took a step back, expecting him to release me, but instead he moved with me. He caressed my arms up and down, causing a prickle of goose pimples to invade my flesh, acting as a traitorous road map of our contact. I allowed myself a quick glance at where his hand rested under the cuff of my short-sleeved shirt. I wanted to paint the image to freeze it in time. I would call it Cream over Coffee. It was an apt title.

  “Fine,” I finally answered, happy my voice didn’t crack.

  “Sure? You took a hard hit.”

  No, I’m not okay. You’re a little too beautiful to exist, and I just crashed into you like a total dumbass.

  “Yes. Are you?” I cleared my throat to stall any drooling. The boy was delicious. Although my nerves suffered a momentary reprieve when he laughed at my question. I looked down at the mess of white pages strewn around us, and his laughter died.

  “I didn’t feel a thing,” he said, and I swallowed, lifting my eyes to meet his. There was a suggestive smile tugging at his lips. “That’s not true. What I meant to say is…I’m not hurt.”

  I refused to read anything into the remark. I watched Bollywood movies sometimes with my parents. I enjoyed them, but they were way too corny to be believable, especially the hero and heroine’s first meeting. Their instant desire symbolized by long, drawn-out pauses while some romantic melody echoed and the camera shifted dramatically between them, capturing their intense, angst-ridden faces. It didn’t seem so ridiculous to me now. He was seducing me with those eyes.

  People passed us with hurried steps, scattering my papers even farther down the hall. What am I supposed to be doing? I couldn’t remember, especially when he dragged his hand through that thick, sandy brown hair, pushing it away from where it lay so artfully on his forehead. It all sprang right back into place with stubborn precision, causing my throat to go dry. He didn’t seem as affected, though
. He looked calm and collected, unlike me who was in danger of melting into the linoleum.

  Some guy bumped me with his laptop bag. I stumbled forward, but my Bollywood babe’s steady hands braced me tighter, preventing another collision.

  “Watch it!” he said to my aggressor with clear irritation. It wasn’t the guy’s fault. We were in the middle of a narrow hallway—static objects in a high-traffic zone.

  He gently pushed me away from the stream of hurried students until I felt the cool, cement wall pressed against my back. I was grateful for something to lean on, but it felt like an act of protection and far too intimate a gesture for this kind of exchange. I watched like a helpless fool as he bent down to gather up my scattered pages, carefully sifting through them. Not a lot of guys would have picked up the papers let alone arranged my essay in page order. He even took time to fix the few sheets that fell victim to crumples by placing them on his knee and running his large hand against the paper to smooth them out.

  People parted for him, careful to step around him. He commanded that kind of presence even in a kneeling position. A few slowed their steps to say hello, especially the girls. I did my best to ignore them and hold in my scowl. He returned their greetings in a sincere, easy-going way that I admired. His grin conveyed mischief and innocence as he handed the orderly stack back to me. God help me, I almost fanned myself with the damn things!

  “I’ve heard Cronin takes off points if you don’t use APA style,” he said in a deep, raspy, masculine tone that made me shiver. How did he make something ordinary sound so sexy? His voice was a low-cadenced combination of rough gravel under a rhythmic flowing river.

  “But I did,” I insisted, speaking a little louder than I needed to. As he drew nearer, though, my determination crumbled and my knees started shaking. I prayed he wouldn’t notice. He was taller than me, so I tilted my head to look at him, probably not the brightest idea. I could feel the heat of his body as it invaded mine in an invisible airborne assault. What is wrong with me? I didn’t have these reactions to boys.

  He’s different, but why?

  “Paragraphs aren’t indented,” he said.

  I snapped out of my ridiculous thoughts. Crap! He’s right.

  “It’s too late to fix it.” I willed my hands to stop trembling so I wouldn’t drop the papers again.

  “Maybe not. When do you have class?” He looked at his watch, which probably cost more than six credit hours. It was an elegant, expensive, silver thing, modern but classic, without being flashy. It contrasted with his simple black Henley and well-worn jeans. It was strange how all the items fit him even though they didn’t necessarily go together.

  I looked down at my own cheap watch, grateful for the distraction from his chiseled face. I cursed myself again. “Like now.” I held my papers to my chest and tried to veer around him, but he shifted, blocking me.

  “Let me help you hold it together.”

  What? Am I that apparent? “I have to g-go,” I stammered, trying to move past him again.

  “Let me fix it,” he replied in a quiet but authoritative voice that made me feel like one of the Pied Piper’s mice. Fix it? Was he planning to alleviate my sexual anxiety in the hallowed hallways of the Landau Economics Building?

  He reached into the messenger bag slung across his shoulder. I almost gasped until I saw the single red paperclip he held. I wasn’t sure if I was frustrated or relieved. He didn’t take the papers again but let me hold them while he secured it. It seemed they were conducting heat like a torch, slowly burning my fingertips.

  “Now you won’t have to worry if you slam into someone else before making it to class.”

  “Thank you, but I wasn’t planning on doing that.”

  “Good. I like that I’m the only one you planned on hurling yourself at, M Kapoor.”

  He noticed the way I signed my papers. He was waiting for my whole name, but I wasn’t giving it.

  “I didn’t plan to bump into you either.”

  “I guess it was my lucky day, then, Sunshine.”

  Sunshine? Was he really calling me that? Internal or external, there was nothing sunshiny about me. The term would be appropriate for little, freckled-faced kids with toothy smiles and pale, waif-like girls with long blond tresses. I was neither. What’s more, I was snarky and sullen. Nope, no sunshine here, buddy. I slipped past him and walked away with speedy steps, except this time I looked where I was going.

  “Hey, I think we have a class together,” he shouted.

  “I guess I’ll see you there.”

  “Goodbye, girl-who-bumps-into-strangers. I only call you that because I don’t know your name.”

  Yes, and I won’t give it because hearing it said out loud by your deep, sexy voice will make me lose whatever dignity I have left.

  I smiled at his description, feeling more myself as each step carried me farther away from his beautiful face, sculpted muscles, and boyish grin.

  “See you later, gorgeous-boy-who-picks-up-and-arranges-clumsy-girls’-essays,” I muttered under my breath when I was out of earshot.

  Of course, I knew who he was. Ethan Callahan, the boy who sat in the back row of Advanced Statistics. The same boy who made frequent cameos in my daydreams. I hated that he sat in the back of the lecture hall. I only saw him enter and exit the classroom. I wanted to see him enter and exit other things…like me. Wow, where the hell did that insane thought come from? Maybe I had a concussion from ramming my head into his chest. That would explain it, right?

  Except I’d been harboring these naughty ideas since I’d first seen him. Rachael would be proud. I was smut thinking, and it wasn’t like me at all. In fact, the last time I’d crushed on anyone was years ago.

  I was a good little Indian girl. Ethan Callahan was a dangerous detour that I needed to avoid. I refused to break my vows of being the ideal daughter, especially when I was so close to fulfilling my parents’ wishes. I’d already made too many deposits into the sizeable bank of their endless suffering. The promise wasn’t something I’d ever shared with anyone else. Nonetheless, it was a solemn oath, made to myself, signed by my hands, and inked with my brother’s blood.

  Chapter 2

  ADVANCED STATISTICS WAS NOW my favorite course. How have I never noticed how beautiful she is?

  She sat in the front row by herself, which was good and bad—good because she couldn’t see me staring at her and bad because I couldn’t see her pretty face. She had skin was the color of rich caramel and perfect, almond-shaped eyes that reminded me of hot melted chocolate. Yeah, she looked delicious. I wanted to run my fingers through that shiny black hair. I bet it fell to the center of her back when she had it down, but I’d only seen it worn one of three ways—tight, precise braid; high, swinging ponytail; and, my personal favorite, the loose bun. The loose bun came complete with runaway strands, begging to be played with.

  Her name was still a mystery, so I just called her Sunshine. I’d never called a girl that before, but it fit because she made me feel warm, calm, and happy. I’d never seen her smile, but I knew it would be a beautiful sight. She had full, luscious lips that could coax poetry, even from a dry-witted math major like myself. Who am I kidding? I wasn’t capable of more than a few words in the presence of that sexy mouth of hers. It was ironic how something that created speech made me speechless.

  She always wore jeans and a shapeless T-shirt, but that didn’t fool me. There were valuable assets under all that fabric. I’d felt those soft curves firsthand when she knocked into me. It wasn’t entirely her fault, although I hadn’t admitted it. She’d been looking down at her papers, walking too fast, and I’d been watching her, enjoying the view. Naturally, our gravitational pull caused a collision.

  “Stare harder and you’ll go blind,” my buddy Alex whispered.

  “You’re original,” I said, forcing myself to look away from her just when she started twirling a piece of that shiny hair around her finger. Shit, when did I become a crazy stalker?

  “And y
ou’re obvious. Hope you’re enjoying your dreams, because that’s the only place you’ll get to do the stuff you’re thinking.”

  “Like you know what I’m thinking.”

  He gave me a cynical look that told me he knew exactly which head was doing the thinking.

  “Why can’t it happen? She’s real. Isn’t she?” I asked.

  “She’s real, but I’d give it up now.”

  Professor Malkin cleared his throat, staring in our direction. I clamped my mouth shut, trying to lay off the urge to torture Alex into spilling all his inside information on my Sunshine.

  When class let out, I grabbed Alex’s arm before he started packing up. “What do you know, Goldberg?”

  Alex stared at me like he was trying to figure out if it was a serious question. I wanted to shake the answers out of him until they fell like high-hanging fruit. “She was in my chemistry class. She’s Indian.”

  “So, why does that matter?”

  “Reese Denton asked her out and got denied.”

  “So? That means she has good taste. Denton’s a dickhead.”

  “She told him she doesn’t date. She’s conservative, which means she doesn’t hang out, and she doesn’t do any of the dirty things you want to do with her, Callahan.”

  “I just want to know her, asshole.”

  Alex laughed it off. “Besides, I think she already has a boyfriend.”

  “You just said she doesn’t date.”

  “I know, but there’s a guy she’s always with. Obviously, he’s Indian too.”

  “Just because she hangs out with him doesn’t mean they’re together. He could be her brother.”

  “What part of ‘she’s Indian’ are you not getting? Girls like her don’t just hang around guys.”

  “Priya dates,” I said, referring to our mutual friend.

  “Priya is the exception. Meena is the rule.”

  “Her name is Meena?” I leaned forward. Why didn’t I ask him that first? Oh, it was because I liked calling her Sunshine, but Meena was nice too…very nice. “Meena,” I repeated, liking the way her name rolled off my tongue. Simple but sexy. I scrawled it down on my scribble pad next to all my other moronic ranting.