21 Shades of Night, page 347
"No, not everyone. Just nerds and—" Say it, say it. "And romantics," I mumble back.
"Neither of which I am." His voice is stronger. But he still doesn’t meet my eyes.
"Oh! Yeah! You are both. You are the first nerdy, romantic cop I have met." That gets his attention.
And I am treated to the full force of those golden-brown eyes now. Don't go all-awkward. Just say what's on your mind.
"You jumped to my rescue at the bar when that guy was being obscene. Then took care of me after I was shot. I find that romantic." Whoa! Did I just say that? It's my turn to look away. My cheeks grow warm. "Or maybe it's just me," I mumble and look away, staring straight ahead.
The silence stretches again.
An uncomfortable, frizzing-with-awareness-of-the-other-person kind of silence.
"How many cops do you know, anyway?" he finally asks.
I still don't look at him; I just hold up my right forefinger.
"At least you are honest." He turns me around, s-l-o-w-l-y, and wipes away the water drops on my cheek. His touch is soft. Slight. Almost not there. But so there. His hands on my shoulders are warm, heavy. I start and a quiver of desire unfurls inside. Slow. It curls up. Our eyes meet. And hold.
Neither of us looks away.
The lightning tree sends out a gentle twinge and a shiver runs up my back.
His breath stirs the fine hair on my forehead. He lowers his face, his nose almost touching mine. The soap on his skin smells different from the same soap on mine. Deeper, darker, secretive. Mahogany-scented, with a little edge. I lean in. Closer. Closer still. I want to feel that little jump of danger again. My heart picks up speed, and thuds to a stop when a clatter of thunder cuts the air between us. He walks back to the table.
"Better finish eating," he says, and picking up his sandwich, bites into it. "It's good."
Recognizing his words for what they are—a peace offering—I nod.
"Enjoy it. This might be the last proper meal you get in a while."
"You actually think this is like the end of the world, don't you."
"I know it." His voice is flat. He may be right, but just now, I don't want to think about what's happening out there. I want to find out more about this feeling crackling between us.
And then he throws me with, "Interesting tattoo you have there on your back."
When I start at that he goes, "I did notice it when I was dressing your wound."
"It's not a tattoo." I am not sure what it is, but even less so about what to tell him.
But he surprises me again with, "Perhaps I can help." He says and hesitates, looking away as if already regretting what he's said.
I stare at that.
Of course, he'd know about it. If those videos are anything to go by, he knows a lot of what's happening to the city, what she has been up to. Perhaps he's even working with her. Is he? I still can't bring myself to accept it. I push that away. No, I need more proof linking him to her. He's a cop after all. Perhaps he's got the videos as evidence. And he's using it to track her down.
I don't question why I am so ready to give him the benefit of doubt. Perhaps it's because when I am with him, something in him always reaches out to me and seems to calm me down. Perhaps something inside me has already decided to give him a chance. To believe in him. To believe he's actually here to help me.
Or maybe it's because I've barely met him and already I like him.
Or hell, I swear inwardly, just put it down to chemistry. Maybe it's because every time I see him, I just want to jump him.
When I don't reply for a few seconds he leans back, "Don't you want to know the significance of the mark on your body?"
His tone is puzzled as if he's trying to figure out what I am thinking just then.
Truthfully, I'd prefer to forget the existence of the lightning tree. It doesn't bother me anymore, except to warn me of danger; or when I feel something for Vik. Like just now, when I'm close to him, watching him, as he sits there, his fingers curled into fists at his side. His face looks strained as if he's not quite sure what to tell me.
Then his eyes meet mine and I realize he's worried. As if he does care for me, despite his denying it earlier.
And that helps me swallow down my fear of what he's going to tell me and I finally nod.
As if sensing the emotions twisting inside, he takes my hands, rubbing them so some of the warmth from his larger ones transfer to mine.
"Hey" he says his voice soft, his eyes almost melting pools of honey now, "It's okay. It's not as bad as you think."
I swallow, "What do you know about the lightning tree?" I ask. Seeing the surprise on his face I smile, "Panky figured out that one."
"Clever Panky,” he says, quickly adding, "We'll find him, you know that."
I nod.
"It's some kind of internal warning device isn't it?" I ask, "The lightning tree?"
Without letting go of my palms he says, "Yes and more. It's like an internal barometer. To help you read what your instinct is trying to tell you. You can trust it to help you find your way out of sticky situations."
"So why did this happen to me? Am I the only one who carries this mark?" I ask.
"As far as I know, there is only one more person. Someone with a similar genetic combination to you. She's exposing you to traumatic incidents merely to jumpstart your potential." He says.
"So she's doing this on purpose. Getting me pushed off a platform and electrocuting me?" I stare, not sure what to say. My mind's whirling with all this new information.
"She thinks she's doing you a favor. Helping you discover your talents quickly. She's toughening you up to play a bigger role in the future."
"The future?" I ask.
"The future of this city. Perhaps of this world." He stops and watches me closely as if trying to gauge my reaction to everything he's said so far.
"I don't know what to make of all this." I say, trying to pull my hands from his, but he doesn't let go.
Genetic make-up, lightning tree, not to mention this strange figure my Ma has turned into. To think a few days ago I'd been living a 'normal' life, hanging out with Panky, doing my laundry every week.
And now the city is collapsing around us and I am teaming up with a cop I barely know to try and stop it.
"How does she even know all this?" I shake my head, "And do you believe what she said?" I ask. "Her crazy vision about a new world."
He hesitates, then replies, "I don't know what to believe, except what I see with my own eyes. And right now," he looks out the window as if seeing the chaos out there, "it feels like she wants to destroy this city and build something new in its place. Can she really do it? I don't know. My guess is we've not seen the complete extent of her powers yet."
I swallow trying to digest all this, but my thoughts are whirling around in my head making me dizzy.
"Meanwhile," I echo his words, "I'm stuck with this strange mark. My personal internal barometer," I say, acknowledging his earlier comment.
"Except," I stare at him, widening my eyes, "I don't know what it's trying to tell me when it goes crazy around you."
I bite my lips, wondering if I am giving too much away, knowing I am flirting with him. Is he going to rebuff me now? I am wondering what he'll make of it when to my surprise his eyes soften even more.
His features take on a peculiar look as if he wants to tell me something but cannot quite bring himself to.
Instead, he rubs his finger up and down the back of my hand.
Another shiver runs down my back, and goose bumps pop on my forearms. I like what he's doing. I don't want him to stop.
As if hearing me, he lets go and leans back, and that familiar mask is back on his face. I swear inwardly, wishing he'd just stayed that way a little longer. I quite like the way he was looking at me just then.
"That you must figure out for yourself," he says, his voice cool.
He goes back to eating his sandwich when another thought strikes me. "And you know all this how?"
Without looking up from his plate he says, "I have my sources."
I frown at that. "You mean you have someone inside her team giving you information."
He doesn't say anything but I sense I'm not far from the truth. He rubs his hand over his face and I realize he's more exhausted than he's letting on.
Trying for more casual conversation I say, "Nice place."
"Yeah." He replies, his voice short.
"Your parents'?" I probe.
"No, it's mine." Again, silence.
"Gosh, you make a great dinner companion," I burst out, more than a little put off by his lack of conversation.
"So I've been told." He grins.
I stare, taken aback at the full voltage of charisma pouring my way. It's the first time I have been at the receiving end of all that charm. He can turn it on when he wants. I can see why he would be a hit with the girls. Oh! Yeah! He has that kind of quiet, rather deadly irresistible appeal. It hits you when you least expect it.
I want to stay angry with him. But I can't. My lips widen in an answering smile.
For a second there, I can see how it could be for us … if things were more normal … if we had actually met on a date.
"Tell me more about your family," I say.
He sends me a bland look.
"Your parents? Do they live in Bombay?" I am not letting go now.
When he doesn't respond, I add, "I saw their photograph in the living room."
"They're dead," he says, voice devoid of emotion.
I am shocked, speechless.
"No angry, irritable remarks from you on that?" he snaps back.
"Ah! I am sorry," I manage finally.
My apology seems to calm him. He gets a grip on his emotions. Picks up the glass of water, takes a sip.
"My father was killed in action. He was a cop."
"Like you?"
He looks at me as if not seeing me. Then nods. "I'll never be half as good as he was."
So, he had huge respect for his father and now misses him.
How does that feel? To look up to someone.
My own dad? He'd loved me in his own way. This silent presence that he was, a ghost in his own house. You never knew if he was around. He had looked at me with absent-minded affection as if trying to figure how I had arrived. I had taken them by surprise all right. Conceived on their wedding night. When they had not yet been ready to take the responsibility of a child. Is that why he preferred to hide himself in his study? Pretend I didn't exist.
My dad the scientist.
So clever, yet, so innocent when it came to the ways of the world.
He never did know what she was—is—up to.
"And your mom?" I have to find out more about him. It's a game now. This comparing our pasts and finding out where all I fall short.
His face softens into a smile, "She was a sweetheart. Feisty too. She had a quick temper." He looks at me again, and a look of surprise feathers across his face, gone quickly. "And she could be difficult sometimes. A lot like you, actually."
I am quick to protest, "I am not diffic—"
At the knowing look on his face, I shut up. I walked right into that one.
He laughs at that. "Sorry, couldn't resist."
Try as I might, I can't stay angry with him.
He yawns all of a sudden. Exhaustion shadows his face.
"Okay, then." He pushes back his plate back, his eyelids at half-mast now. "It's Vik, by the way," He says, yawning again. "Call me Vik." He half grins.
I nod, struck dumb as he gets to his feet and walks off, yawning again.
I watch him as he walks to the door, then turns around. "By the way, you haven't seen my phone have you?" He asks.
I grow still and try to keep any emotion of my face, "No. I haven't. Perhaps you dropped it when we were running away from the hotel? In all the confusion I mean?"
I hold my breath wondering if he'll buy it, when he nods.
"I suppose." His brow furrows as if he's trying to recall when he last saw it. "Strange, wonder where I lost it." He frowns then, shrugs. "Well, good night."
He leaves and I stay seated, staring at the candlelight until I finish my own sandwich. Then, get up, wash the plates and dry them.
I am not going into the room till he is definitely asleep. That way I can avoid any awkward conversations like who is going to sleep where?
But, what do I wear to bed? Should I keep wearing my bathrobe? Take it off? How to make sure we don't touch each other during the night. But I do want him to touch me.
Maybe I should take the couch.
The thoughts chase each other in my head and I stay where I am, till my eyes begin to close and I begin to nod off.
My plan works too well.
By the time I follow him into the bedroom, Vikram is fast asleep under the covers so deeply I can't even detect the rise and fall of his chest.
I allow myself to fall on the covers next to him. In my bathrobe. Be okay to close my eyes, just for a little while.
Chapter 19
I AM AT Bandra railway station. It's packed with passengers on the way to work. It's hot. Of course it is. But today feels like the hottest day ever.
Someone has turned on a TV set fitted to the ledge above the platform, loud. The voice of the news presenter drones on in the background. "...The highest in ten years. Is this global warming, we ask? Or is it the suspected leak in radiation from the Bhabha Atomic Center, which is causing this? We don't know. But let's turn to our common person of the day and ask her this question."
The reporter on the TV set turns to me. "So, tell us what you think, madam?"
"Uh? Me?"
"Yes, madam, you. What do you think?"
I try to speak, but every time I open my mouth to form the words, something brushes my thigh, distracting me. Once, twice—the third time it happens, I look down to see a hand fondling me. I look back to the TV screen in desperation. I am not alone on the platform.
Someone will help me, right?
After all, this is peak hour; there are so many people about.
Someone, something, will come to my aid.
I see myself live on TV. I am being filmed. The creep is on screen. He is alive. His clothes are in tatters. His skin is torn in places, his face half cut off. There is blood, so much blood flowing from his wounds, yet he turns to the screen, meeting my eyes in the TV set, and he grins at me.
His hand brushes my thighs again; I can see him move his hand up towards the apex, that secret space between my upper thighs. Everyone in the station turns to watch. There is hushed silence as people wait to see what will happen next.
I angle my chin, not removing my eyes from his face on the screen, and part my legs so he can access my triangle, and when he touches me there, I moan.
And then he is dragging me by my hair to the edge of the platform. Everyone else stands frozen, not moving.
And I am shoved and falling past the tracks, just as the train thunders past.
The fire courses through my veins, yet I am cold, freezing. Trapped in a whirlpool of black, and purple, the green swirls around me. I know it is a dream, but can't get myself out of it. My veins are turning to violet icicles, erupting out of my skin, and I try to pull them out, to get rid of what is trying to hold me down.
Where is the blood?
I have to see the blood.
I need to scratch away the surface of my skin, fill the space with crimson regret. Spilling out the secrets of the past.
Someone is crying. Great gulps of anguish, like a child who has been struck so many times its spirit finally broken. It's me, I know. Can't stop myself. Warm tears roll down my cheeks.
A warm honeyed sweetness drips down my arms.
A slap to the cheek has me jerking awake.
I gasp, taking in a deep breath of air. Stopping mid-cry, I open my eyes to stare into amber flares. Strong, steady, he burns me up too, but in a different way.
His head is silhouetted against the pale pink of dawn shining through the open window. The breeze has that dreamy quality, a slight crispness to it, hinting at the rain showers from last night.
It's blessedly cool; at least a good ten degrees lower than the surly heat of the day. I try to bring up my hands to touch his face and find them shackled by his.
I have scratched his cheek, the fresh marks just beginning to open up the skin. As I watch, a droplet of blood pops out. I raise my head and catch it on the tip of my tongue.
He doesn't move. Just watches me, those amber eyes alert as always, wary with self-restraint. I can see myself in them. I lean forward and flick out my tongue to brush the drop of blood against his lips.
He deepens the kiss, slanting his lips across mine, pressing me back against the bed so just for a second my breasts are crushed against him. I have borne his weight before, but this is different.
Our lips break apart and I fall back. There's a strange look on his face. He is aware of me, aroused, no doubt about that. I also see pity.
He knows.
He knows that I cut myself.
And then, he knows that I know he knows.
Just like that, the fire in his eyes blanks out, replaced by that freezing desert-like brown sheet of glass. The one I itch to reach out and shatter.
"You are too impetuous, you know that?"
Does that mean I like to follow my heart?
"Not anymore." I say. "Life's too short to play guessing games."
"Get dressed," he orders, but his tone lacks conviction. Neither of us moves. He is still holding my hands, shackling them to the bed. I am very aware of not wearing anything other than a bathrobe. My breasts harden, rubbing against the rough cloth, thrusting against the fabric, pushing up against his chest.
Can he feel what he's doing to me?
Vik himself is in fresh jeans, a light blue shirt tucked in. He is even freshly shaven. The scruffy beard covering his chin is gone, replaced with the slightly lighter skin that comes from having been shielded from the sun long enough for it to look paler than the rest of his face, until the hair on his cheeks grows back. I have a full, clear view of the jut of his chin.
I am still close enough that if I lean just a little closer, my breath will fan over that thin upper lip. The one which lends him that characteristic stern, standoffish appearance, only to be broken by the slight dimple in his cheek—the one that peeks out on the rare occasions when he smiles. The pull I have felt right from the beginning feels stronger now. As if strengthened by what we have been through. It's not completely lust, not just attraction. I just feel intense curiosity about this man. I want to know him better, to find out what's inside of him. What he thinks, feels—
