Goddess for Hire (13 page)

THE GODDESS
was an alcoholic.

How else could you explain the fact that I'd knocked back three dirty vodka martinis and wasn't feeling a thing?

The bartender pointed at my glass. “Another?”

“Yessh pleashe.”

Okay, maybe I was feeling something.

Either that or I was unintentionally doing a really bad impersonation of Sean Connery.

The White Lotus, my favorite LA nightspot, was packed. The tables were draped with trendy types and striving starlets. In the center of a fountain an enormous statue of Buddha gazed benevolently down at the scene.

The Goddess Gaze had worked wonders on the bouncer.

Normally I didn't have a problem getting in, but this was Saturday night, and I was dressed in jeans—the better to fight malevolence with. Cameron Diaz, whom I'd spotted earlier, might have been able to gain entrance
dressed in flip-flops and a sack made out of hemp, but I wasn't some pampered celebrity.

As much as I wanted to be.

“Hard day?” the guy next to me said, taking a seat. He had wide blue eyes, red hair, and perfect eyebrows.

This was LA. Men waxed, plucked, and highlighted with the best of us.

Even though Orange County was a mere forty-five minutes away, I'd left the land of Christian Conservatives far behind, having crossed into the territory of Celebrity Culture.

Both regions had their plus points.

LA had hipness. Orange County had parking.

I checked out Perfect Brows, as the bartender set another frosty glass in front of me. “Today was a bitch. I had to work.”

He was checking me out as well. “What do you do?”

“I'm Kali. Goddess of Death and Destruction. Giver of Life and Devourer of Children.”

Oops.

Alcohol hadn't loosened my tongue; it had completely unhinged it.

“Kali, huh. The chick with all the arms, right?” He nodded, taking a sip of his drink. “My guru mentioned her. Have you heard of the Art of Living? My guru says…”

I tuned out.

Another Hare Krishna Hippie Freak, as Nadia would say.

I popped an olive into my mouth and blinked at my glass. It was empty. I picked up the glass and turned it upside down, staring in puzzlement as not a single drop fell out.

Perfect Brows was saying something. “So do you have a one-woman show?”

“Huh?” I was having trouble focusing. What the hell was he talking about? And then my alcohol-imbibing brain cells got it. He thought I was an actress. As in, I'm not a goddess but I play one on TV. “No, I'm the real deal. Really.”

He stared at me.

“You think I'm crazy, don't you?” I said.

“Not at all. You know the guy on the corner of La Cienega and Sunset? The one who's always screaming he's Jesus? Everyone ignores him, but one day I started to think, what if the dude's telling the truth? I mean, if Jesus really did come back and stood on a street corner sermoning away, of course people would think he's Michael-Jackson-mental.” He signaled the bartender. “One more round.”

Between the two of us we were shelling out quite a bit for drinks. The White Lotus wasn't cheap.

Cheaper than therapy though.

Perfect Brows was staring at me with a definite glint in his eye. He had superb taste. I'd give him that. And since I wasn't Michael-Jackson-mental, he'd probably try to get in my pants.

“Wanna dance?” he said.

“Sure.” I slid off the stool.

And promptly fell to the floor.

 

The next morning my head was hammering and my throat was drier than British humor.

Divine healing, my ass.

And then I forgot about all that.

I was in a strange bed, in a strange room.

Naked.

The body beside me shifted and pressed against my side.

Very definitely male.

I covered my face with my hands. Shit! I'd gone home with Perfect Brows.

And I couldn't remember any of it.

“Morning-after regrets? It's a bit too early for a cliché, don't you think?” a familiar voice drawled.

My hands flew off my face and I turned to stare at the very sleepy, very sexy man next to me.

Tahir.

Oh, Goddess!

It was worse than I thought.

“I CAN FEEL
your heartbeat,” Tahir murmured.

“I didn't realize it was between my legs,” I snapped, and leaped off the bed, wrapping the sheet around me so fast the room whirled.

“How did this happen?” I demanded.

Arms crossed behind his head, Tahir watched me with amusement. “Girl meets boy. Girl gets piss drunk. Girl calls boy to pick her up. Girl jumps boy and tears his clothes off.”

I forced myself to remember. Dancing in a crowd. Losing sight of Perfect Brows. Calling Tahir because I was too drunk to drive.

Calling Tahir…

Cell phones were a nuisance and should definitely be banned. I would take up the cause immediately.

I sneaked a sideways glance at Tahir. He lounged on the bed like a well-sated Mughal emperor and stared back at me with frank approval.

I couldn't help the spark of pride that flared up inside me.

Maybe I'd been channeling Kali. Maybe I'd been feeling the shakti. Or maybe it was true that a woman's libido went into overdrive after the age of thirty. But I'd never been that uninhibited or abandoned before.

Whatever the case—

The goddess was pretty damn good in the sack!

Soothed by thoughts of my sexual prowess, I was able to take in the details of the room around me. White walls. Black furniture. Hardwood floor. Atop the dresser, a collection of photos in elegant silver frames caught my eye.

Affecting an air of French sophistication—so we had sex, big deal—I strolled over to the dresser.

In the first one, Tahir was wearing a cap and gown and standing between two older people. “Your parents?” I asked.

Tahir sat up, black silk sheets pooling around his legs, and peered over. “Yeah.”

He didn't look like either one of them. His father was slight with delicate features and wispy gray hair. His mother was tall, heavyset, and dark. Her features were as formidable as her bosom. Instead of staring into the camera, she was gazing at her son with a look of rapt adoration. I suppressed a shudder and moved on.

The woman in the next picture was simply breathtaking. Her soft white hair was pulled back into a simple bun, exposing the long slender line of her throat. She
wore a gold-embroidered sari and owned the chair as if it were a throne. Tahir looked exactly like her.

He stood up and my eyes immediately swung toward his nether regions, but he was wearing pajama bottoms the exact same color as the sheets. “My dadi.” He picked up the frame, his expression softening as he gazed at his paternal grandmother. “I call her every Sunday.”

“Who's this?” I pointed to a picture of a black Labrador drooling up into the camera, tail in midwag.

“Chum. Leaving him behind in Delhi was the hardest thing I had to do.” Tahir's eyes were getting brighter by the moment. “My parents dote on him.”

Any moment now I'd find myself with a weeping, half-naked man on my hands. I needed to snap him out of it. “So this is the softer side of Tahir?” I mocked. “Surprise. Surprise. And here I was thinking you had all the charm of Donald Rumsfeld coupled with the heart of Martha Stewart.”

The corner of Tahir's mouth curled up in a smile. “You're in for another surprise. Take a look in the mirror.”

What was it? A hickey the size of Long Island?

There was a funky, black, rectangular mirror—I was betting
Z Gallerie
—on the opposite wall. I walked toward it, looked, and nearly screamed.

A small ruby winked at me from the left side of my nose.

Holy shnoz! I'd gotten my nose pierced.

Tentatively, I reached out and touched it. “To reiterate, how did this happen?”

“A tattoo parlor on Main. We drove by, and you insisted on going in. They're known for their celebrity clientele. I think I saw Christina Aguilera being led into a back room.”

Upscale tattoo parlor? Wasn't that a contradiction in terms? Trying to process the events of the night before left me feeling light-headed.

“I rather like it,” Tahir added.

I snapped. Tahir's nonchalance had gone too far. “What kind of man are you? There I was, completely drunk, and you happily stand by while I get my nose pierced. Then you happily have sex with me afterward.”

Tahir ran a hand through his hair. “We came back here, and I had a few drinks myself—I'm not making excuses—but,” he paused, “there is such a thing as personal responsibility.”

I was still formulating a witty reply when he reached over and brushed a lock of hair off my bare shoulder. “Listen. Last night was amazing, and I know it wasn't because of the alcohol. This thing between us”—his warm hands slid up my arms and rested on my shoulders—“is rare and real.”

The room was suddenly hotter than August in India.

Tahir was waiting. The moment was pregnant with intimacy. I would have to weigh my next few words carefully.

“Did you use protection?” I asked.

Damn.

That wasn't what I'd meant to say.

He stepped back, hands dropping to his sides. “Yes, of course.”

“Umm, great.” I quickly began retrieving my clothes from the floor. Arms full, I raced for the door next to me and whipped it open, praying it was the bathroom and not the closet.

'Cause I didn't want to look stupid.

Make that stupider.

Confronted with marble, I let out a sigh of relief. Bathroom. Without looking at Tahir, I slammed the door shut and locked it.

Sinking to the edge of the tub, I buried my face in my hands and willed the image of Tahir, arms at his side, expression hurt, out of my head.

Well, what did he expect me to say?

I didn't know how I felt about him. I knew I wanted him. I missed him when he was gone. But that could all be lust. I mean, if Tahir had one eye and lurched around like the hunchback of Notre Dame, would I still feel the same way?

I really, really wanted him.

Yesterday I'd been complaining. I'd felt lonely. Was I saving the world or wasn't I saving the world, and did anyone care?

Outside Tahir was waiting to take me in his arms, and at the moment it was the only place I wanted to be.

I felt the Universe was giving me a sign.

I opened the door.

Tahir was in the middle of the room, clad in a pair of jeans, and pulling on a shirt.

I cleared my throat. “I'm up for exploring this connection between us, what about you?”

The next moment his mouth was against mine.

Oh yeah.

This time, I was going to remember each and every second of it.

I WAS DEFINITELY
feeling the shakti.

I was back in my car, singing along with Lauryn Hill at the top of my lungs. It was well into evening and dark outside. Tahir had wanted to take me to Dolce for dinner. I'd been sorely tempted—by Tahir and the meal—but I had a job to do, malevolence to battle.

Even though we were now lovers—a giggle escaped my lips—I hadn't told Tahir about the goddess thing. First of all, how do you bring something like that into casual conversation? I mean, that would require the mother of all smooth transitions. Secondly, if I did tell him, would he believe me? I was having trouble believing it, and I had lightning at my beck and call. Third, what if I did call up the winds, and I ended up scaring the shit out of him? He'd hightail it away so fast, Speedy Gonzales couldn't keep up with him.

I liked having Tahir in my life. I didn't exactly know what the status of our relationship was—somewhere between fuck buddies and dating—but I didn't want to risk it.

And that sort of brought me to why I hadn't told my parents the truth yet. In the beginning it was the normal dysfunctional-family, don't-ask-don't-tell thing, but now it had evolved into something else.

I was afraid to tell them.

I was afraid of seeing the fear and incomprehension on their faces. We had enough problems as it was. I didn't want them looking at me as some kind of monster.

It was well and good worshipping a deity from a distance. But even the most peaceful Buddhists residing in the state of Zendom would find it a bit unsettling if their son turned out to be the incarnation of Buddha. They might even hang themselves from the nearest Bodhi tree.

The truth could wait.

For the moment my holy secret was safe with me.

But there was one thing I couldn't wait for. With Tahir I'd found an even better workout than fighting evil. And I was hungry. I was more than hungry.

In the words of Mohandas K. Gandhi, after his famous fast ended, “Can someone get me some goddamn food?”

 

I was in the drive-thru of Carl's Jr. ordering a Western Bacon cheeseburger meal, when my cell phone rang.

Ram was finally calling me back.

“Where've you been?” I demanded. “Can I get crisscut fries instead of regular?”

“Crisscross?” Ram asked.

“Hold on.” I finished ordering, then moved ahead into
the long line of cars leading up to the window. I settled back and turned my attention to Ram. “Sorry about that. Now why haven't you called?”

“I was on holiday in Seattle.”

“Seattle?”

“Sanjay had work there. It was a most joyous trip. We went to the Space Needle, but I lost my sandal at Pike Place Market.”

“Why didn't you tell me you'd be out of town?”

Ram sounded genuinely puzzled. “I did not think you would be so distressed. I mailed you a postcard,” he added.

I couldn't help smiling. “Thanks. Now we definitely need to meet. I have a couple of questions for you.”

“That is acceptable. Sanjay is with Indira. We can meet here.” His voice dropped to a whisper even though he'd just said he was alone. “I do not think Indira likes me. She looks at me like she is a sleeping cobra, and I am the annoying little boy who has been poking her with a stick trying to rouse her from her slumber.”

I laughed. “I don't think she's too into me either. Listen, I'm in LA. I should be in Irvine in about forty minutes.”

“Let it be so,” Ram said, and hung up.

I paid and merged back into traffic. Burger in one hand, fries in the other, and steering with my elbows. Just as I took a bite my cell rang again.

Tahir's name flashed across the screen.

A thrill ran through me.

Taking one elbow off the wheel, I shoved the burger, complete with wrapper, into my mouth to hold, and grabbed the phone.

It slipped and fell between my feet.

I tried to grab it with my foot, but not even I was that coordinated.

Reluctantly, I made a right and pulled into a residential street. By the time I picked up the phone, he'd hung up.

I was about to call him back, when there was a loud crash and I was thrown forward onto the steering wheel.

My car had been hit from behind.

Fuming, I yanked open the door and jumped out. No one, but no one, dented my H2. If they didn't have insurance, I would descend on them with all the force of my sacred right to rage.

And then the malevolence hit.

Ugh.

This wasn't some innocent driver.

The malevolence was strong, distinct. I'd come to realize that malevolence was as unique to the individual as body odor.

Ugh.

As in body odor ugh. Not evil ugh.

Actually, the malevolence was more than distinct. It was familiar. I'd felt it before at Aunt Gayatri's party and periodically afterward.

The Kali-hater was back.

Before I could open the door and retrieve my sword, he was in front of me.

My hand froze on the door handle.

What shocked me wasn't the gun pointed at my midsection. I was used to guns.

My stalker moved closer and the light from the street-lamp fell on his face, illuminating what I'd already seen.

I couldn't believe it.

The Kali-hater was none other than Ram's cousin.

Mild-mannered computer programmer—

Sanjay.