Goddess for Hire (6 page)

I HAD TO CLEAR
my throat several times before anyone noticed I was in the room.

My mom was the first to react. “Maya, you're back. We just finished eating.” The table was scattered with remnants of dinner: a half-empty tureen of lentil soup or dal, a plate of chapattis, a nearly devoured vegetable dish of cauliflower and potatoes, heavily seasoned with black pepper, cumin, cardamom, nutmeg, cloves, and cinnamon. A bottle of wine rested in the center.

Wine?

My parents never drank wine. Occasionally my dad indulged in a scotch and soda before dinner, and my mom would nurse a rum and Coke (only at parties mind you), but wine?

Tahir poured a glass and set it down across from him. “Here, have a taste, Maya. It's an Australian wine, Shiraz. The selection at the shop was excellent.”

“I like it,” my mom said with a fond smile at Tahir. Her cheeks were tinged pink.

My dad was shoveling food into his mouth and barely nodded at me as I took a seat. He was wearing his favorite T-shirt with the logo:
Urologists do it in a cup
.

What I really wanted was a shower. I smelled like skinhead.

But I was never one to turn down wine.

I took a sip, and I couldn't keep a sound of pleasure from escaping my lips. Shiraz, huh? Merlot had just gone down a notch in my opinion.

Then Tahir smiled, and the wine nearly shot out of my mouth. The man should be prohibited from smiling. The effect was indecently attractive.

“You know your wines,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

I suppose if “knowing” wines meant consuming them to great extent, then I did. “I know what I like.”

Tahir was staring at me. I found this disconcerting. I preferred him rude. He moved to top off my glass, which had somehow emptied itself. I took a sip and chanced another look over.

Tahir's eyes were still fixed on my face.

“Pass the dal,” my dad said. I nearly jumped, forgetting he was there. Tahir really had me unsettled, or maybe it was the fact that, hours earlier, I had turned the sky black with my divine power? I passed the bowl, and my dad poured a few spoonfuls over his rice. “Did anyone notice the strange weather today?”

I nearly spit out my wine again. “No,” I said a little too loudly.

My mom shook her head. “I was in the office all day.”

Tahir scratched the side of his mouth. “Oh, you mean the momentary darkness and wind. Is that unusual for Southern California?”

My dad's attention was back on the food, and he didn't answer.

My mom dabbed gently at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “We're going to Gayatri's tomorrow night. She's throwing a dinner party in honor of Tahir. Actually,” she amended, “the party's in honor of both of you.”

I took another sip, then realized she was looking at me. For the third time, I nearly spewed wine. This was too much. I downed the glass. “What? Me? Both of us?” I looked at Tahir. He was sitting back in his chair, facing me with a challenging expression. He hadn't told my parents! He was obviously waiting for me to do it, so I would look like the bad guy.

Asshole.

I lifted my chin, determined. “How nice of her. I'm sure the party will be fun.”

Tahir's expression didn't change.

My mom smiled happily, completely unaware of the complex interplay of emotions across the table.

“Pass the chapattis,” my dad grunted.

Okay, maybe not all the emotions were that complex.

I passed the chapattis. I wanted a hot shower, then bed. It wasn't that late, especially since I'd woken up at noon, but I was exhausted. I pushed back my chair. “Well it's good night for me.”

No response.

My dad was still involved with his food, and my mom sat in her chair, a dreamy smile on her face. Looking at her I knew the state was partly due to the wine, but mostly due to images of the grandchildren she mistakenly believed Tahir and I would dutifully produce.

I glanced over at the man who'd supposedly supply the genetic half of our progeny. Tahir was quiet with his own thoughts, his thumb slowly tracing the rim of his wineglass. There was something so sensuous about the movement. His thumb made contact with a droplet of wine, embedding the juice deep into his skin. If I were to taste—

“What time will you wake?” Tahir said.

I snapped out of it, praying my expression was bland as a schoolmarm's. “I don't know, early. Maybe eight?” Everyone at the table looked at me. “Well that's early for me,” I said defensively.

“What time do the shops open?” he asked.

“Nine.”

“There are a few things I need to buy.”

My mom jumped in. “What a wonderful idea! Maya can take you shopping, then the two of you can stop somewhere and have lunch? How about Las Brisas? Maya always goes there. Lunch will be on me.”

“Excellent,” Tahir said.

“Fine,” I said flatly.

“Don't oversleep,” Tahir called out, as I exited the room.

It was a good thing none of them heard my reply.

 

I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. I'd been in the hot steamy shower for an hour, scrubbing my skin with a loofah, using the strongest scented bath gel I had. Afterward I'd rubbed my favorite Victoria's Secret body oil into my skin until I felt fresh and sweet.

Now I was lying in bed, blow-dried and bathed, and I still didn't feel clean. I knew what the problem was.

Tonight, I had failed.

Finally, for the first time in my life, there was something I was supposedly good at, something I was born to do, and I had failed. Without the rifle-wielding Ali, I don't know what would have happened to either one of us. I didn't want to think about it. My cheeks were crisscrossed with warm rivulets of tears before I even realized I was crying.

My mind drifted back to another time when I had cried in the dark, feeling like a failure.

When I was twelve, my parents dragged me along to a dinner party at Asha Patel's house. My brother was at a sleepover. I had begged for a babysitter so I could stay home, preferably sixteen-year-old Lonnie Marshall from next door, who was so totally gorgeous, but my parents had not acquiesced. Asha and I were the same age. So Asha and I would hang out in one room while the adults hung out in another. Great. Asha was the most boring girl alive.

The night didn't start out so bad because I discovered Asha's parents had rented
The Exorcist
to view over the
weekend. Ignoring Asha's protests that it wasn't a proper movie for kids, I turned off the lights and began watching.

Halfway through I had to hit pause because Asha was practically hyperventilating with fright and swearing that the Devil had made the olives in her pizza turn into cockroaches. I decided to take a break anyway and go downstairs for a Coke.

The adults were all sitting around the fire, talking and having drinks. Grabbing a can I went unnoticed and prepared to leave when I heard my name mentioned.

“Maya?” my dad laughed. “Not likely.”

“No really,” Mr. Patel said. “Asha just wrote an essay and submitted her grades. There are still a few openings left at the school.”

“Maya isn't interested in math and science,” my mom replied. “She likes movies and those Sweet Valley High books.”

My dad shook his head. “Complete waste of time. Useless. Now Samir is showing quite a bit of potential. In a few years, maybe he can apply there?”

Mr. Patel took a sip of his drink. “Asha's looking forward to it.”

“Asha is a special girl.” My mom smiled.

My dad sighed. “I only wish Maya were more like her.”

Standing in the dark, the moisture from the Coke can wetting my hand, I felt a tremendous ache in my chest,
like I couldn't breathe. Finally, I turned, ran into the bathroom, shut the door, and began crying.

I never said a word to my parents.

I managed to convince myself that I didn't care, that it didn't bother me that my parents thought I had no potential.

I might not have said a word, but I didn't need to. I had lived up to their image of me. And I would still be living it, pretending I didn't care, if Ram and Sanjay hadn't jumped me at LAX.

I grabbed a tissue from the box on my bedside table and wiped my face dry.

Seriously, my emotions were in a frenetic flux. One moment I was cool, the next I was crying. I was in a state of perpetual PMS.

Breathe.

Tomorrow was another day. I would try my best. I would take all of this more seriously. I would learn to kick malignant ass. I would do a good job.

I would be the Goddess of Destruction.

As I drifted off to sleep, a little voice reminded me of another responsibility. I would have to tell my parents the truth about Tahir—that we were completely uninterested in each other and would never marry.

I shoved that voice into a deep hole.

One thing at a time.

“BLOODY HELL,
you drive like a whirling dervish on PCP.”

I gritted my teeth and eased up on the gas. Tahir was the absolute king of backseat drivers. Maybe on the way back we'd stop off at a secluded cliff, I'd lure him near the edge, summon up another gale-force wind, and wave good-bye as he was blown over. Sounded like a plan to me.

“I'll drive on the way back,” he said.

“No way! Here we drive on the right. Besides, there aren't any cows or elephants on the road, and I'm afraid you'll be confused.” It was a low blow, but I smiled as I watched his jaw tighten.

“I'll have you know I did my MBA at Wharton, where I drove regularly in Philadelphia traffic for two years.”

“Oh really, was that on your bio data? Somehow I missed it,” I said sweetly.

“And where exactly did you attend college? Some party school no doubt.”

“You're such a snob!”

“You're the one who implied elephants and cows clog the roads in India,” he pointed out.

“Don't they?”

He sighed. “Yes.”

“Well you were right about the party school,” I admitted. “UC Santa Barbara.”

“Stunning location.”

I smiled. “Definitely.”

Our destination now appeared before us, composed of sparkling fountains, sidewalk carts, ocean breezes, and tree-lined, Spanish-tiled walkways.

Fashion Island.

Loyal customers of the locale referred to the site as Newport Beach's premier outdoor shopping experience. Never, ever, to be confused with anything so bourgeois as a mall.

It was still early, barely ten, but almost all the spots directly in front of the entrance were full. As it turned out there was one slot at the end, but I drove past it. Too tight a squeeze.

“You just passed a spot,” Tahir pointed out.

“It was too small.”

“No it wasn't.”

“Yes it was. Trust me.”

“I don't. You could easily have done it.”

After three more aisles of arguing, I pulled in front of the spot, got out, and chucked Tahir the keys, hard. He caught them easily, jumped in the driver's seat, backed
up, angled the H2 to the right, and slid into the spot perfectly, with room to spare.

He hopped out, oozing with satisfaction, and tossed me back the keys. I reached out to catch them and missed. I snatched the keys from the pavement, snagging a nail in the process and stalked past Tahir.

I could control the forces of nature, but apparently I couldn't park.

I sped up, but Tahir kept up the pace easily, and had the nerve to whistle. Dammit, he even did that well!

 

“I don't know,” Tahir mused, coming out of the dressing room. “I like the gray pinstripe better.”

“They all look amazing on you,” the salesman said, rushing forward.

Like a magnet, Tahir's ass called to me. I spent a good moment appreciating its merits. Honestly, did he spend half his day doing butt-tightening exercises or what? I managed to tear my gaze away, but the Neiman Marcus salesman to my left had no such self-control. He was openly gawking.

Tahir was unfazed by the man's attention; he was too busy checking out his image in the mirror. I couldn't conceal a sigh of impatience. As much as I lived and breathed shopping, Tahir was rapidly turning me off my favorite sport. He was able to detect minute differences in the exact same pieces of apparel.

He raised an eyebrow in my direction. “What do you think?”

“The pinstripe,” I said for the fourth time.

“Hmm.” He turned back to the mirror.

From the deep reaches of my purse, a Louis Vuitton monogrammed minibag, the James Bond theme song erupted. I looked around to see if anyone dared mock my choice of ringing tone and pulled out my cell phone. I flipped it open. “Hello?”

“This is Ram!”

The sheer loudness of his voice had me clamp my hand to my ear, and hold the phone six inches away from my head. Very, very cautiously, I removed my hand but kept the phone at a safe distance.

“Hey, Ram. You're not calling halfway around the world, you know. You don't have to shout.”

“Of course I'm not calling that far!” he shouted.

It was a lost cause. “What's goin' on?”

“I am talking to you, that is what is going on. Where are you?”

“Fashion Island. I'm showing someone around.”

“You should be vanquishing evil.”

I rolled my eyes. “I had a little encounter last night.”

“Oh? How did it go?”

“Not very well.”

“Hence your need for practice.”

I looked over at Tahir, and he quickly turned his attention back to the mirror. I'd swear he'd been listening in, though. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I'm in the best place for that, Ram. There are people all around me. If the good, the bad, and the ugly show up, my Malevolent Meter will know.”

There was a long pause, then Ram said, “Are you ready for your next lesson?”

Ready? When had I been ready for any of this?

I looked up and sure enough, Tahir's reflection stared back at me from the mirror. I couldn't tell if he was eavesdropping or just staring. I moved off a few feet and turned away for good measure. “Okay,” I said into the phone. “I'm ready. When and where?”

“Tonight.”

Tonight was Aunt Gayatri's party. Okay, now I had two things to weigh. On one hand, strengthening my powers so I could one day restore the balance of good and evil in the world. On the other, facing the onslaught of familial wrath, maternal silent treatment, and internal guilt if I dared not attend.

The world would have to wait, just for a few hours.

“Not tonight,” I said. “Tomorrow? I can be there as early as you want,” I threw in helpfully.

“I do not rise before afternoon,” Ram said.

“Jet lag?”

“No, I prefer to sleep late.”

“I thought holy men were supposed to wake at dawn and bathe in mountain springs or something,” I said.

“I cannot think of anything more intolerable,” Ram replied. “We will meet tomorrow at one, in time for lunch. I have heard of another great place.”

Visions of Burger King danced in my head. “How about if I choose the restaurant?”

“Then it is so.” He hung up.

I turned around and my nose came squarely in contact with Tahir's solid chest. “Ow!” I said, but stayed there a moment longer. Very, very solid.

“Who's Ram?” he asked.

“A man who worships the ground I walk on.” Well it was true, in a way.

“The poor lad must not get out much.” Tahir walked away, a Neiman Marcus bag in each hand.

Oh yeah, the guy was definitely going down.