Priya in Heels (Entangled Embrace) (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Priya

“I’m going out. Are you going to be okay?” Vicki shrugged on a light jacket and slipped into high heels. She wore a sleek, gray dress with a black lace hem.

“Why are you all dressed up?” I sat up straight.

“I’m going on a date. Will be out super late.” A look of guilt washed over her as she said the words, “You’re okay, right?”

“I’m a big girl. Don’t worry. Go! I have a bat.”

“Maybe Tyler can come over?” she suggested.

“Maybe not. Go. I’m fine.” I jerked my chin at the book-cluttered table. “I have a ton of work to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Say hi to Raj.”

Vicki grinned and left. I locked the apartment after her and checked all the windows and both doors.

I had a ton of reading to do, plus a paper to write and present to clinic at the end of rotation. It was best to start on it early. I stared at the textbook pictures. Pregnancy and labor were a lot like parasitic invasion. A tiny cellular organism entered the body, latched on, grew, absorbed the nutrients of the host, nearly debilitated the host, and pried itself out in a horrific, painful manner.

Okay, maybe laying off the sci-fi stuff would help.

I made ramen noodles the way Mummie did: with curry, veggies, and fried mustard seeds. I had just returned to the table after eating when the lights suddenly went out. I jumped and yelped, then clutched the edge of the table as I tried to control hyperventilation.

Had those alley guys returned? Had they seen where I lived and bided their time to finish what they’d started?

Terror washed over me. I hadn’t welcomed darkness since the assault. In fact, the only time I had slept without a lit candle was at Ty’s parents’ house when he’d held me all night.

The laptop battery kicked on. The screen emitted a dull light in comparison to its former self, but enough to illuminate the dining area so I could find the flashlight in the kitchen.

The circuit breaker didn’t work. Peering out into the street, I saw that the entire neighborhood was dark. After lighting candles in the living room and on the kitchen counter, I logged off the computer to save the battery and my work, and grabbed my cell phone. Thank goodness it was charged.

Tucking my feet beneath me on the couch, I gripped a mahogany, miniature baseball bat. The thing was small, but the dense wood could crack a few bones.

I texted Vicki to let her know the situation and that she should stay where she was, if possible, no need to fumble through darkness here when even the outside lights were off.

The silence was unnerving. I tapped my leg, tempted to text Ty. Uneasiness seeped into my gut. I jerked and followed every sound.

A sudden knock on the door sent a shockwave through me. I jumped and grabbed the bat. I crept toward the door, prepared to beat off an attacker.

I peered through the peephole. Stupid, I couldn’t see anything.

My phone buzzed.

Ty:
You home?

Priya:
Yes. Where are you?

Ty:
Outside your door.

Priya:
Prove it. Knock again and say it’s you.

Ten seconds later, there was another knock and I heard Ty say, “Pree, you there? It’s me, Tyler.”

I opened the door, grabbed his arm, and yanked him inside before locking up again.

The candlelight cast dancing shadows across his face.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Why are you whispering?”

I shook my head. I had no idea why.

“Had to make sure you were all right.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Did you think the dark scared me?”

“After what happened…”

My shoulders slumped. “You’re right. Thanks for checking in on me.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

I bit my lower lip. Being alone with a man in a blackout was wrong, but it was a better option than going crazy with paranoia. “Yes, please.”

He followed and sat beside me on the couch. “So, candles, huh?”

“They come in handy.”

“You sure do have a lot.”

“Yeah, Vicki is crazy about them. They’re all scented. They’re pretty and useful, and they’re everywhere: kitchen, bedroom, bathroom.”

“So you could enjoy a candlelit soak?”

“I guess. Baths aren’t normally my thing.”

“Really? First time I’ve heard that from a girl.”

“Are you kidding me? It may be therapeutic, but soaking in your own body oils and dirt? Gross.”

“Well, when you put it that way, it is sorta disgusting. What about a candlelit bedroom? Bet that’s nice.” He nudged my leg with his.

Steering the conversation away from the bedroom, I said, “I think candles are fire hazards.”

“Logical, brainy Pree.”

“Flirtatious, cocky Ty.”

He winced. “I don’t like being called that.”

“I don’t like being called Pree. How’s it feel to have an unwanted nickname because I’m too lazy to say a couple of syllables?”

He burst into laughter. “Man, you’re vindictive!” He laced his fingers behind his head and slouched. “So I’ve been getting into those Bollywood movies.”

“Yeah?” I was excited to hear that, to have something fun to talk about and get my mind off what I really had to tell him.

“Some are pretty good, although they have their cheesy moments.”

I gently shoved him. “Admit it. You love them.”

He laughed. “Some of those songs are catchy. I just wish there was more variety, you know?”

“Like American genres?”

“Yeah. It’s cool that more recent Bollywood movies have superheroes, or gangsters, but those are variables, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And variables are minimal, but the exponential constant is the romance. It’s always there, no matter what the rest of the movie is about. It can be twenty percent of the movie or ninety percent, but it has to be there.”

He looked thoughtfully at the ceiling as he nerdified the Bollywood equation. I tucked my legs beneath me and watched his beautiful face shrouded by shadows and hidden by his flexed biceps.

I inhaled. Since we were on the subject of romance…

“Bollywood is about living a life that would never exist in the real world. Love is nonsensical ideology, but ninety percent of Bollywood movies are about overcoming diversity and trials to be with the one they love.”

“So, what? Indians don’t love their spouses?” he asked.

“My mom explained that we get married to a suitable mate, someone who benefits the other and vice versa. They have to match in education, come from a good family, and be free from bad habits like smoking and drinking. Oh, and of course women must be virgins. She says love comes later, practicality first.”

“You guys still do arranged marriages?”

“In a sense. It’s not horrible like how Americans think. We don’t arrange our baby to marry someone else’s baby in twenty-five years. Our parents network and find people to present as possible spouses. We have the right to decline, but it’s frowned upon.”

“Your parents were arranged?”

“Yes. They were really old school. My dad saw my mom one day when he was visiting her village. He liked her and asked his parents to arrange a marriage through her parents. She didn’t see or meet him until the wedding.”

“But they love each other now?”

“Yes. They never say those words or hold hands or kiss in front of anyone else, but they love each other.”

“They don’t tell you they love you?”

“No. It’s implied through action. Those words—I don’t even think it sounds right to translate it.”

“You’ve never said it to your parents?”

“No. I tried to, but it’s awkward. Never said it to anyone, although I say it about food.”

He chuckled. “I love your obsession with food. Does your mom want you to marry an Indian, someone she chooses?”

“Yes.” My heart burned as I gathered the courage to tell him about Manuk.

“You’re okay with that?”

“I know how Americans feel about obeying parents as an adult.”

“Why do you keep differentiating yourself from us? You’re American. You grew up here.”

“Yes, but my cultural roots are strong. I’m part of that group that is half and half. I’ll wear short shorts and tank tops, drink once in a while, live on my own, but I’ll make my parents happy and take their advice.”

“And marry the person they choose?”

“Yes. Though it’s my decision who he’ll be.”

“Only if they approve?”

I tilted my head. “Are you close to your parents?”

“Yep.”

“Could you marry someone they didn’t approve of?”

“Assuming it’s for a solid reason. But I don’t believe in the institution of marriage.”

I gawked at him. “Why not?”

“Why should I? Marriage began as proprietary rights on women and is used now more for legal issues than anything else.”

“It’s how people commit to each other. It holds families together.”

“I don’t really see myself having children, and I can commit without a piece of paper. And whoever I commit to won’t have to worry if I’ll leave one day.”

“Interesting development.”

“Why does my opinion bother you?”

“Why are you really against marriage?”

“It adds unnecessary stress. If people feel trapped, they make their issues worse. People need space, and people should be able to get that space without society giving them a hard time.”

“We’re so different.”

I moved my legs forward to keep them from going numb. Ty scooted closer, wrapped an arm around my legs, and straightened them over his lap. He kept his hand on my lower thigh. The warmth from his touch seared my flesh and sent tingles to the core of my body. I bit my lower lip as he stroked my skin with a thumb. He rubbed my foot over the sock with his other hand. My feet ached. The light massage relaxed me, but the way he stroked the toes and the arch was somehow erotic.

“Would your mom be okay with you dating someone not Indian?”

Clearing my head, I responded, “She’s adamant about me marrying this Indian dentist from Dallas.”

He swallowed, the play of this throat muscles alluring, enticing, tempting me to lick him there. “Are you interested?”

I looked away before I acted on my desires. “Not really. I’ve met him and his family.”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s okay.”

“Can she force you to date him, marry him?” Question by question, his hand moved up, making it difficult to think straight.

Fighting off a gasp, I answered, “I don’t think she would, but she can be persistent.”

“Would she be mad if you dated someone else?”

“Yes.”

“Would you?”

“Would I what?” I forced myself to pay attention to the conversation and ignore what my treacherous body was telling me.

“Date someone else.”

“I don’t know.”

“Because you don’t want her mad at you? What if the guy’s worth it?”

“Making her mad is one thing, but disappointing her to where she doesn’t look at me the same is unbearable. I don’t know if any guy is worth that.”

“You can talk to her. She strikes me as someone who would listen to the daughter she clearly loves so much. You have to say something, though, otherwise…how would she know?”

He looked at me then, expecting an answer, a resolve. I didn’t promise anything. In fact, I broke eye contact and watched the flickering flames. The largest candle, golden in color, had three wicks, while four smaller candles had one each. Together, they created a breathtakingly romantic room. What a time to realize we’d stumbled into a quixotic situation.

Ty squeezed my inner thigh. My gut clenched. Fluttering butterflies set fire to my chest and swarmed downward. He massaged at the hem of my shorts, his fingertips just under the cotton fabric.

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation, but trepidation took its toll. “Ty—”

Before I could protest, he kissed my neck the way he’d kissed my lips: slow, seductive. I’d lost all grip on logic by the time he moved on to nibble my earlobe. His free hand found my back and pushed me against him.

As I clutched his shoulder for dear life, my head whirled with so many things, but the anticipation of more of this incredible feeling overpowered everything else. The only thing my body wanted was Tyler O’Connor. As if he read my thoughts, or maybe for the fact I didn’t push him away, the hand between my legs moved up. I surrendered to the euphoria, the heated, throbbing collision of so many things I’d never felt.

Things I’d never felt? No, I was a good girl, raised by decent, God-fearing, eastern traditionalist (for the most part), strict parents. I’d stayed away from guys this long to make my parents proud and to uphold the diminishing morals my culture expected. Besides, in my friends and coworkers, I’d seen firsthand the devastations a sexual experience brought when the relationship went sour. And in my case, when I’d have to drive this magnificent man away because I’d have to marry an Indian man Mummie approved of.

I grabbed Ty’s wrist and pushed him away.

“What?” he asked, his breathing heavy.

“It’s just that…”

My body heated from admitting this to an American, but my virtue wasn’t something that should shame me. Sure, in western society a woman my age who hadn’t given in to sexual temptation was unrealistic, but that was one of the many things wrong with the world.

Ty sat back, kept a hand on my side and the other on my lap. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” He did everything right. Too well, in fact.

“Oh.” Disappointment spread across his face. “If you don’t want to do anything, I totally get that. Well, not really, but I’d respect it.”

“Ty, I’m a virgin.”

He stared at me. Then he laughed. “No, you’re not.”

“Why is that funny? And what do you mean, I’m not?”

“You’re at least twenty-six years old.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“How the hell are you a twenty-four-year-old doctor?”

“I graduated high school early with college credits, went through full-time college year-round instead of taking summers off, and then four years of med school. Which is another point. I’ve always been too busy studying to screw guys. Besides, in my culture—”

“Your culture,” he interrupted. “Where you’ll never date me, much less marry me. Of course, you’ll never have sex with me, either. Because you’re so worried about what other people think, even if they’ve treated you wrong and don’t deserve your constant attention to make them happy.”