Chapter 30 Better to Crash a Wedding Late Than Never #2
it under his chin. This is totally going to ruin my hair, and possibly my makeup, but I have no choice. Safety comes first.
I scurry to the side as he mounts the bike and kicks up the stand. He twists the key in the ignition, and the bike roars to
life.
“Get on,” he says, resting his foot on the kick-starter. He doesn’t even turn to look at me when he says it. I mentally jam
a toilet plunger down my throat to unclog the hurt wedged in there, eyeing the kernel of space left on the bike behind Rudra.
There’s no way both my lehenga and I are going to fit there. Not unless I sit sideways, the way I’ve seen Indian women in
sarees sit behind their husbands.
And the seat—it’s so high. How on earth am I going to get on?
“Is it okay if I—” I can’t even get the full sentence out because I’m practically talking to the back of his helmet at this
point.
“If you what?” Rudra asks.
“If I hold on to you? While I’m climbing?”
“Sure.”
His response is so aloof it sends a shudder through me. I ignore it and place my hand on his shoulder. Under the kurta, his
muscle contracts, as if he can’t bear the thought of me touching him right now. I grab the rear handle and hoist myself up.
But the satiny material of the lehenga slips, and I drop back down to the ground, a sharp pain shooting through my ankles.
I try again. Fail again.
The late-afternoon sun is beating down on me and I’m sweating in my heavy lehenga and under the helmet. I’m embarrassed and
angry and anxious and I want to cry.
“Wait,” Rudra says, sighing when I attempt to pull myself up a third time.
“What?”
“Step away.”
I obey as Rudra kicks the stand back down and gets off the bike, pushing the visor of his helmet up. My mouth goes dry when
he steps closer to me, his eyes shadowed and challenging under the helmet. I let out a squeak as his hands sharply clamp onto
my waist. And right then, I forget the name of every single one of the eight bones in my wrist even though I’ve prided myself
in knowing them forever.
My spine presses into the seat, and he’s touching bare skin, fingers digging into my waist. I stare up at him as his body brushes against mine, and my head is fuzzy, starting to spin.
I love how he isn’t too tall, just taller than me, because it feels like we fit together even better.
He doesn’t feel far, far away. If it weren’t for the helmets, or his reticence, I would probably kiss him right now.
Frankly, though, it’s the damned helmet on him making things hot.
He scoops me up so easily it’s almost as if I weigh nothing. My butt plonks on the seat, and I grip his shoulder with one
hand and the rear handle with the other, steadying myself.
Of course that’s what that was about: helping me onto my seat.
Rudra steps away, his fingers scraping slow, agonizing lines along my waist before falling to the side. Right about now, my
stomach resembles one of those firecrackers we used to burst during Diwali.
Rudra’s hands are shaking as he pushes the visor back down and mounts the bike again.
The ride is torturous.
I’m navigating, so I have to wrap an arm around Rudra’s stomach to prevent myself from flying off and have my lehenga turn
into a parachute. It doesn’t help that time is trickling away faster than water from a sieve, and the sun is dipping lower
and lower in the sky.
When we get to Baga Beach Resort, it’s evident there’s a wedding going on. The place is in a state of pure chaos.
Rudra rides through the main gate. The security guards let us in immediately because of our grand Indian attire—the easiest
hack to crashing a wedding. There’s a short drive leading up to the entrance of the resort, the road forking to curve around
a gorgeous blue fountain that sparkles in the sunset light. The road is lined with palm trees, and the garden is covered in
patches of colorful flowers. The streetlights speckling the sides of the road start buzzing to life, indicating that dusk
is setting in.
As we’re looking for a space to park, I spot the familiar blue of Rudra’s BMW. My heart lurches in my chest.
“Hey, that’s your car!”
“Where?”
“We just passed it.” I shake my head. “Priti’s already here.”
I can’t even imagine how she must be doing right now. Did she get a chance to speak with Mansi? Or did she bow out and is
sitting somewhere alone, helpless, and shattered?
We find a space after a few minutes of scouring. Getting off the bike is a lot easier than getting on, and I don’t need Rudra’s
help this time, but my mind’s not on him anyway. My stomach sinks, and a heavy weight settles in the bottom of my gut, making
it difficult for me to stand upright. The heels are not helping.
The BMW is parked on the opposite side of the lot, beyond the fountain, and my eyes go to it as I wait for Rudra to put our
helmets in the trunk. The glass isn’t tinted, and I can vaguely make out the familiar interior.
“Let’s go,” Rudra says, shutting the helmet compartment closed.
“Rudra,” I say, grabbing his wrist just as he’s about to start walking away. He glances down at my hand, wrapped around his,
then at me, and I notice how delightfully mussed his hair looks. His thick eyebrows are raised in question, and he makes no
move to take my hand. He’s limp in my hold.
Something in my mind snags on his car.
I drag my gaze away from him and back to the car. And there it is. A flash of movement. A shadow of a person.
I start speed-walking toward the car, dragging Rudra after me.
“Krishna, where are you—”
“Just follow me.”
We cross the patch of grass around the fountain and cut across the road on the other side. I bring a finger to my lips, gesturing
for him to be quiet, and duck behind the car next to the BMW, a black SUV. Rudra follows suit.
This close, I can hear “Supermassive Black Hole” by Muse playing on Rudra’s speakers. I turn to Rudra, and his eyes are wide.
“I’ll count to three, and we’ll go over to the front, okay?” I whisper.
Rudra nods.
“One.” I’m still holding his hand. I drop it like a bag of hot coals. “Two.” Rudra flushes, and I have to turn away. “Three.”
We dart out from behind the SUV, approaching the BMW from either side. I’m at the front in a flash. I grab the handle of the
driver door, find it unlocked, and yank the door open. Rudra has the front passenger door open in seconds.
“Gotcha!” I exclaim, eyeing our culprit.
Priti.