Chapter 40
TWO DAYS AFTER Rajan leaves town, Simran has heard nothing from him. She supposes he’s just doing what he said they should—cutting ties. She can practically hear him saying, Move on.
But it’s still bitter.
When Rajan didn’t answer his phone that day after Hillway, she called Nick, who confirmed it. “Yeah, he told me. Only to threaten me to get you out of the LS.” His voice was wry. “I guess his PO figured he might’ve been in contact with the Lions? Instead of taking him to court, they moved him.”
“But,” Simran whispered, her mind spinning. “He didn’t tell me. He’s not answering his phone.”
“He didn’t have time to tell you.”
“But he told you?” Silence. “Never mind.” She was lowering the phone when Nick’s tinny voice started talking again. She brought it back to her ear. “What?”
“I said, he hasn’t picked up my calls either. You’re not the only one he’s ignoring.”
On the third day of Rajan’s absence, she tries to take her mind off him.
She picks up her new glasses, which admittedly look good.
She practices her rabab, then studies the ledger photos she took at Manny’s mansion.
She uploads them onto several USBs, and they sit on her desk, mocking her. What are you going to do with us, huh?
She’s still trying to figure that out when her phone chimes. She grabs it lightning fast, but it’s just Kiran. I’m here.
Right. Kiran’s arrived, of course, a day before Neetu’s engagement reception. She loves weddings a lot for someone who never plans to have one.
When Simran opens the door, Kiran’s on the step, bag in hand. They stare at each other.
Her hair is longer, now hanging around her chin in a bob. Her face is flushed from dragging her filled-to-bursting suitcase, and she has a new dragon tattoo on the sleeve on her arm. “You should cover that up before Mom notices,” Simran tells her. “She’ll make a big deal of it.”
All at once Kiran surges forward, dropping her bag to sweep her into a hug.
“God, I missed your righteous ass,” Kiran whispers. “I’m not hiding my tattoo. It’s bangin’.”
Simran surprises herself by hugging back.
Despite their last argument, she missed Kiran, too.
And what is there to resent anymore? That Kiran’s free and Simran isn’t?
Simran had freedom these last few months—and look what she did.
Her family’s in danger because of her. Maybe it’s best they go back to how things were.
When they let go, Kiran’s smile fades. “Mom’s doing better, isn’t she? There hasn’t been more bad news?” When Simran shakes her head, she frowns. “Then why do you look...so sad?”
Does she? Simran tries to lift the corners of her mouth. “I’m not. Just tired.” Clearly Kiran hasn’t heard the gossip recently.
Kiran looks unconvinced. “You took on way too much stress with Mom’s thing. Go do something fun tonight. See your friends. I’ll tell Mom and Dad you’re volunteering somewhere.”
Friends? Simran fights a laugh. “I have to make dinner.”
“I’ll make it,” Kiran says, shocking her into silence. Simran must look very tired. “You must have someone you could hang out with. It’s Friday night. How are you eighteen with no Friday-night plans?”
Kiran sounds aghast. Simran, for the record, likes staying in. But Kiran’s words jog her memory somewhat. It is Friday night, and she does have a standing invitation somewhere, and she is desperate to fill the hole in her chest.
“Fine,” Simran says. “Don’t burn the kitchen down.”
There’s quite a crowd already at the martial arts club by the time Simran arrives. Or maybe it’s that the gym is small; the ring takes up most of the space, with a scarce amount of standing room surrounding it. She squeezes between several bodies to get closer to the front.
She almost doesn’t recognize Jassa without his turban.
His hair’s tied back and covered with a bandana, but the curly ends still poke through.
He’s also, well, not wearing a shirt, but Simran tries not to fixate on that.
He dances lightly on the balls of his feet, blocking and weaving and striking with the same ease and grace she recognizes in his everyday body language.
He clashes with his opponent often, clearly on the offensive.
But, from the sluggish responses of the other boy, she suspects he waited him out first.
Eventually, Jassa dives at his legs. The audience roars its approval, and even more so when the two of them grapple on the floor for the upper hand.
Jassa manages to lock his legs around his opponent’s neck and squeezes.
The volume rises and rises until the other boy taps out, the bell rings, and then the audience explodes.
Jassa releases him and leaps up. Simran waits for him to gloat, to grin at the crowd the way she’s seen boxers do, but he just extends his hand to the boy on the floor.
His opponent takes it, and they exchange a few words that end with them cuffing each other on the back of the neck.
Only after they separate does Jassa glance to the crowd. His eyes lock on hers.
Surprise glimmers through them before he smiles. A second later he ducks under the rope. With the fight over, people make way for him, the crowd loosening. He smells of sweat and something metallic underneath, almost like blood, but richer.
“Hey.” He’s still breathless. “You made it.”
He rips at his hand wraps with his teeth, then starts unwinding them. Simran forces her brain to work. “I figured it was time.”
“And here I thought you were avoiding me.” His voice is teasing.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Glad I was wrong, then.” He finishes with one wrap, and thankfully, uses his now-free hand to unwrap the other one instead of his teeth. A stray curl falls from his bandana and over his eyes, and he absently flicks it out of the way. Then he does a double take. “What happened to your face?”
“My—face?”
Without warning, Jassa puts his hand on her cheek. Her breath catches in her throat; she remembers now. Her bruise has mostly faded, but there’s still a mottled purple bloom if someone looks closely.
“Who hit you?” Jassa asks.
She wishes he’d put a shirt on. “Nobody. I fell.”
“Simran, I know what it looks like when someone gets hit in the face.” His thumb swipes across the bruise.
She tears away. This was a bad idea. The crowd roars again; two new fighters have climbed into the ring. The sound is once again deafening, but Jassa speaks at her ear. “Let’s talk outside.”
She doesn’t want to—but she lets him lead her out. As they go, people slap him on the back. Someone catcalls him, and he blushes—she catches it just before he grabs a black T-shirt from the wall and tugs it over his head.
As soon as they’re in the narrow corridor, Simran turns for the exit. “Sorry I missed most of your fight. I’ll come earlier next time.”
He catches her wrist. “Wait. I didn’t mean to push you. I just got worried.”
“It’s okay.” She scrounges for something else to say. His fingers wrapped around her wrist are highly distracting. “You seem really good at...fighting. Where’d you pick it up?”
“My brother.” A smile enters his voice. “Taekwondo, wrestling, gatka...if I didn’t learn along with him, he would’ve beaten me up our whole childhood.”
“You know gatka, too?” He nods. She doesn’t know anyone who practices the Sikh martial art. The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. “Do you know how to fight with the smaller kirpans?”
“What, like this one?” He pulls his own kirpan out of the elastic band of his shorts, where he’d apparently kept it tied during his fight. “Yeah.”
“Could you teach me sometime?” He stares at her, and she quickly shakes her head. He doesn’t need to know the sequence of traumatic events that have led her to this question. “I mean...doesn’t it make sense to know how to use it?”
“I’ve always thought so,” he says quietly. “We should never forget the point of wearing one. It’s practical, if you ever find yourself needing to defend someone. Or yourself.”
His eyes flicker over her cheek. She ducks her head. “I told you, it was an accident.”
He doesn’t respond for a second. Then: “Remember your cousin’s code? From the scavenger hunt?”
She does regret that now. “Forget it, I don’t need it anym—”
“I cracked it.”
Silence. Simran’s sure her mouth is hanging open. Jassa, looking over her head, goes on.
“I had to do some research. It was a mash-up of a lot of different ciphers...but I figured it out eventually.”
He’s too casual about this. “Really.”
“Yeah. It was kind of a weird message. Something about a playplace. Must be an inside joke?”
Simran nods. “Yeah, it’s hard to explain—”
“Funny thing, though, on that exact date, there was a playplace in town that got shot up. Gang stuff, I heard.” He meets her eyes. “Quite the coincidence.”
“Quite,” Simran agrees. The silence stretches. He’s eyeing her bruise again. And it’s like they’re back to how they were a few months ago: assessing each other warily, wondering what the other knows that they don’t.
He inhales, clearly on the verge of asking another question. And—she panics. She blurts the first thing that comes to mind while he’s holding her wrist.
“Can I kiss you?”
Jassa’s eyes widen. Instantly, Simran remembers herself. Mortified, she starts pulling away. She can come up with a lie; what was she thinking? “Never mind, I—”
“No, no,” he rushes to say. “I’ve just never kissed anyone before.”
Simran gets a rush of déjà vu.
“Have you?” he asks slowly, curiously.
“No,” she replies with complete sincerity. “Do you...want to see what it would be like?”
In answer, his hand goes to the back of her neck. She meets him halfway. And then they’re kissing in this darkened hallway.