Chapter One #3
an itch she scratched often, and she hadn’t come across such a promising itch-scratcher in a while.
“Or I can walk you to the train,” he added, when she stalled, and finally removed his hands from her and took a step back.
She felt cold as soon as he did.
“No,” she said slowly, and shifted. The weight of her knife on her ankle reassured her that she could handle Krish if he became
a problem. “I’d love a lift. Thank you.”
His body remained a great hiding spot. They made it out the front door without a John sighting. It was a blustery fall night,
and she tilted her face up to the drizzling rain as they walked out of the bar. She took a deep breath, cleansing herself
of the negativity that annoying dude had brought into her life.
“This way.” Krish placed one hand on her back, and she shivered at the light touch.
She followed him to the parking lot next door, her head on the swivel despite the relatively quiet street. They stopped next
to a small hybrid sedan, and she slid into the passenger seat that he held open for her. “Where to?” he asked, once he was
in the driver’s seat.
She gave him her address. He started the car and pulled out. She noticed her fingers were drumming against the armrest, and
made a conscious effort to still the nervous gesture.
“You cold?”
Sejal stirred. “Huh?”
“You’re not wearing a coat. And you’re shivering.”
Oh. “I must have forgotten it back at the bar.” Another thing to be mad at John about! She liked that coat.
Krish kept one hand on the wheel and reached into the back seat of his car. He handed her a sweatshirt. It was soft and gray
and smelled as delicious as him. She put it on and zipped it up. It dwarfed her, as he did.
He stopped at a red light and turned to look at her. “Are you from here?”
“New Jersey,” she lied. She wasn’t a local anywhere anymore, but she never told people where she really grew up. Las Vegas
was too notorious. It inspired all sorts of additional questions. An Indian woman from New Jersey required no further follow-up.
He nodded and started driving again when the light turned green. “Still have family around?”
They were making small talk, normal things strangers said to each other, things she usually made up, so they were both surprised by the truth that fell from her lips. “My dad’s dead, my mom’s in jail, and my sister and I haven’t talked in years. So no, not really.”
There was a pregnant pause. “Wow,” he finally said.
She took a deep breath. John had clearly rattled her more than she’d thought. “Sorr—”
“My dad’s also dead. But my mom isn’t in prison, so you win.”
Her laugh was a surprise. “I do love winning.” She rested her hands in her lap. She wanted to reach over and stroke his beard
again, but that would be wildly inappropriate.
“Can I ask what your mom’s in prison for?”
“Nothing that’s genetic,” Sejal said dryly. And nothing she could easily explain. Which was why she’d never bothered to get
a therapist. Really, what part of her messed-up family would she even start with?
Hi, I’m the eldest daughter in an immigrant family, but instead of being pressured to do well in school, I was drafted into
my conman father’s petty get-rich-quick schemes. My mom? She faked her own death when I was a kid so she could go be the leader
of a crime syndicate in India called Cobra. I only knew she faked her own death because she resurrected herself two years
ago to have her goons kidnap me because she thought I knew something about a diamond necklace that my dad stole from her.
Don’t worry, though! I got away from her thanks to my little sister and my estranged aunt, who, fun fact, had also previously
faked her own death. I haven’t seen any of them since then. Though I’m safe and my mom’s behind bars, I can’t stop running.
Yup, she was a lost cause. In case anyone was wondering, being only one out of three for parental figures actually staying
dead definitely played havoc on one’s sense of stability.
She changed the subject. “Sorry to hear that you’re also a member of the Dead Dads Club.” Her father, Vassar, had died in India a few years ago. Her aunt had called to tell her. She’d been tearful. Sejal had not.
“It’s not a great club to be in. I was young when mine passed. But I had my mom.”
“Was your mom a good parent?” Parental relationships were always fascinating to her.
He thought about that for a second. “An unconventional one. But she loves us, yes. Yours? Uh, prison aside.”
“Nah. But I had an aunt,” she murmured, oddly driven to be semi-honest in this far-too-intimate cocoon they’d created inside
his car.
“Ah. There’s always an auntie.”
He said it like he knew something she didn’t regarding aunties. Sometimes Sejal felt like she was cosplaying Indian, trying
to suss out the shared cultural markers and stereotypes she fit into with other Desis her age but in fact didn’t, because
of who and what her family was. “She was great.”
Another pause. He didn’t have a wedding ring. That was good. She’d be really mortified if she, with her strong moral stance
on cheating, had kissed a married man.
“Is she also not around?” he asked quietly.
“No. She, um—” How to explain Rhea’s situation? “She passed away not long after my dad. She had a nonprofit, worked in third world countries, bringing them clean water.”
All lies, and not just because Rhea was actually currently in Witness Protection. Her father’s sister had been a jewel thief,
not a do-gooder. Sejal had discovered that not long after her dad had died. It had been a hard truth to learn, and the reason
they’d stopped talking.
“Are you still cold?” Krish reached for the temperature controls.
She realized she’d wrapped her arms around herself, and she forced herself to relax. She touched his hand. “I’m fine.”
He turned so his palm was pressed against hers. It was weird, but nice, how her hand fit right inside his, like they’d done
it before.
Krish pulled up to her temporary apartment building, finding a parking spot not far from the entrance. This apartment she’d
been renting for the past few months was in an upscale building, two blocks from a subway station. She’d aged out of seedy
basement dwellings years ago. A hustler she might be, but Sejal liked her creature comforts. This place was walking distance
to a really good coffee shop that didn’t charge extra for oat milk. What more could a girl ask for?
Though she hadn’t seen a car follow them, she scanned the street before looking at her way-too-handsome rescuer. “Thanks for
the ride. And for the assist back at the bar, again.”
“Anytime.”
“Be careful, or I’ll take you up on that.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” They were still holding hands. His thumb rubbed over hers. How did he manage to make that innocent move
sensual?
She turned toward him. “You sure you want to get tangled up with a woman like me?”
“What kind of woman is that?”
She paused and thought of her heavy baggage. “A mess.”
He released her hand to brush a strand of hair away from her cheek, and let his touch linger. “I love a good mess.”
The words tripped over her already exposed nerve endings. She leaned forward slightly, and his eyes dropped to her lips.
Gut, are you still cool with this one?
His thumb touched her cheek. She turned her head and kissed the rough pad of it and he inhaled. “Would you like to invite
me up, Sejal?”
Yes.
He was harmless. This was exactly the distraction she’d wanted. “Do you want to come up?” she blurted out, before she could
overthink it.
“I’d like that very much.”
They were silent as they walked to the building. She was supremely conscious of his big body behind her as they took the stairs
to her second-floor studio. Not first floor—that was too easy to break into. And not third or fourth, because higher floors
were hard to escape from in a pinch.
Sejal keyed into her apartment. It was cold in the room. She’d forgotten to turn the air conditioning off when she left early
in the morning. It might be winter in a few months, but she ran hot. Funny enough, though, she had no desire to take off her
guardian angel’s sweatshirt. “I might keep your hoodie,” she said to Krish, as she put her keys and phone on the small kitchen
table.
“Consider it yours.” His gaze moved around the room. “Nice place.”
Her shoulders lowered, some of her tension leaving her, simply by being in familiar surroundings. “Thanks. I like it.”
“That’s a cool painting.”
She looked over the queen bed at the corporate bland seascape on the wall.
Perhaps she should feel some sort of way that he could see her unmade bed, but it only brought a sense of anticipation, like they were counting down the clock to the inevitable.
She could imagine his body on top of hers there, thick and meaty, holding her down while he drove inside her—
She licked her lips. Her nerves had found a lustful outlet, and that was honestly the best outlet she could ask for.
What were they talking about? Oh, yeah. He’d commented on the boring painting, for some reason. “It came with the place. Short-term
rental.”
“Short-term?”
“Yeah. I don’t really stay in places for long.”
“Hmm. Have you always moved around a lot?” He drifted over to her couch and adjusted one of the magazines on the coffee table.
They weren’t her magazines, either.
“Kind of. More so in the last couple years.” The ease of their conversation in the car had seemed to fracture. What were these
questions? Perhaps he was feeling awkward?
She rubbed her hands on her thighs, surprised to find them a little clammy. Or maybe they were both nervous. Yes, that could
account for the itching at the back of her mind. One-night stands weren’t foreign to her, but she hadn’t been with anyone
in months, and it had been an eventful night. “I’m going to go freshen up in the bathroom. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”
“Sure thing.”
She was halfway to the bathroom when she froze, the itch becoming a full-blown alarm.
Wait a fucking minute.
In a fluid motion, she leaned down, pulled her switchblade out of her ankle holster, opened it, turned, and flung it in the
direction where Krish had been standing.
She hissed when it clattered harmlessly to the floor because Krish ducked.
No time to waste worrying about that, though. She ran for the door but barely managed two steps before her invited intruder
stopped her by wrapping his arms around her in a bear hug, pulling her up short against his massive frame, her back against
his front. Her legs dangled. “Stop. Listen to me,” he said in her ear.
Her heart raced, her breath coming fast and hard. The noise in her head drowned out what he said.
No. Not again. Never again.
She slammed her head backward and connected with his nose. His arms loosened. Stars danced in front of her eyes for a second,
but she took advantage of having her feet on the ground to bolt. He lunged after her, grabbing her a few feet away. She spun
around and went for his eyes, her hands curled into claws.
She’d grown complacent and soft. So much for her gut. It had been so preoccupied with John, it had completely dropped the
ball with her so-called savior. How had she not run away from him as soon as they’d parked? How had it taken precious minutes
for her brain to click on? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He used the whole force of his weight to shove her back onto the bed and landed on top of her. She arched up, nearly throwing
him off.
He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, and she kicked with renewed panic. “Jesus,” he said, and rolled off her.
When she yanked her arm, she realized he’d handcuffed one of her wrists to a post of the bed. He stood at the side of the
bed, hands outstretched. His nose was bloody, and she took a savage satisfaction in that. “What is your problem?”
The problem was that she and her instincts were going to have a nice long talk after all this was over.
Would you like to invite me up, Sejal?
“Come into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly. She was so sick of being the fly. She shook her head and opened her mouth. She wanted to scream it, but it only came out
in a breath. “I never told you my name, you asshole.”