Goddess for Hire (10 page)

ACCORDING TO RAM I
didn't have to wait for the Ugh of malevolence to hit.

I could go out looking for it.

He explained this to me as I hefted the carton of Coke all the way up the stairs to Sanjay's apartment. When I asked Ram for help, he pleaded sitar elbow.

Humble servant my ass.

Back in Newport, no one was home—a good thing since the sword would be rather hard to explain, and I didn't want to leave it in the car. My plan was to shower, change, and go back out.

Afterward, dressed in a white silk robe, I threw open the doors of my mirrored, walk-in closet, and with one hand on my chin, the other on my hip, I pondered the eternal existentialist question.

What does a goddess wear to kick ass?

I tied my hair back in a bouncy ponytail, added a dusting of Studio Fix powder and some lip gloss, and I was ready. I was going to prove that style and substance overcame malevolence and immorality any day.

I was about to put the divine in
divining
rod.

 

When I came downstairs I was greeted by the smell of frying onions and garlic.

Mom was home.

I walked into the kitchen to deliver my excuse for the night, but the one busy at the stove wasn't my mom. It was Tahir.

He nodded to the two glasses of red wine on the side table. “Take your pick.”

Hmm.

Malevolence was out there, needing to be dealt with.

In front of me was red wine.

A girl needed sustenance.

I took a long, slow sip. “I'm totally loving this Shiraz. Where'd Mom and Dad go?”

“That's obviously Pinot Noir, not Shiraz. We're meeting them at the Kathak show at eight.”

“Kathak? They know that stuff bores me to tears. Why'd they buy me a ticket?”

“How can you hate Kathak? The dancers train for decades just to pull off such intricate footwork. It was
considered choice entertainment in the court of Mughal emperors.”

I responded wittily by sticking my finger down my throat like I was gagging. “So why didn't you go with them? Oh wait—” I batted my eyelashes teasingly. “You wanted to wait for me.”

Tahir snorted. “Hardly. I was expecting an important fax; otherwise, I would have joined your parents and their friends for dinner before the show.”

I moved closer and peered over his shoulder. “Speaking of dinner, what are you making?”

“Roghan Josh. Lamb curry with potatoes and turnips.”

“I know what it is.” Honestly, why were people always explaining elementary Indian cultural facts to me?

I was distracted from my irritation by the sight of Tahir's broad, leanly muscled shoulder. No boniness there. I could lean my head for hours and my neck would be fine.

He turned to me. “Are you breathing through your mouth?”

I stepped away, and reached for the wine bottle to fill my glass, which as usual, had miraculously depleted.

Well, I was drinking for two now.

Tahir opened the oven to check on the lamb, and the smell made my stomach roar.

“So what's with cooking dinner?”

He took a sip of wine. “You don't cook, and we both had to eat, so…”

Even wearing a ridiculous red apron, Tahir was a splendid specimen of male anatomy. The arm that held
the glass of wine up to his Roman nose was powerful yet slender. My limbs melted, remembering the way he'd caught and pressed me to him last night.

Warm fuzzies took up residence in my stomach.

I owed him an explanation for why I'd pulled away and left the party. “About last night—”

He shut the oven door and slung a dish towel over his shoulder. “First of all, you're weird, and not in an appealing way. Second of all, neither of us is interested in a relationship with the other; so let's just agree to lead our own lives without explanation.”

The warm fuzzies inside my stomach twisted into gut-wrenching tapeworms. “Fine. But if you think I'm weird, I highly doubt your definition of normal exists.”

“Fine,” he said.

“Fine.”

“You already said that.”

“Fine…I mean I know.” I took a steadying sip of wine. “Are you going to tell my family about us, or do I have to be the sacrificial Sita?”

He removed two plates from the cupboard. “You know this may be a good time for you to tell your family the same thing you told me.” His lips curled into a mocking grin. “That you're an independent woman who doesn't believe in arranged marriage.”

It was clear now that Tahir was going to be of no help with regard to the marriage mess…

I was struck by a strong feeling of déjà vu. Hadn't I had the exact same thought about him before?

I decided to attend the Kathak show, thereby temporarily appeasing my family. Afterward, I'd hit the streets and try to save the world, or at least parts of Orange County.

Until then—

I consented to help Tahir set the table.

Carrying spoons and forks, I tossed them down along with a pile of napkins, buffet style. “So what's with you and Nadia? Is she actually helping you find an apartment?”

Instead of telling me to mind my own business, Tahir began placing the fork and spoon neatly beside each plate and folding the paper napkins into flowers. “And why exactly do you care?”

I picked up one of the tissue tulips and raised an eyebrow. I couldn't decide if the guy was creative or completely anal. “I just feel you should know that Nadia is one warped individual. She doesn't use protective seat covers in public restrooms. She just plops down. I mean that's totally disgusting. And she's a doctor, for God's sake!”

Slipping on bright red oven mitts that matched his apron, Tahir carried over the main dish and a plate of carryout naan he'd warmed in the oven. “And how do you know what she does in a public restroom.”

“That's really a long story and not suitable for dinner conversation.”

“Speaking of dinner…”

We took our seats at the table across from each other.

There wasn't much conversation after that. There we were, two attractive people sharing a delicious meal. It was like a date.

Except I thought he was an asshole, and he thought I was certifiable.

 

Toward the end of the meal, the fax machine began to beep, and Tahir excused himself from the table.

Leaving the dishes for him, I went upstairs and retrieved my sword.

Grasping the weapon in my hand, I couldn't help smiling.

Who needed a man when I had this?

I'd stash it in the backseat while Tahir was scrubbing away in the kitchen.

Now I was ready.

IGNORING TAHIR'S BOASTS
of parallel parking excellence,
I drove
to the Performing Arts Center in Costa Mesa. After all, this was Orange County. Parking was not an issue. Thousands of acres of orange groves had been paved to make way for parking lots.

Mom and Dad were already in their seats, along with their “friends” Aunt Dimple and Uncle Pradeep.

Honestly, did my parents have any social acquaintances that were not blood-related?

Aunt Dimple started waving as soon as we entered the auditorium and kept it up until we were seated.

It was so totally embarrassing.

There were two empty seats between my aunt and a white guy wearing a T-shirt with the words “I” and “Yoga” separated by a big red heart. Tahir ushered me ahead of him and into the seat next to my aunt.

I had a list of things I'd rather do than watch classical Indian dance, like get my cavities filled without those pesky shots of Novocain or go for a dip in the
Great Salt Lake immediately after a Brazilian bikini wax.

Aunt Dimple kept craning her head to stare at Tahir and me. My mom shot Tahir a warm smile and me a pinched one. My dad was deep in conversation with my uncle Pradeep. I heard the words “HMO” and “referendum” and tuned out.

Bored with what was happening on my left, I turned to my right in time to hear the yoga lover comment to Tahir, “India is such a beautiful and spiritual place. There's this mind-blowing mystical energy, this awesome sense of peace.”

“If you ignore all the Hindus and Muslims killing each other,” I said.

“Excuse me. I'll be right back.” The guy smiled and left.

Tahir shot me a disapproving look. I shrugged, whipped out my cell phone, and began playing games.

By half past eight, the concert still had not started.

Indian standard time.

I don't know whether it was genetics or what, but Indian people were never on time. I'd grown up watching my mom purposely tell all her Indian guests the party started at seven, just so they'd get there at eight—the actual time.

I looked up from the screen to see that Tahir was still staring at me. “What?”

“The show is about to start,” he whispered.

“Get a clue.” Nevertheless, I put my phone away.

Searching for something else to do, I called the Goddess Within and decided to check out Tahir's aura.

Pulse-pounding red.

I don't know what I'd been expecting. A black aura with horns maybe?

Definitely not scarlet passion, heat, desire…

The responding lurch in my body was immediate and powerful, and I forced myself to turn away.

I didn't throw myself at men. I walked over them. Unlike some women—

“Hi, Tahir!”

Nadia stood in the aisle, smiling brightly.

Oozing fake chirpiness, she sat down in the empty seat next to him. “I'm so glad I got a ticket!”

“It's Kathak, not U2,” I pointed out. “And someone is sitting there.”

Nadia glared at me, then at the yoga guy, who stopped in the aisle and stared confusedly at his seat.

“Hi,” he said in a pleasant voice.

“I'm taking your seat,” Nadia snapped. She handed him a ticket. “You can have mine.”

He took the ticket and folded his hands over it. “Namaste.”

Nadia scowled at his retreating back. “Hare Krishna Hippie Freak.”

I couldn't keep the disgust from my voice. “God, you're so rude.”

Nadia leaned forward. “And you aren't?”

“Ladies.” Tahir pushed us back. “The show is starting.”

With a final glare at each other we settled into our seats.

“You should be careful,” Aunt Dimple whispered in my ear. “I think Nadia is interested in Tahir. Of course,” she added, “we'd be happy if either of you ended up with him. He will be quite a good addition to the family.”

Wondering what sort of mental defect made me choose to live at home, I slid down into my seat.

The curtains parted.

 

It was halfway through the show, and I had no clue what was happening on stage.

My Malevolent Meter was also still.

Great, and just when I was looking for a break.

I suppose I could sum up the performance as a lot of intricate hand movements, a lot of heavy ankle bells, and a lot of black eyeliner. Even the solo male dancer had on eyeliner. It made his eye movements appear really exaggerated, which I think was the point.

I knew that the performance tonight revolved around the god Krishna and his soul mate Radha, but that was all. It was too dark to look at my Playbill.

Krishna's mother, obviously hearing rumors of what had happened to the baby Moses over on the next continent, hid her infant son with a childless couple, a goatherd and his wife. Krishna grew up frolicking along the banks of the river with comely fetching gopis or milkmaids. By this time milkmaids and cowherds alike had figured out that Krishna was a god and the human
incarnate of Vishnu, the preserver of Hinduism. All the gopis were in love with him, but the one who caught his eye was married, and her name was Radha.

Not to sound blasphemous, but frolicking along the banks of the river with a beautiful married woman might have been okay for Krishna, but around here extramarital affairs get pretty messy. Radha's husband would have lost half his goat herd in California's divorce court.

Around me the audience suddenly held their collective breath. Okay, something was happening.

I really needed to figure out what the big deal was.

I turned to Tahir and saw him wiping at the corner of his eye.

The dude was crying!

I turned back to the stage. I didn't want Tahir to know I had seen him.

Was I an insensitive person? I flashed back to the scene in
Pretty Woman
when Richard Gere took Julia Roberts to the opera. By the end of the performance she's crying, and he's utterly moved by her tears. In her place, I would have fallen asleep, and Richard would have dumped my sorry ass back on the street corner where he'd found me.

I sneaked another peek at Tahir. His eyes were still bright.

Okay, so Krishna and Radha were the ultimate symbol of love.

And yet…

In today's time even if true love managed to exist, nagging over money, substandard sex, psychotic sugar-addicted children, vexing in-laws, and work stress would beat it down. Otherwise, why would we have our Dr. Phils and our Judge Judys?

I mean, come on!

The auditorium lights flickered on.

Intermission. Thank God!

I was dying of thirst.

Now, if only I knew how to manifest myself a Cherry Coke…

I'D SWEAR THERE WERE
more people in the lobby circling the snack tables than there'd been inside the auditorium watching the show.

Typical Indians.

“That was really, really, really beautiful!” Nadia squeaked, smiling up at Tahir.

Aunt Dimple was looking at me and inclining her head toward Tahir.

Super unsubtle.

What was I supposed to do? Push the plates of pakodas and sweets off one of the snack tables, throw Tahir down, and have my way with him?

Wisely I settled for a smile. “You really are fond of Kathak.”

“Music and dance move me,” he replied.

Tell me about it. I'd seen the tears.

“Such a cultured young man,” Aunt Dimple crowed. “Right, Maya?”

Five pairs of eyes looked from me to Tahir. Mom and
Aunt Dimple shot looks of approval, my dad and uncle shot looks of obliviousness, and Nadia's eyes shot deadly, belladonna-tipped, hemlock-laced, arsenic-sugared darts right at me.

And then—

“This is
her
?” A disbelieving female voice said from behind me.

I turned and was confronted by Ram's cousin Sanjay and a very skinny Indian woman wearing glasses, her black hair scraped back into a tight bun. Her eyebrows curved up in disbelief. “This is
Kali?
”

Crap!

Sanjay quickly got down on one knee, yanking the dubious woman down with him. “Jai Ma Kali! This is my girlfriend, Indira.” He paused, and added in a serious tone, “And the battle against the forces of evil, how does it go?”

I shoved back the desire to kick Sanjay in the face and glanced over my shoulder at Tahir and my family. I laughed uncomfortably.

“Did he just call you Kali?” Tahir asked.

“It's a role-playing game, right, Sanjay?” Still on bended knee, Indira beside him, Sanjay stared up at me blankly. “He's Shiva, and I'm Kali.”

My dad scratched his cheek. “Shiva? I thought you said his name was Sanjay?”

Aunt Dimple shuddered. “Kali? Why would you want to be her? Sarasvati is the Goddess of Art and Culture—much better and prettier. Some say I look—”

“Excuse me.” I yanked Sanjay to his feet and dragged him away. Indira trotted after us, then diverged and headed for the snack table.

When we were at a safe distance, I grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Who else have you told about this?”

“Just Indira,” Sanjay said, puzzled. “But why would you want to hide such glorious news from your family?”

“We have issues,” I snapped.

“But Kali-Ma—”

“Just call me Maya, okay?”

“As you wish.”

Indira came up sipping a Coke.

Speaking of Cokes…

“Where's Ram?” I asked.

“Sanjay and I are on a date. Ram was not invited,” Indira said defensively. “Besides, he comes with us everywhere!”

“Now Indu,” Sanjay pleaded. “He is my elder and family.”

“Don't ‘Indu' me!” Indira's eyes blazed. “Bringing him salsa dancing was the last straw! I left India because I was tired of having chaperones on my dates.”

“Indira is a chemical engineer,” Sanjay bragged.

She scowled. “Don't change the subject.”

“But Ind—” he stopped at her look. “Ram stayed at home tonight, didn't he?”

“Only because he wanted to watch
Sex and the City
.”

I was about to beat a retreat from their bickering when—

Ugh.

Malevolence at three o'clock.

I spun in that direction—and faced a door marked
BACKSTAGE
.

A security guard stood at attention.

One of the female dancers ran lightly across the floor, ankle bells tinkling, and the guard stepped aside to let her through.

Ugh.

I was getting past that guard.

This was the distraction I'd been waiting for.