“I have a new job, Mom.”
No! Why on earth had she said that? Ashna wanted to wring Trisha’s and China’s combined necks for shoving stupid ideas in her head.
“You’re moving on from Curried Dreams?” The almost gleeful hope in Shobi’s voice strummed every one of Ashna’s overstretched nerves.
Baba’s been dead for twelve years, she wanted to scream. You can stop fighting with him now. “No, I’m not. But I’m going to be on a competitive cooking show as a pro chef.” Her voice sounded strong and clear for the first time since she’d heard Shobi’s hello. She leaned in and met her own eyes in the mirror.
“Reality TV? You?” The voice on the phone stretched between skepticism and outright disbelief.
Shobi’s favorite metaphorical chains stretched at the links around Ashna. “Yes. If I win I can pay down the debt on Curried Dreams. And no, I’m never giving up on it.”
The frustrated sound Shobi made was so delicious that for one lovely second Ashna didn’t care about anything else. “You are so Bram’s daughter. He was a great expert at cutting off his nose to spite his face.”
“Being Baba’s daughter is something I’m proud of.”
“Don’t I know it? But there’s no wisdom in ruining your life to stick it to me, child. Being punitive will get you nowhere.”
So, the gloves were off now. Their conversation arriving at its inevitable destination.
“Hard as it is to imagine, not every decision I make is motivated by you.”
“I know. It’s motivated by the guilt your father dumped on your head before leaving.”
Leaving. How clean she made death sound. Shobi had left. Baba had died.
“Thanks for that. I have to go.” She disconnected the call, finally doing what she should have done the moment she started to lose control of the conversation, long before letting her bath go cold. Then she pulled the plug and watched the water drain away.
Chapter Three
Rico Silva watched as giant sprinklers dropped down from the absurdly high ceiling and rained water on the mud pit, where bikini-clad women wrestled with a bunch of his mates. There was nothing quite like a bachelor party to strike terror in any sane—or sober—person’s heart for the future of humankind. Across the room at the giant bar, Josh—wearing horns of some sort—watched a woman—wearing the most minimalist of sequined pasties and thongs—take a shot from between his knees. Needless to say, Josh was in his underwear, which made how much he was enjoying this evident to all present.
Rico threw a look around the room to make sure no one had their cameras out. This was the Hold, Vegas’s most elite and secret club, and the lighting used a special wavelength that made taking photographs impossible. Even so, for every technology invented to protect privacy, there was a countertechnology invented to violate it. It was the world they lived in. You didn’t have to be a Premier League football player to know this, but if you were, you knew it well. Not that any of these knobs remembered their names right now, let alone the lessons they had learned. Most were young enough to still believe themselves invincible after enough whiskey recklessly mixed with every other kind of alcohol.
Del was on top of the bar and about to grab a rope dangling from the ceiling to take a Tarzan-style swing across the room. Fortunately, the season was over and they didn’t have to get back on the pitch for training for a few more weeks.
Well, not them, exactly. Rico was never getting back on the pitch. The torn iliotibial band and shattered kneecap had made sure his career was good and over. Not that he could complain. At eighteen he’d moved Sunderland from the relegation zone back up to the Premier League, kicking off the kind of career he could never have imagined in his wildest dreams. He’d won the World Cup and the Champions League, and been purchased by Manchester United for a record sum. At thirty, he’d had a run he was more than a little proud of.
The part he wasn’t proud of was how badly he was handling the pain. His knee hurt as though the screws and plates substituting for bones and tissue were made of solidified acid. As always, the pain sharpened when he thought about it.
He had read somewhere that human nerves blocked out chronic pain after a while, but the sensation of pain returned when you were reminded of it, like when you heard someone else talk about theirs. It was as though the knowledge of another person’s pain reminded the nerves of what they were trying to forget.
Rico was here to tell all skeptics that the theory was indeed accurate. He adjusted his leg on the booth couch. The body-armor-style brace itched like the depths of hell and he couldn’t wait to get it off in a few days.
“What’s got you all grumpy?” Zia, his best mate and the groom—which made him the man of the hour—slid into the booth Rico was hogging all to himself. Not that the other guys had any interest in leaving the dance floor, or the mud pit, or the bar with the Tarzan vines hanging over it.
“Nothing. Just jealous that I can’t join the guys in making such perfect arses of themselves.” Much as Rico detested the brace, he was grateful for it today. He was in no mood to get out there and prove how much of a party animal he was. Not that he wasn’t perfectly adept at that. As a Carioca born and raised in Rio de Janeiro, knowing how to have a good time—while preserving his dignity—was in his blood.
Zee knew he was joking, but he still looked at Rico in that way good friends looked at you when you were off your game: one part concern, the other part impatient hope that your affliction would pass fast. Zee looked ready to bodily shake off this ridiculous blue mood that had been clinging to Rico recently.
“Thanks for being here.” He thumped Rico’s shoulder and threw a wince at his leg, which was more than the rest of them dared to do. Their other teammates avoided the topic of the surgeries and the sight of Rico’s knee as though torn connective tissue that ended your career were contagious.
Rico shrugged. A brace and crutches wouldn’t keep him from his best mate’s bachelor party. For a few moments, the two of them took in their teammates acting like this was their very last opportunity to hold on to the stupidity of their youth.
“Tell me again why you let Del plan this?” Zee asked. “Wasn’t it your bloody job as my best mate?”
“I was in the hospital, remember? And Del and Josh thought it was the perfect excuse to take over. I don’t think any of the guys were stoked about catching Hamilton in New York to celebrate you losing your bachelorhood.”
Zee laughed. “That actually sounds fecking brilliant. Except Tanya would kill me if I went without her, even though she’s seen it four times.”
As always, that fuzzy I just took a hit of something potent look crossed Zia’s eyes when he talked about Tanya. It was well deserved, of course. Tanya was possibly the best woman Rico had ever met. Steady and badass and madly warm and nurturing.
“How the hell did I get so lucky?” Zee said.
“I don’t know, mate. How did you?”
“I guess we caught each other young and watched each other grow, eh? Luckiest break of my life.” Tanya and Zee had been college sweethearts.
“By that definition, it’s pretty much too late for the rest of us.” Rico took a sip of his club soda, wishing for something stronger, but his meds didn’t mix with alcohol.