A Billionaire for Christmas
Raji’s mother was flying to India for the birth and recovery, too. She had emailed competing lists of the foods and snacks that she was going to cook to help Raji recover her strength after this most kind and generous offering, for which the gods would surely bless her a thousand and one times.
Raji had felt a little trepidation at first about how her family would receive that she had gotten pregnant with an illegitimate child, but after she had offered the baby to Aarthi, the problem of the baby’s father hadn’t come up.
Her flight for India would leave that evening. A last-minute OB/GYN appointment just an hour ago had assured her that she was less than ten percent effaced, normal for late pregnancy. Thus, it was exceedingly unlikely that she would go into labor in the next forty-eight hours, barring any unexpected shock.
Raji was cleared for take-off.
Her apartment was picked-up and vacuumed enough so that, if the plane crashed or something, no one would think she lived like a slob. Raji hadn’t bothered with Christmas decorations, though. She only had a little table-top tree and some garlands in a box in a closet, and hanging them up had seemed stupid and far too much effort when her arms could barely reach around her pregnant tummy. She wouldn’t be home until well after New Year’s Day, anyway.
Yet, it was Christmas Eve, and her bare apartment seemed especially sad.
Well, it wasn’t like she had children to share the holiday with. When she was a kid, her mother had insisted they celebrate Diwali, Christmas, New Year’s, and Tamil New Year’s every year. Raji had just assumed she would do that with her own kids someday, if she had a family and any little half-lizard kids.
Something wet fell out of her eye, and she wiped it away. Damn hormones.
The television was tuned to some stupid entertainment channel where overhairsprayed talking heads jabbered about nonsense. The woman wore a red coat with a white fur collar. Fake snow covered the desk and floor, and enormous, glittering Christmas trees crowded the set.
Nonsense was calming. Entertainment shows never talked about people dying on operating tables.
“And in other news today,” the television announcer woman shrilled, “Fame This Week has released an explosive new exposé on the rock band, Killer Valentine.”
Raji half-turned, afraid that the newsreader would say something about Peyton Cabot, his sunny sense of humor, or his fascinating sea-green eyes. Raji hadn’t sobbed in the shower for months, an embarrassment that she chalked up to pregnancy hormones instead of non-lizard sentiment on her part.
The blond woman smiled brilliantly for the camera. “Allegations of widespread drug abuse by most of the band members, including—” she squinted just off to the left of the camera, and her mouth worked for a second before she continued, “—Rade Delcore, Grayson Jones, Tryfon Diav—are you kidding me, making me try to pronounce something like that on camera? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
The television screen cut back to a woman in the main studio who was staring, wide-eyed into the camera. “Um, some technical difficulties. To sum up, the article included allegations of illegal drug use by band members including Rade Delcore, Grayson Jones, Try-fon Di-a-vo-los Ar-e-le-ous,” mispronounced while staring straight ahead, “and Cadell Glynn, plus injectable steroid abuse and alcohol abuse by lead singer Xan Valentine. The newest band member, Peyton Cabot, seems to have an unhealthy fixation with the keyboard player and wife of the lead singer, Georgie Johnson, and joined the band to stalk her while abandoning his pregnant girlfriend. Fame This Week is available at newsstands and grocery stores now.”
“Oh, no,” Raji said, scrambling for her phone. “Oh, no. Oh, no.”
Her phone rang before she managed to dial Peyton, and the screen said, Loca Friend.
Raji swiped to the right. “Beth! Oh, my God. Something terrible has happened. I don’t know what to do. Somebody found out about me and Peyton Cabot and called the damn magazines!”
Over the phone, Beth’s voice said, “You’re welcome.”
“What?” Panic flashed through Raji like a blaze of fire. “No, tell me you didn’t.”
“I most certainly did. All that stuff Peyton Cabot bragged about to you—drug abuse, steroid abuse, alcoholism, fucking the groupies—all that is coming back to bite him on the ass.”
Raji stupidly started to cry. “No. Oh, no! Oh, Beth. Why?”
“That asshole deserved it for all the heartbreak he’s put you through. If he hasn’t come back here by now to help you, then he deserves to burn with the rest of Killer Valentine. They’re a bunch of drug addicts and negligent baby-daddies, and I hate them all for you.”
Raji edged over to her window and looked down the four stories to the main street outside. Down there, several cars and two satellite trucks were parked right up next to the doors, and people were walking around, holding tablets and talking. “I can’t believe you did this.”