Quickies /kwi-kk-eez/
1. Noun :
a one night stand.
Ronnies resolution is to hook up with as many hot chicks as possible, and quickies are the only way to go.
2. Verb :
a quick puff of the joint.
While DJ swam in the thoughts of the beer pitcher he had just emptied, the others hit heaven with a hash quickie.
Forget the meaning of the word. The rules will make you the king of playboys. ;)
Other Quickies you can pick:
Daring Daroga: Killer in the Shadows!
Inspector Abhay Pandey, Uttar Pradesh Police, is a man of simple deeds - Haseeno ko bachaana, gundon aur politicians ki bajaana. Fir chhamiya party mein nachna-gana . When a mysterious murder points the finger towards the next victim, Naina the one with the beautiful eyes our Daring Daroga will leave no stone unturned to find the killer and save the belle.
Dark Temptation: The Naughty Proposal!
Two strangers meet and kindle desires long repressed. Then they meet again and explore some more. Without the shackles of a relationship binding them down, they indulge in sinful pleasures, amorous games and unbridled passion. Will they end up in love? Or are they in for a surprise?
Criminal Masterminds: Catch Me? No You Cant!
Raja Tiwari is freshly out of jail, and not just because of stealing hearts and killing with his looks. He is looking for a new job, and lands up in one, topped with a silky bonus. With ex-cop Thakur, and the sexy Silky Sinha, he has to pull a task that could make him rich or land him back behind bars. Will he play his angle and beat everyone else to the end?
S RISHTI P UBLISHERS & D ISTRIBUTORS
N-16, C. R. Park
New Delhi 110 019
First published in Quickies by
Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Text copyright Vicky Arora, 2015
Series copyright Srishti Publishers & Distributors, 2015
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.
CONTENTS
T he story begins in a large duplex bungalow in Anand Niketan in South Delhi, which I shared with my friend DJ. We would have had to sell ourselves to afford living in such a swanky place, if our fathers were not such big shots in Chandigarh. So, the money kept pouring in for both of us from our parents. DJ moved into the bungalow a week before me, and thankfully took care of everything we might need. Apparently this bungalow belonged to his fathers friend, or was bought from his fathers black moneyone of those. But I didnt care.
It was just cool that we both ended up here. With DJ around, I felt like I already had a built-in support system. When he showed me this luxurious independent bungalow, I attached myself to him like a Siamese twin and was happy to share the rent. This place was awesome. I could come home with seven different girls every day, and no one would bother to notice me.
By the way, DJ is short for Diljit Singh, but that had last been heard sometime in school. I was one of the few people who knew that and I was sworn to secrecy. He said pretty girls found him more interesting with just the initials. I had little faith in that theory, but I kept it a secret nonetheless.
The bungalow was pretty close to the Delhi University campus and hot chicks could be seen by the dozens, without too much effort. So I sat on the cold marble slab at the window and enjoyed the eye candy. I also watched happy couples come and go, hand in hand. I used to call them chingam couples because they would stick to each other like chewing gum even if there was no taste left in the gum.
I never understood why some guy would want to choke himself by being with just one girl. I called such guys footiyas . Actually a footiya is a guy who goes to an ice cream shop if his girlfriend says I like chocolate flavour and not to the chemist. I didnt want a girlfriend, not really, at least not right away. But I would love to have someone warm my bed. It had been a while since Id had a chance at it, and my Bull kept reminding me how warm it wanted to be.
God, what a whiner I was! I reminded myself that I was one lucky son-of-a-bitch living a pretty fucking cool life, and my grumbles, compared to most peoples in the world, were so minimal and stupid and small, it was incredible I even bothered with them. I watched a bird land on the tip of a lamppost across the street. It fluttered its wings, teetered, fluttered again, and finally found its balance. Thats me, I told myself. Im just like that bird. Flying from one lamppost to the other.
Then something deep inside me asserted itself. What the fuck are you talking about? I muttered, then half-laughed aloud. God, maybe I had my period.
Saturday was winding down, and the lampposts sparkled to life. It was early November and the Delhi winter had not set in completely, not yet. As the sun finally set, a cool breeze informed me that it was going to be a cold night. I wondered where my hash was. It just seemed like something that might help right now. I stared at my iPhone contacts and stopped at QDs the adda for students for its tandoori momos. I would call QDs in a while, like I always did, for my tandoori momos. It was getting a little embarrassing, though.
Hello, QDs.
Hi, I want to place a home delivery order.
Hi sir aap samney first floor sey bol rahe ho na ?
Um, yeah.
Chicken clear soup and tandoori chicken momos with extra red chutney? Correct, sir?
No, um, today I think I will try the veg option.
Sir, are you sure?
Fine. Give me the chicken.
Okay. Fifteen minutes, Emraan sir.
They may have known my voice, but theyd never know my name. They somehow thought I was Emraan, the Bollywood guy who always gets a girl in every movie he does. I think he was the only guy after James Bond who got a girl for no reason.
So I wasnt Emran. I was Ronnie Kapoor, a Punjabi guy from Chandigarh. Ever since I moved to New Delhi two years ago, I had used pseudonyms when ordering in. Wood Box Cafe, my second most frequent home delivery restaurant, knew me as Ricky Bahl the guy who could play with three girls in the movie and still get away with it.
I slipped back into the white wicker chair lying near the window and began weighing options for the evening. Common sense held that I should eat my dinner, watch a porn movie like most single guys, and get a reasonable night of sleep before the next day.
But my Bull, my damn Bull. He just wouldnt shut up. And I had to admit, his argument wasnt without merit, or logic. His basic premise: Any girl out tonight might be just as desperate as you. I offered that I had been out a lot this week; the last two nights hadnt ended until way into the morning, and even now a slight hangover hummed in my head. But Bull, as I called him, was influential. The problem with being a boy is the constant struggle between listening to your brain and listening to your Bull. The problem with being me was that somehow my Bull had acquired the argumentative skills of a lawyer. Or perhaps, my brain was an equal party with it.
