Do you want me to leave, Asher?" I ask, with the hope that he'll point his finger at the door and wave me away.
It may be my studio but I don't want to be alone with him right now. I might have wanted it five minutes ago when I was taking his picture, but everything has changed. The boyish grin on his face has been replaced with a vacant stare. His shoulders have stiffened and his left hand has balled into a tight fist. Whoever was on the other end of that telephone call stole his carefree spirit away and replaced it with anger, or maybe despair. I can't tell.
"Take my picture, Falon." He walks quickly back to the spot in front of the canvas where he was standing just moments ago when the music was pounding through the speakers and the room was abuzz with the frenetic energy that comes with a photo shoot like this.
I'd offered minimal direction as he'd flexed and moved, granting me the best angles of his toned body. I'd heard the appreciation in the words of the other women in the room when he lifted his arms above his head to showcase his biceps. That's when a phone had signaled an incoming call with a generic ringtone.
I'd stopped shooting to glance around the room, disappointed at the jarring end to my concentration. I have one rule when you walk into my studio and that's no cell phones, or at the very least, I expect my clients and anyone accompanying them, to silence their ringers. It's a small sacrifice for an excellent end product, in the form of stunning photographs.
When Asher had tugged the phone from the back pocket of his jeans to answer it, I knew instantly that something was wrong. I doubt anyone else in the room heard the hushed curse that escaped his lips or saw the way his jaw tightened as he spoke to whoever was on the other end of that call.
He hung up after what seemed like no more than two minutes. It was then that he signaled for one of his assistants to quiet the music. No one else noticed his frustration but it wasn't lost on me. His eyes locked with mine briefly before he made the first announcement to clear the studio. It was only moments ago, yet it feels like an eternity has passed since then.
"Why?" I detach my camera from the tripod and cradle it in my hands. "Why do you want me to take your picture now?"
"Just do it." His chin moves forward as if he's coaxing me. "I want you to do it."
Since I'm technically still working for him, I don't hesitate. I bring my camera up to my eye. My sight trained on his face.
He glares into the lens. His eyelids blinking shut twice before he levels his gaze on me. The intensity is alarming. I take a photograph, and then another, desperate to capture the raw emotion that's staring right back at me.
I step closer. He's showing me parts of himself that I know he keeps hidden from the world. I studied dozens of images of him before I laid eyes on him today and in each of those pictures, the same orchestrated smile was there.
That's not who he is right now. Not one thing about him is rehearsed or staged.
His lips have thinned into a straight line. His brows are furrowed as if he's still struggling to absorb something, or trying to solve a riddle that is eluding him. His expression is telling. I see everything he's feeling in the corners of his eyes and the slight tilt of his chin.
"I used to be a weak man."
I don't want to lose the moment so I keep shooting. My index finger presses the shutter release rapidly as I take endless images, each a slight variation of the one that precedes it. All of them a complete story of the emotional pain he's obviously in.
"Used to be?" I ask without lowering the camera. "You're a strong man now?"
"I thought I was." He turns his face to the left, which highlights how tense his jaw is. "After that phone call, I don't know what, or who, I am."
I know that he's probably expecting me to ask who called but I don't know him well enough to go there. I was hired to take his picture, nothing more. I'm doing that now because he essentially ordered me to. If he wants to confess anything to me, that's not going to be by my urging. That has to come from him.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" He looks right at me again, his eyes trying to peer over the edge of the camera to connect with mine.
I don't move. I can't lose this moment. I keep shooting, the quiet click of the shutter barely noticeable. "I have a few."
"A few?" He chuckles. "What does that mean? How many are there?"
"Before I tell you that, "I begin, but I pause. I don't want to lessen what he's feeling but I always preface the answer to that question with some clarification so the person I'm talking to doesn't fall over from shock.
"What? Before you tell me what?" His head darts to the right at the sound of something beyond the closed door. "I asked how many siblings you have. That's a pretty straightforward question."
His profile is remarkable. I wonder, silently, if he could be a model. I photograph enough of them to know what works and doesn't work in that industry. There's a subtle strength in his face that is fascinating.
"My mom always wanted a big family," I offer, which sounds awkwardly intimate given the fact that we just met. I don't stop there though. "My dad didn't know how to tell her enough is enough. Enough kids that is."
He laughs. The sound is genuine and strong. It chases the darkness away from his eyes. "You're one of what? Four?"
I shake my head as I lower the camera. "You're not even in the ballpark."
His brows lift in amusement. "Six?"
"Double that and then some."
"What?" He leans forward, the motion pulling the muscles in his neck taut. He's still shirtless. I didn't ask him to put his sweater back on when everyone left because no woman with the view I have would ask him to cover up that body. Besides, it added to how exposed he looked emotionally in the last set of images I took.
"I'm one of thirteen," I say it with a smile. "I have twelve brothers and sisters."
"Thirteen?" He waves his hand in the air. The simple silver band on his right thumb catches the light. "You're serious?"
"My parents used to call us the baker's dozen." I wince as I say it. "It's a lot of kids but they made it work."
"What the hell do they do for a living?" He takes a step back to pick up his sweater from where he threw it on a chair. "It must cost a fucking fortune to raise a brood like that."
"They own a bakery." I stare past him to the door, wanting to look at anything but him right now. He may actually look better with that sweater on. It makes him look more subdued or softer. "It's in Brooklyn. That's where I grew up."
"I grew up in Queens." He shifts enough on his feet that his face is back in my line of sight. "Are we done?"
"Done?" I feel a small lump in my throat. "What do you mean?"
He nods towards the camera that is still in my hands. "Are we done taking pictures?"
"We're done. I think I have everything I need."
"I could go for a coffee." He pulls his phone from his pocket again. He stares at the darkened screen for a second or two before he looks at me. "Can you join me or do you have more work today?"
It's Friday and it's near the end of June. When his manager called and upended my schedule I knew I'd still have part of the afternoon to myself after the shoot. My plan was to take a run through Central Park and then hop on the subway to go see my sister at work. The fresh air and the sisterly bonding can wait.
"I'm free. It'll be iced coffee for me though. It's hot as hell today."
"Iced coffee it is."
CHAPTER 4
Asher
I do this when life fucks me over. I used to shoot up. Heroine was my escape of choice when the negative parts of life took hold of me. I'd pick up some random girl at a club, score something that would make us both forget our night together and then take her back to my place.
I don't remember any of those nights. The only evidence of them when I crawled out of bed the next day would be the used condoms in the trash and the syringes on the floor. I hated myself when I was doing it. I couldn't stand the sight of my own face in the mirror when I refused to quit and now,
that I've been sober for more than two years¸ I can't imagine going back to that.
When life overwhelms me, I run. I don't physically take off anymore. The last time I did that I got so much shit from everyone who loves me that I promised them I wouldn't do it again. I struggle to keep my feet in one place when my world collapses. It feels like that right now. That phone call back in Falon's studio fucked everything up.
I'm supposed to be at the recording studio, working on a new song with my producer. Instead, I'm in some hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in Midtown Manhattan with a beautiful woman who looks like she'd rather be anywhere but here.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" I've learned, through a lot of trial and error that being direct with the women in this city is the way to go. Besides, I've wanted to ask Falon that question since she made that comment about my dick before the photo shoot. Hearing that word from her made me harder than it should have.
She takes another small sip of iced coffee through the thin plastic straw the barista handed her when he was checking her out. "No, I don't."
I pick up the bottle of orange juice I ordered and bring it to my lips. I was going to follow her lead and go for coffee too but my heart is already racing. Why the fuck is it bothering me that the guy behind the counter was flirting with her?
I watch her across the table, waiting for her to ask me about a girlfriend, but there's nothing. Maybe I misread her body language back at the studio. I totally thought she was into me. It wouldn't be the first time I miscalculated a woman's interest. It would be the first time that I'm this disappointed.
"You're Asher Foster, aren't you?" A high-pitched voice calls out from somewhere behind the table we're seated at. "Oh my God, it's you."
Fuck. Just fuck.
Falon's brows perk up as she glances over my shoulder. She dips her chin slightly. I take it as a dare to respond. She has no idea how often I have to deal with this. Normally, I'll be friendly and pose for the obligatory selfie with whatever teenage girl is calling out to me. Today, I doubt I can form a smile.
"Asher." There's a tap on my shoulder. "Can I get your autograph? I totally love Precious Beats. It's like the best song ever."
I agree. I wrote it.
Falon sets the cup of iced coffee she's been drinking on the table. She's silent. Her eyes dart from my face to whoever is standing next to me.
"What about a picture? My friends are going to totally freak when they see this."
"Did she say Asher Foster is over there? Let's go see if it's him." That's a new voice but it's just as urgent as the first. Drawing a crowd is never a good thing. There's no fucking way I'm going to get out of this without pasting a smile on my face and playing the role of the musician who adores his fans as much as they adore him.
It's a concept I still can't grasp. I make music because I love it. I don't need the screaming girls and propositions from women to know that I'm good at what I do. It's part and parcel of being successful in this business so I have to take the good with the bad.
"Are you his girlfriend? You're his girlfriend, aren't you? Did he write Precious Beats for you?" The questions all run together, the voice behind them breathless.
"No," Falon answers quickly. "I don't know that song. Is it good?"
I laugh inwardly. If nothing she's honest. I don't take offense. My music doesn't appeal to everyone. "I like to think that it is."
My voice pulls the younger woman's eyes to my face. She stops and stares at me. Her gaze is so blatant that the want in it is almost palpable.
Her voice betrays her. She's older than she sounds. She's definitely younger than me but not by more than a year or two. She's pretty in a generic sort of way. A few months ago I would have hooked up with her in an instant. Right now, the attraction isn't enough to even keep my gaze on her. I look at Falon again.
"My friend and I were just leaving." I eye the entrance which now seems more like an escape hatch. "If you want a picture, we need to do it now."
"I'll take it." Falon is on her feet. "Why don't you all cuddle up and I'll take it for you."
I stand and before I can react, the three women are huddled around me. An arm circles my waist from the back, a hand lands on my chest, another precariously rests near the top of my ass.
"That's perfect." Falon reaches for one of the three phones being shoved at her.
She takes one picture after another, being mindful of where everyone is looking. She makes sure that each shot is acceptable to the owner of the phone before she moves on to the next.
"I have nothing for you to sign." The oldest of the women pouts as I quickly sign the back of a receipt that one of the other women shoved at me. "I can't leave here without an autograph."
Just as I reach for one of the paper napkins on the table, Falon pulls a silver business card holder from the large canvas purse she has strung over her shoulder. "You can sign the back of one of my cards."
I smile in appreciation as I take it from her. I slide it in the front pocket of my jeans and instead sign the back of the paper napkin before I hand it to the woman.
"I gave you my card so you could sign it." She taps me on the shoulder just as the three women walk away. "Why did you put it in your pocket?"
"I want your number." I pick up the empty orange juice bottle and toss it in the trash. "I planned on asking my assistant to get it for me, but then you handed it to me."
She bows her head to hide her sudden, and brilliant, smile. "You could have just asked me for it."
"You would have given it to me?" I straighten, shoving my hands into the front pockets of my jeans.
"I didn't say that." With that, she brushes past me and walks out of the coffee shop before disappearing seamlessly into the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk.
CHAPTER 5
Falon
I can't believe I just walked out of that café and away from Asher Foster. I should have hung around to see what he wanted to do next but my heart was beating so hard I felt dizzy. I was afraid I was going to topple right over and onto my face on the disgusting tile floor.
He was flirting. I know enough about men to distinguish flirting from just polite conversation. He was also hurting.
When we walked out of my studio, most of his entourage was still waiting for him. He had a brief conversation with his manager before he motioned for me to follow him. As we walked down the street, I sent Remy a quick text after I realized that she'd messaged me three times demanding to know what I was doing.
I don't owe her any explanations but I also didn't want her to jump to the wrong conclusion. She's my sister's best friend and right now, I don't need my family to think that I've got something going on with one of the most famous men on the planet. Since I moved out, and into Manhattan, I've kept my personal business to myself, for the most part. At least, I've tried to.
After I sent Remy the text telling her that Asher and I were going for a coffee to talk business, I'd fallen in step beside him. He walked with a determined focus, oblivious to all the stolen glances around him.
Just as many men stopped to take a second look at him as did women. His face is everywhere right now, including on the billboard in Times Square. Seeing his album cover lighting up that screen while he was standing next to me waiting to cross Broadway, may have been the most bizarre experience of my life.
Taking photos with strangers' smartphones of Asher and some of his fans only added to the randomness of this day. I need to get back to my studio so I can decompress. I'm also eager to go over the shots I took of him.
My phone rings just as I approach the door that leads into the building that houses my studio. I answer it without looking at the screen. It's my sister Clara. I know that. She's going to give me hell for bailing on our early dinner plans.
"I have a good reason," I say as I pull open the heavy glass door that leads into the lobby. "I can explain."
"You had a good reason for doing what?"
"Noah?" I stop in place. "Noah Foster?"
"The Noah Foster."
I laugh at that. My former boss, Noah Foster, once told me the story of how he met his wife, Alexa. At the time, he was taking nude photographs of women and selling them for an obscene amount of money. In the art world, his name was synonymous with success. To Alexa, it meant nothing. Even though he viewed himself as 'the Noah Foster,' she saw him as just a regular guy. The affection in his voice when he told the story stayed with me for a long time.
When I landed the job as his assistant right after college, I was beside myself. I learned more from him in the nine months that I worked for him, than I did the entire time I studied photography in school. I watched him expertly handle the egos of some of the city's most influential people. I also stood next to him as he worked events that garnered national attention. His current work is featured in magazines, on billboards, and all over the internet.
I owe much of my success to him. I know, for a fact, that he often sends potential clients my way. I'm grateful. I stopped telling him that when he told me that I deserved all the attention I'm getting for my work.
"What did you do?" His voice is gruff. "You said you had a good reason for doing something."
"I thought you were someone else." I settle onto a fabric covered bench since the cell phone reception in the elevator is horrible. "Why are you calling?"
"My cousin is crushing on you."
Noah's blunt. I admire that about him. He's also hilarious. He's one of the funniest people I've ever met. "Your cousin is crushing on me?"
"Don't pretend you don't know." He chuckles. "Asher never calls me. Hell, I don't remember the last time I spoke on the phone with him before today."
I easily connected the dots of their relationship when I booked Asher's shoot. I knew that it was Noah who sent me the job. I should thank him but he'll give me some bullshit line about how I'm better for the job than he is.
Torn Page 2
