Torn

by Deborah Bladon

  "I listened to that song after I got back to my studio this afternoon." She pops a fry into her mouth and chews slowly.

  "Unless it was one of my songs, I don't want to hear about it."

  Her eyes squint as she laughs. "You're not one of those musicians, are you? Do you get jealous when you hear other people's music?"

  "I never have," I say truthfully before taking a swallow of water. "Other people's music only inspires me."

  She traces her fingertip around the rim of the glass of iced tea she ordered. "It's the way for me with other people's photographs too."

  "You're really good for someone so young."

  That draws a hearty laugh from her. "I think we're the same age, or around the same age. I'm twenty-three."

  "Twenty-six." I tap my fingers on my chest. "I've got a few years on you."

  "Barely," she says under her breath. "Anyways, I was talking about that song that girl mentioned at the coffee shop. Precious Beats. I listened to it tonight."

  "What did you think?"

  She wipes her hands on the linen napkin she's had on her lap since she started eating. "I think I like it."

  "You think you like it?" I parrot back with a grin. "Is that a polite way of saying you don't like it? I'm a big boy. I can take the truth."

  I almost stop myself when I realize the irony in those words. I can't take the truth. If I could, I would have called my dad right after I opened the envelope that held all his secrets. Instead, I worked on a new song and then inexplicably felt the urge to call Falon even though I knew I'd likely wake her up. How fucked up is that? I'm sitting in an almost empty restaurant with a woman I've known less than a day instead of dealing with my life changing discovery.

  "I'm serious." She eyes the last two bites of her burger. "It's great. I confess I listened to it a few times. The lyrics really spoke to me."

  I wrote that song exactly a year to the day after I got sober. I finally felt that I had a handle on my life and the song embodies everything I hope for; love, family, and acceptance. I've released a few songs since Precious Beats, but none of them have carried the same meaning as that one.

  "Spoke to you? How?"

  "I spent most of my life feeling like I didn't know myself very well." She gives in to the temptation and takes a small bite of what's left of her meal. She chews quickly. "It's hard to find your own identity when you grow up in a four bedroom house with twelve siblings."

  "You felt neglected?" I ask, even though that's not the message in the lyrics. It is the obvious presumption though. Two parents and thirteen children. I'm not a math genius but to me that equals not enough time for those parents to give each kid what they need.

  "I never felt that," she answers quickly. "My parents always tried to make me feel special."

  "What then?" I push.

  She turns away. I watch her swallow as three fingers on her left hand rub the front of her neck. "A few of my siblings work for my mom and dad. They work at the bakery."

  I take a bite of my own burger even though my appetite isn't what I thought it was. You can't chase down your parents' lies with a handful of fries and a medium rare cheeseburger.

  "I worked there too when I was growing up but I knew I wanted more."

  I chew and swallow quickly, washing the food down with another swig of water. I'd been tempted to order a beer but that wasn't because I needed it to quench my thirst. It had been the stepping stone the last time I broke my sobriety. A beer one night, weed the next, and then a call to the dealer who always had exactly what I wanted. That's my pattern. I'm not falling back into that.

  "You wanted to be a photographer? How long have you known that?"

  "How long have you known that you wanted to be a musician?" she counters, expertly diverting the question.

  "Forever." My lips curve into a smile. "It's always been my passion."

  "It's getting really late." She pauses. "I need to head home. I have a shoot tomorrow. Sleep would be good."

  Sleep would be good for me too. Sleeping next to her would be even better. Being inside of her would fix everything. At least it would for a few hours and right now that's about as far into the future as I can think about.

  CHAPTER 9

  Falon

  When he asked me to join him for dinner I was convinced that at some point he'd bring up that comment I made about his dick. He hasn't yet. Normally, I'm not that snippy with clients. I don't know what possessed me to say that to him other than the fact that his cock was literally about to fall right out of his jeans.

  I've taken photographs of nude men before. The majority of that happened when I was in college when my boyfriend and I would mess around with the camera. Some of it was for school when I had to take a few tasteful nudes for my portfolio.

  I approached a quiet guy who I often saw studying in the library. When I asked if he'd pose for me without any clothes, he agreed immediately. His body was beautiful. We never slept together. I wanted to but I had a boyfriend who said that he loved me. He did, I guess, until he loved someone else.

  I don't mourn the loss of that relationship anymore. I might have for a couple of beats of my heart, but I was more in love with photography than any one person. It's my life now. It's everything to me and if I keep on track, I'll be able to fulfill my dream of moving to London and opening a studio there one day.

  Making comments about a client's cock isn't going to get me there. I messed up earlier when I did that. I'm just grateful Asher seems to have forgotten about it. I know I'd get a lecture from Noah Foster if he knew I treated any client that way, especially his cousin, regardless of how much dick was on display.

  "What are you thinking about?" His hand brushes against mine as we stand facing one another on the almost deserted sidewalk outside the restaurant. "You're totally somewhere else right now."

  "No, I'm here." I turn away from him and towards the street. I should get an Uber. We'd have to walk at least a block over to hail a cab. "I'm going to get an Uber."

  He leans forward to look at the screen of my smartphone. "Where's your place?"

  It's a simple question. I shouldn't be hesitating, yet I do. I can't think of one reason why I'm not asking him back to my apartment. I live alone. I shaved my legs this morning and I have condoms. I have all the bases covered.

  He can come home with me, fuck me for an hour or two and then be on his way. It's a win-win for me and I know he wouldn't have any complaints. All I have to do is invite him to spend what's left of the night with me. I have nothing to lose other than a few hours of sleep.

  "I'm heading over to a friend's place on the lower East Side." He throws that right out there, shattering my lust-filled thoughts. "Are you going that way?"

  I'm not and even if I was, he's not hitching a ride with me. What kind of friend does a guy visit at this time of night? The sun is going to rise in about three hours and to me that's prime booty call time. He actually wants to ride share with me on his way to fuck another woman?

  I look over his shoulder, willing the Uber driver to round the corner but he's still two minutes away. It's a tiny amount of time, yet it feels like an eternity right now.

  I don't know why I feel so humiliated even though I didn't say one word about the two of us hooking up. I wanted it. I thought he did too. I saw the way he looked at me over dinner. Maybe he looks at all women that way. Maybe it's been so long since a man looked at me with want in his eyes that I can't even recognize it anymore.

  "I'm headed in the other direction." I shake my head. "You're on your own."

  I don't know why I say that. He's not on his own. I am. I'm the one going back to a small one-bedroom apartment in a century old townhouse on the Upper East Side. I'm the one who is going to strip naked and get in between the expensive sheets that have been my one and only splurge since I moved to my own place. I'm also the one who is going to satiate the ache in my core with my own touch.

  "You called for a car?"

  I nod as I keep my eyes l
ocked on the horizon. "It's about a minute away."

  "Dinner was great, Falon." He pauses. "Thanks for taking my pictures and for everything else."

  What else is there? I sat across the table from him and practically inhaled a cheeseburger and fries in record time. Is he thanking me for that or is it the gorgeous view he must have had throughout dinner of my mustard stained shirt and shoulder-length, now-sweat-dampened hair? There's no way in hell that restaurant had their air conditioning turned on. The moisture that was beading on Asher's forehead all night is proof of that.

  "I had fun," I offer as I see a Honda Civic creeping up the block. This has to be my ride. I take a step closer to the curb. "Thanks for the burger."

  "When do I get to see the pictures?" He bends down to eye the driver as the car comes to stop on the street in front of us.

  "I'll shoot your manager an email early next week with a link to the proof gallery." I nod as he reaches forward to open the back passenger door for me. "She can give me a call anytime. She has my number."

  "I have your number too." He leans forward until he's so close to my ear that I can hear the slight hitch in his breath. He kisses me then. Not where I want him to. It's not my lips. It's not even my cheek or my forehead.

  Instead, he pushes my hair back behind my shoulder and then he kisses the tender spot on my neck right below my ear. His lips are soft, moist, and they linger as he kisses my heated flesh once more before he rests his cheek against mine and pauses, his voice comes then, raw and rough. "I'll want to call you ten minutes from now, but I won't. I'll let you sleep, but I'll call tomorrow."

  I pull back, suddenly aware of the fact that my nipples have furled into tight little points beneath the lace bra and thin blouse I'm wearing. I feel a new ache in my core, and this time it's unstoppable.

  That image I've held in my mind all night of going home to shower and then slowly teasing myself to release while thinking about Asher has changed to a desperate need to come the moment I lock my apartment door behind me.

  "Tomorrow." That's all I manage to say before I slip onto the sticky leather, backseat of the car. I nod my head when the driver spits my address out before he puts the car into gear and I slam the door shut.

  ***

  I didn't sleep like a baby after I got home last night. I should have. I plunged my fingers into my silk panties as soon as I got into my apartment. I pulled the blouse off, stripped myself of the skirt and then leaned against the door as I came hard thinking about Asher Foster.

  After that, I opened my laptop and spent the next hour searching for anything I could find about him. The results weren't what I expected at all.

  He used to work in the corporate world, handling the sales division for the company his family owns. There were archived images of him in a suit, his hair much shorter than it is now. His face was different then. It was thinner, almost gaunt and in each of those images his expression was empty. He looked soulless and fractured.

  There were pages and pages of search results that lead to celebrity gossip websites. I couldn't bring myself to scroll through them all. I clicked on one that claimed that Asher doesn’t record any of his own music. It quoted an unnamed source who swears that Asher lip syncs whenever he performs in public because some record producer, who the article never bothered to name, wanted a pretty face to promote and Asher was it.

  The only other one I dared to look at had images of Asher and his two brothers, all side-by-side with a sensationalized headline about whether Asher had a different father than the two of them.

  I've seen the same type of story with other celebrities. With the sheer scope of information that's just a click away, it seems that anyone can make up whatever fake scandal they please to climb up the search engine rankings.

  I went straight to his website after that to read his official backstory. His bio was extensive and dove into every aspect of his life.

  He's been to rehab. The only thing that shocks me about that is that it happened before he hit it big in the music world. He cleaned up and then fame found him. I admire him for taking that step.

  I've watched one of my older sisters struggle to overcome her dependence on the prescription medication that helped her heal after a car wreck she was in. Her trip to a rehab center in Maine ended after only a week when she walked out, telling the staff she was fine.

  She was by her own standards. She knew that within the hour after shedding the strict rules and boundaries they placed on her to help her heal, that she would have more of those tiny white pills in her fist.

  She still functions, working at the bakery when she can. My parents shy away from the frequent, one-sided conversations about co-dependence that I've had with them. Actually, most of my siblings have tried to discuss the issue with my mom and dad, but they can't contribute to finding a solution if they don't view it as a problem. "She's in pain," my mom will say. "You can't know how hard it is for Shirley," my dad chimes in.

  They're both right in their blind oblivion. None of us know what my sister, Shirley, feels. Only she does and in those moments when the medication blurs her reality, she's the one balancing that very thin line between life and death. My parents can't see the line. They can only see a daughter who was traumatized by a car accident that left her a shell of who she used to be.

  They have thirteen children. We're all unique, dynamic and flawed human beings. I wish they understood that perfection isn't found in a life without pain, anxiety or mistakes. They can't. I've grown to accept that.

  "You're lucky we didn't give up on you, Falon." A man's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. It's confident, decisive and familiar.

  I turn towards the door of my studio. I've been here for more than two hours. I reluctantly got out of bed when I realized that sleep wasn't in the cards. I had a coffee, showered, dressed in a short sleeve blue blouse and navy shorts and took the subway here. I was going to ask Remy to assist but I know these clients and they are hands-on. This is an easy job for me. They do almost all the set-up themselves. I just point and shoot.

  "You'll never give up on me, Jax." I flash him a smile. "Ivy won't let you."

  "You've got that right." Ivy Marlow-Walker walks over to where I'm standing and pulls me in for a quick hug. "I'd wait a year for you if that's what it took, Falon. No other photographer can find the beauty in my pieces the way you do."

  I doubt that. Ivy's one of the country's leading independent jewelry designers. She's been coming to me for imagery for the past six months. I take my time, helping her find exactly the right lighting and positioning for each one-of-a-kind piece she creates. I have no doubt that any other photographer could do just as good a job, but for Ivy and her husband, Jax Walker, it's not just about that.

  They wanted a photographer who recognized how much of Ivy's spirit is in each ring, necklace and bracelet she creates. I try to capture that so when a potential customer visits the website for Ivy's company, Whispers of Grace, they see not only the beauty that is evident in the jewelry but the tender care that went into making it.

  "We need to get started," Jax rests a cardboard box on one of the large square tables I've set up. "I'm going to make sure you earn every penny of that ridiculous fee you're charging us, Falon."

  I laugh as I pat him on the shoulder. "You know I'm worth it."

  CHAPTER 10

  Asher

  I finally crashed early this morning after spending a few hours at my buddy, Hugo's loft. I texted him when Falon went to use the ladies' room at the burger place. He was wide awake and fine with me stopping by, even if it was the middle of the night. He never has much to say, only piping up to share his thoughts when I've fucked up a lyric or a melody. He's a goddamn genius and although I tried to give him actual credit on my album, he wanted no part of it.

  I pay him a healthy salary to help me with finessing my songs. He's always somewhere in the shadows when I'm recording and he's even been to a couple of shows. I don't know a lot about his past, other than the fact that m
y manager recommended him.

  We worked on a new song last night. It was at the edges of my mind for days, pulling and pressing to find its release. I jotted down some lyrics, grabbed my guitar to strum a few chords and Hugo chimed in with his magic touch.

  By the time I fell into bed, we had a rough draft of what might be the first song on my next album. It needs to sit now, for a day or two, until I can go back to it with a fresh perspective and an unsoiled ear.

  Much trial and error in my song writing has taught me that the first draft is shit. By letting a song fester within me for a few days, or weeks, or sometimes even months I can pick out the jewels that are there and weave that into a song worth singing.

  It's near noon now and although I've been tempted to call Falon Shaw every second since I dragged my ass out of bed, I haven't yet. I promised myself last night that I'd try to deal with the bullshit that's in that envelope I opened yesterday. It's less than a foot from where I'm now sitting drinking my third cup of coffee of the day.

  I thumb the corner of the envelope. I have the proof I need to confront my parents. I'd take all of this to my dad, but I have no fucking idea where he is right now. When I called him a few days ago he was just about to board a plane to who-the-hell-knows-where.

  I've tried calling him, once yesterday and twice already today, but every one of those calls has gone straight to voicemail. I didn't leave details, just a brief message asking him to call me back. I'm not going to hand him any notice when I lay all of this in his lap.

  I can hop on a plane this afternoon and fly to Los Angeles, where my mom is. I'd be at the hotel she's staying at by the end of the day.

  She can't cry or pout her way out of what's in that envelope. Her emotional manipulations are no match for hard evidence. I can almost hear her trying to convince me that Caterina doctored the emails that she printed out and put in the envelope. She might have. I don't give a shit about those. There's nothing damaging in there other than my dad whining about what a horrible wife my mom was.