Pure Abandon

by Jeannine Colette

  Asher closes the door behind him, and I sob into my pillow.

  I sleep the morning away. I call Gwen when I wake to check on Jackson and feel much better after hearing my little man squealing on the other end. I search my phone for any missed calls from Gabriel, but there are none. If it weren’t for Jackson, I’d swear off all men.

  When I put the phone down, I notice Asher has left an invitation on the nightstand. It’s for tonight’s event. The Asher Foundation is hosting a soiree in the hotel event space. I glance over to the closet and spot the emerald-green dress peeking out. I guess that’s my uniform for tonight’s event.

  I make my way to Bliss spa on time. When I check in, I’m surprised to see I have a full itinerary prepared. This must be Asher’s consolation prize for the unwanted. Whatever. I’ll take it.

  For the first hour, I have a steam shower and my body scrubbed… literally. A brute of a woman rubs my body down with sea salt and washes all the toxins of Asher and tequila off my body. I’m thankful for her.

  Next, I have a full body mask. Sitting in a pile of seaweed and mud, I let the good nutrients enter my body. I indulge in a full massage, a facial, a manicure, and a pedicure. I can’t believe how fast the last four hours have gone. I can get used to this.

  Finally, I’m escorted to the salon, where my hair is washed and styled. Due to the heat, I ask for something simple and off my neck. The makeup girl is heavy on the eye makeup. She wanted my green eyes to “illuminate.” I let her have her way but ask her to go soft on everything else.

  When it’s time to check out, I consider paying for the experience myself, out of principle. I know Asher said not to, but I have an issue with gifts, especially when they’re from him. However, upon looking at the extravagant total on the bill, I decide this is the one time Asher owes me and I charge it to the penthouse.

  I make it to the room with just enough time to dress. I pull out the Lanvin, one-shouldered, crepe dress that falls above the knee. It is exquisite without being too formal. The stilettos go perfectly with the dress, but I’m not surprised, as a personal shopper selected them. I wish I had a bangle or cuff to go with the outfit, but I’m happy to have worn gold earrings yesterday.

  Asher never said whether or not we’d meet in the lobby or in the room. Hell, he never said if we were to meet at all. I decide to head downstairs on my own.

  The ride in the elevator has my stomach in knots. I still feel so foolish for the way I acted last night and angry over his reaction to it all. If I didn’t have to work with him, I’d vow never to see Alexander Asher again.

  The elevator slows and the doors open revealing a beautiful figure standing in the center of the space. A white dinner jacket, crisp white shirt, black pants and no tie. His blond highlights look lighter from the afternoon sun. Further confirmation they’re natural.

  Placing my hands on my belly, I try to calm my nerves. Pushing my shoulders back and lifting my chin, I exit the elevator. As if feeling my presence, Asher turns in my direction. His golden eyes light up as I approach him, and it forces me to stop and take a deep breath.

  His lips part as his eyes travel the length of my body, taking in my appearance. He opens his mouth farther to say something, swallows, and then speaks. “You. Look. Beautiful.”

  The words travel off his tongue like a song. My favorite song. I wish I could stay mad at him, but against better judgment, I smile back at him and feel my guard being quickly let down.

  “Shall we?” Asher offers me his arm. Hesitantly, I take it as he escorts me to The Grove, an outdoor area at the hotel where the cocktail portion of tonight’s event will be held. Retro antiques and lanterns adorn the space, making it overflow with sensuality. Twinkling lights line the palm trees, illuminating the space with a heavenly glow. Waiters walk by with champagne and hors d’oeuvres. After last night’s fiasco, I forgo the champagne. I need to keep my head on tonight.

  Asher escorts me around the room, introducing me to Miami’s elite and the many from the southeast region whom Asher invited here for a siesta. Most people have at least a decade on us, yet all show extreme respect for Asher. For someone so young, Asher radiates wisdom and his presence displays authority. People respond well to it.

  Our goal for the evening is to solicit large sums of money for the Asher Foundation. Since these people won’t be traveling to New York for the gala, we’re looking for people to promise five or six-figure checks to be presented during the broadcast. For Asher, it’s their way of showing respect. From a producer’s standpoint, it would make for better television if we can display an unbelievable amount on the screen of monies being donated.

  Asher makes a short speech welcoming everyone and explains why funding music programs is important. Knowing his crowd, Asher keeps things very professional and speaks in numbers. The number of schools whose music programs have lost funding and the rise in adolescent arrests and drug use, which he feels is because young people need a place to focus their energy after school, and music is the answer.

  He gets a huge laugh when he assures everyone their donation is tax deductible, and he seals the deal by discussing the public relations explosion it will be for everyone and their businesses.

  When Asher is done he gets a few promises on the spot for sums of money I can’t even believe these people can give up so easily. When people have further questions about the production going on, Asher lets me explain the various elements we have planned and when and where they can see it once it’s filmed.

  We continue to circle the room, mingling with guests, but there’s one I have my eye on. One of the out-of-towners. We make our way over to a short, balding man and his well-tanned, ever-youthful wife.

  “Oswald Thompson, may I introduce you to Kathryn Grayson. Ms. Grayson is heading our private benefit concert at Lincoln Center. Gray, Mr. Thompson here is…”

  “An avid sportsman I understand. Pleasure to meet the man who recently purchased a minor league team. Congratulations, sir,” I say.

  Asher gave me a few names of who would be at the event tonight, and I remember Malory telling me about one in particular. I wasn’t about to let Asher take this away from me. I was here to prove myself.

  “Thank you, Ms. Grayson. May I introduce you to my wife, Ellie? Ellie has been incredibly bored since we got here. Perhaps you two could enjoy the party together.”

  Ellie looks at me in disdain, the same look I get from Heather at the office. I eye Thompson, who has already started chatting with Asher. Accepting his dismissal of me, I turn to Ellie and speak a little louder than usual.

  “Ellie, you must be quite impressed by your husband’s accomplishments. Especially his early career markings in the minor league.” I direct my attention back to Thompson. “I understand you had a 1.23 ERA. I heard you have a curve ball that would send the Babe swinging.”

  Thompson’s ears perk up, as do his brows. He turns his attention from Asher. “I do know how to throw a ball, but my damn shoulder ended my career.”

  “Better off. The way they build parks today, they’re made for homerun derbies with the fences drawn so close. Pitching isn’t the art form it used to be. It’s all about the hitting now.” I’ve been privy to plenty of conversations with my uncles.

  “Sports fan, huh? What’s your team?” Thompson asks. I know he’s a White Sox fan from his minor league purchase within the franchise, but I’m not taking the bait. If I learned one thing from Asher, it’s that men of their caliber are tired of being told what people think they want to hear.

  “New York Mets,” I say proudly.

  “Mets? I thought all respectable New Yorkers were Yankee fans?” Thompson laughs. “At least you didn’t lie to me and say you’re a Chicago fan to get on my good side.”

  Asher puts his hand on my back. “If I can assure you of one thing, Oswald, this woman doesn’t lie. That’s why she’s on my team.” The heat of his hand burns into my backside.

  Despite my distraction, I try to speak calmly. “Actually, Mr. Th
ompson, my father was a ball player. Have you heard of Frank Grayson?”

  “Holy God in heaven. Your father was Catch Grayson?” Thompson throws his hands in the air in surprise. “Fine ball player. Mighty fine ball player. I saw him in New York right before he died. What an arm. What an arm!”

  “Thank you, sir. He was a good man. It warms my heart to hear you speak so well of him.” I will never tire of hearing stories of my father.

  “I think this conversation calls for some champagne.” Thompson waves over a waiter and we each take a flute. Once she has a drink in her hand, Ellie looks pleased for the first time all night.

  As Thompson and Ellie take a sip, Asher leans into me, his voice low, “Be careful with this one.” He steps back and eyes Thompson. I roll my eyes at him and sling back my glass of champagne. “I can handle it.”

  The four of us toast and Asher steps away as Thompson and I spend the next thirty minutes or so sharing sports stories. He asks me what it was like growing up as a kid on the road, and I ask him about his minor league career and thereafter.

  The evening is going beautifully until Asher returns, letting me know there is someone he’d like me to meet. His voice is commanding, as if he thinks I’m going to say something wrong to Thompson and he wants me away from him.

  “I’ve been enjoying the company of your date, Asher. Where did you find such a woman?” Thompson says.

  His lips in a tight smile, Asher replies, “Not my date. Mrs. Monroe here is already spoken for.”

  Thompson looks from Asher to myself and then winks at Asher. Their exchange is halted when someone taps Asher on the back. Both Asher and Thompson can’t take their eyes off the busty brunette that enters our circle, and my mouth falls to the floor to see it’s Simone, the woman I saw many weeks ago exiting Asher’s office.

  She’s dressed in a skintight fuchsia cocktail dress that leaves little to the imagination. Her long, dark hair cascades down her back, with one side tucked behind her ear. Her hazel eyes look up at Asher and from under her lashes, I can see her giving him “the look.” The one that’s says, “I’m not wearing anything underneath this dress.”

  “Sorry to crash your party, but I was hoping for a dance,” Simone says.

  Asher looks over from Simone to me to Thompson, his eyes landing back on Simone in agreement. “When a beautiful woman calls…” He smiles and slowly backs away. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Thompson’s eyes are fixated on Simone’s backside. Ellie doesn’t seem to care.

  I watch as Simone leads Asher to the dance floor. There are very few people dancing so it’s hard to not watch. She leans up and wraps her arms around him. Her short fuchsia ensemble climbs higher up her thighs as she dances. Asher places his palms on her hips as he did with me yesterday, and a pit drops in my stomach.

  Their bodies are so familiar to one another. They’re graceful and fit together perfectly. The pair is also so perfect together. Her dark skin against his bronzed statuesque figure, they look like a Rodin statue in a heated embrace at the gates of hell.

  The gates of hell, the exact place my thoughts have gone time and time again with this man. The place my thoughts are right now.

  “If you continue to stare like that, your eyes will fall out of your head,” Ellie says with a mischievous laugh. Thompson chuckles along.

  Snapping out of my daze, I turn back to my company. My cheeks redden and I fluster.

  “It’s okay, girl. It’s hard not to be taken by Asher. He has so many… assets.” Thompson sneers.

  My mood turns quickly from feeling foolish to furious.

  “I am a married woman, Mr. Thompson. The fact that you think I would be interested in Mr. Asher for his… assets is the most intolerable thing I have ever heard.” I declare and then regret raising my tone to the man I came here to beg for money.

  I’m relieved to see Thompson chuckling again. Okay, so he’s not insulted by my outburst. He looks at me knowingly.

  “Asher was wrong about you, Ms. Grayson, or shall I say Monroe?” The little man continues to smile.

  “Excuse me?”

  Thompson rests on his heels, his finger pointing at me in an accusatory manor. “He said you didn’t lie.”

  I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do with myself. I excuse myself and stalk toward the exit, glancing at the dance floor, but notice Asher is gone. I stop and scan the room, looking for his white dinner jacket, but I don’t see him… or Simone.

  My stomach drops and I quickly make my move toward the lobby. Where did they go? I can’t believe he left me like that, again.

  I shouldn’t be surprised he would leave my side the second a sexy brunette approaches. He is a cad and a snake. He uses women like I use Kleenex.

  I spot a waiter walking into the party with a tray of champagne glasses and a bottle in his hand. I grab a glass of champagne and quickly pound it before grabbing another. I drink that one before cutting to the chase and grabbing the entire bottle of Veuve Clicquot from his hand.

  Briefly considering entering the party again, I think of what a fool I’ve made of myself and turn in the opposite direction. Heading out a glass door, my bottle and I follow the path to the beach. My steps start by walking and speed up quickly. Faster my feet move toward the shore until I’m running. Faster and faster. The champagne spills out of the bottle as I leap across the sand. In the darkness of night, the only sounds I can hear are the waves crashing. There is nothing. Just me in the darkness where no one can hear me.

  I scream.

  I scream from the pit of my stomach, out of my chest, out of my feet, and out of my hair. I scream out of my lungs and let out my soul.

  I scream so loud it hurts. The past forty-eight hours have been the most miserable of my life. First my husband leaves me and I find out he’s having an affair. Then I almost have one of my own and completely humiliate myself to learn the man isn’t interested in me. Plus, my infatuation has been caught by one of the wealthiest men in America and he’s probably telling my story to everyone in the party.

  But what I really can’t take, the piece of me that hurts so much I don’t know what to do with, is the fact that despite everything, despite the last forty-eight hours, the truth, the plain truth is I think I’m falling for Asher.

  I can’t breathe.

  I try to fight it. I’ve been trying to fight it. As much as I want to deny it, I can’t help but find myself so incredibly drawn to him. He is an awful person. I know it. He leads me on and then leaves me hanging. He plays me for a fool time and time again, and I fall for it time and time again.

  He is a walking contradiction. He’s arrogant, but he cares so much for those less fortunate. He is rude and dismissive, yet he gives me time to share my stories. He is insightful and funny. He always knows how to make me laugh, and he gets me.

  I hate that I’m so attracted to him. He’s so physically attractive my body doesn’t know how to be in a room with him without wanting to jump on him.

  “There, fine, I admit it. I want him!” I shout into the ocean. “You happy, karma? You’re a bitch and I know it!”

  I am so upset I can’t even cry. I physically don’t have the energy to cry. I’m so hurt and sad and disappointed I just want to scream. I can’t believe I thought for a moment that Asher wanted me. Why would he want me when my husband doesn’t even want me?

  Collapsing in the sand, I raise the bottle to my mouth and start to drink. The sand beneath my feet feels cool. It’s refreshing against the warm night air. I feel the bubbles of the champagne cast down my throat as I continue to listen to the waves. I drink in the moment. I know, in years to come, I’ll remember this moment as the beginning of the rest of my life. From here on in, it’s just me and Jackson.

  I raise the mostly full bottle of champagne and stare at it for a moment. What am I doing? This isn’t who I am. I don’t leave an important work event and get drunk on a beach. I don’t fly off the handle and make irrational decisions.

  Where have I
let myself go?

  Breathe.

  I gather my shoes from the sand and start walking back toward the hotel, my beautiful dress has gathered sand on the bottom of the hem. Such a shame. It was a beautiful dress. I can’t go back to the party looking the way I do. It’s time I head back to the room and get the old Kathryn back.

  I’ll book myself on the first flight out of here. I need to see Jackson.

  I divert from the party and enter the hotel through a separate entrance. I have champagne on my dress and sand on my feet. I’ve made enough of a fool of myself tonight.

  I get on the elevator with a young couple in the throes of passion and an elderly woman who looks at me in concern. I slide into the corner of the car and hang my head low. After stopping on the third and fourth floors, I’m relieved to be alone. The doors swing open and I head down the hallway toward my room.

  My feet stop in their place. Outside my door is a man in a white dinner jacket with his head bowed, one hand resting against the door and a cell phone in the other, up against his ear. He looks concerned. He lifts his head as I approach and turns off his phone.

  “Gray.” Asher looks at me in concern. His body turns toward me with his arms stretch out. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Asher? Shall I say somewhere else with someone else?”

  “What are you talk—” His brow furrows before rising, his head slowly nodding in understanding. “Simone? Are you upset about Simone?”

  I move my arm to motion him out of my way as I make my way past him and to my door. “Enough. I’m tired and I want to go home.” I open the door to my room and am surprised as Asher catches it before it closes and pushes it back open with his right hand.