Torn(12)

"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 locked 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.