Torn(5)

"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 f*cking 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 f*cks 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 f*cked 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 f*ck 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 f*ck.

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 f*cking 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?"