Reckless Abandon(81)

“Leah, we’re not Jewish.”

“You really think he’s for real this time?”

“I do.” I sigh into the phone. “Give it to me.”

“What?”

“The great McConaughey speech.”

Leah didn’t miss a beat. “The truth wills out and everybody sees. Once the strings are cut, all fall down.”

“You’ve been watching ‘True Detective’ on Netflix again haven’t you?”

“Just be careful.”

So looking at Lisa, I understand her concern. Problem is I can’t just hang up the phone on her like I can with Leah. I used to hate everyone asking if I was okay. Now getting told to be careful is becoming my new hated phrase.

“We’re taking it slow. Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing,” I assure Lisa and she seems to accept that.

The door to my office opens and Alexander sticks his head in.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks, stepping inside as if he doesn’t care if Lisa and I were in a private conversation or not. He grabs his suit jacket from behind my chair and leans in for a kiss. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes. Meet me uptown when you’re done. I want to show you something.” Shrugging on his jacket, he checks his pockets to make sure he has his wallet and phone. “Devon will pick you up and bring you to my office.”

Alexander has never asked me to go to his office before. It’s new territory for me. I’m interested to see where he spends his days but I don’t need a chauffer. “I can take the subway.”

“Devon will be outside at seven-thirty. That’s final.” He gives me a stern look making sure I understand. I return his sternness with a sarcastic salute from the forehead. He grins at the action and is just about to walk out the door when he adds, “Oh, and . . . you’re spending the night at my place.”

I shoo him away with my hand and pretend to ignore his bossiness. He laughs and then nods to Lisa as he walks out. When I look back at Lisa she is rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, looks like you’re taking it really slow.”



I snuck out of work a half hour early hoping to go home to pack a bag to appease Mr. Bossy and to, hopefully, avoid having to be chauffeured by Devon. I’m a New Yorker now. I can take the subway.

Of course, Devon was outside the academy waiting for me.

He knows me too well.

After we swing by my place for an overnight bag, I hop back in the car.

When we arrive at our destination, I thank Devon for the ride. He didn’t give me a hard time when I insisted on the front seat, again, but he doesn’t like me getting out without his opening my door. I assure him I am safely on the sidewalk and can escort myself into a building.

The Asher Building is located in midtown Manhattan. Standing on the concrete outside the giant turnstile doors, I lean back and look up at the impressive skyscraper of steel and glass. The heavy opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth play in my head. Despite what I know about Alexander Asher, when I think of him, I still picture the guy who jumped in the ocean with me. I smell sea and salt and feel wind in my hair.

What I don’t see is the imperial tower standing in front of me.

Walking into the massive lobby I am overcome with realization at just how powerful the Asher name is. Quite possible because, directly in front of me is a security desk and on the wall behind it is the name ASHER set atop an omega symbol.

Again, an omega symbol just doesn’t resonate. He’s more like an A-note or a treble-clef.

The two-story lobby has floor-to-ceiling glass panels overlooking the street and steel bars that run vertically through the space. The walls are lined in black granite and behind the security desk is an elevator bank of six steel doors, one of them leading to the man who controls all of this.

All around me, people who work in the building are walking toward the exit, as it’s the end of the long workday. Around their necks are lanyards with Asher ID badges along with their name and photo.

There isn’t a directory or guide anywhere, so I walk through the grand lobby toward the security desk and ask where I can find Alexander Asher. The woman behind the desk looks at me like I’m insane and tells me unsolicited visitors are not welcome. It’s at this moment, a man wearing a black suit, no smile and one of those rubber ear pieces like the CIA, taps her on the shoulder, and whispers in her ear. When the female guard looks at me again she eyes me differently and asks for my ID.

I reach into my bag and hand over my driver’s license. She looks me up and down, then hands it back.

“Mr. Asher is expecting you. Right this way,” the man in black says, but the female guard stops me to take my picture with a tiny camera on the desk before she allows me to go.

The man in black swipes his badge at the turnstyle leading to the elevator and the two of us pass as another guard takes a look at our credentials. My escort walks me to an elevator and hits the up button. We stand in silence waiting for it. I fiddle with my fingers and play a melody to pass the time.

When the elevator arrives, I step in and the man reaches inside and hits the button for floor forty-two, the highest number on the panel. He bids me a good night and lets the doors close, leaving me alone in the steel car.

I watch the numbers on the panel above the door rise and wonder what I am doing with a man who doesn’t just work in a building in midtown Manhattan, he owns it.