I guess that’s what you do when Granddaddy is footing the bill.
“What do you particularly like about this exhibit? Seems a bit redundant to come back more than once.” My curiosity is peaked. It would be nice to have some common ground with this man. I’m supposed to be working with him, yet I’m petrified to be around him.
Did I finally just admit that to myself?
Asher takes his hands from his pockets and holds them in front of his body, his heavy footsteps inching toward me.
“It’s the auteurist approach to film that intrigues me,” he says, closing the gap between us, his eyes steady and never losing their grip on mine. “Many people believe the writer is the author. They create the characters, give them names and words to say. Others feel it’s the actors who portray the lives lived onscreen. They breathe life into the words.”
He is only feet from me and closing in. My eyes, my ears… my soul is mesmerized by the mere presence of him.
“But the auteurist…” He continues. “The real author is the director. He has the power. The puppet master who controls the strings.”
Asher is now just inches from my face. The heat from his body and that wicked, intoxicating aroma that enveloped me before is now drowning me in a sea of Asher.
My mouth is dry and I can do nothing but breathe out in small, shallow breaths.
“I like control. And more than that, I like people thinking they hold the power when I was the one holding the strings all along,” Asher declares. He isn’t angry or crass as he says the words. They are merely a declaration.
I study his eyes, which at this proximity allow me to see the flecks of brown in them you would easily miss if you weren’t really looking. There is nothing sinister in them. Just pure, unadulterated determination.
I like organization and control. Most successful people need it in order to achieve. But to crave that kind of power, to have the need to manipulate the world around you, means you lack complete trust. And with no trust, there’s no faith.
“Faithless.” The word escapes my mouth in a whisper.
His pupils dilate, and if it weren’t for the small vibration of his chest, I would have missed any reaction at all. Asher inches back so we’re standing about two feet apart. The space gives me the breathing room I desperately needed.
I cross my arms in front of my body and turn away from Asher to take inventory of my surroundings in an attempt to get my bearings back.
When he stands this close to me, I can’t even think straight. There is a chemical and psychological component to attraction, but in this case, it is purely geographical. I think it’s a business strategy he enforces: the art of domination in a conversation to intimidate the other. It must be how he’s become so successful so quickly, money aside.
The lobby has grown particularly quiet with a few people lingering about. The stark-white walls of the museum remind me of my office. And the white walls of my office remind me of the white roses Asher sent me last week.
The roses.
Those damn flowers remind me every day of just how he affects me. I just wish they’d die already so Trish can throw them out and I’d be rid of the circadian reminder of our horrific encounter. I may have to see him sporadically at meetings, but the daily onslaught of white roses is more than my nerves can stand. I have to say something about them. Even if it was a peace offering, I can’t have my boss sending me gifts. Even Trish noted how extravagant they were. It’s not just me.
I turn back to face Asher. My lips part to launch into a speech about the gifts, but halt when I turn to see an empty space in front of me. I look to the left and right and see no signs of Alexander Asher.
He disappeared.
My fist squeezes in aggravation, crumbling the program I’m holding. I toss it in the trash and walk to the restroom to freshen up before heading home. I have no doubt he’s watching me from afar, laughing at the dimwit standing alone in the lobby. How rude can you be to have such an intimate encounter with someone and just walk away? What an asshole!
I hate cursing. I really do. He just makes me so fucking mad!
After washing my hands and straightening my hair, I take a few deep breaths to gain my composure. When I’m fit to make an appearance, I push back my shoulders and head into the lobby as the confident and unaffected woman I am.
I walk outside and opt to take a taxi home. It’ll cost more than the train, but it’s faster and I want to go home and get into my bed.
The warm night air feels good on my skin. I raise my arm and wait for a taxi to drive by. 53rd street isn’t the busiest of streets, but hopefully an open cab will pass by quickly.
While I’m ready to crash in my bed, the city is still vibrant with people just starting their evenings. It’s only a Wednesday night, yet New York didn’t get the memo. It thinks it’s Saturday night and is ready to party.
The couple I was gawking at earlier is standing about twenty feet up the street from me. The husband is standing on the gravel, inching into traffic with his arm held up at an angle outstretched from his body. If a cab is coming, he’s going to get it first.
A taxi comes barreling down the street, almost hitting the husband as it pulls up to the curb. He opens the door and instead of escorting his wife inside, he kisses her on the mouth and says good night. I hear her tell him she’ll meet him home in a few hours. Apparently, he’s as tired as I am, and she wants to stay out.
The wife closes the door behind her man and watches the car drive down the street away from the museum.
Man, I am a voyeur. I really need to stop staring at people.
Beyond her, I see another taxi coming down the street and flag it down, waving my hand in the air. The yellow car stops and I open the door to climb in. The seats are clean and the taxi TV is playing clips from the local news. I wait until I’m halfway in the car to tell the driver we’re going to Long Island. Cabbies hate to leave the city, but it’s part of the “Passenger Bill of Rights” to be driven wherever I ask within NYC, Westchester, and Nassau and not be refused. Seriously, there’s a list in every cab.
I lean over to grab the door handle to close it. I’m just about to pull my arm toward me when I see a familiar black SUV pull up in front of us. The back door opens and no other than Alexander Asher steps out. For a second, I think he’s about to go back into the museum. Instead, he walks toward the wife. Yes, the wife of the couple I was gaping at earlier.
She’s not surprised to see him. In fact, she acts like she’s been waiting for him. Her face is welcoming, her eyes letting him know she’s ready for some fun. Asher takes her hand and helps her climb into the SUV, cupping her ass as she climbs in.
I shouldn’t make assumptions, but come on!
After the woman gets in the car, Asher pauses just outside and turns his head in my direction. It feels like slow motion, yet not slow enough for me to duck down or hide from that penetrating gaze.
I gasp and pull the taxi door closed quickly. I tell the driver to drive, and just as we’re pulling away, I look up.
Just in time to have Asher wink at me as we drive away.
Waking this morning, I noticed Gabriel was already gone. His side of the bed pulled down as if he slept in it. He must have gotten up with Jackson last night. I don’t even remember whose turn it was.
I got to the office on time and had a pretty good day. Sure, I spent a good portion of it bouncing back and forth from being mad at Gabriel for bailing on me last night and Asher for being the rudest human being on the planet.
But two things happened today to make me happy. First, I had a kickass meeting with Erik and Richard the stage manager as we discussed what was needed from the production design firm we hired to decorate the set. Second, there was no sign of Asher.