Page 50 of Pure Abandon

The deadly question that has plagued my marriage. The answer is because it’s my name, my given name, and I never understood why women have to give up their name for their husbands. Why can’t it be the other way around? My son has Gabriel’s last name.

I am a Grayson. That’s who I am.

“That is a personal question. But to answer it, I would have to say it’s because I don’t believe in conformity.”

His cheekbones rise to meet his eyes. It’s as if I said the exact thing he wanted to hear. “Do you hear that?” he asks.

“Hear what?” I strain to find the sound.

“Music. Dance with me. “

“But I don’t hear any—” And before I can finish, he pulls me up against him and moves me across the stage.

My hand rests on his shoulder; I can feel the muscles beneath his shirt. My other hand is in his palm, his soft skin holding mine. We glide across the stage to imaginary music and before long, I can hear it pulsating through my ears. My body against his, I feel safe and secure. It feels like home.

“Will you accompany me somewhere?” he asks, his voice like smooth caramel.

“Today? My boss might be upset I’m not at work.” I tease.

Asher cocks his head to the side and gives me a wink. “I think I can persuade him not to be too upset.”

As we exit the building, he leads me to an alleyway on the side of the building. Expecting to hail a cab or hop into a black SUV, I’m surprised when he stops in front of a motorcycle.

“Here, put this on.” He hands me a helmet.

“Do you always carry a spare?” I say, hesitation in my voice.

“I was hoping I might have company today,” he says with a glimmer of mischief.

Reluctantly, I take the helmet and place it on my head. He walks toward me to straighten it out and fixes the chinstrap. I feel like a child being protected, and for some reason I enjoy it. He places his helmet on and climbs onto the bike. With his dark jeans and leather jacket, he looks like a guy I could have a beer with, not the in-control CEO who has been dominating my thoughts for the past month.

He takes my hand and leads me over the seat of the motorcycle until I’m straddling it.

“Put your arms around me and hold on tight.”

I reach around him and place my hands on his stomach. Asher grabs my hands and pulls them tighter and higher. A charge stirs inside me. He kicks the bike into action and we take off. I’m surprised to hear music, beautiful orchestra music, ringing in my ears. These helmets have speakers! I can hear the sounds of the New York Philharmonic gracefully dancing through my head. I feel like I’m floating.

We drive up Columbus Avenue and head straight toward Harlem. The hot July morning is cooled by the breeze we create. We drive trough the cultural center of the city, passing bars, restaurants, and stores, all new to the revitalization of this once depressed area. We pass through some blocks Gwen would never be caught dead in and pull up to a school made of brick and mortar.

Asher dismounts from the bike and grabs my hand, helping me off. I would tell him I can do it myself, but I’ve never been on a motorcycle and my legs are still vibrating from the short ride.

I hand him my helmet and he rests it on the motorcycle, not caring if someone will try to steal it. Come to think of it, I don’t think we’re even allowed to park where we are. Asher doesn’t seem to have a care about that either.

I shrug my shoulders and follow him inside the building. He has this way of walking in front of me without looking back to make sure I’m following him. It’s like he knows I’m going to just go wherever he tells me to.

The building is fairly empty, as school has been let out for the summer. A few students are in the building occupying classrooms. I try to peer into the rooms to see what they’re doing, but Asher’s long strides are difficult to keep up with. We continue through the halls until we approach a classroom filled with twenty or so children and their parents. The children are talking on one side of the room while the parents are on the other.

Everyone stops their conversations and focus on the door as soon as he enters. Pleased expressions cross the parents’ faces while the children run up to him.

An older woman, who appears to be in charge, ushers the children away from Asher and tells them to take their places by their instruments. They all take a stand by a cello. Their backs are to the audience and they’re facing a wall.

In front of the children, in the front of the room, facing us is the same instrument, double in size. Asher motions for me to take a spot standing next to one of the parents while he moves to the front of the room.

Asher takes his place, seated behind the cello, and looks on to the kids.

“Mr. Asher… Mr. Asher!” A young girl about seven raises her hand to gather Asher’s attention. “I have a special song for you.”

His jaw widens. “I’d love to hear it, Jaelyn.” He answers the girl with familiarity.