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Asher
“You only want me when I’m not myself. You only love me when I’m somebody else.”
The sultry soprano carried on the soft, balmy breeze rolling down the quiet, scenic streets of Los Feliz. The notes became gently distorted in the wind and faded out. It was a familiar tune for anyone who had listened to soft rock on the radio within the past few years. A rare ballad from the band Tortured Hearts, who were known more for their up-tempo power anthems and cheeky, angst-laden pop hits. The voice of Giselle Kingston emanated from a much less charismatic source, a stereo sitting on a shelf in Asher Tate’s garage. The speakers buzzed gently along with the low, whispery lamentations of Giselle’s voice.
“When will you love me as I am? How can I make you give a damn?”
It was a solemn song for an otherwise golden afternoon. The sun was softly glowing behind a crown of clouds. Dappled light danced on the pavement between the leaves of trees that swayed in the breeze. Bees and butterflies flitted from one vivid bloom to the next on Asher’s lawn. Instead of a plain mowed lawn with flat green grass, he had planted all manner of flowering and edible flora. There was an orange tree, a vegetable and herb garden, nasturtiums and violets, and countless miscellaneous edible plants he had added to the mini ecosystem. Despite the immense variety, the yard managed to still look quite tidy, as though a truly analytical mind had drawn up the blueprint.
It was a Wednesday, and Asher had already spent the majority of the day doing things he loved. Things he was good at. That morning, he had sat on the back patio and watched the birds and squirrels run along his fence while he wrote out poetry that could be converted to lyrics. He strummed his guitar while he wrote, finding inspiration with every pluck of the strings. Now, in the hazy afternoon, he was in the garage, working on his pair of beloved old Cadillacs.
Much like his garden, the garage was meticulously organized, with precise shelving, heavy-duty storage containers, and everything labeled. Not a single item was out of place unless it was currently in use, in which case it was carefully laid out on a rolling work cart he kept close by his side while he worked. He reached for a socket wrench as he gently nudged his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. His green eyes were narrowed in intense concentration as he bent over the hood of a 1974 Cadillac Fleetwood Talisman. It was an absolutely massive car, nearly twenty feet in length and almost seven feet wide. On the other side of the garage was a second Cadillac, this one a 1960 Biarritz convertible in a lovely periwinkle shade. This one was nearly nineteen feet long. The Biarritz was an older project, the first classic car Asher had bought for himself with his own songwriting money. It had been a major goal post in his life, and one that had taken a lot of planning, focus, and hard work to achieve.
Just like every other variable in his world, Asher made sure to have the exact measurements to house his mini car collection. It wasn’t just procuring the cars, then gathering the tools, gear, and knowledge to restore them; he needed a house with a two-car garage big enough to contain them. In a city like Los Angeles, where space was at a premium, that could be a tall order for a single man in his twenties. But he was a methodical kind of guy, and he loved a challenge. Within a few years of moving to LA, he had established himself in his career field effectively enough to win awards, praise, and money. Despite the countless distractions of Tinseltown, Asher never lost sight of his goals.
With his intelligence, studious demeanor, and laser-sharp focus, he was confident he could do pretty much anything. Upon first meeting him, Asher seemed reserved, maybe even slightly shy. The truth was that he only appeared quiet because he was constantly observing, taking mental or literal notes, and plotting ahead. He didn’t need to cause a scene to get ahead; he was perfectly comfortable making moves in silence.
He stood up straight, aligning his spine while he wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was a hot day, even with the garage door open to let the salty breeze roll through. A circular box fan created a little air circulation from its spot on the worktop. Asher’s blond hair ruffled gently in the currents, allowing one thick lock to fall forward out of place. With one hand, he swiped his hair back, looking like a calendar model in the process.
He glanced down the driveway to see a pair of young women with a stroller, his neighbor from down the street and a friend. They had been strolling down the sidewalk when they caught sight of Asher, shirtless and shining with sweat, working in his garage. Now, they were both staring at him, openly gawking as though they had never seen a set of rock-hard abs before.
Asher, ever the cordial neighbor, raised his hand to wave. He flashed them a bright, brilliant smile, as well. The two women nearly fell over themselves waving back to him and then hurried off with the stroller, whispering and giggling to each other. Asher chuckled to himself and turned back to work on the Cadillac.
His powerful arms and back were on full display as he studied everything under the hood. Despite his bookish appearance at first glance, he was built more like an athlete than a bookworm. He rarely worked out, preferring to get his exercise through activities like surfing or working on the cars. His chiseled pecs, rippling abs, and tight ass were just fortunate byproducts of following his passion.
Asher spent so much time in his own head; sometimes it was nice to do something physical like surfing. It made him feel grounded to feel the fine sand under his feet, the rush of cold water swallowing him up, the shimmer of the California sun on the waves as he rode a tunnel parallel to shore. He pondered when his next beach trip would be as he flipped through his notebook. It was a journal almost filled to the last page with instructions, observations, and reminders regarding car mechanics. It was all hand-written, with addendums in neon-colored sticky notes stuck to the pages. Asher whistled along with the next Tortured Hearts song while he scanned his notes. This one was more upbeat, and within seconds he was tapping his foot.
“I may not be the kind of girl you take home to your mother, ‘cause when I get there, I just might seduce your older brother,” Giselle sang boldly in between pounding drum beats and a driving guitar riff.
“Damn,” Asher murmured to himself, a smile on his lips.
He could tell why young women and teens were so drawn to Giselle and her music. Her brazen confidence came through in every note, every beat. This was music that made a girl feel powerful. Capable. Unstoppable. No wonder Giselle gave such a distinct first impression. If she was half as spirited as her lyrics implied, Asher and Blaze would have their work cut out for them. She wasn’t a diva; she was a tour de force. Asher was realizing that working with Giselle would be less about repressing her attitude and more about coaxing the genius out of her. The more he learned about her, the more sense her reaction at the Hot House meeting made to him.
He wanted to understand her better and unravel the mystique around Giselle Kingston to find out what made her tick. Sure, she was definitely the most difficult client he’d ever encountered. But Asher was raised to believe that every problem had a solution, and every solution was possible with a little hard work and brilliance. Giselle wasn’t a vapid brat; she was a renewable font of inspiration who needed a little guidance.
Asher was happy to provide that. He remembered the way her brown eyes blazed and her tight, petite body grew hot and flushed with rage. Even as she hurled accusations, Asher had been entranced by her sensual beauty. He knew it was wrong, or at the least, taboo. He wasn’t supposed to be attracted to his client. It had never happened to him before. But Asher was in control, always, and he could handle a little sexual tension.
He began to notice a buzzing sound underneath the Tortured Hearts song on the stereo, and he turned down the volume to answer his phone. He pushed the button for speaker phone and propped it up on the stool beside him.
“Hey dad,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Good, good. I’m here with your mother, who just returned from El Salvador on her research trip with the team,” his father, by-the-book lawyer Raymond Tate, said. “You wouldn’t believe the golden tan she has going on.”
“It’s more of a sunburn than a tan, but thanks, dear,” chimed the soft voice of Asher’s mom, a tropical disease scientist named Veronica Tate.
“Oh, glad to hear you’re back. How was the trip?” Asher asked as he continued fiddling with the Cadillac.
“Hot and sweaty, but I’m so proud of the team. Even the interns worked their butts off in our Santa Ana lab. We’re making leaps and strides on the research. I think we’re going to make a big impact on the next go-around. I’m already planning it out,” she explained happily.
“You’re going back?” Asher said.
“I keep telling her she can get a perfectly good tropical tan here in LA, but for some reason that’s not good enough,” his father joked.
“He’s not kidding, either. I’ve heard just about every possible defense for my staying in Los Angeles next time,” she giggled. “You’d think he was a lawyer or something.”
“Hmm. I seem to remember Dad being very convincing when he tried to get me to trade piano lessons for SAT prep courses that summer in eleventh grade,” Asher recalled.
“You could’ve gotten a perfect score,” his father insisted stubbornly.
